“Excuse me? What will I trade you for it?” Briery challenged Hadwin, placing her hands on her narrow hips and leveling him with a playful glare. “How about lodging and safe passage--and a part in our own damned show, as per your request?”
“You’re putting him in our show?!” Chwenha all but choked on the cream-filled pastry she was eating, and narrowly avoided dropping it into the fire. Her eyes themselves were fire, sapphire and burning with rage and betrayal. The singer looked between the ringleader and the wolf man with disbelief. “You’re not serious. Briery, tell me you’re not serious. We don’t need a wolf-skin in our routine. We’re enough without him--he’ll only embarrass us!”
How the idea enraged the young girl almost tore a laugh from Briery’s chest. But she knew better than to laugh at Cwehna’s anger, and so she merely offered a repressed smile. “Ah, Cwen, he isn’t becoming a permanent member of the Missing Links. Even I know he doesn’t have that kind of commitment.” She tried to reassure the irate blonde woman. “It is only for one show. And if he fucks it up, I’ll kick his ass. We all will--except Lautim. Sorry, big guy, but a fight with you is hardly fair, and I know you prefer to take the stance of a pacifist.”
The giant merely shook his head and chewed his food, never once uttering a word or much of a reaction at all to the conversation taking place. Cwenha had enough fire for all of them. “So it isn’t enough that you pry into everyone else’s life; now you see fit to pry into ours?”
Hadwin’s attention was not on her, however. The sullen-looking woman next to Briery, with hair barely a shade darker than her own, uttered a comment that suddenly made all hell break loose. The wolf man tossed the spicy pastry at the ringleader, who only narrowly caught it, avoiding a face full of spice that would surely irritate her eyes. “A head shot? That is illegal in any game, Kavanagh!” Briery chastised him, but not before her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “You picked a bad time to pick a fight when you can’t even uphold it in your condition!”
And that was when the pastries began to go flying--between Hadwin, Briery, and Rycen, who had just joined in for fun. Cwenha looked appalled, and insisted they should all be ashamed at wasting food, given the amount of times they’d gone hungry in the winters. Lautim, once again, did not react. However, the antics did seem to bring a bit of a smile to Teselin and Chara’s pale faces; and for that, Briery deemed wasting a bit of food was well worth it.
When the game came to an end, and the lot had eaten their fill, they prepared to retire for the night. Immediately, Briery directed Hadwin to the men’s caravan. “And no cheeky arguments. You stay in our caravan, and Cwenha will kill you in your sleep--and even I won’t be able to stop her.” The ringleader told him. Whether or not she was joking remained unclear, but if one thing was for certain, it was to not underestimate the second acrobat. “Rest assured, we’ll take good care of your charges. I think I can get Chara Rigas to be my best friend, yet.” Her lips quirked into a grin, knowing well that that was an impossible feat, no matter how much kindness she showed the Rigas woman. But she didn’t begrudge her; she wanted, needed her to stay angry, to stay in touch with her pride. It meant she hadn’t lost herself to the extent that she thought.
No, that Rigas pride was still well intact, if Chara’s repulsion to sleeping in their caravan was any indication. “Sorry to break the bad news, but after the damage we caused in that inn, I personally don’t feel as though it is safe--or sanitary--for any of us to stay there, tonight.” She explained. “You two are welcome to our bunks. Cwenha and I can sleep on the settees.”
“Don’t give up a bunk for my sake,” Teselin’s quiet voice piped up in the small quarters of the caravan. “I’d prefer to rest on a settee. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight, anyway…”
“Whatever makes you most comfortable, my dear.” Briery agreed, before turning to Chara. “And that goes for you, as well. Sadly, we can’t afford the luxury you’d find in Stella D’Mare, but I assure you everything is clean and comfortable. Hell, Cwenha will sing you all a lullaby, if you want.”
“Thanks for volunteering me.” The small, blonde woman frowned. Just because she’d agree to the changes required to accommodate a few guests did not mean she had to like it; even if it was for a Rigas.
It had been well over a week since the small party of warriors, with Forbanne at their command (and a Forbanne commander under their influence against her will) had departed Stella D’Mare and made tracks for the city of Braighdath. Over a week since the evacuation, and over a week since any of them had heard from Chara or Alster. They were fortunate not to have run into any trouble on the road, and even if they had, any opposing forces would likely think twice before engaging a Forbanne soldier. Despite how easy the travel might have been, in terms of relatively favourable terrain, weather, and quietude, however, it was by no means without its flaws--and by no means slow.
Elespeth hadn’t said much of anything to anyone since the day they’d left the once beautiful Rigas city--the same day she’d been left with sprains and broken bones, yet insisted on traveling onward. They knew it wasn’t her intention to slow them down, but by virtue of knowing one of their own was injured, both Haraldur and Sigrid found themselves keeping to a moderate pace that they knew the Atvanian warrior could manage. Elespeth never complained about the pain; on one hand, the stimulant likely helped in keeping it a dull nuisance at the back of her mind, as opposed to something at the forefront that she was unable to ignore, but Sigrid knew well that her friend was keeping her agony to herself so as not to impose on the others.
Without a healer among them, they felt powerless to help her, and were only at this point halfway to Braighdath. Sigrid wasn’t even sure there would be enough of the stimulant to get her through until Braighdath. Sooner or later, without proper care, she wasn’t convinced the former knight would be able to travel any further. Frankly, she was amazed that Elespeth hadn’t done further damage to herself, coming as far as she had in such a broken condition… or, maybe she had, and she simply wasn’t saying anything.
“I am beginning to think we should take a detour.” Sigrid said at last, one evening, as they sat in front of a fire they’d built for that night’s encampment. It wasn’t cold so much as it was simply damp, now, but without a heat source, they’d start shivering fast. “We are only about halfway to Braighdath, at this point… Elespeth should not go without seeing a healer for much longer. The stimulant doesn’t address the damage to her body, and even if there is enough of it to get her that far, something worse could happen in the interim. I think…”
The Dawn warrior paused and sighed. People were counting on their timely arrival; Naimah would be waiting for her in Braighdath, and was likely days ahead of them, if Alster’s evacuation had gone according to plan. But there was no more ignoring the pallor of Elespeth’s face, or the fact that she’d lost her appetite days ago (either as a side-effect from the stimulant or a deterrent from the pain, she did not know). Alster would never forgive her if she allowed things to unfold as they were, and his fiancee ended up succumbing to something worse. “I think we need to veer off course, find a town. Somewhere where we might find a healer, adept in magic or otherwise. It will delay us, yes, but we have already been delayed for the fact that she cannot move as quickly as the rest of us…”
“Then I’ll pick up my pace.”
Sigrid craned her neck to find none other than the warrior in question standing behind them. How long she had been there, and how much she’d heard, was anyone’s guess. “You are at fault for nothing, Elespeth, regardless of your pace.” She said hurriedly, afraid her friend would be under the impression they blamed her for falling behind. “This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with what has been done to you… we cannot ignore your injuries any longer. Even if your bones heal, they may heal crooked. You’d be damned to a life of chronic pain… you know that Alster would want this if you. He’d want you to be alright.”
“But I am alright. And Alster is not here.” Elespeth argued. The fire accentuated the shadows and contours of her face, which had grown thinner since she’d stopped eating… something she’d promised Alster that she would not do. Hold me accountable, she’d said to him. But that meant nothing when he was not here to do just that. “I’m sorry I’ve delayed us--but that alone should be reason not to delay any longer. How much devil’s draught do we even have left to keep that piece of shit subdued?” She angled her head toward a small cluster of four Forbanne, who guarded Solveig, in the middle of them: hands and feet bound, head drooped. Such had been her demeanor, under the influence of the draught, and frankly, everyone preferred her that way.
“We’ve about half left,” Sigrid confessed, pressing her lips together. “Provided we continue to administer the same dosage, and she doesn’t require more and more for developing a tolerance to it…”
“Then that is all the more reason not to veer off course. We need her to stay pathetic until we get to Braighdath, when we’ll have the Dawn Guard to keep her under our thumb.”
She didn’t want to admit it, but Sigrid knew she was right; and a quick exchange of glances with Haraldur suggested that he agreed. They couldn’t forfeit any more time… Solveig was still a real threat, and the second she broke free from their grasp, then everything would be in jeopardy. “You need to make it to Braighdath.” She said at last, as she shook her head in defeat. “At least try to eat; that stimulant is wreaking as much havoc as it is giving you relief.”
“Like I said, I’m fine.” A defense edge had crept into Elespeth’s voice, and she clenched her good hand into a fist to keep it from trembling. The shakes had been a new development, of late, and not one she particularly wanted her allies to notice; they wasted enough mental energy worrying for her. “I’ll eat something, if it makes you feel better. But we cannot veer off our course--are we all in agreement?”
Silence was the resounding ‘yes’, and with a curt nod, the former knight returned to her tent--not to eat, as she had promised, but to lie down. She’d reached that point in her day when the blessed numbing effects of the stimulant in her system were soon to wear off, and her choices were either to take another leaf on her tongue (which would result in a shaky and sleepless night, albeit a relatively painless one), or to try and fall asleep before the pain set in. What was left of the drug was alarmingly little, considering she’d required more doses in a day than what Sigrid had suggested, just to keep going and to put one foot in front of the other… if she was to make it to Braighdath, at this point, then she needed to ration those dosages, which meant all subsequent nights might be more frequently interrupted with sharp aches in her ribs and collarbone tearing her from sleep.
Somehow, despite her racing heart, and the ever-growing awareness of the painful discomfort throughout her body, Elespeth managed to drift off that evening, only to awake to a familiar voice, and a startling presence. Opening her eyes at the soft call of her name, as her vision came into focus, there was no mistaking the figure crouched before her: the sandy blonde hair, blue eyes… “Alster? No… you can’t really be here. This isn’t real…” I really have gone too far with the stimulant, she thought with despair. If it was causing her to hallucinate, that was a side-effect she hadn’t anticipate the need to contend with, and wasn’t quite sure how she would manage to work around it without alerting (or alarming) either Sigrid or Haraldur.
But hallucinations did not have weight, nor did they have warmth. When the so-called apparition of her betrothed laid a hand upon her uninjured arm, there was no mistaking that warmth and tenderness in his touch. Even her wildest, drug-addled imagination could not substitute a presence so defining and unmistakable. “Wait… you’re here. Really here. But how? How is this at all possible?”
She knew he had gained unprecedented power, since merging with the Serpent, but this was beyond anything she had imagined. That he could step out of one location, and into another, tearing the very fabric of time and distance like it were paper… “It is as if… there is so much about you that I just do not know, anymore.” She whispered, half in awe, and half with a tinge of melancholy that stemmed from the possibility that she might never really know him, again.
The logistics of marching over the expanse between Stella D’Mare and Braighdath, with over six hundred Forbanne, their defunct giantess captain under shackles, and an injured comrade, took every reserve in Haraldur to manage. An operation this size required a stronger chain of command for the delegation of tasks, and since Solveig transferred the mind link to him, and with it the control of a small crew of Forbanne, command of the entire company rested on his shoulders.
Amid the chaos of Stella D’Mare post-tidal wave, which happened as planned, but did not endure long enough to destroy an entire fleet (and was a concern the trio discussed, at length, on their travels), they managed to commandeer enough supply wagons from Mollengard’s stores to survive the projected three week journey to Braighdath. But with Elespeth’s tell-tale injuries determining the pace for the unit’s entirety, setting back the estimations of arrival to four weeks, Haraldur, in fear of running low, supplemented the dried goods and salted meats in the wagon by ordering a few Forbanne to hunt for whatever game populated the area.
In more than one instance, Haraldur suggested the ex-knight of Atvany rest in one of the wagons, but she brushed off his concerns and placed another leaf on her tongue--when she thought he wasn’t looking. Far from rehabilitating, the supply wagons gnashed against the rough-hewn roads and narrow ditches, uneven axles and sliding cargo making for a less than ideal ride. But barring leaving Elespeth behind in town with the company of a healer, it was a better option than allowing her to march their pace with nary but a potent stimulant to carry her along.
The following days on the road were a bleaker prognosis for what was to come if they did not address Elespeth’s health. Their march dragged to a halt when the she-warrior collapsed, forcing all to prepare camp midday for her recovery. To make up for lost time, the next day, she pushed herself to a grueling pace, fueled by ingesting more than the prescribed amount of stimulant. While other Forbanne were in possession of the highly-potent herb, he refrained from revealing to Elespeth the stashes kept among the soldiers, and for good measure, prohibited any from sharing their stores. The situation was already heating, and if he and Sigrid did nothing, it would reach to a boil. He considered himself fortunate that his link with the Forbanne kept strong, as did the hold of devil’s draught over Captain Solveig--but any one of these variables could change, with disastrous consequences. Elespeth’s sorry state was too distracting, and needed to reach a swift solution. There was nothing else to be done.
The next evening, Haraldur and Sigrid gathered to discuss the problem in detail. Sigrid’s suggestion, while considerate of their mutual friend, risked everyone involved. He shook his head, vehement in its No. “I know you don’t want to leave anyone behind. That’s the Dawn Guard way. But--”
Elespeth swept into the conversation, apparently having caught wind of their meeting about her. He listened to the back and forth between Sigrid until, in frustration, he drew to his feet and approached her, green eyes steely and uncompromising. “In two days, we’re passing a town. I’ll send Forbanne to take you to that town and they’ll leave you in the care of a healer. No off-course veering necessary. We’re moving on without you. That’s final. We’ll give you money, clothes, and food. All the comforts you need to live comfortably until you can make the trek to Braighdath or until someone fetches you. I’m not turning a blind-eye to this self-destructive behavior a day longer. If you can’t take care of yourself responsibly, then I will.” He crossed his arms, challenging Elespeth to fight his order. “If I have to, I’ll knock you out and restrain you. Whatever it takes to get you on that healer’s table. Alster’s not here, that’s true. But that doesn’t mean you stop trying to preserve your own damn life. Your actions affect us all, Elespeth. And right now,” he shook his head, “you’re putting us at risk. And you’re not immune, either. You push yourself and you’re dead. So...you’re out.”
At Elespeth’s heated exit from their company, Haraldur, sighing, side-turned to Sigrid. “I’m not changing my mind. She stands a better chance of survival with a healer and we need to move on. It’s in everyone’s best interest.”
Three days ahead of the warrior trio and their Forbanne army, Alster oversaw the diaspora of over three thousand refugees--an effort far too overwhelming for any man, however much he aspired to godhood. Luckily, the operation did not fall into his hands, alone. It was all thanks to Chara’s hyper-organizational skills; she’d created a sophisticated tiered system of travel, and finalized its structure before they even set the evacuation to motion. Alster merely implemented what Chara had developed. She handed him the map to her brainchild, and all he did was follow instructions.
The evacuation was separated into smaller, more manageable units. Each unit contained a section leader, an appropriate number of supply carts, a concealer caster, a few able fighters (some of them Dawn Guard) and casters, and a mixed demographic of D’Marian citizens. Back in Stella D’Mare, Alster had enchanted a resonance stone linking to the matching stones that every section leader now possessed, assuring their long-distance communication. Scattered as they were, their instantaneous incoming reports facilitated Alster’s ability to make on-the-fly decisions. Should section three cross the bridge or wait until all other lagging units caught up? Section two required wagon maintenance and delayed travel through the upcoming pass. Section five was struck with a small spread of dysentery and required frequent stops among fresh water sites. Section seven was dealing with a mutiny and demanded that he (Alster) replace the section leader with one more capable.
Chara, if you can hear me, if you’re still alive...I don’t know how you do this, Alster thought, among his day-to-day headaches. For his own sanity, he ignored the more trivial of section reports, his silent message stating; Figure it out, yourself. Already, he had enough to tackle. His section, in the rear guard, dealt with the elderly and infirm. Every day, he directed rocs and night steeds to fly and ride out those with the fortitude to mount. Of those who couldn’t travel, he and a few other healers tended them until stable enough to go by steed or roc. Some, they needed to bury.
Despite the crazy amount of orchestrations his thrust upon position required, he never forgot his promise to Elespeth. I’ll figure something out, he told her, when last they “spoke,” from mind to mind.
And that’s when it hit him.
Sound traveled through resonance stone, an instantaneous transportation of idea to idea. Minds traveled at even faster speeds. And if he could project sound, and project thoughts, and project images of himself in others’ dreams no matter their physical distance…
Could he project his physical form?
Yes. Because he had done it before. While he was not the subject, through great gatherings of power, he opened a rift into time and space, and sent the Serpent back to Its home. Distance between his plane and the Serpent’s was unfathomable, unmeasured, and unquantified. They existed in two separate universes. Like dreams.
If he could create the portal, with strong intention, he would arrive at his intended destination. So long as the end point did not move, the magic would transport him there. And since he was linked to Elespeth by blood, he was assured of reaching her without any trouble. All he needed to do was put all ideas into practice...and practice them.
At night and in his tent, he created portals. Small ones, that transferred objects from one side of the tent to the other. Gradually, he expanded their size. Broadened the distance. Experimented. From the safety of his tent, he drew water into a tankard--from a stream clear across camp. Then, he took short trips. Places he could see from a distance. The portals held as he crossed through and back, through and back. No damage to his body, no noticeable tears in the fabric of the world.
Finally, after well over a week of practice and many nights operating on minimal sleep, he was ready to visit Elespeth.
As practiced, he folded the air like gossamer, and parted it like billowing curtains. On the other side, he saw Elespeth, supine, on the floor of her tent. Awake, but trying to slumber. He stepped through the portal, a shiver of sensation, of breathlessness and a chill so absolute, that only the void of space could contain it. The sensation lasted a wink. Lost between two worlds, lost in the space between spaces, lost to Elespeth, lost to himself...for a wink.
He appeared at his fiancee’s side, remade and whole. To be sure, he pressed his flesh and blood hand on her shoulder. She, too, remade and whole. Not an illusion, or a dream. He’d successfully wrinkled the distance between them...for her.
“El,” he breathed, and smiled at her bewilderment. “Anything is possible if you take the time to figure it out. I’ve never been any different, on that end. I told you I’d find a way to heal you, and I have.” His prosthetic hand weaved a ball of etherea, which floated above their heads, streaming sunlight brightness upon their forms. “Sorry for the assault on your eyes,” he said with the contrite dip of his head. “I need light to heal you properly.” Noticing that her hand was twitching in uncoordinated jerks, he frowned and lifted it with care. “You have the shakes. I can feel this erratic energy in your pulse...and through our bond. What have you been taking?” His tired eyes drooped when they lifted to observe the sallowness in her wan cheeks. “And what have you been eating? Tell me you’re keeping up your strength. I know it’s hard, with your injuries, and the rigors that hard travel demands, but…” he trailed off and dropped her hand, carefully. “I’m not trying to mother you, El, I’m only trying to keep you to your promise. You know I can’t have anything happen to you. Not so soon after,” he hesitated. “I...I’m afraid we may have lost Chara. Teselin, she’s alive. Her energy is a beacon. But with Chara, I...feel nothing. Nothing at all.”
Shaking away the growing malaise and knot-tightening worry which perched on his shoulders, he edged closer, both hands unbelting and sliding off her tunic with the utmost care. “I have to assess the damage, first. It’s been over a week so your broken bones will likely have begun repairing themselves. Setting them in their proper places will take a bit more effort. And it will hurt more. Don’t worry,” he managed a weary smile, “it’s going to hurt me, too. Believe me when I say I’m more than committed to making sure this healing process is as painless as possible.”
Pain was only partially to blame for her Elespeth’s wakeful state, that evening, and the lingering effects of the stimulant (and its withdrawal from her system as its beneficial qualities faded) also took a back seat to Haraldur’s contribution to their conversation, that evening. She’d known Sigrid would not be difficult to sway; even against her better judgement, if the stories and legends of the Dawn Guard bore any truth (and so far, they seemed to), then a Dawn soldier was prohibited from leaving a brother or a sister behind. As the fought as a single, united and perfectly synchronized unit, if one hurt, they all hurt, and they did not leave their hurt behind. You did not hack off a broken arm because it was rendered useless; you took the time to care for it so that it would heal, and become part of the whole once again. The former knight suspected that was precisely Sigrid’s framework of thought, which was why she hadn’t stood to her arguments that evening.
Unfortunately, Sigrid was not the one in power; not the one with an army of six-hundred Forbanne soldiers at their command. Haraldur was, and he thought differently… and she was helpless to defy him. What could she do, with her broken body and strong spirit? She couldn’t hold a sword to him if she wanted to, not since Solveig had incapacitated her dominant hand. The swelling from the strain had gone down significantly, that same arm was stuck in a sling as her collarbone healed. Whatever Haraldur said, it went; and she had no doubt, given their history, that he wouldn’t hesitate to render her unconscious to force her to fall in line.
And with that, anger and frustration were the main culprits of her sleeplessness, that night. Anger at Haraldur’s betrayal, and frustration at the fact that she was right: she was a hindrance. She was holding them back, and she was endangering them all, for every moment of their time she wasted by finding herself unable to pick up her pace. Would she ever forgive herself if her stubbornness led to their injury? Or, worse… their demise?
It came as no surprise that she thought Alster’s sudden appearance to be a hallucination. So desperate was she to find a way out of this situation--one that did not require her to part from this party, or delay her arrival in Braighdath any longer--that it only made sense that she would dream up the form for her fiance, who seemed capable of solving just about any problem, with the extent of magic at his fingertips. Only… he wasn’t an apparition at all. How was this possible? Had the strength of her will, her desire not to be parted from the company she kept, somehow moved the fabric of the universe to bring him here? He promised he would find a way to help me, she thought, with a small smile. I should have known that he meant to keep well on that promise…
“I… I can hardly believe I am seeing you, right now,” the Atvanian warrior breathed, and reached up with her good arm to touch his face. A sharp pain in her side stopped her short, and she sucked in a breath. The stimulant had long since worn off, and she could no longer ignore those sharp, shooting aches that forced the air from her lungs.
As her fiance lifted a ball of pure light in his hand to illuminate the darkened tent, Elespeth squinted against the sudden assault of pure light, but not enough not to notice the concern etched into Alster’s features. Was she shaking? It had become so commonplace now, especially at night when she was forced to forego another dosage of the stimulant in order to get any sleep, that she hardly noticed when it occurred anymore. “It’s fine,” she tried to assure the Rigas caster with a soft smile. “I’ve just been taking a stimulant during the days so that I can stay on my feet for travel… it’s harmless, this is just a side-effect that occurs whenever it wears off. Obviously, I have to forego it at night if I want to try and get any sleep, at all…”
It wasn’t a lie: nothing she had told veered from the truth. So why, then, did she feel as though she was being dishonest? Perhaps it had to do with the fact that she knew she had become reliant on the drug; that she was taking it more often, now, as her body grew too accustomed to its effects, and required larger and more frequent dosages just to keep her standing and functional. Or the fact that she knew, deep down, even if Alster managed to heal her broken body in one night (which, given the extent of the damage, would be a feat even for him), she might still be putting her friends at risk with her dependency. So long as there is more of this stuff, I’ll be fine, she had been telling herself. And there had to be more; among six-hundred Forbanne, one of them had to be in possession of the stimulant. Just enough to see her safely to Braighdath, with the others… Then, and only then, would she address the problem, and face what she was doing to her body. Later, she’d been telling herself. I’ll face the consequences, but later. When it is safe--when everyone is safe.
“I’ve been eating,” she said to Alster, knowing full well that that was a lie. “Whenever the pain is manageable enough to allow it, But I’ve been slowing our party down… Haraldur has six-hundred soldiers in his command. Food rations are growing scarce, even with the Forbanne hunting. I’m sorry… I know I promised you I’d take care of myself. It’s just been difficult to focus on anything more than putting one foot in front of the other…”
She wasn’t prepared for what he said next. Elespeth’s green eyes widened as Alster recounted news of Chara--or, insofar as he could feel her presence in the universe… or lack thereof. “What… what do you mean?” She gasped, abruptly sitting upright--and regretting it, as pain so sharp it cut through her vision assaulted her body, and she was forced to ease herself back down. “Alster, that cannot be true. Chara can’t be dead. She was with Teselin, and that girl wouldn’t let anything happen to her, I just know it. I don’t doubt your intuition, but… you have to be wrong.” Otherwise, what would become of Lilica, who had likely been pining for her lover’s company since the day she’d left Stella D’Mare, in search of Galeyn? “Chara does not let anyone command her. Not even death… you might have lost connection, but she is still there. She has to be. I… it cannot be otherwise.”
Alster was not Teselin, however. He did not hold out false hope, and she trusted in his abilities more than any other caster. Which meant, if he truly could not find Chara anywhere within the fabric of the universe…
She didn’t want to think about it. And she couldn’t afford to, right now. A chill tightened her skin as the cold air met it, after Alster removed her tunic and sling, but it was a welcome chill. The stimulant raised the temperature of her body, and too often, she found herself awakening from a fitful sleep in a cold sweat. Her torso, particularly around her ribs and shoulders, were all shades of sicky yellows, purples, greens, and blues with bruising which had yet to heal. Not a pretty sight, and she didn’t blame Alster for wincing when he bore witness to it. “It’s all right,” she tried to reassure him in a soft voice. “I’ve been growing accustomed to being in pain. Do whatever you need to do. But… pass my my belt. I don’t want to alert the rest of the camp when everyone needs rest.”
With the leather cord in her hand, the ex-knight, wound it up and bit down, taking a slow, steady breath before nodding to give her fiance the go-ahead to start. A moment later, as his flesh and blood handlay gently upon her skin, over a broken rib healing in an awry position, she heard (and felt) and audible crack. Black spots temporarily danced in her vision, and the leather between her teeth muffled her cry of pain. Seconds later, the focal point of that pain began to feel warm, as Alster’s magic penetrated right down to her marrow, expediting the healing of that rib a hundred fold. And he did it again and again, for two more ribs, and finally, her fractured collarbone. It was not painless by any stretch of the word, however much Alster wanted it it to be; there was no finding a way around re-breaking bones to properly set them, not while she was wide awake.
But it was worth it. After the pain passed, wave after wave, and she realized that she was, in fact, still breathing, the ex-knight of Atvany made an attempt to sit up. It went without saying that her body was still sore, an artefact of the procedure, but it was as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. And her arm…
Elespeth removed the sling and tested the arm that had been immobile for well over a week. It felt siff, but there was no agonizing jolt of pain as a result of a fractured collar bone. And her wrist was no longer swollen as a result of a sprain; her sword arm was no longer incapacitated. Meaning fighting was no longer off the table for her. Her role as dead weight, holding the party back, was over.
“I’m… I can move again. Without agonizing pain.” The former knight wanted to laugh, but well over a week of cringing at the sensation of drawing breath was enough to make her hesitate. “You did it… Alster, I don’t know how you did it, or how you’re even here, but I… I think I’m okay now. I’m okay.” Your not okay, a voice at the very back of her mind reminded her, drawing attention to the tremble in her hands. It didn’t matter; she wasn’t injured any longer. She would make it okay.
Elespeth wasn’t the only one who lost sleep that night. Haraldur’s decision to leave the former knight behind, so to speak, was not resonating well with the Dawn warrior. And as much as Sigrid spent hours upon hours turning it over in her head and tried to marry justification to reason, cognitive dissonance won out, and she found herself unable to reconcile reality with her upbringing.
After the sun had crested the horizon, the exhausted Dawn warrior pulled her blonde hair into a rope braid, donned her tunic, and went to find Haraldur. Her cousin was partaking of breakfast near a newly-lit campfire. “Haraldur… about your decision.” She couldn’t sit down; her body was ansty, itching to move with the discomfort of the position that he had put her in. And he had no ideas at the war going on inside her head and heart. “We cannot let her go alone. I agree, she needs a healer--and we need to reach Braighdath on time. But we cannot just send her off in the company of Forbanne. If she needs to leave… then I will go with her.” Sigrid’s brow was furrowed in obvious distress. She shook her head and ventured to explain her position. “It was my suggestion that Elespeth continue to travel with us, with the aid of that stimulant… and as a Dawn warrior, it goes against everything I stand for to sever her from this party like an infected limb. Were she herself a Dawn warrior, I would be forbidden to, and as it stands, she is a sister in arms…”
She turned her palms upright, shoulders drooping as a sigh deflated her body. “If she were to take a turn for the worst, and was forced to face is alone… Alster would never forgive me. And I would never forgive myself. I respect your decision, but in turn… you must respect mine. I know you’ll be fine without me; but I don’t know if Elespeth will.”
“There is no decision to make. I’m coming with you.”
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Elespeth interrupted their conversation with her own thoughts, none so different from the night before. But… she was different. “Elespeth? Your arm…” The ex-knight was not wearing her sword-wielding arm in a sling, and the way she carried herself did not suggest someone who was in pain.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Elespeth commented, and her green eyes met Haraldur’s: hard, and challenging. “I’m not injured anymore. If you want proof? Take a swing at me; just don’t expect me not to retaliate.”
“How? Just yesterday you could barely stand…”
“Alster.” At their understandably confused gazes, the Atvanian warrior could only shrug her shoulders. “Evidently, he is capable of greater feats than any of us is aware of… I couldn’t explain if I tried. But the evidence--” she spread her arms; something that would’ve been excruciating, with a fractured collarbone, “should be obvious.”
Sigrid looked between Haraldur and Elespeth, hardly able to believe what she was seeing, let alone hearing… and yet, the ex-knight was right: the evidence was unmistakable. “You’re not in any pain? At all?”
“None. If you want proof, I’ll take you on right now. You’ll have to excuse my sparring if it’s a little rusty.”
“I am not sparring with you, Elespeth.”
“Well, I’m not taking my clothes off. So in that case, you’re just going to have to take my word for it. I’m fine--and I’m going to continue onward with you, to Braighdath. I won’t be holding you back any longer. So, Sigrid, you do not have to choose between staying to protect this party, and seeing to my well-being… though I do appreciate the thought. You may be a Dawn warrior, adhering to your customs, but you are also a good friend. At a time like this… it is good to know who your friends really are.” She leveled a hard look at Haraldur, at the conclusion of small speech; one that said more than words dared to. Then, she took her leave.
But that look hadn’t been lost on Sigrid, who, once again, find herself in the middle of a situation she’d rather avoid. “She doesn’t mean it that way.” The Dawn warrior tried to reassure her cousin. “She’s been in immense pain all week; that is bound to drive anyone to words they don’t mean. Let her cool her heels, and if she’s truly recovered… let her come with us. We’ll gain nothing by dividing ourselves when we are barely halfway to Braighdath.”
Whether through their bond, or through his familiarity with Elespeth’s tells--the subtle twitch of her mouth, the roving of her eyes, the uneven pitch of her voice--he knew she was lying to him. Not only about the stimulant and her relationship to it, but her eating habits, which, since they met, had always been poor. Though he didn’t argue about her “interpretation” of events, he affixed her with an unconvinced stare. “If food is scarce, as you say, I don’t see why I can’t smuggle some for you, now that I’ve found the means to visit your tent. We’ll take our meals together. Well,” he amended, “whenever I have availability. My responsibilities are endless, and now that Chara--”
He didn't finish the sentence.
After witnessing the abrupt end of the tidal wave from his elevated vantage point, he could sense something had gone wrong that day in Stella D'Mare. An interference, and one he related to Mollengard. Judging by the patterns of the waves, one minute roiling and wild, the next, tepid and still, he did not attribute the failing magic to Teselin’s lack of preparedness. After a week of tireless lessons, he believed in the summoner’s ability to raise the waves and persist. If anything, he predicted Stella D’Mare would end up sundering to the sea from her exuberant, dangerous energy. No. The sudden silence to the summoner’s oceanic assault was external. The enemy had found them.
Immediately, he sent a message to Chara via their shared resonance stones. Chara, Chara, what’s your status? Chara--respond if you can hear me.
Nothing.
He never ceased in sending messages, even as he turned his back on Stella D’Mare and, per Elespeth’s request, kept on walking. As the new Rigas Head, he could do nothing but see to his charges, to what others expected of him. No matter his situation, no matter the development of his magic or his autonomy, was he forever beholden to the expectations of others? Do this, Alster. Go here, Alster. You’re in charge, Alster--but here are your conditions.
Unable to shift goals and search for Chara and Teselin himself, he sent scouts in his stead. A poor substitute, but he had no other choice. They returned with nothing new to report. Every night, he pressed his mouth to the resonance stone, and concentrated his mind to pinpoint her location. Reached and reached for her in dreams. No answer. No touch of energy. No inkling that she ever existed. Erased from the world, he couldn’t even find her star in the night sky. There, he saw Fasianos, the pheasant, but no yellow blinking speck to accentuate the crest. Gone was the centerpiece, the constellation’s defining feature.
“I can’t read her,” he said, looking on with concern as Elespeth shot upright in response. With a guiding hand, he resettled her to the ground. “I’ve tried to find her. I’ve sent scouts, I used a resonance stone and scryed for her energy, in meditation and dreams. Her star is missing from the sky. I don’t know what else to think, El. If Mollengard got to her, perhaps they stole away her magic, but that wouldn’t wipe her from existence unless…” Unless she was dead, remained the unsaid sentiment. “I tried to connect with Teselin, but the energy surrounding her is so thick, it’s like plowing through a cosmic storm. No openings or entrances. I can’t even gain a foothold, or an accurate read on her whereabouts. Whatever happened to her, the magic has swelled and inflamed to twice its size. If she doesn’t address it soon, I fear what will happen to her...and her surroundings.” He brushed a hand through his hair, slicking back his bangs with the beads of perspiration on his forehead. “I haven’t told Lilica anything. Not that I’ve lied per sae, but I’m omitting details about Chara until I know what’s become of her for certain. I want to be wrong, Elespeth. If something happened to her, I can’t forgive myself. I can’t.” Closing his eyes to clear his head, he expelled a few shaky breaths. Whatever happened to his grand plan of self-protection? If he cared too deeply in such trying times, he’d pestle into dust, and then how could he save anyone?
Partition yourself now, he urged himself. People are relying on you to stay strong.
Opening his eyes, he slapped his hands together and got to work on Elespeth’s injuries. Pulling close a small medic’s bag that he’d carried with him through the portal, he opened it and doused a small flask of strong alcohol on hands both steel and flesh. After wiping them dry on a small rag, he pressed warm fingers gingerly across the contours of his fiancee’s collage of discolorations, a rainbow of green, blue, purple, and a deep pink flecked with red. He traced up to her collarbone, where, broken in three places, it protruded at a sickly angle, accentuating the divots and arteries lining her throat. From the apex, he traveled back to her ribcage, and rested his hand there.
“Breathe with me,” he said, once she clamped her teeth around the leather of her belt. “Release when I say. Hold it when I say. This will help to control the pain. I’m with you, El. We’re facing it together.” For her, he reserved a gentle smile. “Your ribs have held their integrity. None are in danger of puncturing your lungs or your skin. They’re resilient, like you.” At his instruction, she deflated her lungs, collapsing her ribcage, and held the position. Using his steel hand as anchor, he manipulated his left hand and, with enough pressure, snapped one rib into place. He squirmed as she squirmed, but forced himself into an exhale to control the wrenching of sympathy pains in his sternum. “Like I said...we’re in this together,” he said with a wheezy voice and a breathy laugh. Meanwhile, a soothing white energy pricked at the rib’s marrow, knitting the fractured point into flush uniformity.
He followed through with the final two ribs, healing bruises along the way, massaged her wrist sprain back to spry serviceability, eliminated the tender spots behind her head, and popped her collarbone into alignment and into wholeness. When the healing was complete, he sat her upright and helped her into the sleeves of her tunic, returning the belt to its rightful place around her waist. “Nothing to it. Right?” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips. “I wish I could have acted sooner, but I haven’t yet perfected the art of being in multiple places at once. This is the best I can do. For now.”
Rising to his feet, he hefted his bag and swirled one hand in the air, bending and parting it into a doorway large enough for him to enter. On the other side, an etherea-lit tent flickered in wait for his arrival--his focusing point, in tact. “I’d ask you to come with me, El, but I’m still learning how to manage this fledgling skill of mine. But let me know, and I’ll experiment more with the magic--and include you, next time. Needless to say, I’m invested in developing this skill further. Do you know how many problems we can solve, this way? How much easier it’ll be, to communicate and transport? The tactical advantage? Mass coordination of people and supplies, from one instantaneous point to another?” An enthusiastic smile lit his features. “I’m getting ahead of myself, I know. But for now--I can try and visit you every night. Would you like that?”
With a goodbye wave and a farewell kiss, he stepped through the portal. As the air behind him smoothed, the window vanished, along with the ball of etherea overhead--and Elespeth’s dwindling stash of the stimulant herb.
When Alster appeared on the other side, he opened the medic bag and examined the sachet of stimulant--which he found inside Elespeth’s tunic, and which he pocketed during her healing process. You don’t need this anymore, El. Opening the drawstrings, he brought the sachet to rest under his nose. With a sniff, he coughed from the overpowering odor, and promptly cinched the bag shut. It would serve a purpose among his charges, ones who lacked the mobility or energy to move on their own, let alone mount a roc or a steed for extended hours at a time. Yes, it was useful for emergencies, but Elespeth was an emergency no longer. He made sure of it.
True, his purloining of the herb could be an overreaction. Perhaps she had spoken the truth; that she was using it as an energy supplement and nothing more. But there were other means of extracting energy: through eating regular meals, which she was not doing. Whatever the situation, he’d find out her status of dependency soon enough.
The next morning, Haraldur partook in a small breakfast of hardtack and elk-marrow broth, the remains of a successful hunt from the day when they camped early in favor of Elespeth’s health. He hadn’t forgotten the look of simmering rage when she excused herself from their company yesterday, furious at his necessary decision which, for days, he’d delayed. Like Sigrid, he wasn’t keen on “abandoning” Elespeth in a strange locale against her will, but unlike Sigrid, he did not share in the Dawn Guard dictum of “Leave no comrade behind.” He was not bound to its rule, but he was bound to Eyraille, and She ordered him to carry out his mission post-haste, and return without further interruption. To accomplish this, he needed control of the army and of the pace. The more they lagged, the more they lost. Already, they were in a race to arrive before the devil’s draught ran dry, before their provisions disappeared, and before the Forbanne realized their errs in following him in place of Captain Solveig--who would gladly reconscript them into her compulsion. The problem spanned larger than Elespeth. Sadly, he chose to disassociate, and treat her as a mere statistic. One person did not speak louder than the needs of hundreds. One person did not speak louder than his wife and unborn children.
Sigrid, in her own way, understood. When she approached him with an addendum to his plan for Elespeth, he considered her a moment, then nodded. Forget that her departure meant he faced a precarious situation, alone, without support. That he secretly feared, without Sigrid to remind him of his identity as Prince Haraldur Sorde, Captain Solveig, in a moment of clarity, could attempt, and succeed, in reindoctrinating him.
Setting down his empty bowl of broth, he scooped the necklace, which he wore over his clothes and cuirass--always within view--in his hand. “That’s fine,” he said. “It will help with her recovery, to be within reach of a friendly face. Puts me more at ease, too. With you on her side, maybe I won’t suffer the wrath of Alster whenever he finds out where I put his fiancee.”
His humorless smile hadn’t the time to crack before Elespeth yet again wheedled into their conversation, stubborn as ever in her stance to remain with the army. Only now--her argument stood, unbroken, as evidenced by her easy-swinging arm, sans sling, and the full brassiness to her voice, unencumbered by sharp breaths of pain. His brow furrowed at her brief, baffling explanation, elucidating as a cloud reflected in murky water. Then again, Alster was capable of a lot, as he had seen before.
Yet...the timing couldn’t be any more convenient, and therefore, he was left dubious. “Keep up today,” he said, “and we’ll see how you’re doing come evening.” Before she withdrew from their company, her comment to Sigrid, and the meaningful look she shot in his direction, set his jaw into its default, firm position--a mechanism for when he didn’t want to react at all. When he wanted to remain unaffected, and unmoved. Yet, Elespeth’s stab did affect him, however much he expected her retaliatory treatment.
“Even if she does,” he shrugged, “it’s warranted. I’ll take the heat for my decision. It’s not like I thought I’d be solidifying any friendships by making such a difficult call. But,” he watched the straight-backed retreat of Elespeth’s form, “I’ll see how she manages today and tomorrow, before we reach the town. Now that she’s healed, maybe she won’t rely so much on that stimulant, and get around to eating real food. I have my doubts...but we’ll see.”
The fact that she’d healed overnight, all thanks to her incredibly powerful fiance who was breaking the very limits of his magic every day, Elespeth had anticipated that her story might be hard to buy--particularly when Haraldur had seemed dead-set on leaving her in a strange town, in the care of gods even knew who. So just to make a point, the Atvanian warrior partook in breakfast, that morning, despite not feeling as though she needed it. The food, however light, felt like a weight in her stomach, and perhaps she was imagining it, but it almost made her feel more sluggish than usual.
Fortunately, she had a fast solution to remedy that.
When she returned to her tent to pack up and collapse the small structure, it hadn’t even crossed her mind that she would not find what she was looking for. The small pouch with those tiny, live-saving leaving were nowhere on her person, as she’d thought; of course, that didn’t mean anything. In the half-aware state in which she had been functioning for almost two weeks, now, it wouldn’t have surprised her to find she’d placed her stash somewhere ridiculous. So, one by one, item by item, she searched as she packed, growing ever more concerned when that little brown pouch did not turn up. That concern finally evolved into quiet panic when everything had been packed away--tent included--and it was still nowhere to be found.
“It’s fine.” She heard herself say aloud, as she patted herself down vigorously, wondering if she had tucked it away in another pocket. No such luck. I don’t understand… it should be here. She was healed; she was no longer in need of the quick pick-me-ups. But Elespeth wasn’t fool enough to think that relying so heavily on such a potent herb would for as long as she had wouldn’t have its consequences for stopping it suddenly. It just didn’t make sense; they had always been just within reach…
Alster.
Elespeth couldn’t quite put a finger on the emotion that surged through her, at the realization that Alster must be responsible. He’d helped her out of her tunic the other night; she’d been in too much pain to pay attention to whether he’d taken the liberty to remove what remained of her stimulant, and there was no other explanation. But what hurt her the most was… why? Why would he take the liberty to go and do that, without consultation, and against her will? She hadn’t lied to him: she’d been forthcoming about the fact that that drug was the only reason she had been on her feet at all. Perhaps she hadn’t been clear on the extent that she’d been using it, but… what did that matter? What did he think to accomplish by taking it from her, without saying a word?
But there was no time to be angry. For now, she was all right; on her feet and not in pain or experiencing any discomfort, and their party was getting ready to move on. She could keep up: if she could just make it until tonight, after they set up camp elsewhere, then she’d figure something out. Sigrid, at least, was still on her side, and it was no secret that the Forbanne had the herb in their possession. If push came to shove… maybe she could convince her to pull some strings.
After a long day of walking, however, and having had time to hash things out in her head, Elespeth realized with dismay that Sigrid wouldn’t do her any good; she wasn’t the one who pulled the strings with the Forbanne. Haraldur was--and he’d been perfectly fine with burning the bridge between them. Unfortunately… appealing to him seemed to be her only option.
By that evening, after supper, she was starting to feel it. That tug inside of her, impossible to ignore, that threatened to weigh her down if she did not lift herself up with the stimulant soon. She could tell her heart rate had already dropped, and everything, from setting up her tent to eating a meal in hopes of feeling more alert (which, incidentally, didn’t work). Sooner than later, she would be incapacitated, and Haraldur would no doubt leave her somewhere that would ensure she was no longer a burden; and no longer his problem.
So, later on, she approached his tent, and brought him a proposition.
“I’ve had time to think about what you suggested; and, in a way, I think you’re right.” Elespeth closed the tent flaps behind her, but didn’t move far from the entrance. Too close, and she was afraid Haraldur might notice that she still appeared sickly, or see the subtle tremor in her hands. “I’ve been a burden on all of you; I’ve held us back by days, and we’re on a tight timeframe to get to Braighdath, considering Solveig won’t remain subdued, and the Forbanne won’t remain under your control forever. Even you have to admit, I managed to keep up today--I ate, despite that all of you have accused me of negligent fasting. I wasn’t lying when I said that I’d been healed; I don’t have sprains, broken bones, or even bruises anymore. But… now I’m facing an obstacle that I didn’t anticipate. And I need your help. And in turn… I’ll help all of you.”
Her shoulders drooped ever so slightly. She didn’t want to beg; she wouldn’t beg. But she could not step down without another pouch of the stimulant, for more reasons than she cared to admit. “I’ve been relying on that stimulant for almost two weeks, now. Judge me however you see fit, but the fact is, my body has become habituated to it. I can’t just altogether stop it like a bad habit; that would be detrimental, and it wouldn’t help anyone. But… the fool that I am, after feeling so much better this morning without broken bones, I forgot to take what remained of it with me. I thought I’d had it on my person; turns out, I was wrong. And that puts me in a difficult situation, now.”
Anticipating rebuttal, the former knight spread her arms wide. “I’m not lying to you. Search me--search my tent. You won’t find it, because I forgot to take it with me. And without it, I will end up in worse condition than I was, before; I’ll literally be incapacitated. But before you decide to ditch me in some strange town with people who I don’t even know I can trust--and you should know that my trust has been badly shaken, of late--I’d like to propose an alternative. The result will be the same: I’ll be gone. I’ll leave before morning, and I won’t be your problem. If… you’d be willing to supply me with just enough of the stimulant to for two more weeks. Enough to get me to Braighdath, on my own.”
Except, she was lying--but not in the way he might have thought. She hadn’t forgotten the herb; she knew, deep down, that Alster had taken it, stirring her hurt and betrayal to a level she’d never wanted it to reach. But she feared that that small detail might be enough for Haraldur to decide the Rigas caster might have had good reason to take it from her reach. She had not broached that subject with Alster, yet… but whatever his excuse, she had already decide she wasn’t buying it.
“Look, Haraldur… I get it. This is a time sensitive matter that my injuries have thrown off course. You need to play it by the book to stay safe, even if that means cutting ties with people who used to be friends.” She didn’t even hesitate about putting their friendship in the past; as far as she was concerned, the moment he’d decided to send her away, it had ended. Regardless of everything they had faced, together. “You’re a Prince of Eyraille, now. You have a family and a pregnant wife to get back to, and you can’t let even the possibility of failure stand in your way. I don’t fault you for that--you deserve to survive and get back to your new home. But… so do I. I deserve to survive. And on my own terms.”
The former knight pressed her lips together, keeping the anger, the betrayal, the hurt at bay. The Eyraillian prince only favored reason and logic, right now; so that was what she meant to present to him. “I knew what I was getting into the moment I agreed to this. I was a familiar face to Solveig; she’d already learned to despise me, and I was the bait. If all else failed, I was the one who she would relish in destroying. So while you had completely lost herself to her compulsion, and Sigrid was struggling to get you back, I was the one whose body she was breaking. And I was willing to let it happen, if there was a chance to bring you back to yourself, because I knew Alster had enchanted my sword to keep me out of death’s reach. I knew she wouldn’t kill me--so I took that hit, for all of us. I broke for all of us. And now you don’t need me: you don’t want me, and I am not here to argue that. Frankly, I don’t care if we end on good terms. But I would hope that we could end on neutral ones, considering that we are somehow on the same side.
“You’ve saved my life before, Haraldur--don’t think I don’t know that. Don’t think I don’t know that Vega died because Alster had asked you to watch out for me. I cannot ever repay either of you for that.” When she hung her head, it was with real remorse. A survivor’s guilt that she seldom spoke of, but had always felt… and always would feel, regardless of how their paths diverged. “But I am not asking you to help me survive, anymore; I am asking you to let me survive.” Her green eyes carried her plea when at last she looked up; overbright and full of emotion she didn’t wish to acknowledge. “Mollengard is everywhere. Who is to say they might not find their way to whatever village you decide to deposit me in? What will I do, then, too sick to so much as defend myself?”
Elespeth exhaled and took a steadying breath, quelling the emotions rising inside her. “Give me enough of the stimulant to see me to Braighdath--and then I will deal with the consequences of withdrawal once I’m safe. After everything I’ve been through, I will make it to Braighdath and reunite with Alster and the others. There will be no shortage of help for me to access, then. But I need to get there, first. Traveling alone, I might even make it there before the rest of you. I can take harsher terrain to cut down on travel. Haraldur, this is the last thing I will ever ask of you--just let me survive. Let me make a clean break, so that you can all move on without feeling responsible for what happens to me. Don’t worry about Alster: we are in frequent contact… and I plan to speak with him, very soon.”
And so she did. Later that evening, Alster emerged through time and space and found his way to her tent, as he had the night before. She’d been excited and relieved at the possibilities that this newfound skill of his had opened up, and the thought of seeing him night to night, not having to wait until they were reunited in Braighdath, had brought her so much comfort. That is, until she had put two and two together, and realized he’d taken her stimulant away. Was that why he wanted to come back tonight? She couldn’t help but wonder, too dismayed and hurt to think clearly. To see what would become of me without that herb? He had no right…
It went without saying that Elespeth had no affection to show him, when he visited her again. She didn’t greet him with a kiss or an embrace or even a hello. Simply, she met his eyes, arms straight at her side and shoulders taught, and asked, “When were you planning on telling me you confiscated the stimulant? Or were you just waiting for me to fall into a pit of withdrawal so you could scold me for my recklessness?”
Don’t get angry; be rational. She tried so, so hard, but it had taken everything in her to repress her emotional side to Haraldur. And now, she was tired, spent, and was on the last thread of her patience. “I did what was necessary, Alster. We needed to get the D’Marians out of the city, and I needed to get out, as well. You have that herb to thank for the fact that I was able to get this far, before you found a way to get to me. But… what? You don’t think I’m responsible enough to wean myself off of the stimulant, now that I don’t need it to stand on two feet?” There was colour in her fact, for the first time in weeks, but the pink that tinted her cheeks was the colour of her hurt. Of his betrayal, or insomuch as she perceived it that way.
“You think I don’t know my body has become dependent on it? I’m not an idiot, Alster.” The Atvanian warrior seethed, her hands curling into fists. “I know the consequences. I also know that I don’t have a choice but to keep myself stable until we reach Braighdath. Do you really think now is the time to try and purge it from my system? When we are still all in danger, until we reach Braighdath or Galeyn? Do you want me to be helpless? Because I don’t think whatever you did to my sword will save me life if I find myself at the tip of a Mollengardian sword, and I cannot find the strength to raise my own against it. I know you aspire to be a healer; I know I’ve been your patient, on more than one occasion. But first and foremost, I am your fiancee. I’m a person, and I thought I had your trust. I guess now we’re on a level playing field, as far as trust goes.”
Against her will, Elespeth’s eyes dampened, tears gathering on her lower lid. “I can take care of myself, Alster. I can survive this, if only you’ll let me.” Before those tears could fall, she turned her back to him, shoulders shaking with barely repressed sobs. “You should leave,” she said, after a beat, her voice tight and strained. “And you should stay with your charges. I don’t think you should waste any more time or energy coming to see me at night. I’ll see you again in Braighdath.”
Preoccupied with commanding the Forbanne, Haraldur asked Sigrid to report on Elespeth’s progress throughout the day’s march. Since she considered the Dawn Warrior a “true friend,” she’d more than welcome her as a companion during the tedious slog through a particularly featureless stretch of flatlands. To set the pace, Haraldur kept to the front. Always beside him, in case her eyes blinked out of their draught-infected haze, was Captain Solveig, placid in her shackles and sustaining the pace without any trouble. Usually accompanied by Sigrid, as she insisted she provide a buffer between them, Haraldur was, for the first time since they captured the giantess woman, alone in her company.
While draughted, no one had given the order for Solveig to silence her mouth. With the sun beating overhead, Haraldur made the mistake of squinting away from the cloudless sky--and into the waiting brown eyes of the Forbanne commander. Mouth agape, tongue poised over her teeth, she filled the space with more noise. And it was hard to ignore.
“For a man who has been separated from the Forbanne for over a decade, you fit in place with us rather nicely.” Haraldur grunted, but said nothing. Solveig’s mouth widened into a smile. “Even your response. Since you’ve rejoined with your brethren--or, well,” she elected for a laugh, “since you stole them from me, you’ve adapted. Your walk, the unwavering focus in your eyes, your no-nonsense command--not much has changed in your years away…’Haraldur.’” His shoulders stiffened, but his walk did not falter. “An emotionless machine, beautiful in your simplicity. Wired to respond, but not to react to inappropriate feeling, or gross sentimentality. Deny your place all you want, but you belong here, among us. No matter how much you believe that others will accept you, they’re not accepting the ‘real’ you. Because they don’t understand. They’ll never understand. Not like I understand. Not like these men and women who follow you understand. Would they have responded to your call if they never saw the similarities you bear between them?”
“They responded because I offered them something outside this compulsory life of brutality and pain,” Haraldur said, reverting his eyes to the road. “Because I made it out of the fog, and they want it, too.”
“They want a lie. You’re misled, Haraldur. The life you live is a lie. You’re charading as the person they want you to be. But you’ll never be one of them. You can’t escape who you are, no matter how much you try. No matter how much you rally others to try. You--”
“--Stop talking,” his voice descended, whip-fast and lined with glass. “You won’t talk to me or to anyone else unless it’s of life or death importance.”
Solveig, helpless to argue or defy him, said nothing else.
When the small unit stopped on the side of the road for a quick lunch, Haraldur checked the contents of his last vial of devil’s draught. Two-thirds full, it was, according to Hadwin, supposed to last to Braighdath. But he had gone through four injections, twice the amount from before, in two days. The potency was wearing thin, and more of Solveig was seeping through the cracks. His commands for her lost some of their efficacy; often, he needed to issue the same order twice or even three times per day before she sank into obeisance. What use had they for keeping her alive? They had wandered far enough from Stella D’Mare; they no longer needed the assistance of the Forbanne left behind. Her death wouldn’t shift or disrupt the six hundred under his control--he hoped.
That evening, when they made camp off road in a field of rolling hills, surrounded by small copses of trees, Haraldur sat in his tent, his thoughts always drifting to Solveig’s words. He never wanted to recall them; yearned to forget them. There were flaws in her argument, glaring and untrue. Yet, some of her words caught, like burrs, and refused to snag free.
A charade. Was he pretending? Among Sigrid, Vega, the kingdom of Eyraille? Was it only now that he was embracing the truest version of himself--the one he was so desperate to erase? The one with the cold discernment to eject Elespeth from their company without regret? Was this the same man who wanted to be a father? A man who believed in family, in raising children, instead of slaughtering children?
He tightened a fist over the ring off his chain and said a silent prayer. Vega, don’t let me forget myself…
His silent vigils did not go on for long, however, when Elespeth entered his tent, headstrong in stride and determined as ever. A speech hummed on her lips, one she’d seemed to prepare beforehand, and which oozed with the confidence to sway him to side with her viewpoint. As he listened, this “proposal” of hers shifted in a different direction. Now, it no longer pertained to her continued residency among their ranks, but referred to...availability to the stimulant? His frown deepened.
“So you’re coming in here to beg my favor. Formally. Like I’m your commander. You can stop with the speeches, Elespeth. We're equals,” he said, a tired strain to his voice. “If I came on too strong before, it wasn’t out of eagerness to dispose of you. I don’t see you that way; as something to toss when it’s lost all value. Yes, your condition was slowing us down, and that’s no fault of yours. But I didn’t want you to get hurt for no reason other than to keep up at a pace that’s unreasonable for someone who was badly injured.”
He pulled his hands behind his back, hiding the fiddling of his fingers. “I used to ferry Mollengardian refugees to Eyraille over a treacherous mountain terrain, for years, during the spring and summer months. I’d handle the able, who could keep my pace, and my late wife, she stayed behind with the injured, the elderly--anyone who, for whatever reason, couldn’t travel far, or fast. In the end, what ultimately happened,” he paused, “...my wife and her latest group perished from a late season avalanche. I had the opportunity to stay with them, with my charges. I didn’t, and we lived. We kept moving, and that’s what saved us. But there’s not a day when I’m not haunted by guilt over what happened. Every day on this road is a day when an avalanche could hit us. We slow down, and we all die. The way I see it, you either stick to my side, or we put you in a house, nestled beneath a mountain shelf where the snow won’t smother you to death. Because I want you to live, Elespeth, and be safe, regardless of what you think of me.” That was the answer, he realized. You’re a protector, a vision of his Mother said, in a dream young Shayl crafted for him. Whether it was her real spirit or a fabrication, the words resonated. I’m not who They crafted me to be. The Forbanne don’t define me. I have to believe that I’m more… “Don’t forget--I broke for you, too, back there. For Stella D’Mare. For your fiance. I risked it all. Every day I march alongside Captain Solveig, I risk a little more. I lose a little more. So--here's my response to your proposal.”
He took a breath. This was where he might lose her, for good. All stirrings of their companionship, wiped clean by a wave. The scrawl of names and deeds scrubbed from the sand and assimilated into sea foam. “I’ll give you some stimulant. But I’m regulating it according to what I think you need. That means you can’t walk away and go off on your own to Braighdath. This also means I’m trusting you to follow our pace. I’ll start with giving you two leaves tomorrow; one for the morning, and one for the afternoon. In a few days, I’ll drop to one leaf. A half leaf--and then no leaves at all. I carried bags of that stimulant too, when I was Forbanne. I know how potent it is. How easy it is to become addicted. I’ve seen it happen. I know that you’re addicted to it, now, and that this isn’t a cry for survival. It’s a cry for a fix. Hate me all you like, but if I hand over a bag and let you go free, that’s a greater offense than sending you to a healer with Sigrid. It’s an avalanche.” With an expression that softened from its Forbanne-hardened exterior of the last week and a half, he stepped forward with all the disarming finesse of approaching a wild boar. “That’s my offer to you, Elespeth. No matter how you see it, I’m acting as your friend, not your enemy.”
It turned out, Alster’s suspicions regarding Elespeth’s dependency were true. When he arrived at her tent the next evening, the accusatory glare and purposeful shoulder turn spoke the truth before her mouth did. “I was going to tell you tonight,” he said in an even tone, a gentle offset to the hurt and betrayal aflame in her smoldering words. He knew he made a controversial decision in stealing the stimulant. But, he reasoned, if he did nothing, and merely asked for clarification about her usage, would she answer with honesty, or dismiss his concern and assure that she had it under control? “It was the deceptive way of going about it, I know. But I needed to see how you’d react, if I took it. You had the shakes last night, Elespeth, a common sign of withdrawal. You told me it was harmless. What was I to believe? If it was so harmless, why now are you changing your story, and calling it dependency? You knew what it was doing to your body...and you wouldn’t tell me.”
He stood on the opposite end of the tent, where his portal once rent a tear that linked one campsite to the other, days ahead and to the west. In respect for her space, he didn’t move from where he'd first appeared. Smothering her with physical proximity would only worsen an already precarious situation. “You wouldn’t be so upset with me if it were truly harmless, so now I have my answer. But don’t put words in my mouth, El. I’m not scolding you, nor am I inferring you’re an idiot. The last thing I want is to hurt you, or put you in a position of powerlessness. But that stimulant--it’s for emergencies. I’m grateful to it because it carried you this far when you had no other choice but to walk, despite all your pain and discomfort. But the emergency has passed, El. I made sure of it. On the outside, you’re healed. There are others, people under my care, who need the burst of energy that stimulant provides, so they can ride to safety. You don’t--no matter how much you think you do.”
The fingers of his left hand curled over the prosthetic attachments of steel over raw, inflamed flesh; a pain that ranged from mild to unbearable. Sometimes so great, he prayed to evacuate his own skin. It never waned. Not in full. He was one bad day from dosing himself with a painkiller also known for its addictive qualities. “The longer you’re on the stimulant, the harder it’ll be to fight it, when the time comes to wean it from your system. You’ll be doing your body a disservice by continuing. The fight will be longer, more harrowing. Hallucinations, irreversible damage to your brain, the urge to claw your own eyes out--all within the realm of possibility, if you persist. I’m not overreacting, El. Remember when I woke from my dream curse? And later, when we...when we separated? Elias put me on an addictive substance to help me sleep. Everyone thought I was a lost cause. That I traded one dream state for another, and I wouldn’t recover. It took an external cry for help to snap me to relative normalcy.”
Against his better judgement, he crossed the span of the tent, and rested a careful hand on her shoulder. “I trust you, Elespeth. It’s the stimulant I don’t trust. If you can’t wean it off for yourself...would you do it for me? Please. I’m worried. I’m just worried for you.” His eyes grew with desperation as he tried to catch her attention. But she shrugged him off, and turned away, curling into a ball of her own despair. “I...can’t leave you like this,” he whispered, trying not to take her bitter dismissal of him personally. “We can work through a solution together. We always have. I’ll find a way to take you with me. My unit cares for the sick; I could use your help. We’re not going at a breakneck pace. Or I’ll fetch you a night steed. A roc. Either will take you to Braighdath or beyond, to Galeyn. You can act as envoy, deliver Roen and Lilica messages of our progress from Stella D’Mare. Or rest at the Night Garden. I’ll make whatever arrangements you need, El. I’m on your side. Always.”
But she had finished all conversation with him for the night, and possibly, until Braighdath. Still, he refused to part her side. As the late hour tolled, however, he stood and parted the air, reopening the window to his camp. With promises to return the next day, he nodded his farewell, and disappeared.
“I didn’t tell you because I knew you would blow it out of proportion. Because your desire to fix me, to fix everything that is just a little bit off would prevent you from seeing that I have this under control.” Elespeth snapped, throwing her arms out, as if she were exposing what was already obvious. “I knew what it was doing to me. I know what it is doing to me, and I understand that I can’t let it go on like this. And I plan to fix it. Or at least I did, until you took away my means of doing so. Because you trust your way of doing things more than mine.”
She pulled out of his reach when he touched her shoulder. Her anger was too intense; she didn’t want to be near him. She didn’t want to hear his pleas, or his reasons for doing what his did. His compromises to make the situation better. None of that interested her, now that she knew what he’d done. “Have you already forgotten that I was a fugitive for years? I’ve survived as a nomad on my own, for longer than I’ve known you. I survived without your help--without anyone’s, because it wasn’t safe to trust, when I knew I was wanted. None of that has changed just because you’re in my life. I am a survivor, Alster; I always have been, with or without you. And yet, you think I am too dull to realize what is happening to me? Or to understand how I might be able to fix it?”
Don’t say anything you’ll regret, a faint voice cautioned her in the back of her mind. But it wasn’t loud enough, and her emotions were on fire… and even at her request, he refused to leave. “No, Alster--I will work through this.” The former knight insisted, arms now folded tightly across her chest. “I’m taking control back. For myself, and the path ahead of me. Maybe I’d have considered accepting your help, but how am I to know you won’t deceive me again? Find a way to take matters into your own hands, because evidently I don’t know what’s good for me? You might have my love. That will never change, because my heart belongs to you. But my trust… that, you have lost. And you’ve no one but yourself and your actions to blame.
Just… please go. Please.” Elespeth exhaled, and closed her eyes. “I need time and space. When I’ve had that time, and when I’ve managed to grow well again… then, and only then, will we talk. For now, focus on your charges, and get everyone safely Braighdath and Galeyn. That is all I have to say to you.”
It wasn’t that her heart didn’t ache when Alster took his leave; these feelings, of resentment and betrayal, were never feelings she wished to harbour toward her own heart’s desire. Deep down, she knew that he was only doing what he believed was best. He cared for her; he wanted her to be alright. But all of the care and nurture in the world could not erase the fact that he had done something so underhanded as taken from her the one thing keeping her on her feet, in a time when she so desperately needed to be alert.
And so, Elespeth Rigas prepared to pursue her survival--and her eventual recovery--alone. She trusted no one to help her.
Since that morning, Sigrid had begun to feel better about Elespeth and her situation. As per Haraldur’s request, the Dawn warrior had kept a close eye on their formerly injured comrade, to see how she would truly fare throughout the day. She wasn’t entirely opposed to accompanying Alster’s fiancee to the next town, should her condition prove less stable than she let on, but watching the Atvanian warrior during their travels, she had to admit that the woman was holding up. Elespeth hadn’t complained or looked weary under the weight of travel; she stood straight, she had kept their pace, and aside from still looking rather sickly due to her time spent injured, she held no one back. It was a good outlook, and left her feeling reassured that evening. She even noticed the ex-knight taking part in meals--something she hadn’t done for quite some time, for all the pain she’d been in.
She hadn’t been privy to her sister in arm’s conversation with Haraldur; she hadn’t been privy to Elespeth’s conversation with Alster, and as far as she was concerned, everything was finally falling into place. That said, she slept well that evening, and approached Haraldur with a far lighter attitude as they congregated for breakfast the next morning.
“Elespeth held up well, yesterday.” She commented, taking a bowl of hot grains and some salted meat for herself. “I think she’s telling the truth; whatever Alster managed to do, she’s standing strong again. I don’t think it will be necessary to leave her behind. We can continue to progress together, as we’d originally planned.”
It was then that her cousin divulged the discussion that had occurred between himself and the Atvanian warrior just the other night. That she had come to appeal to him in, search of more of the stimulant… and that Haraldur suspected her addiction to the substance. Sigrid’s appetite suddenly waned, and she slowly put her bowl down, looking crestfallen. “This is all my fault.” She sighed, her posture sagging under the weight of her guilt. “I thought I was helping her. I didn’t question it when she took dose after dose, because she was in so much pain, and I knew we had to keep moving… we should have brought her somewhere safe, from the very beginning. Somewhere she could heal.”
In an attempt to mollify her, Haraldur explained the offer he’d made to their mutual friend; limited and controlled access to the drug, as a means to wean her off of it gradually, and dampen any negative effects she might suffer as a result of inevitable withdrawal. It was a small comfort, but at least it was something. “And she agreed?” Sigrid asked for clarification, and the Eyraillian prince nodded. “Good. It’s… something. At least she is willing to admit her dependency, and she trusts us to help her through it. But… you realize that if this is what you have offered her, then we have to commit to it fully, with no exceptions. We can’t give up on her and send her off, even if things do not progress as we see fit.” Looking up at last, she met her cousin’s green eyes. He looked tired; for a multitude of reasons, no doubt. “Her trust has already been shaken by what you proposed, the other day… and no doubt, her emotions are likely heightened and exaggerated, since the stimulant will amplify anything. We need to show her we are not going to give up on her, or all will be lost. I realize we are on a tenuous timeframe… is this something you can really commit to, Haraldur?”
He didn’t seem particularly certain, himself; but he and the former knight had been friends and comrades in arms for far longer than she had known either of them. And it lightened her heart to see a certain softness in her cousin’s eyes: one that bespoke of his desire to believe in Elespeth and her recovery. And a desire to commit to the promise he had made her.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help. I’ll continue to keep a close eye on her.” Sigrid promised, lifting her bowl from the ground. If anything, she’d have to start by setting an example: meals weren’t to be skipped, and she would be sure to hold Elespeth to that. It didn’t appear as though the Atvanian warrior had come to eat yet, today. “In fact, I’ll start right now. This won’t be one-sided; she has our promise, but we need her dedication, as well. And if she won’t be relying on the stimulant to put one foot in front of another, she’s going to have to start taking regular meals. I’ll go get her, right now.”
Hastily finishing her meal, the Dawn warrior stood and made her way toward Elespeth’s tent. “Elespeth?” She called, hesitating to part the tent flaps. “I was hoping you’d come join us for breakfast, now that you’re feeling better.” When there was no response, she stepped inside, and was met with an empty tent. Everything Elespeth had been carrying (what little she had been able to carry) was gone, except her sword--the one Alster had enchanted--had been left behind, along with a not scrawled on a torn piece of parchment. Sigrid’s heart began to race with dread as she knelt to pick up the note, scrawled with hasty handwriting: Don’t come find me.
“Haraldur!” Dashing from the tent, Sigrid hurried back to the campfire, her face pale with dread. “She’s gone. Elespeth is gone.” To show him what she meant, she presented the note. “But you haven’t given her what she wanted… we need to check the Forbanne. All of them should have the herb in their possession.”
The former mercenary was immediately on his feet, and made rounds of the camp, demanding that every Forbanne present the stimulant in their possession. As it turned out, they all did… all but two, who looked bewildered and confused when their pouches of stimulant did not turn up in their tent. Two almost full pouches; more than any single person would need to make it to Braighdath, at this point. Enough to steadily supply someone of their size--not Elespeth’s--for almost a month.
“She took it. She didn’t agree at all.” Sigrid fretted. Anger began to creep into her eyes, her face, her voice. “She didn’t like your terms, so she took matters into her own hands. This can’t be happening… this shouldn’t have happened.”
In a whirl, she turned on Solveig, who still sat to the side--bound and guarded and complacent. None of that stopped the Dawn warrior from drawing a blade on her. “This is all because of her. Because this bitch broke her, and we had no choice but to find a way to keep Elespeth moving. Even after we subdued her, somehow this sorry excuse for a human still managed to tear us apart, when we need our unity the most.” The tip of her blade hovered ominously close to Solveig’s throat, though Sigrid’s hand trembled with rage. “Why are we even keeping her alive? We don’t need her, anymore; we don’t even need the Forbanne, at this point. She is a waste of space and time and resources. I thought you should have the honour of doing her in--for everything that she and her kind has done to you. The years that they stole, the time you will never get back… But if you don’t care to do it,” her blue eyes flashed with rage, determination, and even a bit of sadness, “Then I will.”
She wasn’t proud of what she had done--far from it. Elespeth Rigas (and even Elespeth Tameris) was not a thief, not a deceiver, not someone who walked away from her friends or the people he cared about. But last night, both Haraldur and Alster had left her no choice. Late in the night, when most of the encampment slept, and taking note of the couple of Forbanne who were standing guard, it hadn’t taken much beyond stealth and observation to sneak into the unoccupied tent and take their supplies of stimulant for herself. Admittedly, it was more than she needed--but it was not as though she intended to use all of it. Oh no, that would not be the case. I am taking control back, the former knight told herself, over and over, after departing the encampment with another leaf on her tongue as soon as she had acquired what she needed. And that means this herb won’t control me, either. Just until I get to Braighdath…
Because Haraldur was wrong. She was dependent, yes--inevitably, her body had grown accustomed to its uplifting effects. But she was not addicted to the substance; she didn’t want the damned stimulant, she didn’t want to rely on it. But for now, until she was somewhere safe where she could gradually come down from the dependency, cutting it out of her regime was not an option. Alster meant well; and so had Haraldur, for that fact. But weaning herself off of the drug while they traveled would only set her up for failure. She would be forced to face the rigors of travel while feeling herself begin to fold without the doses she needed… meaning that ultimately, it would land her in some strange town, when the Eyraillian prince realized she could not keep up without it. I will not be helpless, that voice in her mind reminded her, over and over. I am taking back control. I will not be helpless…
She would show them. Consulting the solar compass she’d taken with her, Elespeth navigated through a thin woodland, already several hours ahead of the party she’d left behind. She would arrive in Braighdath before all of them--maybe even before Alster, whom she had been dead set about not seeing until then. So much so, that she even opted to leave her enchanted blade behind, and instead had taken one of the stock swords among their provisions; just to put one more degree of separation between her and her connection with her fiance. Alster was powerful, and if he wanted to reach her, he would find a way… but his time and energy should not be spent on her, anyway, as he led Stella D’Mare’s citizens to safety. So she was not about to make it easy for him. He’ll forgive me, when he sees that I’m right; that I’m in control of this, she assured herself. He’ll see that I am not some fragile thing in need of saving from myself. Maybe he’ll love me more for it.
Surely, it would all come together, once she reached Braighdath...
When Alster returned to his side of camp, it was with the echoes of Elespeth’s final words.
You desire to fix me, to fix everything.
You’ve no one but yourself and your actions to blame.
He knew she was speaking out of a place of hurt, through a void the stimulant guaranteed to fill. Her body demanded more, driven into a corner where control spiraled and dark thoughts found voices. While he made a rash decision in confiscating her drugs, though done out of love and concern, he was undeniably responsible for plunging her into the next stage of dependency.
“I am to blame. Some things never change.” He crouched in his tent, beside the dim ball of glowing etherea, the beacon he lit to find his way to the end point on his space-bending sojourns. And what would guide Elespeth? Who would see her to safety, if he, or her friends could not? “It’s you I trust, El.” he repeated to himself, rubbing a flesh hand up his arm to combat the goosebumps that shivered and raised “Not the stimulant.”
Another truth touched her lips that evening. He desired to fix problems. No use arguing the facts. After all, what use was power if he kept it all to himself? What use were solutions if he never implemented them? Yes, I fix, Elespeth. You’re sick, and I need to make you better. But I daren’t take away your fighting spirit. The survivor who taught me strength--even when all I wanted was to surrender.
He never doubted her self-reliance. In fact, it was what he valued, what he respected about her. In his life, he seldom stood alone. Always within reach of others, for better or for worse, he learned, too late, the meaning of true loneliness. And it almost destroyed him. But she, as a fugitive of years, contended with herself as sole company and provider. You’re stronger than me, El. You’ve always been stronger. Always been able to hold your own. But even you can’t do this alone.
What was he to do? Even with power, both as Rigas Head and as a skilled caster, how did he save a life that didn’t want saving? That didn’t believe it needed saving? And how could he balance his current responsibilities with searching for the answer? How could he do it all? How did he ensure his actions didn’t further alienate her?
Everything to everyone. How is it possible? How?
He had no choice but to plow forward. For Chara. For Stella D’Mare. Just keep walking.
He was supposed to partition his mind, prior to departing for the evacuation. Compartmentalize, and focus on what was important. The journey ahead would be too emotionally taxing, if he wore everything on his sleeve, as was his tendency. But he never thought to distance himself from Elespeth. If he didn’t, though…
A few hours later, he bent the air around his camp to check in on Elespeth and her status. He couldn’t get a read on her, his end point, to finalize the connection and step through the parted air. She was on the move. Fleeing camp. Fleeing him, Haraldur, Sigrid. Fleeing them all.
He was truly alone, now. Stella D’Mare--a distant memory. Chara, missing, or worse, dead. Elespeth...out of reach. If he didn’t focus on what mattered in the moment, he’d fall apart. But Elespeth was always his focus. She was what mattered. Always, she saved him and in turn, he never abandoned her.
Yet...to chase her was to damn the world. Thousands relied on him for guidance. Elespeth...would be fine. He swallowed the lie. She would make it to Braighdath. In the meantime, he’d keep trying to contact her, but until then…
Until then...
Let me help you, poor, weak thing, the Serpent said, a soothing hiss in his mind. Remember, Alster, you’re never alone. Not anymore…
The next morning, Haraldur met Sigrid for breakfast. With a listening ear, he nodded along to her reports on Elespeth’s behavior, knowing the truth in her observations while at the same time aware of the efforts the ex-knight employed to appear stable and cooperative. She knew they were watching for her behavior, for any deviating signs, and thus performed to expectations. It made sense that Sigrid’s reports would return positive.
Filling a bowl full of oats and a slice of salted pork, he shared with the Dawn Warrior his own encounter with Elespeth at his tent the night before. “You’re not alone to blame, Sigrid,” he said, stirring the spoon in his bowl, but not eating. “The situation escalated, and we needed to flee Stella D’Mare before the situation turned more dire. We didn’t have the time to locate a safe place for her, when we needed to catch up to the other evacuees so they could benefit from Forbanne protection. We’re too far behind for any of that to matter now. And yet, I still pushed the pace, full in knowing it would be hard on Elespeth in her condition. It is what it is, Sigrid.” With the spoon, he scooped some of the gruel into his mouth. “We can’t change the past, but she’s willing to work with us at present. Actually, I’m surprised she agreed to my proposal so quickly, without argument or an attempt to bargain my conditions.”
Though he didn’t speak it aloud, considering the relief in Sigrid’s eyes and the hope that their new arrangement stirred in her conscience, his suspicions mounted; so much so, that fine hairs prickled at the nape of his neck. Why didn’t he realize it sooner, at the height of her compliance? Was he so daft to believe that because he revealed his vulnerabilities in attempts to make peace and restoke, if not camaraderie, at least a bit of understanding, she would so easily abide by his ruling?
“Yes. Go check on her,” he said. The suspicions transferred from his nape to his throat, in the form of hard-to-swallow lumps that wouldn’t even accommodate a spoonful of gruel. From his throat, the lumps plummeted to his stomach like stones when, not several minutes later, Sigrid screamed all the confirmation he needed to hear. He dropped his bowl of food and darted to her side.
Gone. Though he couldn’t read the note Sigrid showed him, he inferred its meaning. Don’t follow.
“Dammit,” he cursed under his breath. “Why was I so quick to trust her word?”
In seconds, he stormed about camp, ordering Forbanne to empty their tents and reveal their stashes of stimulant. When two bags turned up missing, he cursed some more. “Six hundred battle-hardened Forbanne and an addict escaped their attention. What elite group is this!?” He clamped down on his jaw. It was unfair to the soldiers at his command. Desire trumped reason and often, performed improbable feats. Nor was it fair to label Elespeth as an “addict,” and not by name, or in more flattering terms. But it helped to distance himself from his associations. Whatever maintained a clear head. He couldn’t lose control before the Forbanne. Couldn’t let them see a chink in his leadership armor.
He might have maintained his composure--but Sigrid, in a rage, whipped a sword to rest precariously close to their prisoner’s throat, words all spittle and vinegar, muscles trembling with the same desire that guided Elespeth into stealing from and escaping a Forbanne camp unnoticed. Striding forward, Haraldur clamped down on her sword arm, and wrenched it away from Captain Solveig.
“Don’t,” he barked, pulling Sigrid aside and lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. The Forbanne carapace, which Haraldur had shed for Elespeth and forgot to replace, reformed over his expression, hardened and impenetrable. “And don’t say that. We need the Forbanne. They chose to follow me and I’m not reneging on my promise to them. We’ll catch up to the evacuees as scheduled, escort them to Braighdath, and then I’m taking these men and women to Eyraille for a better life. I won’t lose their loyalty. Killing their old Captain, so soon after transfer of leadership, might shake that loyalty. I haven’t solidified a close enough connection to these soldiers. If you kill Solveig, those who still feel a shred of devotion to her may attack. And we don’t stand a chance of defending ourselves against a hundred or more pissed-off Forbanne. We’re keeping her alive. Leave her care to me, Sigrid. I won’t make you stand her company a minute longer on this trip.” Sighing, he looked over his shoulder at the shackled woman, harbinger to all their troubles and yet, a scapegoat to them. Why did he feel like he owed her the right to live? Why did he feel...loyal to her?
I’m not Forbanne. I’m more. You have no compulsion over me.
You’ll always be Forbanne. Her smiling brown eyes bore into his own.
“You’re not beholden to stay here, Sigrid. Go and search for Elespeth. No warrior left behind,” he forced the tiniest of smiles, “right?”
Since the dual incidents at Hospiria--Hadwin’s near death by fratricide and Chara’s slapdash ear surgery, life on the road was...humdrum. Two days passed since they set forth from the crossroads city, a day behind schedule (and in case Hadwin forgot the massive inconvenience behind his stabbing, Cwenha was quick to remind him of his most egregious of transgressions to date). At first, he enjoyed the change, a far cry from roughing it on foot with nothing but burlap sacks and his furry body for warmth, and whatever animals he captured for food. Though he still offered his services to the caravan as hunter of rodents both great and small, it was no longer for survival. He was merely providing a supplementary source of sustenance and for that, the danger factor had diminished exponentially.
The previous week was fraught with unknown variables, with high-octane near misses, of which he was glad to escape, in tact and with his compatriots in tow and unscathed...insofar as they were alive, and more or less functioning. Nothing comforted him more than to see Teselin free from the claws of Mollengard, hidden and safe...ish. But since his (temporary) “initiation” into The Missing Links lifestyle, the height of excitement happened when he saw a wooden sign pointing to a roadside tavern not three leagues away--and fast approaching.
“You don’t even have to stop for it,” he told Briery, dangling his legs over the opened side of the womens’ caravan. Though he’d been banned to the mens’ caravan for sleeping purposes, he seldom stayed put during the day. Besides, he wasn’t going to fall into obscurity, and not spend time with their gracious hostess, or with Teselin, or even Chara (who kept as far from Briery as physically feasible, considering their tight quarters). That would be rude of him, to hole up in his quarters and never say hi. “I’ll just roll out when we get close. I’ll catch up after a drink or two, no problem. My word may not be great, but I’ve no reason to run away from the circus when there’s no shortage of freaks here.” He nudged Briery, shoulder to shoulder, and flashed her a roguish grin.
At her agreement, his grin widened, and he wound an appreciative arm around her shoulders, in a show of solidarity. “You’re a gem, you know that? Not glass that’s cut to look like the real deal, but an actual sparkling wonder. A treat for any finger to behold!” Amidst his bombast and the gusher of compliments, he lowered his voice and leaned into her ear. “Don’t tell the kid. Spin some tale. Tell her I’m sleeping, or scouting ahead, or hunting. Taverns are where you get stabbed. She doesn’t need to know that.”
“And woods are where you can get shot. Like your ‘mam,’” Fiona said, her ghostly image slotting to fit between him and Briery. In a recoil, he dropped his arm and slid away from the ringleader. “Think I’ll make my grand exit, now.” With a wink, he crouched over the lip of the caravan and leapt from the rolling carriage with a performer’s grace. Landing on the balls of his two feet, he straightened to a full stand, swerved towards the departing caravan, and swept into a waist-deep bow.
“Getting ready for my debut!” he shouted to his one-person audience. “Let me know what you’ve got in mind for me, yeah?” And then he retreated into the woods beyond the road, en route to the nearby tavern that had his name on it. If not, he’d carve it into the bar. With a knife.
“Yes!” Fiona laughed crazily behind him. “I like where your mind is going! You deserve this. You’ve been good far too long!”
Sigrid did not appear to want to be in the mood to listen to reason; not with the sudden departure of her beloved comrade, who in so many ways and for so many reasons was not alright to travel on her own. And it was all because of Solveig; because she had gotten to Haraldur, and thrown off everything they had planned. Because she had sicced her own cousin on the Dawn warrior, leaving Elespeth alone and helpless to defend herself against the giantess as she tossed her helpless body against the wall, over and over. Breaking her bones, rendering her so severely wounded that they’d had no choice but to keep the Atvanian warrior going by use of a drug that had turned her addicted…
“She doesn’t deserve to live!” The blonde woman seethed, a barely contained storm that was ready to take on the woman who towered over her, even in her helpless state. She demanded of her cousin, “What have we to gain be allowing her to remain alive?”
Of course, Haraldur presented her with reason, however unsavoury it might be to keep Captain Solveig in their company. The Forbanne had only been under Haraldur’s command for just under two weeks; not long enough to trust him implicitly, and who knew where that trust might go if they ended the life of the woman they’d been serving for years before? It was reckless; and yet, the bitter, angry part of Sigrid wished there was a loophole. “Is that really why you want to keep her alive?” She asked, her tone equally as hushed as his own. The Dawn warrior searched his green eyes, and in them, she found something that terrified her: reluctance. This had more to do than protecting themselves from the wrath of the Forbanne. It had more to do than keeping his promise to the soldiers who had pledged themselves to him…
“No. I can’t leave you alone in this position.” She confided, when he offered her an out. Truth be told, the thought of walking another day in the company of the giantess sickened her in the worst of ways. Just knowing that woman shared the air she breathed brought her back to her reckless, teenage days, when she’d let her rage and emotions get the best of her. Before her involvement with the Dawn Guard had helped her learn to temper her feelings and channel them into productive energy. Solveig brought out the worst in everyone, merely by existing. And she fear that, too long in her company, she would bring out the worst in Haraldur… after all, she’d already seen it happen once.
The Dawn warrior shook her head and placed her hands on her hips as she ventured to explain. “When I offered to leave to accompany Elespeth, the other day, that was not an easy decision to come to. I feared for her well-being--and I still do, moreso now than before. But I also fear for yours.” Her voice was quiet, meant for his ears alone, while knowing full well she’d just drawn the attention of all the Forbanne after pulling a sword on their former leader. If anything, this might resonate well for her cousin; brighten his standing, in their eyes. It didn’t matter if they did not trust her. “I saw what she did to you, Haraldur; you were gone. When you were fighting me, it wasn’t Haraldur sword who was at arms against me. I don’t know who it was, but it wasn’t you. And all of this happened because you somehow connected with her. And if you want my honest opinion… I think a part of you still is.”
She expected the look of horror that befell Haraldur’s face, at her suggestion that he wanted to keep Solveig alive for any other reason than to maintain his loyalty with the Forbanne. But he did not correct her immediately; he said nothing at all, which was all the confirmation she needed. “I’m staying here, with you. No matter how much I’d like to see that monster of a woman six feet under ground.” The Dawn warrior rested a hand on his shoulder. “Because someone needs to make sure that you stay you. Or else, all of this will be for nothing. And Vega will kill me if I were to let anything happen to you.” The corner of her mouth quirked into a smile; they both knew that she wasn’t exaggerating, as the Eyraillian princess had a temper to contend with.
“And, in any case… Elespeth has made a decision, however ill-advised it might be. I don’t know that there is anything we can do for her, in our position.” It seemed to take the wind out of Sigrid’s sails to come to that conclusion. A Dawn warrior never left a sister or a brother behind; bit her sister in arms had left her… and she had asked her not to follow. Not to find her. “She doesn’t want our help. She doesn’t want to be helped, and there is nothing we can do to change her mind… Maybe we are wrong to doubt her. Maybe she will make it to Braighdath, and recognize that it is safe to seek help. We… have to believe she will be alright.”
Sigrid sighed, casting a glance over her shoulder at Elespeth’s abandoned tent. Where her enchanted sword still lay, discarded, on the ground. “She did not take her sword; not the one that Alster enchanted to protect her life. I fear this means she has no desire to connect with him, either. Elespeth… had chosen to complete this journey alone. All we can do is respect her decision, move on, and hope that we find her along the way.”
Hope that we find her alive, a dark voice at the back of her mind added, sending a chill down her spine. Sigrid did not know Elespeth Rigas well as a person, but she knew her as a warrior. She was spirited, strong, resourceful. A survivor. She had to make it out, alive…
For all three extra bodies made for extra-tight quarters in the traveling caravans (and in particular, the women’s caravan, which was smaller to begin with, given that Lautim needed a ridiculously high roof), the next couple of days proved fairly quiet among the Missing Links. Of course, Briery knew better than to let her guard down around a woman who’d engaged in self-mutilation, a girl who was too lost in the darkness of what had happened to her to be talkative company, and a shapeshifter who got his kicks from absurdly risk-taking behaviours. While affording them the time and distance they wanted (except for Hadwin; he seemed to want to be in her company, more often than not), the ringleader had been keeping a close eye on the two women in particular--and especially Chara, who was officially their highest risk, in terms of flight or further injury to herself.
The Rigas caster had made it clear very early on that she was not interested in being friends, but that did not stop Briery’s frequent acts of kindness. Whether it was offering to show her her wardrobe so that she could pick out something to wear that she deemed suitable, or trying to encourage her to put on some make-up, or even offering to style her hair or take her shopping, she did not give up on the difficult blonde woman. In a lot of ways, she reminded her of Cwenha: difficult and headstrong and so very uncompromising. But even Cwenha had eventually come around. She might get through to Chara, just yet.
Hadwin wasn’t the first to notice the sign on the side of the road, which was promising, considering they had taken a detour to avoid the main roads in case of a Mollengardian ambush, and weren’t entirely sure of the direction in which they were headed. “Well, that’s a good sign.” She commented, her mouth pulling into a half-smile. “Where there is a tavern, there is likely a town nearby to stock up on some provisions. But, Hadwin… you can wait for us to stop. You won’t be any use to us in our show, if you end up accidentally breaking bones. What if they don’t heal properly?”
But of course, this was just another opportunity to appease his craving for an adrenaline rush. And it came as no surprise when the shape-shifter vaulted off the side of the caravan, landing nimbly on his feet. “Is this really such a good idea when you’ve barely been two days’ healed?” Briery called, with a shake of her head. “There should be a town not far from here. You had better find us, there; no running off and leaving me with your hateful blonde friend, and that lost-looking young woman.” The subtle edge to her voice was enough to make it clear that there would be consequences. Certainly, Hadwin had expressed interest in being a part of their next show, but Briery knew him well enough to recognize him as a man of impulse; and his impulses changed at the drop of a hat.
“Where is he going?” Teselin parted the curtains of one of the caravan’s windows, having caught wind of the conversation taking place. Her brow was creased with concern.
“Take a wild guess. You get three, in fact, but the first two don’t count.” The acrobat chuckled. “Relax, my dear. This is Hadwin. He’ll show up again when we least expect it--and perhaps when we least want it. I guarantee he will be fine.”
“He was attacked by his own sister just days ago!” Teselin insisted, that worry not subsiding, but building. “We don’t know that Rowen Kavanagh hasn’t followed us. Now that she knows where to find him, and how to find him, she won’t stop… we can’t just leave him alone.”
Briery could tell that arguing this further would only cause the situation to escalate, and the only way the young woman would be placated was to appeal to her caution. And she wasn’t sure how she would handle the young summoner if she ended up suffering some sort meltdown, especially after how Hadwin had warned her of her rather unstable magic.
Returning inside the caravan, the acrobat took a seat across from Teselin and Cwenha. Chara preferred to stow away in the bunks and speak to no one--particularly not Briery. Right now, that suited her just fine. “We are going to stop at the town up ahead to pick up some more provisions, and maybe scope out whether it might be worth our while to perform. It shouldn’t be far. Once we get situated… I will go keep an eye on our shapeshifter friend, myself. If it will make you feel better.”
“Wait--so, you’re going to leave?” Cwehna interjected, and Briery knew well enough to read between her words: You are going to leave me alone with these two?
“Only long enough to haul the shapeshifter’s ass back here, since his absence distresses his good friend, so.” She tried to reassure her fellow acrobat--but to no avail, if Cwenha’s glare meant anything. “Consider it a vacation, Cwenha. You are not clandestine about your dislike towards Hadwin. I’ll keep and eye on him while I keep him out of your hair. In the meantime, why don’t you go take some of our earnings from the last show and take these two shopping. What do you say, Chara?” She turned toward the curtained bunk, behind which she knew the Rigas caster was awake and listening. “Since you’ve expressed such disdain for my wardrobe, this should be a fine opportunity for you to find something that best suits you.”
Sure enough, not ten minutes ahead, they reached a small, unfamiliar town; not one they had stopped at before, and perhaps too small to warrant a show, but that remained to be seen. Cwenha had a keen interest in shopping, even on the worst of days, so it did not require much convincing on Briery’s part to take Chara and Teselin out after being cooped up in the caravan for two days. Meanwhile, Rycen and Lautim agreed to get a feel for a potential audience in this place, since they were stopping for the night, anyway. Briery promised to return no later than nightfall--and she’d be dragging Hadwin back by his ear, if she had to.
It was slightly less than an hour’s walk back to the tavern where Hadwin had evacuated the caravan. The place was as nondescript as any tavern: it smelled of stale ale, offered mediocre, albeit filling meals, and characters of questionable morals. It just so happened that Hadwin was one of those people, and as she suspected, he was safe--albeit inebriated, no doubt, by now.
“Easy on the drinks. I made a promise to a certain summoner to bring you back no later than nightfall. And if you pass out, dragging your ass back to the caravan in the town up ahead will take us well past nightfall.” Briery took a seat next to him, crossed one leg daintily over the other, and raised an eyebrow. “You really couldn’t have waited ‘til we were in town? There are plenty of taverns there. I had to walk all the way back here so your summoner didn’t have a meltdown. Maybe I should just start you a tab in my debt.”
Tapping the counter for some service, the ringleader ordered an ale for herself. Frankly, after the past three days, she deserved it. “I did have some time to think about your part in our show. Nothing too risky; I don’t want our young summoner friend to have a heart attack. She really fears for your safety--as I am sure you are already well aware.” She took a sip from her stein, and wrinkled her nose at the bitterness of the mediocre swill. “How do you feel about dancing--maybe playing with a little fire? You’ve got the flexibility; I think I might be able to choreograph something for us.”
Though Haraldur stayed Sigrid’s sword with reason (and a little force), he could not temper her anger. She was within her rights to channel her hatred towards Captain Solveig; after all, she represented the wrongness in Mollengard’s bloodthirsty culture. Her symbolic influence notwithstanding, she was also active in the dissolution of Sigrid’s brainchild: the unity of three warriors from different backgrounds, collecting together as one and fighting for freedom. He could never forget the ease in which the Forbanne woman influenced his actions, creating his greatest fears into reality. She had been correct in her assessment; if he were so far removed from the Forbanne, her mind-link would’ve have no effect on him. But it did, and it was proof that he, no matter how much he distanced himself or buried the truth with royal titles, marriage, love, and family, was always Forbanne. Why else was he so lenient towards Solveig, so willing to listen to her long-winded speeches on his identity? He knew she still had a hold on him; he just wasn’t sure if was compulsion, or worse, an empathetic connection. Understanding swayed his sword. If she died, who else would voice the belief in their mutual brokenness? Who else would act as mouthpiece for their suffered trials of the past, and speak openly about the trauma, not as something shameful, but as the undisputed reality no one could change? He could learn much from Solveig’s perspective--and that worried him.
Much as his concern for Elespeth dominated the moment, he was thankful for Sigrid’s choice to stay. When his mind was awash in gray morality, it helped to have access to a healthy font of support, an anchoring figure who, he hoped, would hold him accountable. “I thought so,” he said, and clasped Solveig’s shoulder, this time, a gesture of camaraderie and not of restraint. “I’ll tell the Forbanne to keep an eye as we travel. They may encounter her whenever they take up their bows and hunt, depending on how far off-road she’s gone. We’ll put her sword away for safe-keeping, and,” he sighed, “trudge onward. It’s all we can do. I’ll set a hard pace so we can catch up to Alster and his team. Who knows? Maybe Elespeth will be with him by then.”
Before withdrawing to make preparations for their expedited march, Haraldur paused mid-stride, in deliberation over something. With hesitation, he returned to Sigrid, his voice yet again taking a whispered tone.
“That was me, Sigrid. The man you fought in Stella D’Mare. He’s part of me. As much as the man who stands before you now, he’s part of me. I’ve been trying to deny his existence for years, but distance doesn’t change the truth of what I’ve done, and who I’ve been, nor will it erase the fear that no matter what I do from here on out, the facts will never differ. I am that man...and he is me. And I’m Forbanne as much as I’m not. I..” he shook his head, and revitalized his strides, revitalized his task to dismantle camp and move everyone along. “Nevermind, Sigrid. I don’t expect you to understand.”
But Solveig...did.
In more “responsible” company (which often did not exist for him, especially on a consistent basis), Hadwin downplayed his eagerness for adventure and danger. Sure, he didn’t keep his trouble-seeking a secret; wore it like an open sore in the open. And, like an open-open sore, a condition that polite society demanded he not expose, for its unsightly, off-putting appearance, he poked it, spoke its name with fondness, and wrote odes to its beauty. No, it was no secret he was a drunken, drug-consuming, gambling, swindling, no-good promiscuous pugilist. The actions of his character told that story in full view. But to Briery and the Missing Links, to Chara, and especially to Teselin, he omitted the part of himself that needed to partake in the activities so near and dear to his heart. He needed enough drinks to drown a horse. He needed the thrill of swinging the perfect left hook. He needed to multiply his caches of money with a cheating hand, to fuck a bar-wench on the table, to laugh, to dance, to make friends, and enemies, to survive a stabbing.
To forget it all.
That was the mood Hadwin carried with him to the tavern on the roadside, an establishment on the outskirts of town proper, a sure-fire sign of its seedy (and hence fitting), nature. Desperation bounded him through the doors. The caliber of questionable characters who turned to appraise him for the same traits emboldened him to slide to a table containing the highest order of filth, order a tall tankard of ale, and proposition them for a game of cards.
They were all cheating cretins. Of course, he was no different. He had an invisible ace, always accessible, always within view. Upon their faces laid out a map of fears, some disposable and useless, and some in direct correlation to the game. A man played with the last of his gold. He did not fear its loss; rather, he feared his wife discovering its loss. Subtle difference, but he caught it, nonetheless. Knowing their fears often elucidated individual playing strategies. The art of the bluff: the practiced among the prawns. Fearsight fished them to the surface. And this gent--Hadwin predicted a good bite of desperation out of him.
Ten hands and a handful of drinks later, Hadwin swept the pool near clean, stacking his coins like a greedy banker in a children’s bedtime story. Fortune (and a little ingenuity) chose her sides well on this fair evening! The last of his hard-earned stolen money, spent dry, and regained in triple! Well on his way to inebriation, the thought of walking away while ahead whisked farther and farther out of his mind like pipe smoke on the wind. Win it all. Win big. Or lose and crash with a spectacular bang. Taking the middle ground, while wise and sometimes fruitful, was the least satisfying. How could one show pride in safe-play?
He was about to place in a few coins for a blind bet and go on until he wiped the table clean, when the door swung open--and Briery entered the tavern. Was it time, already!? It couldn’t have been more than three hours, at most. Did she think to extend her role as nanny of the group to him, too? It turned out--yes.
Excusing himself from the table, he scooped up his winnings and followed the ringleader to the bar, where he slid a coin for the innkeep to take. “It’s on me,” he said. “You know, for the trouble of having to fetch me and all. Couldn’t have bought me a few more hours, though?” But the word “summoner” passed over her soft, pliant tongue, and all appeals for a longer stay lost some of their fire. “She’s that worried, huh? I guess I can excuse the interruption, then--of walking out on my new pals there like a chump and taking a lukewarm pot. Oh yes, they’re glaring at my back as we speak. Here.” He pushed two gold coins to her and pocketed the rest. “Some of what I owe. The healer, the lodging at your fine establishment, and Cwenha’s emotional distress. But she won’t accept blood money from me so feel free to keep her share.Or tell her it rained from the sky.” He gurgled a laugh, downed the rest of his ale, and ordered a round for the whole tavern. Hoots and cheers erupted from the tables and bar. They all knew he won big. Now that the ringleader joined his company, hence disrupting the perfect storm he planned for the evening, his gestures of generosity were meant to deescalate violence, and not incite it. While reckless, he had no intention of dragging the ringleader into his scrapes. He didn’t want to share them.
Dashed though his projected evening was, he’d unwittingly succeeded in luring Briery to a tavern. Alone. With him. Perhaps...there was enough to salvage. If he found the correct opening.
Fortunately, she provided one.
When his newest ale arrived, he pressed the foamy head to his lips and gulped down the subpar swill. After the fourth or fifth drink, however, the taste no longer mattered. Tasted as dull as water. As long as the effects persisted. And zounds, they did! He should consider exsanguinating himself before drinking more often. Yes, some residual weakness unmoored his head and weighed on his bones, but the rate of inebriation--far expedited!
“Dancing, eh?” His ale eyes brightened. Planting an elbow against the counter, he propelled himself closer. He heard her right. It wasn’t a solo act. Us. “Get me on the dance floor and my feet’ll generate their own fire. Consider us partners, briar-patch! I could even break some bones to maximize on that flexibility of mine you’ve been noting.” He tucked a hand beneath his chin in a position of intense interest. “I’m faoladh, lass. I break bones to transition and they’ve never set wrong. But do elaborate on the fire. You can’t mean just a spark, right? I think we’ve more than crossed spark territory, Briery. It’s gone up in a blaze--at least from where I’m sitting.”
His free hand traveled to rest on her knee. She didn’t recoil. Fear didn’t freeze her. Those round, brown eyes of hers were wanting, in a sense. Curious. Not his imagination. Not a fantasy spurred on by cheap ale and sex-withdrawal. It could all be bust, he thought. She fears the pain too much. Doesn’t know what to expect.
He wasn’t thinking along those lines. Well...he was. But surely, he could take the first step. A painless one. One step, one sample--and leave her to decide. I’m ready for you, Briery. I’ve been ready...for years.
Scooting close until their noses touched, he found the plush bed of her lips and pressed her with a sensual kiss. There was nothing halfhearted in the suck of his mouth, the questing, but not overbearing, prod of his tongue, the warm hand resting on her cheek. Even if it was all she let him do, he was going to give her a damn good kiss. Nothing sloppy, nothing overwrought. Leave her wanting. Leave him hoping.
Since the evening of the fireside pastry brawl, Chara had kept to herself, much as she was able, in a cramped space inside a rattling caravan. Choosing to ignore Briery and her incessant bouts of cheer and fake fellowship, she pretended to keep busy by reading a book she found under one of the acrobat’s bunks. The book’s contents didn’t hold any interest to her; poems written in saccharine rhyme, clumsy in construction, with handwriting too illegible in places. It was a curious tome insofar that she wondered if a long-time fan had presented it to either Cwenha or Briery as a gift. At least, through flipping past its pages, Briery left her alone. They all did, for it kept her hands busy, and she knew they were keeping an eye out for any other mishaps she could inflict on herself with a dagger.
When the caravan rolled to a stop, did not react, did not depart from the halfhearted decoding of indecipherable text, until Briery announced that she and Teselin were to join Cwenha in town for wardrobe shopping. This intrigued Chara, enough to pop her head out of the curtain and nod. It went against her newfound credo--to disappear into obscurity, and perhaps for good--but Briery’s garish gown itched in all the wrong places, and she could no longer stand the chafing of cheap material. Slowly, she emerged from the bunk, grabbed a shawl, and wrapped it around her head so that it draped over and concealed the scars of her mutilated ears.
The town, too tiny to note, did not instill any confidence in Chara. The populace, by their drab clothes and wan complexions, seemed too poor in health and spirits to provide anything useful to her in a shop. On one corner, a tiny storefront depicting a crudely drawn shirt called their attention, and one by one, they entered.
Only, Teselin never made it to the door. A forceful hand, familiar in its heft and speed, dragged her to the side of the building, shielding them from detection.
“Why is it I always find you either entering or leaving a tailor’s?” Though a question, its owner delivered it as a statement. As though two encounters with the summoner rendered an accurate sketch of her needs and priorities. “Teselin, was it?” Rowen stood opposite her, small-framed and tiny, but somehow, towering over the younger girl. She was clothed, this time, wearing the very clothes Teselin had provided several days ago. Rust-brown stains spattered against the green of the tunic, a discoloration of obvious origins.
“I’m not here to kill you,” she whispered, and showed both hands held nothing, no blades or glass or sharp ended nails. “I just want to talk. To explain the danger you risk by staying with my brother. He’s too unstable, Teselin. I did not plan to kill him, nor did I want to, but he’s not safe. I’m trying to protect you--and others like you, who would fall to his charms and his schemes. Since my mother corrupted him, he can’t function in this society. He will do more harm than good, do you understand?” She did not wait to see if Teselin understood.
“Would a stable man agree to have sex with his own mother, Teselin? Because that’s exactly what happened. She was a horrible woman, who transferred her own wicked virtues to her son. She tried to repent by ending her own miserable existence, but he won’t do the same. He doesn’t understand that by choosing life, he’s furthering along her own agendas. She ruined him. He inherited her sin. I should have killed her before she…” a hitch of something approaching emotion colored her voice. Whether it was genuine or manufactured, Teselin could not glean. “I waited too long to end that bitch when I had the chance. Now she lives in him, and I have to finish what I should have started years ago. Hadwin must die, Teselin. I let my sentimentality for him get in the way before, but that ends, now.”
Before Teselin could think to stop her, or assault her by the lung-crushing method she witnessed through her Sight, Rowen scampered out of her range, and vanished into the streets of town.
“Now, I’m not talking about your usual freestyle,” Briery mentioned, knowing well what the shapeshifter’s idea of ‘dancing’ was. She’d attended enough revelries with him whenever they happened to encounter one another to know precisely was he looked like, on the dance floor, and it was not at all what she was looking for. But she would be a liar to admit that what she’d seen didn’t have its own promises. “I’m talking practiced, choreographed, elegant… and maybe a little bit dangerous. Depending on what I think you’re capable of handling.”
The acrobat took another sip of her bitter ale, finding to no surprise that the more she drank, the easier it was to palate. Of course, that also had something to do with her size, and the fact that she hadn’t had food in her stomach for a few hours, now. Briery Frealy was a lot of things; among those things was a shameful lightweight. But she was cognizant and cautious enough to know her limits and to take her time. A place like this could be relatively dangerous for a woman like her, diminutive in her athletic stature and not looking as though she could hold her own in a fight--which was, of course, far from the truth, but danger was danger. There was a reason that Cwenha refused to ever set foot in a tavern: You don’t want to be in the company of the men you’ll find there, she’d explained, once, and only once. Briery never brought it again, and didn’t question her, but there was no doubt that she likened the tavern-going Hadwin to those men. Of course, he wasn’t; at least, not to her. Maybe he knew her too well, or maybe he just knew better, but the faoladh had never been a danger to her and her troupe. Then again… the underbelly of society did seem to have a mutual understanding. And the Missing Links were part of that underbelly, no matter how honest they wanted their work to be.
“I’m not going to have you break bones and realign yourself in front of an audience,” she mentioned, giving her eyes an exaggerated roll at his testimony to his flexibility. “That sounds like a fantastic way to scare them half to death and completely alienate our troupe from whatever venue you scar for life. But just because you’re able to turn your own skeleton inside out doesn’t make you flexible in the way that matters for performance. Can you bend over backwards and still touch your toes? How far apart can you split your legs? ...don’t answer that.” Briery smiled and shook her head, knowing well she’d just given him an opening to toss a sly joke her way. “I’m not convinced you can keep up with my dancing; Cwenha barely can, which is why she chooses to stick to her singing and the trapeze. But… I am willing to give you a chance.”
Fire was another thing, entirely; and frankly, she wasn’t sure they would get that far, if he didn’t choreograph well. But the fire she was talking about and the fire that Hadwin had in mind, at present, she came to realize were not at all the same thing. He did not take her by surprise; not only was it not his intent, but it was something she’d seen coming, for a long time. The way that every time they’d run into one another, they seemed to grow closer. The distance between them, Briery had always thought, was out of Hadwin’s respect for her condition, which not only rendered her incapacitated with excruciating pain, but cruelly prevented her from ever being intimate with anyone. Hell, her pleasure wasn’t even something she had ever explored, for fear of triggering unimaginable pain. It had been just about a month, now, since Alster had healed the lesions along the inside of her afflicted organ. Almost a month since she’d been taking the tonic Elias had crafted for her--and, mercifully, it had been about the longest time for as long as she could remember that she did not succumb to pain...
That most definitely had something to do with the fact that she did not recoil at the weight of his hand on her knee, or the warn pressure of his lips when they met hers. Fear and hesitation had long since given way to curiosity; what did it feel like, to be intimate with someone? To be kissed, and touched, and taken to another plane entirely? To lay caution to the wind and be in the moment? Whether she ever found the answer to all of those questions ultimately remained to be seen--but the answer to one of them, he offered on a silver platter.
Perhaps it was simply that she hadn’t spent a lot of time pondering a ‘perfect kiss’, but the acrobat was by no means disappointed. It was slow, careful, teasing, and yet not at all demanding. For all of his potential shortcomings, and despite years of escalating flirtation, Hadwin had never been impatient with her. Quite the opposite, he’d offered her an understanding that she’d never thought possible, especially considering the faoladh did not try to hide his insatiable sexual appetite. That he had continued to pursue the idea of something developing between them for this long, despite the distance she was required to maintain… that said more than words, even more than this kiss could get across. But what about now? A curious voice at the back of her mind whispered, urging her to lean into the kiss, just a little more. Do you still really need that distance? Isn’t it worth it to take a little risk?
The answer was… she didn’t know. Still, almost a month into remission from her symptoms, she didn’t know what was safe. And at that realization, her heart skipped a beat, and she gently pulled away from the kiss. Not in a way that indicated repulsion, or the potential that she’d realized she made a mistake; rather, in such a way that suggested she was afraid she might just let herself go too far, if she didn’t stop now. “Hadwin Kavanagh, your charms may work wonders on other people… but if you think you can kiss your way out of my debt, then you’re in for a rude awakening.” The ringleader grinned, straightening her back and palming the two coins he’d slid in her direction earlier. “Though I will keep these on hand, in case I need to bail your ass out of imminent danger again, anytime soon.
“Finish up your drink, and let’s get out of here.” Briery downed her own, in an impressive display of breath control. Anything to take the edge off of the feeling of almost having lost control… of entertaining the idea of something that was very reckless, and could be very dangerous. “I left your summoner and Rigas friend with Cwenha to spend a girl’s day shopping, but she is far from the support those two women need right now. For all I know, all hell has unraveled in my absence. Let’s get back before Chara decides to remodel another part of her body, and Cwenha hands her the knife to do it. We’ll talk choreography on the road, and when we get back, you can show me how easily you bend. And we’ll take it from there.”
The thought crossed her mind to point out he shouldn’t interpet that last bit as innuendo, but… wasn’t it, in a way? She decided it didn’t matter; because while she didn’t have the answers right now, or he courage to make that choice, she came to the conclusion that at the very least, it was time to start exploring options alternative to celibacy.
Truth be told, Teselin wasn’t in the mood for shopping. Those handful of days in the company of the ringleader and her acrobat friend, in cramped but safe quarters, had managed to bring her a modicum of peace. Because when everyone was all in one place, then she knew that everyone was all right. It was a small reprieve from the constant state of worry that plagued her, allowing her a few nights of solid rest on one of the stiff settees in Briery’s caravan, and enough of an appetite to actually partake in meals.
That reprieve came to an abrupt end as soon as they settled in the small town. Briery and the two men from the other Caravan took their leave, and Hadwin was long gone, leaving them in the company of the beautiful blonde woman named Cwenha, who seemed somehow reluctant to spend the afternoon with them. “I can just stay here,” the young summoner offered, in case it would made a difference. “I don’t need to go shopping, again.”
“It’s best if we all stay together.” Was Cwenha’s only reply, and Teselin did not feel like arguing. So she stepped out of the caravan, behind Cwenha and Chara, and followed them to what looked like one of the only places to find new outfits: another tailor shop. Well, I could use a second one… she thought, recalling how she’d foolishly given her first one to Rowen just days ago.
It was almost as if just thinking the faoladh girl’s name was enough to summon her presence. Before she could set foot in the tailor’s shop, someone grabbed a hold of her arm, and hauled her behind the building before she had a chance to react. No… she found us?! Teselin’s eyes widened, and she scrambled backward several feet. “What do you want?” She demanded, not about to be fooled by the young woman’s innocent face a second time. “Why should I stand here and listen to anything you have to say, after you tricked me? Just so I would lead you to Hadwin… to give you the opportunity to make an attempt on his life. I’m not falling for it, again.”
Her declaration that she wasn’t there to kill her was no consolation to the young summoner. Nor did she care to hear the girl’s opinions on her brother, but Rowen offered them anyway. And some of what she had to say was… shocking, to say the least. His mother? He did… with his mother? She couldn’t wrap her head around the implications, particularly when there must have been more to the story than Rowen was letting on, or that she knew of. It didn’t skew her view of Hadwin, at all… though, perhaps it explained some of his more deviant behaviours. But deviant or not, it wasn’t nearly enough for her to believe he warranted being killed. “Whatever happened to him in the past doesn’t matter.” She said to Rowen, curiously unable to find the fire of her anger to show this wayward girl. Instead, she just felt… so sad for her. “He has been looking out for me since he met me. He saved my life, and the life of my friend; I’d be dead without him. He’s helped me, in more ways than I know… I’m sorry, but the Hadwin that you think you know isn’t the person he really is.”
She remembered what Hadwin had told her, about Rowen’s sight. About how it only got worse and worse, until she couldn’t see the good in him anymore. This isn’t her fault, she knew, at the back of her mind. But that didn’t mean she could let her have her way and kill Hadwin… “Why aren’t you trying to kill me, too, then?” The question came out of the blue, but she wasn’t afraid to ask it. If Rowen wanted her dead… then she wouldn’t still be standing. “You must know what I’ve done--and what I can do. Maybe you even know what I have the potential of becoming… I am by far more dangerous than your brother, in so many ways. So… why not do me in? I know you’re capable; and you’re not afraid of me. I know how fast you can move… it would be easy for you. I’m not sure I could react in time to save myself.”
You’re talking like you want it, a dark realization formed at the back of her mind. Was is true? Was a part of her really, truly courting death, since escaping death at the hands of Mollengard? Would she even try to stop Rowen, if she made a pass at her with her knife, which she assumed must have been concealed in her boot or sleeve?
Hadwin’s sister was gone before she could question her further, a blur against the wind as she took off and disappeared behind another building. Teselin found herself paralyzed for a moment before she was startled back to reality, when Cwenha and Chara approached. “What are you doing?” The blonde acrobat asked, her brow furrowed in confusion and concern. “You didn’t follow us inside…”
“We need to leave. We need to find Hadwin and Briery, and we need to leave.” The desperate young summoner gripped her arms, fear swimming in her round, dark eyes. “She’s here. I just saw Rowen… we need to get out of here, Hadwin’s life is in danger! We need to leave now!”
“All right, all right--we’re going. Calm down.” Muttering an apology to Chara, and an assurance that they’d find her clothes in the next town, Cwenha escorted the two women back to the caravan. But Teselin wouldn’t stay inside; her eyes were alert with fear, her body practically trembling with it. “I need to find Hadwin! He isn’t safe in these parts!”
“He isn’t even in town--and Briery is with him. She won’t let anything happen to him.” The acrobat tried to calm her in vain, but it was no use. She wouldn’t be placated until Hadwin had returned, alive and unharmed… Cwenha sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.
True to her word, Briery did return with the faoladh before evening had set in. Rycen was the first to greet the two of them, a look of apology ready on his face. “We won’t be performing here tonight. Your summoner friend spotted your sister again.” He arched a brow at Hadwin. “Girl’s really got it in for you--and your little friend won’t calm down. We’re already packed up; all that’s left is to head out.”
“See? Didn’t I tell you all hell would break loose without me here to keep things together?” Briery said to Hadwin, shaking her head in defeat. “The kid’s right, though. It isn’t safe to stay here if your sister is mulling about. We got lucky that we found a healer in time to help you, last time. Looks like we’ll have to plan our dance some other time.”
At Briery’s physical response of consent, the receptive shifting of her body, the acceptance of his connected mouth, Hadwin slotted his eyes closed, and felt his way inside, alternating between grazing her bottom lip with his teeth, and tickling the tip of her tongue. He stroked her cheek, brushing ready fingers along the apple, down to her jawline, where he held her head firm, tilting it at an angle advantageous to their brief union of mouths and lips. Her heart thrummed in his ears. Her smell changed, ripened. Salty with excitement. Her saliva production increased. He tasted it all. Wanted to lap it up, to drink her greedily like precious ambrosia, if ambrosia were a fine mead guaranteed to intoxicate him for life.
At the height of his interest, she withdrew, as expected. It couldn’t last forever. Not his fluke experimentation, anyhow. When his eyes opened to the lantern-dim tavern, he looked to her for the answer. Fear, as always, stymied her actions and stunted her broader desires. He hadn’t misread her, before. A point of pride in his life lay in his ability to interpret the verbal, the non-verbal, to scry the fear, and sniff out the sudden and subtle changes in one’s body. She was in want, and he, catching on to her needs, provided her with the right amount, a test to decide if it was something she wished to pursue in the future. Ideally, with him. For years, he watched the language of her heart, so solid in its refusals to engage, disheartened by fear and anticipating disaster. What damage would exploration wreak on her condition? How would it affect her potential partner? Was she forever doomed to abstain?
He saw those questions cycle around in her brown eyes, unbroken and unanswerable. So quick was she to resign to her unfortunate fate, that she closed her ears to his encouraging whispers. I’ll wait for you, when you’re ready. And you will be. There’ll come a time when desire will overrule the pain and the risk. Let me explore that path with you.
The time had come. He saw the inklings, shining like little stars, and he had to extend his thanks to the heavens, to the unnamed healers in Eyraille, and to Alster Rigas for giving her the chance to see a hopeful path beyond the disease. At the dispensing of her fortunate news, he was happy for her, primarily. But he was also happy for the opportunity that it afforded...for them.
In that moment, the future looked encouraging, so rife with possibilities that when he smiled at her, it was of a fondness he could not rightly express. She made a step forward. Though she faltered, she inevitably stumbled in his direction. Trust. She...trusted him.
“Figured I’d give it a shot,” he said, drawing back into his seat with a wildly dismissive shrug, complete with skewed hand movements and an amused laugh. “You’re a tough nut to crack, Briery Frealy. Next time, I’ll need to up the ante, and make myself completely irresistible to you. Huge success tonight, though; I made you blush.” His hand reinvaded her space, fingers splaying to rest a playful slap on her cheek. “You’ll lose control, yet. Perhaps my ace dancing moves will do you in.” With a loud wink, he turned to his ale, and guzzled down the rest, in competition with Briery for most impressive breath manipulation.
Now that they’d returned to the subject of the performance, he cycled back to their earlier conversation--however much he could maintain their banter without spiraling into shameless flirtation.“You’ll find that I’m capable of handling a lot,” he effused, each word oozing with innuendo. Well...his attempts to talk shop lasted all of three seconds. “I’d put on a whole contortionist show for you, in the middle of this tavern. You bet there’s an audience for skeletal reassignment, popping, crunching and cracking galore. Of course, for your wholesome image, gods forbids we rattle them a little. Oh, can’t have any frights for the shock-value. Surely, macabre and violent acts don’t sell at all. Guess I’ll stop punching people for money.” To demonstrate, he flicked back his wrist with such force, it cracked like a deer hoof splitting a branch underfoot, and stayed at a sickening ninety degree angle. Flopping it forward, a secondary crack clicked the bones into place. Unperturbed by the forceful breaking of bone, he massaged the affected area with his opposite hand, and flexed it into working order.
“But you’re the boss, briar-patch, so we’ll do it your way, first. I’m telling you, though. Violence and fear sells. People like to be unsettled, if it’s for entertainment.” In tandem with Briery, Hadwin stood from his bar stool and followed her to the doors. “Oh, speaking of violence, what do you think about a duet with Cwenha?”
As they slid through the doors, heading outside to the gathering sounds of dusk, he inclined his head at her comment, smiled deviously, and fell to a heap at her feet. When he rose, it was on all fours, and backwards, ribcage jutting at a sharp angle and head resting upside down. Without a word, he crab-walked from the tavern and to the main road.
“I thought the past didn’t matter, once,” Rowen said, her eyes firm and locked in a staring contest with the masonry alongside the squat but sturdy building. “I thought that people could rise above, and break free from their prisms of darkness. But it’s not true. He’s not stronger than our mother’s corruption. I gave him too many chances to prove to me otherwise. He’s only helping you because he likens you to me, Teselin. It’s not a selfless act. You’re a comfort to him because you give him hope. He can start over with you. That’s all.”
In preparation to run, she squatted against the side of the building. Never with her back fully turned from the summoner, but within peripheral view of her slight, squirrelish form. “You live as a favor to him. He should have someone who will care for his inevitable passing. I won’t kill off his surrogate sister. The more he has to live for, the more he’ll regret his life choices, and he’ll die repentant. There is nothing more for me to say.” She pushed to the balls of her feet and before sprinting towards the road out of town, said, “Enjoy what you have, before it’s gone.”
The subject of Teselin’s greatest fears returned with Briery when the sky dimmed to a thin, curtain shroud. Having returned to walking on two feet, Hadwin swept into camp in time to watch Lautim hitch the horses in preparation for travel. Before he got around to asking the reason for the hasty departure, Rycen approached the two and spelled it out for him. Sister. Rowen.
“Well I have to give her points for her persistence,“ he said, electing for an easy laugh. “I didn’t think she’d give up so easily. Can’t be helped, though.” With a shrug, he glanced at Briery. “Let me stay with the kid, tonight. Or have her join me in the mens’ caravan, if she’s comfortable. I usually sleep as a wolf so I don’t take up much room. And I’m cuddly, to boot,” he punctuated, with a grin. “These weeks have been hard on her, and it didn’t help that she witnessed the formation of my gaping gut-hole. The separation’s eating something fierce. Sure, I haven’t made matters better by going off on my own tonight, but if we spend evenings together, at least she’ll sleep knowing I’m safe.”
At receiving the nod of permission from Briery, he about excused himself to see to Teselin’s well-being, but the summoner, having been, well, summoned, likely from one of the remaining three Missing Link’s members, emerged from the womens’ caravan to meet him. He did not reach three steps toward her before the swarm of her fears assailed his head with the might of a thousand bee-stings. He staggered, blinked, rubbed his eyes, and positioned them just beyond Teselin’s head.
“There you are, you little scamp,” he said, throwing his arms around her in a tight hug. “Heard you’ve been looking for me. Well here I am, right as rain. Briery was my handler today. I can’t afford to be on my worst behavior; otherwise they’ll leash and tie me to the caravan, and I’ll have to run all day just to keep up with the wagon train.” He ruffled her hair before pulling away, holding her at shoulder’s length. “I’ll keep you company tonight, kid. Would you like that? Got a new game I can teach ya. It’s catching on in the big cities around these parts. Don’t think it’ll ever out-popularize poker, but it has its merits. I won us some coin--not with that game, but poker--so I’ll spot you whatever you need for new clothes, since my sister mucked up your plans to shop with her menacing presence.”
With one arm around her shoulders, he ushered the distressed summoner inside the womens’ caravan. As he stepped up the stairs and lowered his head in accommodation of his height, he greeted Cwenha with a salute. “Captain. Permission to billet here?” At her steely glare and sour face, he dropped the salute and jerked his head in the direction of the doors. “Ah, no matter. Orders from up above. Make sure to hide the costumes you cherish the most. I shed. A lot.”
He didn’t expect her to stay compliant, so when she turned tail and fumed out of the caravan, Hadwin sat with Teselin in the bottom bunk, as before. Chara, sprawled on the top bunk, remained unresponsive, but her even breathing suggested, at least, that she was not dead.
“Rycen said you saw her,” he said, dispensing of a tactful lead-up to what already plagued Teselin’s mind beyond any other subject. “In town. Did she--? No,” he sighed. “She said something to you about me, didn’t she? Whatever it was, it’s got you worked up into one hell of a flurry. But I’m all right, kid. In one piece. With all of us on alert, I’m gonna get fair warning before she ever sneaks up and stabs me in the back. Plus,” he pointed to his nose, “I can smell her coming, sure as she can smell me in the area. We’re at an impasse. And we’ll all get to Braighdath just fine, you hear? Briery’s found a part for me in the show.” He smiled, and it was all cheek and mischief. “A contortionist’s pas de deux, of sorts. And since I’m hypermobile just about everywhere, she thought I’d make a suitable partner. What do you think? Am I biting off more than I can chew? I mean, look. I can lick my elbow.” Grabbing hold of his upper arm, he swung it inward, positioned the elbow to his mouth, and lapped it up a few good times with his tongue. “Not even your magic can do that for you, I take it. Looks like we’ve found a limitation, eh?”
Chattering away with the same level of cheer and good will as Briery with Chara, Hadwin pulled out a deck of cards and fanned them on the bed, face down. “Speaking of magic--pick a card, but don’t show me.”
She abided, pulling a card out from the middle of the deck. With a rustle, he scooped the cards back into his hands. A snap, and they truncated, all aligned and sitting on his palm. As she returned the card to the deck, he made a show of performing “magic,” spelling out nonsense words and sound effects, a spectacle of distracting proportions. And when he pulled out her card, the six of spades, he flipped it over and rested it on her lap. “Keep it, kid. That’s gonna be your card for this trip. I learned a thing or two about divination from Briery, and you can do it with a plain ol’ gambling deck, too. So from what I can divine,” he scrunched his face, feigning intense concentration, “this card’s all about moving ahead. Moving forward--whether through travel or in your own mind. It’s all a stir up in there,” he pointed to her temple, “but if you can navigate these rough waters, you will find the calm sea. And out there, in the calm, there’s promise of a future that can bear you fruit. Can’t tell you when it’ll happen, but it will. Life is ever-shifting, ever-changing. Storms don’t last forever. For now, it’s bumpy and turbulent, your boat’s half-sinking, and you’re gonna swallow a lot of sea water. There’s a horizon line, though. No reason to give up hope...or to stop living.”
A knowing look passed over his fear-scrying eyes. “Keep afloat, Teselin. You’re not as gone as you think you are.”
He’s only helping you because he likens you to me. Rowen’s words wouldn’t leave her mind. They played over and over like a catchy tune, except instead of merely spurring annoyance, they filled her gut with sadness and dread. You’re a comfort to him because you give him hope. That is all.
Why was it that everyone saw her as a beacon of hope, when all she ever did was disappoint? Alster had believed in her; as had Chara, and her failure had wrecked the Rigas caster, to the point where she had lost all hope and mutilated her own ears. Even if she was no more than a surrogate sister to Hadwin, how could she in any way resemble a beacon of hope? If not for him, she’d be dead; he was hope, not her… he was so much like her brother. A survivor, a man of impossible feats, always a hidden ace up his sleeve, even in gambling with death. If she really was no more than a Rowen stand-in, a more palatable version of the sister who shunned him, then she didn’t blame him, and didn’t mind at all. Not while she could no longer deny to herself that he was much like a mortal, more reckless version of Vitali. He needs a sister, for a new beginning… and I need a brother, so I don’t meet my end. The end that I don’t want to see…
At the very worst, they were using one another in the most benevolent of ways. But none of that changed how she felt toward the faoladh. It didn’t change that she felt safe around him, or that she worried for his safety. Hell, for a brief moment, when she’d been so foolhardy as to bring Rowen to him, in those seconds before she had tried to kill him… Hadwin had been happy. She’d given him what he wanted--and it had almost killed him. But for a moment, he was… happy.
Enjoy what you have, before it’s gone.
She couldn’t lose him. He wasn’t her real brother; they were not related by blood, but it hadn’t taken long for Teselin to realize that that small detail did not matter. If anything, she owed him even more than she did Vitali, who had only been a part of her life for a number of days, as a child. And at this point, she wondered if it even mattered, to go and see Vitali in Galeyn. He could not help her; it was too late for her. Really, the only thing left was to see for herself that he was all right. And that he would continue to be alright. But it wasn’t right of her to assume that she mattered to him, in any way. Hadwin… even if it was superficial, she mattered to him, in some way. Enough that he saw value in her life to save it. Enough that he never made her feel like a burden… I won’t let her get to you, Hadwin. The young summoner resolved, knees pulled to her chest upon one of the settees in Briery’s caravan. I’ll protect you, for as long as I can. Just as you’ve been looking out for me… that is my promise to you.
Teselin looked up from the floor for the first time in hours when the caravan door opened, as Briery and Hadwin stepped in. Relief flooded her veins so vigorously that she felt light-headed, standing up. “Thank the gods…” The young summoner did not hesitate to throw herself at Hadwin and wrap her arms around his waist. “I was so worried. When I saw Rowen in this place… Hadwin, she is so determined to kill you. We need to get out of here.”
“Don’t worry yourself, Teselin. We’re about to get going shortly.” Briery placed a comforting arm on her shoulder. “I’ve told Hadwin he can stay in our caravan tonight. It if would make you feel more at ease to have him close.”
“You told him what?!” Cwenha, who had been hiding behind the curtain of her bunk, tore the fabric aside. She wore an expression of such anger and betrayal, Briery might as well have told her she was evicted from the caravan, as a result. “This is the women’s caravan! There is literally more room in the men’s--it’s been stifling enough with 4 bodies in here, and now you’re adding him?”
“Just for tonight, Cwenha, given the unique circumstances. You are welcome to stay with Rycen and Lautim, if it makes you uncomfortable, but I think Teselin should stay here, with myself and Chara.”
Rouge tinted the blonde acrobat’s cheeks, a raw manifestation of her frustration. She did not hesitate to grab her slippers and head toward the door, pushing past Briery in a huff. “Gladly. How far do you plan to push this? Helping these three out is one thing, but I still have boundaries, you know. But he is not getting my bunk, or there will be hell to pay!”
The ringleader expelled a long breath of air. “Don’t worry about her; she’s quick to anger, but leave her to simmer for a while and she’ll burn herself down to embers.” She assured Hadwin and Teselin, assuming that Chara frankly didn’t care. “Chara can take Cwenha’s bunk, if you two want to take mine. Sometimes I prefer sleeping on the settees, anyway. But now that that is solved, let me tell you exactly what will happen, tonight.”
Knowing well that Teselin simply wouldn’t sleep if they camped overnight in this town, for fear of Rowen ambushing them, they planned to move out while they slept, that evening. Between the four Missing Links’ members, two at a time would take four-hour shifts guiding the horses, and then switch up. She and Rycen would take the first shift, until they were a safe distance from the town, and then Lautim and Cwenha would take over (those two got along swimmingly; Lautim was ever-silent, and Cwenha frankly preferred silence to smalltalk). This did seem to reassure the young summoner, as the aura of fear and trepidation that pulled her muscles taut began to dissipate just a little. Having Hadwin nearby, alive and well, also helped a great deal.
Briery left them alone, then, to go and take up the first shift (well, relatively alone; but Chara preferred to keep to herself), but not before mentioning a brief, “Do try not to shed on the costumes; they’re custom fit, and not easy to make.” Moments later, the sensation of movements, stones beneath the caravan’s wheels, reassured Teselin that the ringleader was about more than mere lip-service. She liked Briery, for that; her words and promises weren’t hollow and patronizing. When she meant action, she took action, and it really wasn’t any mystery that she had Hadwin had something of a history: they were both solid survivors.
Since it wasn’t quite dark enough to sleep, and they planned to stop in a few hours to partake in a late supper, anyway, the idea of learning a new game did appeal to the young summoner as a way to pass the time. She nodded her quiet agreement to Hadwin’s offer, but words still eluded her--and she figured he knew precisely why. When he brought her up, just a moment later, it confirmed her suspicions. “She said she didn’t want to kill you. Something messed up in her head makes her think that she doesn’t have a choice.” She opted not to mention the bit Rowen had revealed about Hadwin and his mother. If that was territory he ever decided he wanted to breach, then she would wait for him to bring it up. Otherwise, it did not matter, and did not skew her view of her. “I… asked her why she wasn’t interested in killing me. I know she can see what… I did.” Her throat tightened without even delving into the details of what Hadwin and Chara had witnessed. How she had brutally killed those Mollengardian soldiers. “She said the only reason she’ll keep me alive is to hurt you. To make it feel as though you have something to lose. I thought it was bad enough that we were running from Mollengard, but… this is too much. I just want us all to make it through this…”
He assured her that they would; and, however naive it might have been, she believed him. Not necessarily for his word, but because he mentioned Briery. “She seems to have invested a great deal in making sure you’re alive.” The summoner observed. More than just investment, she hadn’t missed the way the two looked at one another, when they thought the other wasn’t paying attention. “How did you become acquainted? I don’t know anything about Briery or this troupe; it doesn’t seem strange that you know them, but I do wonder why she is so intent on dropping everything to help Chara and me… our presence here seems to be pretty bothersome.”
True to Hadwin’s nature, however, he insisted on lightening the atmosphere, whether it was through laughing off his sister’s attempts on his life, or licking his elbow. Silly as it was, it did make her smile. “Are you going to show me card tricks?” She asked, shaking her head in mild disbelief, but she humoured him by drawing a card. “No offense, but I glimpsed at a few of Rycen’s sleight of hand, and I think he’s got you and every other magician I’ve ever seen beat.”
But that didn’t stop him from trying. She had to give him credit, it was amusing, and it did temporarily take her mind off of the trauma she’d faced earlier that day. As it turned out, it wasn’t sleight of hand he was performing, however, but divination. The summoner truly wasn’t sure how much stock she put into divining by use of playing cards, or any other gimmick, for that matter, but regardless, Hadwin’s advice was sound… and heartfelt. No reason to give up hope… or stop living.
Heat crept into Teselin’s cheeks, her eyes locked on the playing card, for fear of what Hadwin might see in them if she looked his way; but perhaps he already saw. That brief moment, today, when she had asked Rowen why she did not kill her, too. No, not asked… she had dared Rowen. Challenged her, without even being aware of it. The young summoner had not thought herself as someone with a deathwish. She hadn’t been affected the same way as Chara, who was mourning the perceived loss of her identity. She had to look out for Hadwin. She had to find her brother, in Galeyn. She didn’t have a deathwish…
...did she? Would I even try to stop her, if she wanted to kill me? Teselin shook her head. She didn’t dwell on the topic, didn’t want to think about it. No, of course she wanted to survive. There was too much unfinished business to simply give up and leave her burdens for others to deal with. She couldn’t do that to Hadwin… or to Vitali, who, regardless of what he thought of her, was expecting her to arrive in Galeyn, as per Alster’s promise.
“If you’re here, with me… I think I can make it through this.” The young woman put her card down on her lap and looked back up at the shapeshifter. “As long as you’re safe, and you promise to stay safe… I think I’ll find a way to put one foot in front of the other.”
They had taken Briery up on her offer to use her bunk, that night, while Chara slept in Cwenha’s. Teselin curled her body around Hadwin’s wolf form, a perfect circle, snout to tail. To say she slept well would be a lie; the constant movement of the caravan often jolted her awake, and whenever she did find her eyes open, she had to make sure Hadwin was still with her, and had not slipped off once she’d been soothed to sleep. Come morning, with the sun breaking through the cracks in the caravan’s curtains, she reluctantly accepted the wolf-man’s need to get up, stretch his legs, and reassume his human form, clothes and all. No sooner had Hadwin resumed his decency, standing on two legs instead of four, that the caravan finally came to a stop.
“Everyone sleep well?” Briery slipped inside, all smiled, despite the dark circles under her eyes that suggested she hadn’t slept much. “Good news is we rode smoothly through the night, and we’re miles and miles away from that last town. Doesn’t appear we were followed, and no immediate threats on the horizon. And, better yet, this city is far larger than the little village yesterday. Lots of opportunities to find good food, new clothes, and a potential audience for a show. Teselin,” she smiled kindly at the young summoner, who was still rubbing sleep from her eyes. “I know yesterday did not pan out well, but would you be interested in accompanying Cwenha and Chara to find some new clothes, and maybe some food for this evening? It would be a great help to all of us, while the troupe scopes out potential interest.”
Teselin nodded, before she even knew what was really being asked of her. Much though she didn’t want to leave Hadwin… he was safer, not being seen in her presence. Rowen knew her to see her; and she would not inadvertently lead the bloodthirsty young woman to him, again.
“As for you…” The acrobat tucked her hair thoughtfully behind her ears, the soft, loose chestnut curls bouncing behind the tops of her shoulders as she turned to Hadwin. Without the stage make-up and her ponytail, Teselin noted that the ringleader looked paradoxically younger, and yet, somehow older. “If we deem it is worth performing, here, then we’ve got to get a routine down for you. So no drowning in bitter ale until we’ve worked something out. It’ll take about an hour to set up a tent--I expect to see you not a moment later.”
Turning on her heel, she made for the door, pausing a moment to look over her shoulder. “I take my shows very seriously. So if I think for a moment you intend to make a fool of us, faoladh, there will be hell to pay.”
Teselin watched the acrobat disappear again, and looked to Hadwin with the same air of concern that had clouded her aura the night before. “You’ll be on view for the entire city to see, if you perform with them.” She observed, her voice soft and unsteady. “If Rowen caught up with us, and she sees you… it will be an opportune moment for her to make another pass at your life. If you’re really going to do this, then I am personally going to stand watch during it. Don’t think you can change my mind.”
As Briery took the time to explain the game plan for the impromptu night-time travel, Hadwin breathed out a visible sigh of relief and clutched his chest with exaggerated drama. “Oh. Good. Had a feeling I would have to pull a caravan like some kind of sled-dog--which is an insulting use of my talents, I might add. Best I don’t make any appearances up front, either. I spook horses, even when I’m in human-skin. But,” he sidled up to Briery, resting an elbow on her shoulder like a shelf, “if it’s me and you sharing a shift, hon, I’ll make it work.” When the ringleader took her leave, and quiet settled over the womens’ caravan, Hadwin made himself comfortable in the nook, which wasn’t difficult, considering that the inviting scent of Briery permeated blankets and pillows and...everywhere.
Folding into the bunk, at his height, would take some finagling, so he’d opted for sitting on the floor with his arms splayed over the height of the pallet. A high-pitched scree of wheels, the lurch and creak of the carriage, and the perturbed whinny of a horse not mentally prepared for yet another jaunt on the road indicated movement. With his head against a pillar and jostling gently to the occasional listing of the caravan, Hadwin listened to Teselin’s account of her encounter with Rowen, a plastered-on smile ready to respond with characteristic irreverence. So he did. “Ah, Rowen. So theatric. She’s a creative soul, but a contrary one. For someone who doesn’t want to kill me, she sure wants to make sure I suffer for it. The nymph’s not gonna admit it, but she’s confused. Thinks I’ve become my mam or something.” He laughed, but in it, a strained uneasiness lingered a mite too long--and he promptly ended the effect. “She’ll calm down. Grow bored of the chase and find an easier target. She’ll never get that chance again, when she took me by surprise the other day. From here on out, I’m officially off the slaughter-market.”
If only, he thought. Lies sprang from his lips, gushing on high like a three-tiered fountain. Rowen liked low odds, a trait she undoubtedly learned from him. They reaped greater rewards and higher thrills. And she, a skilled huntress with a bow and a gutting knife, or as a wolf baring teeth and claw, reveled in the prowl, however far she deviated from the path. The hastier they acted, the more it emboldened Rowen. The best and simultaneously worst solution, was to meet her head-on. And if he arranged such a meeting, he would surrender to her. In Briery’s tarot deck, a card fluttered to his mind. A flaxen-haired angel trumpeting their word from heaven down to earth, to a cemetery of rotting corpses springing to life. Rowen was Judgement. Only she was allowed to condemn him for his misdeeds, for his misdeeds affected her the most. For his involvement in illegal acts, for his complicitness in the deaths of his mam and her killers, for the non-stop depravity of actions, she suffered, stage by stage. Gladly would he lay his head on the executioner’s block if she alone held aloft the axe.
If it will liberate you, Rowen, kill me. But give me some time, first. With this kid, whose heart will shatter if you take me too soon. With this troupe. With Briery. There’s so much I want to show her.
Speaking of Briery and her commitment to his life…
“Ah, yes. Briar-patch,” he said, a wistful smile growing ever-wider. “We go back a few years. I saw her show, in some nondescript town along the northern route. Thought she was a dazzler up on that stage, so after the show, I approached her. Offered to buy her a drink, but I prefaced my request. I could see she was afraid of intimacy, so I said I wouldn’t try anything. Just wanted a bit of time in her company. I think I intrigued her, so she agreed. I certainly played up my mystery and allure that night,” he said, a twinkle of memory in his eye. “You know--enough to cinch something of a long-distance friendship. Over the years, I’d drop on by, see how she and her troupe were coming along. She introduced me to the others and I’d travel with ‘em sometimes. Few days, at most. Never as a spot in the show, but I had a gift for promotions. Helped rope in crowds and spread the word, what-not. Then, we’d go our separate ways. The cygnet could never stand me for long,” he chuckled, “so I didn’t want to give her an aneurysm or anything by overstaying.”
“Then, less than a year ago, I arrived at one of their performing towns only to find out they wouldn’t be performing...indefinitely. See, Briery’s got a condition. Fuck it if I understand it in full, but she gets these abdominal flare-ups for a week or two per month. It’s like her menstrual cycles went haywire and it’s real bloody, and probably as painful as actually getting stabbed in the gut, except a gut-stab is a one-time thing. Well,” he patted the spot of his once affected area, “unless you’re me. So, she’s getting stabbed over there, on repeat, and she’s out of commission until it passes. This time, it’s not passing, and she’s been in this state for weeks. If she’s out, they can’t perform. One of the reasons why she’s afraid of getting intimate. Too knotted up down there to enjoy any of it, which...sounds like a damn nightmare, to me.”
“Anyway,” he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “they were in a real dire financial situation, when I got there. She couldn’t even afford a tonic for her condition, it was that bad. So, prudent as I am, I suggested a little...swindle. Long story short, I arranged for a wealthy benefactor. You can always find patrons who will pay handsomely to support up and coming artists. I might have...used some hyperbole in my gushing account of The Missing Links. I may have also promised them to him as permanent entertainers at his estate, in return for a notable sum. I wrote up some fake contracts in the guise of a trustworthy lawyer, forged some signatures, the money changed hands...and we skipped town. Never been back since.”
Stretching his legs outward, the soles of his boots grazed the bottom of the dresser, where above, hung Briery’s golden costume, swinging hypnotically in the sway of the caravan. “Briery got her tonic, her health improved, and the Links were back in business. Naturally, they couldn’t pay me back, so I told them I’d call in for a favor. So that’s the story, kid. I’m just cashing in. They’ll see you two to Braighdath, no trouble. Briery’s good as her word.”
Hadwin was no magician like Rycen, true, but as a gambler, he’d long mastered the art of misdirection and sleight of hand. Not for a captive audience; his was of the sneaky bent, with a capitalization on cheating. In translation to harmless card tricks, it was enough to lure a smile out of the summoner. An enormous success, in his book.
“I’m stuck here,” he said, leaning forward to blow a stream of air into Teselin’s face, which rustled her locks of dark hair. “Me and you, on this misadventure for the ages. If I leave, you bet Briery’ll chase me down and Rowen’s gonna be the least of my concerns. I’m on this sinking ship with you, Tes. Fortunately for you,” he winked, “I’m a good swimmer.”
But as they finished their evening with supper and the new card game he promised, Hadwin, curled into the bed beside Teselin in his wolf form, remained awake by the stray thoughts that refused to die with consciousness. We’re never safe. I can’t promise safety. Just wait, Rowen. Hold off. For the kid’s sake…
Hadwin stumbled into morning. Even as a wolf, the rhythmic drum-pounding of a headache thumped him out of slumber with Teselin and soon, into his human form. Not one for violent hangovers, as his quick-healing liver processed the alcohol before it became a problem, he dismissed the cause when the intensity poked and prodded behind his eyes. Prolonged exposure to Teselin, acute in her fears, hadn’t waned enough during sleeping hours, resulting in a continuation of the jolting, ice-pick pain.
Fortunately, he bought a fresh supply of hashish at the tavern. Once dressed in full, he withdrew his pipe and tinderbox from his clothes, along with the toke containing the musky green herb. When retrieving the implement and its effects from the inn at Hospiria, he’d noticed someone had used up the last of his supply. Chara never admitted it, and he never brought up the subject, especially when he assumed she smoked its contents to dampen the pain of her ear mutilation ritual. The one day he left without his pipe, and it happened to fall in the hands of an unstable woman. Would she have succeeded in sawing off her ears, without the numbing calm of the hashish, he wondered? Was he indirectly responsible, as with the death of his mam, and the ruination of Rowen?
“I’m glad you’re finally coming to grips with your horribleness. Wear it with pride,” Fiona chattered in his ear, a cold, chilling breath, which he blew out of sight with his newly lit pipe.
Briery curtained through the smoke haze as she entered, greeting them with that chipper look, all puffed up squirrel cheeks and sunshine.
“Give me a few more puffs,” he groaned, “and then I’ll answer your question.” Leaning against the dresser (but making sure not to touch Briery’s precious costume), he inhaled the sharp substance and sent the streams sailing out of his mouth, through the open door. The headache persisted, but once he smoked half the bowl, the pain would begin to mellow. “Sounds great,” he said, with a noncommittal shrug. “I’ll be sure to bring my happy face, when the time comes. For now--breakfast.” And he chewed on the stem of his pipe.
When the ringleader exited the caravan, Hadwin turned his bleary eyes in Teselin’s direction, though did not make any eye contact. “Aw, how sweet. My first fan. And bodyguard. You really think I’ll be ready to perform tonight? With Miss Perfectionist over there dictating the steps? My debut’s likely not going to happen here--but if you want to be close at hand, I’m not stopping you, kid.”
Far from punctual, Hadwin joined Briery in the tent, more or less an hour later. Likely more. Since his filling breakfast of hashish and some water, and since separating from Teselin, his headache had vanished, and, as promised, he waltzed into the flaps with a wide, pointed grin. “There’s going to be time later for some shopping, right?” he said, crossing his arms. “I want my own costume. Better yet, my own clothes. I have a style, you know. Presentation is important, as you’re well aware. If I won’t be trained enough to your liking for tonight, I’ll always be able to fall back as eye-candy.” He approached at a swagger, fixing her with his most rakish smile. “And you know I’ll succeed in that endeavor.”
However, he knew better than to delay Briery when she was in focus-mode, so he fell in line and, as per her request, demonstrated the range of his flexibility. Apart from the crab-walk (which she’d voiced with a hard “no,”) he performed walking handstands, cartwheels, bridges, back-bending, somersaults, but teasingly withheld a split, claiming that, with insufficient trousers, he would tear the seam and expose his ‘secrets’ to her.
“I don’t think you’re ready for that, Brie,” he said, with an exaggerated toss of his head. “I mean, excepting the time that you caught me post-transformation in the woods, which I don’t count, because it was dark and I’ll take you on your word when you loudly proclaimed you saw nothing, any kind of fabric mishap down there is going to be a distraction. So, distractions aside,” he folded a hand around her waist and pulled her close, “show me the dance you had in mind.”
“Hey, you wanted to be part of the show, let me remind you.” The ringleader refreshed Hadwin’s memory with a vigorous pat on the back. “And you are welcome to be. But that means you follow our regime, our rules. And…” A smirk brightened the ringleader’s face, as she playfully took Hadwin’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. In addition to her sleek and muscular frame, she stood tall for a woman, and almost matched the shapeshifter’s height, shy by just a few inches. “That makes me your boss, like it or not. Eat, have your smoke, and I’ll see you in an hour. No excuses.”
As Teselin watched the acrobat depart, she wasn't oblivious to the change in the air, when she’d entered, and the shift in Hadwin’s energy when she was near. On a whim, the young summoner heard herself say, “You’re not burdened by your debt to her at all.” It wasn't at all a judgement, but an observation. “You're happy to be in her company, aren't you? And she’s been sparing nothing to help us. Whatever you did to help her, before, I don't think it has anything to do with what she is doing for us now.” A faint flush crept into her cheeks, and she looked away. “I’m sorry--it really isn't my business. It just feels like there is something special, between you. Or like there could be. Whether you’re ready or not… I think Briery will have you in her show. And I’ll be there, to make sure you’re safe.”
They partook in a light breakfast, as Hadwin finished whatever was wafting from his pipe. Meanwhile, Lautim, Rycen and Briery made quick work of setting up an impressively-sized tent, which stood out against the muted earth-tones of the city with bright greens, reds, and yellows. Occasionally, Cwenha would lend a hand, but as the blonde acrobat was hardly much taller than Teselin, herself, the assistance she could provide was limited. Eventually, the smaller acrobat seemed to concede defeat when it was obvious they didn’t need her help, and she wandered over to where Teselin and Chara sat just outside the women’s caravan. “They’ll be a while until they’ll have any use for me,” she declared, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Now’s the time to go and find some better clothes for you two, if you’re interested. At least we’ll have more options, here.”
Teselin hesitated; and not because the idea of wearing something other than her new tunic, which was due to be cleaned after wearing it on her body for a few days, didn’t interest her. But she had now strongly come to associate Rowen’s presence with mundane shopping, and the thought of it immediately had her shaken. “Maybe I should stay behind.” She suggested quietly, wringing her hands nervously. “In case Hadwin needs me.”
“No offense, I’m frankly not sure what you’re able to do with your magic, but your mongrel friend has Briery, Rycen, and Lautim within his reach. I think he’ll be just fine without you, for an hour.” Cwenha, clearly not afraid to speak her mind, did have a point. Briery wouldn’t let anything happen to Hadwin. She was resourceful and quick-thinking, and something in her eyes suggested that she could be fierce, when need be. Something that Teselin had also noted in Cwenha’s eyes; except that in hers, blue bordering on violet, that fierceness never abated. Like she was always on guard; perhaps she needed to be. “And don’t worry about running into the wolf-man’s kin. We’re equipped to handle her.” In emphasis, the blonde acrobat flashed two small, sharp knives that she was keeping in her sleeves. It should have reassured her, but Teselin felt the colour drain from her face.
What would I do? She thought suddenly, seeing Rowen stab Hadwin all over again in her mind’s eye. If I had to come between them… how would I stop her? Something told her that Hadwin would never forgive her, if she killed his sister; worse, she had a feeling he’d rather die than to end Rowen. In spite of it all, he still cared deeply for his sister, and she… she couldn’t come between that.
But she would come between Rowen’s actions and Hadwin’s life. If she lost him… she wasn’t even sure her own brother could suffice to fill that void. Hadwin knew her better than Vitali; he probably cared more for her. In a way, the two of them made their own inadvertent sort of family. Two people the world just didn’t care for, finding companionship in one another. If Hadwin would be all right… then so would she.
True to her word, Briery had the tent set up within the hour, and had already begun to move costumes and props from the caravan into its set-up. It came as no surprise to the ringleader when her new trainee did not show up on time; having anticipated that, she’d purposely underestimated the time it would take her to prepare, and knew full-well that by the time she was done warming up, Hadwin would stumble in, partially prepared.
And he did just that, wandering in an hour and a quarter later. Briery looked up from where she was stretched on a mat she’d laid out, one leg straight in front of her, the other straight behind her, as she bent backwards and touched her toes. “What we have ‘time’ for depends on how punctual you decide to be, and how quickly you catch on.” The ringleader informed him, carefully straightening her torso as she parted her legs side to side to alternate her stretching. She hadn’t yet donned her trademark gold costume or its corresponding make-up, instead clad in skin-tight leggings that cut-off at her mid-calf, and a similar sleeveless shirt that clung to her torso and cut off at her midriff. Contrary to what he might believe, considering the majority of the times he’d seen her, she was clad in her trademark gold, it was not the most comfortable attire. “And don’t fret, you’ll have a costume. It’ll be too soon to perform tonight; we’ve got to rile up some interest, first. And have something sewn for you. But I’ll be the judge of what you get to wear; it cannot contrast too harshly with what the rest of us wears. I hope you like metallic glitter.”
She smirked up at him, before bringing her legs back together and standing, rolling the tension out of her shoulders. “Again, it all depends on what I can use you for. I’ve got some ideas in mind; but I’ve got to see what you’ve got, first. So, let’s see it.”
There was no doubt in her mind that Hadwin was just the right material to complement her troupe. She’d born witness to his flexibility, in the past, and she’d didn’t think he was holding back when he put himself on display, now. Well, except for his denial of her request to see him perform the splits (similar to the way she’d just been stretching), although she couldn’t blame him for that. “Given everything you’ve just showed me, I think I have faith that you can splay your legs to either side of your body. No need to split your trousers just yet.” Briery tapped her chin thoughtfully, her hazel eyes contemplative as she temporarily stared into nothingness. “If we had more time, I might even be tempted to train you a bit on the aeriel silks, but… I don’t imagine we’ll have that kind of time. Doesn’t mean I can’t think up something fabulous, however…”
Briery rolled her eyes at his recount of the time she’d potentially seen his naked backside after he’d transitioned from wolf back to human, and brushed his concerns aside with a gesture of her hand. “Worry not, my friend. Your nether-regions will not be at risk of distracting our audience.” She said, and made a cheeky point of looking up and down. “Have you ever heard of a dancer’s belt? Because you will become very intimately acquainted with one before you join me on stage.”
The ringleader chuckled, and placed a hand flat on his chest as he pulled her close. “I’ve got a few things in mind. One of them solo, for you; I think you could pull off playing with a little fire. You’re flexible, and you’re not afraid to take risks; think you might be able to break out of some chains if we tied you up? There’d be a failsafe, of course, but depending on how dangerous you want to play… we could add a little fire to put the pressure on. I’ll talk to Rycen about it; he’s our master of pyrotechnics. As for what the two of us can do…”
A slow smile brightened her features. Judging by the glint in her intelligent eyes, she had given a lot of thought to this. “I often feel as though my show on the tightrope and aerial silks often ends just sub-par of a real climax. I think it could be better, beyond just landing and taking a bow. So… why not segue from spinning in the air, into a dance? I’m not sure how much weight those arms of yours can take, but if you’re able to lift me and not make it look too difficult, I think we can work something out that will blow their minds. Leave the balancing to me; if you can bear my weight and go with my lead enough to maneuver me, then I think we might just strike gold. Here--show me your hands. If at any point I’m hurting you, then tell me to stop.”
Briery took a step back as Hadwin obliged, and then placed her hands on his shoulders, and her slippered feet on his hands. Stretching both arms out for balance, true to her word, she was in complete control of her balance, especially on shaky terrain. “Lift me higher, if you’re able,” she said to Hadwin, who, again, had no trouble obliging. She took one foot off of his hand, then, and straightened her posture. Cats and their nine lives had nothing on Briery Frealy; it had been years since the acrobat had fallen, and decades since she’d fallen without grace, or a good save.
“Brace yourself,” she cautioned a moment later, and without warning, the ringleader leapt from his hand, and in her fall, managed to latch onto Hadwin’s middle with the strength of her thighs, and leaned backwards, in an elegant flourish and display of her mastery of muscle control. To untangle herself from the faoladh, she placed her hands on the ground, and flipped her body, feet over head, until her feet were back on the ground, and she was standing upright.
“Not bad. You roll with the punches, and you don’t flinch at curveballs. I think we’ve got a perfect foundation to work with.” Briery beamed, placing her hands on her hips. “Let’s improvise, for now, and see where it takes us. We can tweak it as we go along, but my vision is somewhere along the lines of ‘quick, elegant, and breath-taking’. So…” Taking one of his hands, she spun herself into him and smiled. “Let’s see where it takes us.”
Once Briery disappeared from the caravan, driven in her mission to prepare the stage for their upcoming performance, Hadwin snorted when Teselin decided to weigh in on the chemistry between him and the gold-clad acrobat. “Look at you, human cipher in the making. I won’t deny it, kid. Just don’t be going out there, planting the truth around everyone with the ears to hear. Not sure Cwenha will like it. Anyway,” he blew out a smoke-filled sigh, “special or not, it’s transactional. We get you to Braighdath, I say goodbye to the Missing Links. If I haven’t paid off my debts, I’ll see ‘em again in a few months. That’s how it’s always worked, for about three years, now. We have an understanding, and it’s panned out well, for as long as we’ve known each other.”
Of course, he omitted talk of the kiss they shared just yesterday, or the fact that Briery had never welcomed him as a performer for the show, until now. He also secreted another truth from both Briery and Teselin; that in the years following his involvement with The Missing Links, he'd trained his body into more flexible, acrobatic-specific maneuvers. Hadwin, as with all faoladh, was born lithesome and malleable, but he’d focused his innate abilities on evasive fighting stances, frenetic dance moves, prison breaks, and daring escapes out of windows and onto rooftops. Since encountering Briery and her show three years ago, inspiration struck in a different direction. How would it feel, he’d wondered, if he channeled artistic expression, instead of criminal activity, into his pastimes? If anything, he’d always find some use in a little extra flexibility, should his new, “innocent” activity take a turn for the illicit.
No matter his respect for the art, for Briery, and for his upcoming role in the show, Hadwin cared little for time or proper timing. He arrived when he arrived. It was a damn miracle that he managed to adhere to a schedule at all for the evacuation of Stella D’Mare. Therefore, when he entered the candy-colored tent and caught Briery stretching on the ground, presumably in wait, he threw his arms up in surrender and pointed to the indications of sky that the narrow slats of the tent revealed: gray, overcast, and impenetrable. “Can’t see the sun, can’t tell the hour.” Then, on a more serious note, he added, “my eyes were acting up, Brie. I needed more time to clear my head.”
He did not elaborate. No details, no indication of seeking her pardon. Just a minor issue he opted to reveal instead of bury--as was his usual modus operandi. Trust flowed both ways, and he figured he owed her some, in turn. Starting with the admittance of his occasional ocular pain. As expected of the ringleader, she understood. She’d even anticipated his tardiness, and so did not dwell on it.
“Ah, glitter,” he said, sucking in a breath as if he’d uttered a curse. “Say what you will about my shedding but it least it doesn’t twinkle everywhere you step. I’ll look like a failed art project in no time. But,” he ran a finger along the line of his jaw, “I can pull it off, I assure you. Let it be red.” He folded his hands together in an exaggerated plea. “Cwenha will fume if it’s silver, and gold’s your thing. For some reason,” he scoffed, and his gold eyes twitched.
Though he hadn’t any time to warm up his muscles, Hadwin played to the demand for his skills. Always encouraged by an audience, even an audience of one, he performed each movement with flair. He removed a hand in handstand position, folding his legs to the side in balance while spinning; in cartwheel, he ended with a mid-air flip; and while prone, he kicked his legs into the air and jumped to his feet. It was sheer bravado, he knew it, but admittedly, he had wanted to show off to Briery for a good year, or more.
Blood now pumping in his chest, his limbs, and his head, he bounced on his toes as Briery sketched out her plans for an additional performance aside from their acoustic dance.“Two performances? My, I love your ambition. And your faith in me. I’m all for it, squirrel-woman. And it wouldn’t be my first instance breaking out of chains. Last man I fucked, in fact, was a Rigas guard, and he loved incorporating chains into our bedroom play. Shameless aside notwithstanding,” he raised his arms as though to stretch, popped his shoulders and elbows out of joint, and wound them behind his head in a knot, “I always escaped. Never while surrounded by flames, mind, but there’s a first time for everything. Consider me sold.”
Returning his arms to normalcy, he listened as the ringleader detailed a strategy for a seamless segue from tightrope to on the floor dancing. Both eyebrows quirked, eyes widening with barely contained excitement. “You never fail to amaze me, you know that? Upping the risk factor--and including me in this amplified display of derring-do of yours--couldn’t ask for a more fulfilling role. Let’s see what you got.”
As instructed, Hadwin opened his hands, palms up, and held them outward. Repositioning his body for the sudden shift in weight, he raised the poised and balanced Briery on high, managing to ferry her well above his head. Though his muscles quivered from the unorthodox use of their typical functions, he never felt a strain. Nothing he couldn’t handle, his posture stated, with pride. Even with her sudden leap from his one hand, he reinforced his core, acting as the pillar her legs required to hold in place. Eventually, she made her way to the ground, in an elegant backwards kick-flip. ...He could not out-flair her.
“Can’t say anyone’s ever thigh-grappled me in that way before, but I’m not disappointed,” he said, returning the sunlit rays of her smile with one radiating awe--and undeniable attraction. “If this performance of ours ever falls through the cracks and never makes it to stage, feel free to use my body as a tree any time you’d like.”
For the next few hours, they improvised their way into a promising dance. Following Briery’s instruction (and sometimes, his own), Hadwin tossed her into the air, held her aloft in any number of leg-splayed positions, supported her body from beneath the rib-cage to practice “catching” her from above, swept her by the leg, flung her about by his neck, lifted her, backwards, from a wheelbarrow formation, back-flipped with her in unison, and basically treated her, in any number of ways, like a rag doll. After their nonstop bout of practice, Briery finally allowed them a sizeable break wherein Hadwin flopped to the ground and guzzled two canteens of water with as much gusto as a tankard of ale.
“Well,” he wiped the sweat from his brow, “this whole time, I considered myself in peak physical condition, but you took me for a spin around the world, there. Not that I’m complaining. Here.” He sidled behind the acrobat and fell to a kneel at her back. His hands rounded her shoulders, palms digging into a tender knot of muscles. Kneading fingers and rocking knuckles further explored the area. “Not like the others in your troupe haven’t given you any before, but I happen to be the undisputed champion at massages. Ask anyone who’s been given the pleasure. Spoiled for life, they say. I’ll loosen you up in time for our next bout. You’ll be bouncing off these tent flaps, I guarantee it.” Pressing his thumbs in the divots between her shoulders, he leaned into a whisper, his breath hot on her neck. “Just let me know if I’m overstepping.”
Since the start of their ill-fated trip to Braighdath, Chara did not complain (except about Briery, to Briery’s face) or input any travel advice--which she thought they needed. Unlike Alster, she hadn’t visited many locales, save for the stray delegation, the farthest of which took place in Eyraille. While not a frequenter of the road, she devoured maps. Of late, her interest covered all routes to Braighdath from Stella D’Mare, including the one the caravans currently traversed. From her extensive studies of the area, further along, the road would circumvent a dense forest and dip into a severe southerly direction, removing them off-track for about a week. Few maps had updated the drastic change; early spring flooding had saturated the banks of the river, destroying the main road and closing it off to anything other than foot traffic. A little-known junction two days’ ahead would course correct them to Braighdath, though it was difficult to spot without a native guide pointing the way.
Despite her knowledge of the region and its confusing network of roads, she kept silent. It didn’t matter; no one saw fit to remind her of the lofty position she once held, or assumed she contained even an iota of pertinent information concerning their destination. Sometimes, their willful ignorance drove her mad. You all know who I am, she wanted to scream. I am not some broken, know-nothing, waste of space! I have clout. I am…
I am…
The fire that so emblazoned to life in her gut dwindled to smolders, then, as it tended to, and she subsided into the servile, lifeless doll of her final iteration; empty, bereft of a soul--and dying. No, it didn’t matter, she reiterated. She didn’t want to reach Braighdath. Didn’t want Lilica’s last memory of her to be as a diminished, desiccated husk of a human being. Didn’t want Alster to paste her a crown of shattered porcelain and make her assume the lead of a legacy she failed.
This journey would be her last.
Though her last, however, she did not need to face it donning uncomfortable and unflattering clothes. So when Cwenha suggested a second attempt at shopping that morning, after breakfast, she nodded mutely, reattached the shawl around her head, and joined the blonde acrobat on the small trek into town.
Teselin, despite her appeals to stay behind with Hadwin, accompanied them through the crowded thoroughfare, eyes darting suspiciously, in search, no doubt, for Hadwin’s murder-happy sister of purported legend. Chara had not encountered Rowen, but her curiosity piqued when the summoner had detailed the faoladh’s preoccupations with the darkest depths of a human soul. Should they meet, would Rowen draw her dagger and plunge it into her gut, twisting until dead? Perhaps that was how she departed from the world: remembered only as a rust splotch on the ground. She’d certainly wronged enough to deserve a sudden, violent end.
Distractions from her self-annihilation arrived in the form of a colorful building in the middle of the town square. Fabric dangled from the wooden shop sign in a sun-faded rainbow of swatches, an inviting wave of 'welcome.'. They entered (no Rowen in sight), but Teselin, still apprehensive of separating in case the other woman materialized, even in midst of a crowded shop, followed Chara in close formation, almost feet to heel. She tried to ignore the obnoxious violation of her privacy; it was bad enough they shared such tight living quarters.
She partially succeeded in blocking the summoner from her peripheral vision, when she trundled over to a display towards the front of the shop. A series of gowns, completed and awaiting delivery to their clients, lay, folded neatly over a work bench. A flash of something caught her attention. Moving closer, she discovered a dress of silken, shimmery purple, trimmed along the bodice with gold brocade shaped into interlocking stars. Her hand trembled forward, stroking the design, the fabric, eyes entranced on the swirl of colors. Violet and gold stars. Stella D’Mare’s standard. What a cruel reminder! What a cruel commission! A mockery of their heraldry! Akin to wearing a funeral shroud. Stella D’Mare was dead and this person, a corpse-wearer!
Her hand flinched back from the psychosomatic burns on her fingertips. Stella D’Mare. Home no more. The last of everything. Sinking...sinking...into the sea.
In moments, she was on the ground, sobbing, screaming. She’d flung the gown from the bench, toppling the others with her in a crumpled pile. Her fingers clawed for the purple, bunching the fabric to her tear-streaked face. They tore through the fine material, shredding open the seams. A high keen wailed from the gown as it flailed its flag of surrender, and died.
Stella D’Mare was a ghost. Her citizens--all ghosts. Nothing but the spaces between stars. Nothing but the finest silk and thread--shredded into useless scraps.
Hadwin did not surprise her at all. In fact, truth be told, she’d been confident of his potential before he had offered to show her. Before he had even asked to be a part in their show. She’d seen the way his joints bent in impossible positions, the range of his flexibility, his agility and his strength--not to mention, his flare for the dramatic, all which complemented the acrobat’s lifestyle and profession beautifully. Now, this was the first time she had ever seen those skills of his in this particular context, but she knew he wouldn’t fail her. After all, she was not fool enough to compromise the integrity of their show and the Missing Links’ reputation, nor to climb a man like a tree if she thought for a moment he couldn’t handle her weight or might let her fall. No, Hadwin was as capable as she thought he might be. And she found herself looking forward to this show more than usual.
After making her landing in a flourish, head over feet as she detangled her legs from his body, she spread her arms and took a theatrical bow. “You mean to say it isn’t every day that you have women crawling all over you? Somehow, I don’t believe that for a moment.” She winked, with a knowing smirk. “But I may take you up at the offer to use you as a human pillar more frequently--while you are around. Because… well, I have a bit of a confession: and that is that I have never done this before.” She indicated the faoladh’s form with her hands, palms up. “My acrobatics and feats in the air are always ones I have done solo, save for training Cwenha on the trapeze. I trust her to catch my and in mid-air, but she’s tiny and a toothpick and there is no way she could bear my weight. And Lautim isn’t exactly the… dancing type.” She couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of the quiet giant--easily and ironically the most subdued of the lot--trying his hand at dancing. Like a bull in a china shop. “Rycen has never agreed because, and his words, ‘I prefer to keep my feet on the ground, you crazy, airbound creature’.” She rolled her eyes at the conclusion of her impression of their resident magician and expert on everything fire. “So this will be an act that the Missing Links have never seen--and that none have seen the Missing Links perform. Perhaps it will all go down the drain, since neither of us is well-prepared, but… I personally think we can work something out. Just the two of us.”
Fortunately, the two of them were masters at improvisation, and the next few hours that passed were fruitful and productive. Hadwin not only wasn’t afraid to have her climb all over him like a squirrel in a tree, but he also didn’t hesitate to move and dance to accommodate her acrobatic feats. Wasn’t afraid to lift her up, spin her around backwards, brace her form around his shoulders as if he were wearing her like a boa. This was what Briery had been counting on, and she was far from disappointed. But she wasn’t about to get so caught up in working through their routine as to not be paying attention to how her partner was holding up. She was equipped to do this for hours, with her practice, strength, and flexibility, but Hadwin did not quite lead the same lifestyle as she, and going all out in this trial-by-fire improvisation could leave him too exhausted, or worse, injured.
“All right; take ten.” The ringleader announced at last, finishing with a handstand on Hadwin’s shoulders, an and impressive backflip back to the ground. Both of them were sweating and somewhat out of breath, but Briery couldn’t have possibly felt more energized. “Don’t sell yourself short; if you weren’t fit, you wouldn’t have been able to do any of that. You’re tired because you don’t do this every day. Take a breather.”
Briery took a seat, herself, and stretched her legs out in front of her to work out the cramps in her calves. The cool air against her exposed skin, damp with perspiration, drew gooseflesh to the surface, but the temporary chill was rapidly mitigated by warm hands on her shoulders, and the proximity of Hadwin’s body behind her own. “Are you trying to tell me that of everything you’re capable of, what you’re known for is your massages?” The ringleader snorted and shook her head, but she couldn’t deny, the attention to her tight shoulders felt… good. “Believe it or not, I haven’t had one before. Not from anyone from my troupe, or anyone at all, for that matter. If something hurts, I stretch. And if stretching doesn’t work, if I’m desperate, I’ll ask Lautim to take those massive hands of his and apply pressure until I feel like I want to cry--and to hold it until I don’t want to cry anymore. It does the trick…”
It did the trick, and was often worth the bruises it inevitably left on her skin (more often than not, she was able to cover them with make-up), but she had to admit, the careful kneading of Hadwin’s fingers and thumbs was far less agonizing. She felt tension release around trigger points, a dull, albeit inviting sort of pain as opposed to one that forced her to hold her breath and bear it. After years on the trapeze and the silks, she hadn’t realized just how much tension had build up between her joints and sinews. The increased circulation incited a warmth beneath her skin, one that made its way from her shoulders, to her neck, to her face. All too quickly, she became aware of her heartbeat, which hadn’t stopped racing, even while her body sat, at rest.
Hadwin’s words were a warm breath of air on her neck, walking that fine line of wanting to lose control, and yet… still holding fast to consent. A respect for the distance she’d always had to maintain, and her hesitation to realize she had options, now, and needn’t be restrained by the disease that plagued her. She wanted to move past it; she wanted so badly to cast it aside, and experience everything that had been holding her back… “You’re not,” she heard herself say, her tone barely above a whisper. “Overstepping. You’re not…”
Exhaling on a long breath, she leaned into his touch. How far do you plan to let this go? That voice cautioned at the back of her mind. Is it worth the risk? Is he worth the risk? The truth was, she didn’t know, but she… she wanted it to be. She wanted him to be.
“Do you think I’d trust just anyone to lift me up and catch me, with no training?” It was a rhetorical question, and she knew its meaning wouldn’t be lost on the shapeshifter. He’d been right to assume she trusted him; because she did. Beyond the act they were forming together, beyond the favours they owed one another, despite the fact their paths only crossed every handful of months, if that… she trusted him. Because she knew she could, and because she wanted to. “I’ve never done this before… because there was no one I could trust.” But I trust you, was what was left unsaid, but not unheard.
She didn’t know where this would end up, how far it would go, or what would come of it. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, that she wasn’t afraid--she did, and she still was, but in the moment, all she wanted was to feel his hands on her shoulders, her arms, and his lips so close to her skin…
“I… what am I interrupting?”
The spell was broken, and Briery snapped back to attention, just in time for Rycen to part the tent flaps and walk in with an armful of props, and a face full of amusement, astonishment, and surprise--but no confusion.
“Rycen. Excellent. I’ll need your help with one of Hadwin’s parts in our show.” The ringleader proclaimed, on her feet in seconds, as if she hadn’t been all but melting into the touch of another person just seconds ago. “He’s going perform as an escape artist. Figured it might pique your interest to make it look even more dangerous and get the audience riled up if we threw in a little fire.”
“Well aren’t you quick to assume the city is interested in us.”
“Aren’t they?” Briery raised an eyebrow. She already knew the answer.
A grin broke out on Rycen’s face. “Of course they are. I already took the initiative to gauge interest; looks like this place hasn’t seen excitement in a while. I don’t think we could disappoint if we tried.”
“Sounds like the perfect time to try out a new act, then.” The acrobat matched Rycen’s grin and turned to back to Hadwin. “What we’ve got coming together has some promise, for sure. But don’t think for a moment that I am through with you yet, wolf-man. Take a few more minute, then meet me at my caravan. We’re going to go scout out some decent fabric to make you a costume.”
Rycen couldn’t help but whistle his astonishment. “Costume, huh? Sounds like you’re committed to this working out. So our friend here’s got that much potential?”
“Of course he does. I’ve always known it; I’ve just never seen it in action.”
Briery winked just once, and took her leave of the tent, while Rycen stood, arms full of streamers and glittering fabric, eyebrows still raised at what he had just walked in on. Helplessly raising his shoulders, he could only smile and tuck the props away in a corner. “Not my business,” he said, grinning knowingly with his palms turned outward to what he’d just witnessed--which was, in all honesty, not much of a mystery to him, “but if you want some unsolicited advice… don’t tell Cwenha. Or I think she might kill you in your sleep.” And even he wasn’t sure if he was joking.
Teselin walked abreast the other two women, stiff as a board on her venture through the town. It went without saying that she was on edge, given her prior encounters with Rowen. Hadwin was not with her, now, and she trusted Briery to keep him safe, but her imagination had begun to run wild. What if Rowen had followed them again? She was fast, resourceful… could even Briery protect him with someone so dedicated to murdering their blood brother?
She couldn’t be less interested in shopping for clothes, but she knew well that this brief errand had little to do with equipping them with new clothes, and everything to do with keeping them busy. And far be it from her to question Briery’s intentions, especially when the ringleader had agreed to up and leave the last town without any questions, or making a big deal of it. Besides, Chara clearly wasn’t comfortable in the gowns that Briery had offered her, so the errand in and of itself wasn’t empty; just superfluous. Nonetheless, it was something to do.
Cwenha led them to a shop that boasted appealing displays in the window: Tunics and gowns and leggings and trousers, all expertly made and ready to be tailored and purchased. Nothing really caught Teselin’s eye, and she found herself absently wandering, while Cwenha and Chara actively looked. Occasionally, a colour or a style might catch her eye, but she made no means to reach for it to try it on. She watched as the other two women pulled clothing from the hangers and held the fabric in her hands. Even Chara seemed to have found something she liked: a gown in a beautiful shade of purple, accented with shimmering stars. At least, it appeared that she liked it… until a terribly cry wrenched from her lungs, and she tugged it, along with a series of other gowns, to the floor, fingers clawing them into useless shreds.
Teselin’s jaw dropped, but she was quick to react, considering the Rigas woman had immediately drawn attention to the lot of them. The shopkeeper gasped in dismay, only to be quickly intercepted by Cwenha, who appeared to be putting coin in her hand and putting apologies: they needed to get out of there. “Come on,” the young summoner took Chara’s arms, and coaxed her to het feet. “It’s all right: we need to leave…”
“Can’t we find clothes without incident?” Cwenha groaned, and with stronger arms, helped to shepherd Chara out of the shop, the lot of them empty-handed. “Forget it. I’ll get your measurements and find you something, myself. Let’s go find something a little less triggering to pick up right now. Like some food.”
What surprised Teselin the most was the young acrobat’s attitude. She was understandably annoyed, but… that was where her displeasure ended. In fact, Teselin thought she could see something akin to understanding in her violet eyes. When Cwenha caught her staring, an unspoken question on her lips, the singer shrugged her shoulders. “I get it. Colours… can bring back memories. I can’t wear pink.” She explained, and for a moment, her gaze was faraway. “I chose silver because it reminds me of what I came from. Something beautiful and pure looking, but… that tarnishes so easily. I am tarnished; I always will be. And I won’t ever wear pink. Never again…”
The young summoner did not venture to ask why: Cwenha’s reasons, after all, were her own. But… it did make her wonder. What, exactly, she had come from, and why the colour pink, the mere mention of it, reflected shadows in her eyes…
“Personally… I think you would like beautiful in pale blue.” Cwenha offered, looking to the still crumpled form of Chara, face tear-streaked, and her movements shaky. “I a cut that accentuates your figure. You’re lucky to be blessed with an hourglass shape. If you trust me, I can find you something suitable. You don’t even have to come along, if you don’t want to, and if you don’t like it, I’ll take it back and find something else.”
“No--I didn’t say that,” Hadwin said, the tease on his lips generating a sibilant hiss. “But there’s the difference. They crawl. Sometimes pounce. Or throw me against the wall. Or knee me in the groin. Or tie me up. And yeah, they’ll wrap their thighs around me. They don’t try to crack me open with them while hanging off my body. Haven’t been in a position like this with a woman or another acrobat, so you will take that coveted first honor, Briery.” He nudged her shoulder with the flat of his palm. “Congratulations; I thought I’d experienced it all.”
The ringleader’s “confession” drew out a grin filled with toothy mirth. “Hey, that makes two of us, right? So we’re both treading unfamiliar territory. We’ll go forth and fear the unknown, together. Couldn’t have partnered with anyone better, I’d say, if trying new things is what you want to do. Yeah, I’m not cocksure at all,” he chuckled. “Humble as they come. But if I were wise enough to stop myself from making asinine decisions on the regular, I wouldn’t be so ready to take on this act with you. Stupidity makes me a better player.”
Hours raced by like minutes, between the fast pace of the acrobat and the daredevil. Their compatible energies bounced off each other in synchronous passion; twin flames merging as one. Body temperatures rose and perspiration dewed the skin, an inviting moisture that excited the faoladh, motivating him to take bolder moves for the pleasure of their proximity. For the hands that cradled her thin waist, or her ribbed torso, her firm underarms, muscular thighs and bulging calves. The smell of sugar and sweat perfumed in his nostrils. His eyes dilated with focus, every sense tingling to towering heights. Even if they never experienced intimacy, in this moment, he was satisfied. Grateful that, after more than three years, the door to Briery’s world opened ever wider and she, beckoning, invited him inside. Earned trust, he realized, was far more tantalizing, more sexually charged and rewarding, than short-term campaigns which resulted in shorter-term trysts.
A long while ago, his expectations had plateaued. The landscape of his love-life began eroding into rocky desperation, mere distractions to carry him through another day, another year--until his dangerous lifestyle caught up to him, and scooped the dirt over his premature grave. He never expected to last long. Faoladh seldom, if ever, survived on their own. Soon, life would exhaust its carnival of attractions and, either in boredom, or trapped within the mirrors of his cursed Sight, he would succumb, and die. If Rowen’s reemergence in his life was any indication, his projected end was imminent. Forthcoming. Within the year. He would not stop the swing of her Reaper’s dagger. And yet…
The more that life offered had revealed itself (in revealing dress, no less!) and in his greed, he wanted the more. Wanted the stage, wanted the caravan days, the flashy red costume, the fire and the chains, a dance with Briery. He wanted Briery. Wanted to teach Teselin new card games, and lead her on through the worst. The plateau was rising, and him, with it.
For the first time in many, many years, he feared death. Feared all the possibilities he'd leave behind.
The closeness of his body to Briery’s told a different story, now. No longer in frenetic alignment with each other, like a gale to a supple, willowy tree, it was through her stillness, under his massaging fingers, that he still felt her acrobatic energy, flipping and leaping in her chest. It hummed to the vibrations of the tightrope, creaked to the swing of the trapeze, pulsed to the fire that accompanied her dance. Only, this was an energy that yearned to free itself, and act out a much more carnal performance--with him.
“As a matter of fact,” he cooed, his hands fisting into gentle, pounding rhythms on her back, “yes. It’s where it all started. Would you believe me if I told you that I grew up with an actual honest vocation? I was a baker. Well, baker’s assistant,” he amended. “Long years of my adolescence spent kneading dough--for this, the culmination of my art’s true calling. You’re not very doughy, though,” he laughed, and walked his fingers down her spine. “But I bet if I licked you right now, you’d taste like wheat--finest bread in all the land. Salt and honey, a spread of butter on top...I’m making myself hungry.” His hands returned to the sinews of her shoulders, brushing toward her neckline, her collarbone. “I’ll get us a loaf to split, after we’re done.” Though I’d rather eat you, his hungry words about growled.
Trust. Again, that word appeared, in its association with him. She trusted him. I trust you, too. He wanted to speak his answer to her unsaid sentiments, but someone else responded.
“You’ll just fuck it up again. Like you always do. You’re a fuck up, Hadwin.” Fiona said, the ghost who crouched in his periphery, whispering fears. Always whispering fears. “Your da ditched you, I died to get rid of you, your sister wants to kill you, and Bronwyn hates you. And if you think this is a curse that’s in-family only, think again. At best, you bring out the worst in people. At worst, you make them lose their minds.”
And, like that, the moment ended. Hadwin’s questing hands paused, hesitated, in time for Rycen to walk into the tent and loudly proclaim his status as an interloper.
“Exactly what it looks like,” Hadwin retorted, withdrawing his touch and resting his hands to the ground. “A massage. Want to do me, next?” He winked at the Illusionist. “My first day as a would-be performer has gotten me beat. You know, maybe I’ll ask Lautim for a good pounding, later. No one does it better, so I’ve heard.”
At Briery’s departure, Hadwin jump-kicked to his feet and stretched his arms behind his head, moaning his relief at the satisfying pop of his joints. “Way ahead of you,” he said, returning the man’s knowing smile. “Why else do you suppose I only make my moves when the cygnet is far away and out of sight?”
Sure enough, a few minutes later, more or less (in this case, less), Hadwin poked his head inside Briery’s caravan. The acrobat was rummaging through the storage space in the back, which was oft separated by a false wall and pinned out of sight by a curtain. With the wall moved and the curtain pushed aside, all manner of goods were stacked along the narrow space: an extra tent, a wound-up cord of tightrope wire, stacks of mason bricks for Lautim to smash, flyers to post on walls and in taverns, and, most notably, a rainbow of fabrics. On her hands and knees, Briery fished out bolts of a black, stretchy material followed by rows of glittering greens, golds, silvers, blues--and reds.
“Well,” he joined her on the caravan’s floor, “you already know my preference.” He jabbed a finger to the red shimmering material. “I mean, it makes sense. I’m a red wolf, I’m going to be escaping from chains and fire, and I’m already hot for you. Might as well wear it on my sleeve.” His smile was a cheeky one, but his fingers stroked over her knuckles, slow and purposeful. “Actually,” he remedied, “sleeves will get in my way. So will a top. All I’d need is a thin strip covering my nethers, really. Stir some sex appeal out there for the lady spectators. Some men, too. Or if that’s too risque for your wholesome troupe, I’ll settle for trousers. And maybe a shirt. ...An open shirt.” At the rolling of her eyes, he smiled and shrugged helplessly. “What? I’m serious, Brie. I’ve got assets and I’m not afraid to show ‘em. Circuses can get away with the ‘perverse.’ Not that my body is perverse in any way, but you know what I mean.”
The transition between inside the shop and outside, on the street, escaped Chara’s notice. One moment, she was on the floor, surrounded by ruined things of beauty, the next, she was standing, bolstered by the summoner and the other acrobat whose name escaped her. The latter expressed a loud opinion of their shopping mishap and Chara, tears abating, nodded with the realization of what had transpired. It was not how one who professed invisibility should behave. Interacting with such visceral energy towards something as mundane as a dress...she had erred.
Allowing one hand to slip from Teselin’s grasp, she scooped up one corner of her shawl and scrubbed away her tears with an aggressiveness that wished to see them gone. “No,” she whispered aloud. “That should not have happened. That time and place--they cannot affect me anymore. I am not here to be affected.” While her mutterings were to herself, for herself, Cwenha and Teselin, in their closeness, could hear the words that escaped, like breathy whimpering. “They’re gone. I’m gone. Whoever requested that dress...will not let us die in peace! Violet is for the grave.”
She raised her head and regarded her company, realizing they had not released her nor left her behind. In fact, the blonde-haired acrobat told some story about the color pink that connected, on some level, to her own plight. Even this girl, the one with the fiery temperament, was trying to appeal to her? Why bother? Why did anyone bother?
Because she looked so breakable. Possessed by pain, by Mollengard’s ruthless hand, by the loss of her dying city and Her people. Because she took a dagger to her ears, and sawed off the taped points, symbolically severing her namesake and identity. Everybody believed she’d done so in a fit of madness, but it was premeditated. Planned. If she attributed any recent act to madness, it was in tearing that accursed dress to shreds, and really, she had done the client a favor! A clear message, sent: bury the dead. Stella D’Mare has foundered. Survivors are but flotsam and jetsam washed ashore. Leave them alone.
“Leave me behind,” she said, her words clear, unfaded--almost authoritative. If they would not release her on the grounds of insanity, she would present as sound of mind. Logical. Practical. “My presence will delay your arrival to Braighdath. The road you take will lead you in a roundabout direction and add a week to your travels. I will tell you how to navigate to your destination, but there is no reason for me to accompany you. I ceded all authority to Alster. No Rigas or living D’Marian has need of the past I represent. I am a bad reminder, to everyone desperate to move on and survive. So,” she squirmed out of their hold and clasped her hands forward, like a reasonable person with a proposal. No, not a proposal. A request. That they needed to honor. “I will not be joining you to Braighdath. You will find that my presence is not necessary. I’m an extra mouth to feed, and you, I’m sure, will want back your bed.” She nodded to Cwenha.
“And you,” her eyes flicked to Teselin, “do not benefit from my presence. It bears repeating, but I am a bad reminder. Nothing but bitterness and regret. When you arrive at Braighdath, and later, to Galeyn, Alster and Lilica will see to your needs. Anyway,” she straightened her shoulders; and for that an instant, appeared as the regal Rigas head of before--a ghost, retreading the land of the living, “I will point the way on your map, and then we shall go our separate paths. Is this clear? I’ll speak to your insufferable ringleader, and resettle the final arrangements. In the meantime,” she tilted her head at the two tiny women, “I shall consider your counsel. For a new dress. Blue is a benign color and I will settle for it. You have my word that I’ll...keep it together in the next shop.” With a deep breath of energy, she turned back to the thoroughfare and strode along the flow of human traffic. “Shall we?”
“Lautim will break your bones, if you’re not careful.” Rycen cautioned the faoladh, as he dispensed his armload of props to their designated places. “For someone who’d never hurt a fly, the guy really doesn’t know his own strength. You’d honestly be safer to ask our esteemed ringleader to work the knots out of your back. Call me crazy, but something tells me she’d be more than happy to oblige you.” He flashed a knowing smile, and brushed the wrinkles out of his tunic. “I’d say your secret is safe with me, but if I know you… you’re not very good at keeping secrets. Nor are you inclined to. In which case… I’m afraid none of us can keep you safe from dear Cwenha’s wrath. That sister of yours may not be the only one you’ll want to fear.”
But he was already well aware that the shape-shifter knew the risks. He knew the troupe; knew Briery. Knew Cwenha (insofar as she would let him), and something told him that Hadwin had calculated the risk-reward scenario, and decided it was worth pursuing. For all the illusionist knew, it was because it was dangerous that he was pursuing it at all--or, more specifically, pursuing Briery. But, as per his original statement… it was really none of his business.
Speaking of the ringleader, Briery had set to finding supplies for Hadwin’s costume without delay. Gutting part of her caravan’s storage unit, she found swaths of fabric, sparkling lace and some decals if there were time to sew them onto whatever the finished product became. She’d just found her sewing kit and long tape-measure when just the person she needed strutted in, taking a seat on the floor in her company. “You’re lucky that none of us has already claimed that colour,” she conceded, picking up the swath of folded red fabric. It wasn’t really a true red, not in the same way her costume and Cwenha’s looked as though they’d been spun from liquid metal. This stretchy blend of cotton and other material with elastic properties was set to a red base, but depending on the cast of light, glimmered vermillion and gold with tiny flecks of inlaid decals that twisted and bent the light, like little flames. “I’m gold, Cwenha is silver, Rycen is green, and Lautim chose blue. Originally, I had planned to make myself another costume with this beauty, but… I think it will suit you a lot better.”
The acrobat unfolded it, letting the length tumble to the floor, and held the cloth up to Hadwin’s face. “It suits you. Just enough gold to complement your eyes--and my costume, for that matter. Pretty fitting, if we’re doing a routine together.” Briery grinned, satisfied with the choice. “And no, Hadwin, you’re not going to perform in a flash loincloth. Trousers will be too baggy and too much of a hazard, though; so I hope you’re comfortable wearing leggings. And you will have a shirt. It can be open; if you want to be eye candy for the crowd, then have at it! But there will be children attending, I guarantee. So you will have to keep the sex-appeal moderate, I’m afraid. Now, get your ass over here--and the rest of you, while you’re at it.”
Standing up from her crouching position, Briery, bade Hadwin do the same, and took her measuring tape into her hands. “I don’t have a lot of time to throw this together, if we’re looking to get a routine down and perform by tomorrow night, so we can’t waste any time. Especially if I have to go and purchase some finishing touches.” With haste and efficiency, she began to take his measurements, thorough and precise. From the width of his chest, and waist, the length of his arms and legs, to the girth of his thighs and calves and arms--and not forgetting the curve of his backside, which she had no doubt he enjoyed.
“Fortunately, I happen to be quite efficient when it comes to making and mending costumes. It was very first gig as part of a circus.” Having felt warmed by his recollection of his adolescent days as a baker’s assistant, Briery decided that one anecdote deserved another. She went on as she scribbled his measurements onto a piece of parchment with charcoal. “I was an orphan--not sure if I’ve ever told you that, but it’s fairly irrelevant to the rest of my life. Anyway, the group home that raised me didn’t sit well with me, and when a traveling circus happened to be passing through my city, I took a leap of faith, ran away, and begged them to employ me. I was only ten years old, but I knew what I had to know. And I thought anything would be better than what I came from. I was half-right, at least.”
A nostalgic smile curled the corners of her lips. “I told them I could sew, so they employed me as a seamstress. I made and mended costumes around the clock, from the most revealing to the most elaborate. I was good at it, but it was never my calling. Not when I saw the women and men on the trapeze, the silks, the tightwire… Of course, the ringleader would not agree to have me train as an acrobat, despite that some of the troupe saw promise in me. It didn’t bother me, because I’d made quite a few friends very quickly, and on occasion, they’d agree to train me on the sly. I got lucky; I’m gifted. Good natural flexibility, balance, and kinesthetic awareness. I learned fast, and I learned well, figuring at some point, when I’d saved enough money, I could take my skills and move on from that traveling circus. For a while, it looked very promising--until puberty hit me, and as you can imagine, it was not kind.”
Briery’s smile faltered as she returned to Hadwin with her tape measure to double check the girth of his wrists and the width of his shoulders. “It was around that time that my disease flared up, leaving me ueless for a week or two per month. I could hardly stand up, let alone make costumes or train. At first, my employer tried to be understanding. But not for long. When I begged him not to let me go, he only agreed to keep me on to make and mend costumes on the condition that I received nothing from him during those times when I was useless to him. Those days when I was down and out, I wasn’t paid. I received no food, and sometimes, slept with a blanket between the cold ground and my body, because I was refused a cot. And I continued to live like that for three more years, until I felt I’d learned enough to make it on my own. So… I left. Took my skills and my disease with me. I doubt anyone missed me, but I’d be a liar to say that the hardest time was yet to come. That year that I traveled and worked alone, before I found Rycen, and then Lautim, and then Cwenha. Honestly, I don’t know how I survived, but getting arrested for petty thievery was one of the best things that could’ve happened to me. Rycen and I saw potential in one another; a symbiotic relationship, and… well, the rest is history, and you’re already familiar with it.”
The ringleader’s voice dropped off, and she paused mid-measurement, a hint of colour crept into her face. “Didn’t really intend for the lengthy anecdote… I just thought your bread-maker story deserved another. And to reassure you that there absolutely will be no wardrobe malfunctions.” She offered a grin and stepped away, satisfied with what she had to work with. “I’ll get started on it now. I should have something preliminary to work with by this evening, so go and make merry however you wish, but I will need you back before supper, this evening. In case I have to make any alterations before tomorrow. That, and while I like what we’ve got going, we need to refine our little duet, and consult Rycen on what’s possible for your escape artist schtick. Lots of kinks to work out before making your debut.”
Hanging the measuring tape around her neck and shoulders, Briery took a seat on the floor again, in such a position that no normal human could’ve possibly found comfortable, but the ringleader’s uncanny flexibility granted comfort in the strangest of places and positions. “I’m not too concerned, though. Something tells me you won’t disappoint the audience. Or me, for that matter.” What she meant by the last part could be left open to interpretation, but by the sly glint in her hazel eyes, it seemed as though she was referring to more than just the show. “I’ll see you back here before dusk--and no excuses this time.” If for no other reason than to reassure Teselin, whom the acrobat was sure would only grow more and more tense, the longer she spent away from her faoladh companion.
Briery wasn’t wrong in her assessment. If it wasn’t Rowen who had her on edge, Chara’s sudden mental breakdown in the middle of a very respectable boutique had caused the young summoner to grow nervous and uncertain. The Rigas head had always been someone Teselin had felt safe to look up to. Regardless of her motivations or intentions, Chara had always been so steadfast in her vision and decisions, had always been a stable pillar with a plan of action. The way that Mollengard had broken her down, shattered the unshakable pillar she had once been… it had shaken Teselin more than she cared to admit, and more and more, made her regret her last words spoken to the blonde woman. Mollengard had broken the both of them, in ways that neither of them yet fully understood, and she had no right putting Chara down, the way she had. Even if the Rigas caster had wiped her hands of the young summoner, even if there was no longer useful to her, she was still hurting from what she had lost. And Teselin had done nothing to help.
Cwenha, however, seemed to have the patience and compassion that Chara needed to come back to herself--which shocked Teselin more than she cared to let on, considering the vehemence the acrobat displayed toward Hadwin. It was enough for the Rigas caster to collect herself… and to suggest something preposterous.
“You… you can’t leave us.” Teselin blurted the words before she had time to properly consider them. They were her first words to Chara since they’d met the Missing Links; before the Rigas caster had mutilated the tips of her ears. “People are expecting your arrival in Braighdath. People are waiting for you… missing you. How can you cast them aside, as if they mean nothing? If you won’t go to Braighdath for yourself, then at least go for them… and tell them in your own words, to their face, that they do no matter. You owe them that much…” Isn’t that the only reason I am still bound for that city? A voice niggled at the back of her mind, bringing with it thoughts and images of her brother. I don’t seek him anymore; he cannot help me. It is too late. But… he at least deserves to know that I am alright. That I am alive…
Cwenha, however, lent an ear to Chara’s reasoning. An objective presence, one who knew little to nothing about either of them, or what had happened to them. Teselin’s heart raced, terrified that the acrobat would agree with her, despite that there was no possible way the Rigas caster could be speaking reason…
To Teselin’s relief, Cwenha’s good sense was quicker than her anger. She folded her arms across her chest, lips pressed together as if in contemplation, considering Chara’s standpoint--for whatever it was worth, given that she had been an inconsolable mess, just moments ago. “What you decide among yourselves isn’t my business. Nor is where you plan on going or not going. Ultimately, I am not the one you want to appeal to. If you are truly adamant not to go on to Braighdath, then I suggest you speak with Briery. But… I will tell you this much.”
Letting her arms drop to her side, the acrobat nervously scratched the back of her head, seeming uneasy in whatever it was she was about to offer. “You are not okay, right now; neither of you are, that much is obvious. But you should know that there is no reason you have to be okay. I don’t know what you suffered, and I won’t ask, because I frankly do not want to know. Though if you want my unsolicited advice… take this time on the road as time to think of where you need and want to be. Deciding here and now that you will not go on with us may yield regret. Get something to eat, find something to wear… and see how you feel, after that. Is that a fair compromise?”
Something about the knowing tone of Cwenha’s voice--something that suggested she knew all too well what it meant to not be alright--moved something in Teselin. No, I’m not alright, she knew well. She knew every time she woke up in a cold sweat, and temporarily forgot her surroundings and where she was, and the company she kept. And the worst part of all… were those times when in those moment, even in Hadwin’s presence, she felt so horribly alone… “I’m not alright. I don’t know when I will be, again.” She added softly, after a moment. “Maybe it’s selfish. But I… don’t want to be the only one who is not alright. Not when you and Hadwin are the only connections I have to a time before I wasn’t alright.” She looked up at Chara, her dark eyes sad, full of regret for the last words they’d shared. “The both of you are all I have. I don’t want to leave you behind.”
“Careful, huh?” Hadwin rested his wrist in the flat of his opposite palm and jerked it backwards. A loud snap bounded across the enclosed tent space. “Even without the giant walking all over me, you’ll find I break my bones quite frequently. I’m clumsy like that.” With another crack, his wrist realigned with the bones in his arm. He raised it in an easy wave, all fingers dancing in uncoordinated waggles. “That’s about how my escape act with the chains will play out. A lot of joint popping, some breakage,” he shrugged. “I’m sure the crackling of the fire will mask the sounds of me tearing my body apart. I’ll leave that to you, Master of Flame.”
At the illusionist’s mention of secrets and his lack of confidentiality, he crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Now, how would covering up do a lick of good to anyone, in the end? It’ll only delay the inevitable truth of it all. And our fair Cwenha has had it in for me since we met. If learning of my, excuse me, ‘intentions’ is what sets her off, then it’s been a long time coming. I’ll take another gaping wound for the team.” He patted his stomach. “The other one’s getting lonely.” Doffing an imaginary hat upon his head, he nodded his leave of Rycen, and slid out of sight, through the tent flaps.
Inside the woman’s caravan, Hadwin settled comfortably on his knees and scooted out of the way of the fabric deluge, a cascade of materials numerous enough to outfit an entire festival’s worth of performers. He picked up a swatch of the red fabric, a simple square cut from the bolt for display purposes, and held it to the lantern light, watching the gold accents blaze across the material in the closest approximation to fire. For one entranced by patterns of smoke and wisps of visions trapped in many a fearful eye, the flashy cloth caught his attention--for a good, long minute. “If you prescribe to fate any, I’d say I was meant for this color,” he said, returning the stretchy square of material to the bolt on which it belonged, in time for Briery to unroll the rest in her attempt to encase him with it--as if in retaliation for his comments on clothing minimalism. “Considering I can’t normally see red. Well, green, too,” he flicked a disinterested finger at the bolt of fabric designated as Rycen’s color. “But red is more thematically appropriate for me, passionate lover that I am,” he winked. “And it’s the color I often see in the visions of others.”
He slid the slinky material off his shoulders. To his eye, he could scarcely distinguish the vermilion of the fabric from the red; together, they appeared a shade or two away from identical. While his general ignorance of the color spectrum stirred some confusion in his day-to-day dealings, it was a safe bet to categorize anything rust-tinted as red, though it was a trick that only worked for certain shades. By now, he could determine the gist of the intended color, as he’d successfully gleaned the green fabric from the red (with a little help from context clues). Besides--he knew what red looked like. He saw it, whenever he closed his eyes and concentrated.
“I can’t see those colors,” he said, a lead-in to explaining his confusing relationship with red. “Not through my eyes. But with my Sight, I’m privy to a person’s experience. Color included. Red is a popular motif in fearscapes. I often see it in blood, no surprise there. But I’ve grown attached to seeing that lovely, vibrant shade. Pops into my dreams sometimes, too. Wish I could see it more, as it’s meant to be seen, but I’ll just have to settle for those stray glimpses in the perspective of another. I see it in you, sometimes.” He raised his eyes and captured Briery’s for a lingering moment. “Didn’t think I’d go off about the impracticality of my favorite color for so long,” he shook his head, breaking eye contact, and hummed a mix between a chortle and a laugh, “but you’re bringing it out in me, Brie. Even the likes of yours truly is subject to anecdotes of a trite and dull nature.”
Speaking of anecdotes, Briery had her own to share, and they were far from dull or trite. Standing as tall as the caravan ceiling would allow, Hadwin allowed the acrobat to take the proper measurements for his debut costume and modeled each called-for section her tape and fingers spanned. This, of course, included his buttocks, which he jiggled about in merry syncopation. Largely, though, he kept still, leaving to Briery her expertise in a craft that, through her recollections of a past long gone, played a major role in her development into the strong-willed acrobat who owned and operated her own traveling troupe. Were his uninspired stories really the catalyst for Briery to open her door wider for him? Enough to see the inside of her dwellings, to catch the heat of her hearthfire and the waft of broth gurgling in a cauldron? An empty chair awaited him, and it sat opposite her. A resplendent smile beckoned him close. Beckoned him to listen--for he sensed that her story did not seek any old pair of ears. It sought, she sought...him.
“I could smell the hardship on you, and I must say, you wear it well,” he said, fingers pressing on her skin as she looped the measuring tape around his wrists. “Not too heady, like perfumes those uppity women love to soak themselves in. You smell like toil, and dirt in your fingernails, and it’s rather becoming. Your story has a clear beginning, middle, and end. That perseverance and strength is enviable by many. It’s what led you to success--insofar as you’ve taken the initiative and turned your goals into action. It differs from the n’er-do-well currently mucking up your whole operation.” He returned his hands to his sides when she finalized his measurements on the parchment. “Don’t think it’s all so clear-cut for me. I never had a direction. I just flit from place to place and plan ahead for nothing. There was never any point,” he said, with a smile to diffuse what many would interpret as defeatist talk. “Not when lone faoladh like me aren’t supposed to last. We’re cursed not to last. Just to go mad, and die. I know; it’s all so cheerful and uplifting. But it explains why my sister is out for me, why my da’s a cold, unfeeling bastard, why my mam, why she…” He paused, chewed on the inside of his lip, and then proceeded to chew on his finger.
“Blood-relations.” He pushed out a laugh. “You’re not missing much at all. Better when you get to choose your family. But look at us both, yammering to each other without a care, our tongues not loosed by alcohol, but by the aftereffects of dance. Who knows what other secrets will be revealed to you before our debut in town? Maybe I’ll get a headstart.” Half-turning towards the exit door, he patted Briery on the shoulder en route. “I’ll go out to town and grab a drink or two, but no worries! I’ll be properly loosed up for you and ready to go, upon my return. I trust your costume will flatter my body in all the right ways. I expect nothing less from Briery Frealy.”
Chara steeled herself for the inevitable protests that would roll her way. While Cwenha kept reason closer than emotion--unusual, considering the silver-clad acrobat’s tendency to explode (to which she related)--Teselin’s little outburst had rerouted Chara’s focus. She turned from Cwenha to the summoner, her brows drawing downward into an uncompromising glare. Rather, it would have looked menacing, if she still commanded power and half of her dignity. “They cast me aside just as easily. I do not owe them anything. So do cease your dramatics and accusations, Teselin. I care for them, of course, but they will all fare well without me. Half a year ago, I’d have told you differently, but all have grown into capable leaders in their own right. I am extraneous. I know better than to barge back into lives which no longer have room for a fallen Rigas. No.” She tried not to shudder, tried to hold her shoulders and head high, to direct her unwavering eyes at her subject, to not falter or stumble or fall to the ground in a heap of torn, shredded clothes. “My inheritance is gone. No Rigas will accept me. Consider my reign, and my role in the lives I’ve shaped--over. It is time for me to move on, and move along, elsewhere.”
By then, Cwenha inputted more of her perspective, and Chara quickly flitted from the distraught summoner to a woman whose investment in her affairs was virtually nonexistent. “I am appealing to you because I do not appreciate Briery’s condescending behavior, nor do I trust she will listen with an open ear. She will dismiss my words, call them unsound, and force me to partake in dozens of inane conversations from here till Braighdath. I daresay I stand a better chance at recovery dismounted from your caravan of misadventures than on board for heavens know how much longer.”
Again, the summoner waxed sentimental, her words oozing with hyperbolic memories of a time too hectic to remember with any iota of fondness--especially towards another person. While she understood Teselin’s desperation for connections and solidarity among an established group, to think it included Chara was preposterous. She was not who one thought about in rosy terminology--with the exception of Lilica’s attempts at poetry. On the contrary; not long ago, it was established that she manipulated and exploited for gain. No heart pumped in her chest. Love bled out and the ground absorbed each droplet.
“Stop pretending that I ever meant a dram to you, Teselin,” Chara said, with a greater snap than she’d intended. “We went through a trial together, but our mutual suffering cannot possibly change or deepen a relationship we never had. You do not need me. Hadwin is adequate company for you, and that mongrel is a galaxy’s distance from ‘all right.’ The two of you can bond over your similarities; my presence is not required. Hadwin has fulfilled his end of the blood oath, so he can afford to let me go.” The quality of her voice changed at her next inquiry, becoming rougher, insistent. “When will you?”
She did not wait for an answer before nodding to Cwenha in tentative agreement. “I will stay for this shopping excursion, and I will stay for your performance. Afterwards, I cannot promise that I will remain as a fixture on your caravan. That is my final decision on the subject.” Picking up her feet once more, she led the two women to the next shop, a tailor’s storefront of lesser renown, by way of its rough-hewn window signs and chipping paint door-frame. “While this place seems inferior, I doubt the owner can afford the richness of purple or violet fabric, so rest assured; I shall be fine.”
