[r.] I know you will follow me until kingdom come [18+]

“How oddly befitting; that the colour you want is the colour you cannot really see.” Briery mused, pausing only momentarily at this revelation, which did surprise her a bit. “Seems just like something you would choose, Hadwin. But I’ll not begrudge you it; particularly since nobody else in the troupe has chosen it. I think you’re right… it suits you. In a lot of ways.”

Taking a swath of the fabric, she wrapped it around his arm to gauge the stretch. Like her costume and Cwenha’s, it had give and elasticity to allow for flexibility, which Hadwin would need for both acts: as an escape artist, and a dancer. “It is a colour rich with loud emotions. Passion and anger and fear, sometimes even hatred. It is bold and yearns to make a statement. What statement do you aim to make?” The acrobat paused, considering a question on her mind, that made its way to her lips. Briery met the faoladh’s eyes, ever inquisitive at something he’d mentioned. “You say I make you see red, on occasion… what does it look like when you see it in me? Or… perhaps that is not a question to which I want to know the answer?”

She wasn’t a fool, and had never thought she cold fool him. Not when it was only of late that her action, her decisions--her life, largely, was not governed by her illness. He had always known that; Hadwin didn’t need his Sight to discern the fear she wore on her sleeve, never knowing when her next episode would tear her insides apart and render her useless and invalid. Would those shades of red he saw in her dim and dull, now that she had finally gained a measure of control over the root of her fears? Or… did the colour mean something else to him, entirely, when he saw it in her?

“Anyway; your anecdotes are not dull. I daresay you’ve gotten yourself into enough shit in your life that you could easily keep me well amused with your tales.” Briery took the long swatch of shimmering red-and-gold fabric and folded it neatly on her arm, pleased with the measurements and already brainstorming the concept for Hadwin’s costume. “As for my ‘hardships’... I’ve never considered my life hard, to be very honest. Challenging, maybe, but I’ve survived, and found a rhythm that keeps me alive and that I enjoy. Moreso, now, that I am able to exert some measure of control over my disease. Truth be told, I’ve never mourned my lack of blood ties; you cannot miss what you don’t know.”

She knew no more of Hadwin’s roots than he had ever cared to let on; and it was something into which she had never pried, personal and sensitive an issue as it was. Of course, some of it was easy to guess, with or without his own words: his exile, the sentiments his family harboured toward him, that ever-present awareness that to travel alone, he was doomed by his culture to die. But she also knew it was within his own right to share what he desired others to know. And it did not escape her notice that while she opened to him gradually, like revealing pages of a book one at a time, so too did he reveal himself to her. And for that privilege, she would never deign to pry.

Leaning against the wall of the caravan, Briery folded her arms across her exposed midriff. “I don’t have secrets. Just stories that may or may not be interesting or relevant, depending on the ears that hear them. Briery the ringleader is far more interesting and enchanting than Briery the runaway orphan with a debilitating disease. You need only ask, and you’ll get your answers; you’ll find I have nothing to hide.” The acrobat grinned and shook her head. “Go and have your drinks, but I’ll need you to at least be able to coordinate yourself, tonight. I am far from through with you, Hadwin Kavanagh.”

Chara’s words hurt, but that went without saying for someone as sensitive as Teselin. Perhaps the Rigas mage was right: just because they had suffered together did not build a bridge between the two of them. In many ways, their camaraderie had been necessary for survival, for a time, but… that time was over. Yet even so, even in light of Chara openly admitting she had used the young summoner to her own ends, Teselin could not look back on their primary encounter with anything but gratitude. Chara might not have welcomed her with open arms, but she’d never had to agree to grant her refuge, either. She didn’t have to accompany her to the waterside as she summoned the tidal wave--she could have spared herself capture entirely. And for those small, insignificant things, including the time Chara had spent with her while she’d recovered from her self-imposed stay in the dungeon following the vision Hadwin had revealed to her… she could not distance herself from her. The Rigas head might have been of the habit of casting people aside when their usefulness depleted, but she did not. It wasn’t within her nature. “You are wrong, Chara. No one has cast you aside. Alster expects to reunite with you in Braighdath; I heard him say so, myself. I also know you have a lover, there--what of her? Doesn’t she deserve to know why you will not be joining her? None of these people desire to have you removed from their lives… myself included. You are only telling yourself otherwise to alleviate the guilt of turning your back on them.”

Folding her arms across her middle, as if to fight off the cold, the young summoner turned away from the two blonde women as a sadness settled into her bones; or, rather, the sadness that was already there settled deeper. “You’re not obligated to entertain my idea of our friendship; I get that, and I respect it. Maybe you did use me, but that is no one’s fault but my own; I let you. Because I believe in you, and in Stella D’Mare, and for some reason, I still do. That hasn’t changed, it won’t change, and neither will others’ need of you; not for your usefulness or lack thereof, but for who you are. Regardless of whether you stay or go, that will not change. And that is a truth that you are going to have to carry with you, forever.”

She didn’t have anything left to say, and was already well aware that her presence was probably not helping the Rigas caster’s unhinged decisions, Teselin turned to leave, but not without Cwenha’s inquiry: “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere else. I don’t know. But I already have a new outfit; I’m not the one in need of shopping right now.”

“Right. Well, you should probably know that if you wander off for too long, someone is going to go looking for you and bring you back, especially given you track record with running into the mutt’s crazy sister.” The acrobat informed her factually. “If you think my company is stifling, I guarantee you anyone else is just going to permit you less personal space.”

But Teselin didn’t seem to care; or perhaps she didn’t hear her, venturing too far off by the time Cwenha expressed her caution. In the end, the blonde woman shrugged her shoulders, and turned back to Chara, who was at least cooperative enough to remain in her company for now. “Say what you want about Briery, but she found you after you’d mutilated yourself. With all do respect, you rescind any and all faith that anyone’s going to have in your ability to make sound decisions, after pulling a stunt like that.” She was not being cruel or cold, but rather, matter-of-fact; and she wasn’t wrong. Chara knew it.

“I know you don’t care, but I’m going to give you my opinion, anyway: and that is that I don’t think anything good will come of you leaving us before reaching Braighdath. If you want solitude, then fine; we’ll give you your space. Believe it or not, I get it. I was there, once, too. And I also pushed Briery away. I pushed her away, over and over, even after I agreed to train with her as an acrobat.” She folded her arms and turned her violet eyes to the ground, memories flashing before them--but not the worst memories. Just the ones that occurred after the worst. “I didn’t want the company or the pity or the help; I wanted to die. But… no matter how much I pushed her away, she never gave up on me. And I came to realize that she wasn’t being patronizing; she was being genuine. It’s just her character, and now, I have trouble picturing what would have happened to me, without her.”

Returning her gaze to the Rigas caster, who very much resembled a taller, straight-haired, and more haggard version of herself, Cwenha expelled a sigh through her nose. “But your decisions are your own. I’ll plead your case to Briery, and maybe we can set you up with what you need to go off on your own. But I think your friend--acquaintance… whatever that girl is, she has a point. If you’ve got people waiting for you, people who value your existence, then it is up to them what you are worth in their eyes; it isn’t up to you. And… that is more than I ever had.”

The young acrobat straightened her shoulders and surveyed the shops before them, before following Chara to another, far less ornate storefront. “If I do happen to find violet,” she began, taking the steps, “I’ll be sure you get you the hell out of here before we owe more money in damaged property.”  

Cwenha, while at times unpredictable, was as good as her word when she meant it. And later that evening, after she and Chara had somehow managed to find a couple of suitable outfits for the Rigas woman, Chara did come to find that the silver-clad acrobat pulled through for her--to an extent. Insofar as she did plead her case to Briery, it seemed.

Chara entered the caravan to find Briery still sitting cross-legged on the floor, sewing the last few stitches of Hadwin’s costume, an organized mess of thread, fabric, and gold trim surrounding her. “Chara.” The ringleader looked up and smiled warmly, in spite of the Rigas woman’s cold disposition. “By the looks of your attire, it seems you’ve finally managed to find something to your liking in town. The pale blue looks lovely on you.”

The Rigas woman didn’t need to speak her part, to tell her what she planned to do and why. After Cwenha had approached her, earlier, Briery knew well what Chara wished to tell her. And she had thought long and hard on it. “Cwenha tells me you do not wish to travel to Braighdath.” She mentioned rather casually, holding a pin between her lips as she tugged on a loose thread in the stitching. “Do allow me to apologize if my behaviour has inspired your decision. You must think I am terribly smothering; perhaps I have been, but not so as to patronize you. When I found you at the inn, sitting in your own blood, you were very alone. I merely wish to show you that you do not have to be--and perhaps, it would be best that you are not. You know, in a lot of ways, you remind me of my Cwenha. The two of you are strikingly gorgeous, stubborn as an ox, and more flammable than Rycen’s fireworks. The difference between the two of you is that in your situation… you have something to lose, by choosing to abandon your life, and the people who care for you.”

Briery looked up briefly from an ornate button she was sewing, meeting Chara’s azure eyes. “I didn’t tell you this because I wasn’t sure that it mattered, but perhaps it does, for you. I agreed to help as a favour to Hadwin, yes, but my debt to him is not the only reason I chose to do so. About a month ago, when we were in Eyraille, I met another caster by the name of Rigas who also hailed from Stella D’Mare. His name was Alster, and to this day, I owe him my livelihood and happiness.” She returned her eyes to her task, but not before noting a glint of recognition in Chara’s. So the name did mean something to her. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I suffer from a very painful congenital disease. For most of my life, it has periodically rendered me useless from agonizing pain in my abdomen, during or before the completion of a moon cycle. This means there have been times that I haven’t been able to perform, and our troupe has starved and suffered from it. Thanks to some healers, who also happened to be friends with Alster, I now have my condition under control for the first time in my life… but it was Alster who healed the damage that was already done. Lesions on my reproductive organs. There was nothing any conventional healer could do about that, and they refused to resort to surgery because they didn’t think I was strong enough to survive it.” This warranted a snort, for if anyone was a survivor, it was Briery Frealy of the Missing Links.

“So to make a long story very short, if you are a relation of Alster Rigas, then I would be failing him as a friend and as someone forever in his debt not to deliver you, safe and sound. What you do when you get there is entirely up to you; I can’t make you stay, and I doubt he can, either. And for that I implore that you see this journey through. Tell me how I can make it comfortable for you. Hell, if you and the summoner want the caravan to yourselves, I’ll gladly sleep under the stars to offer you some privacy. The weather is growing warmer, after all.”

Pleased with the final product, which was Hadwin’s costume, the acrobat stood and folded the leggings and shirt over one of her arms. “At least consider my offer. I don’t want you to be stifled or unhappy; but I do want to see you safely to those who care about you. Whatever happened to you, at the hands of Mollengard, I guarantee it will not change the way your family and friends will see you.”

Briery stood, stretching her legs for the first time in hours, a few cracks resounding from the stiffness in her limbs. “Whatever Rycen and Lautim are cooking on that fire, out there, it smells delicious. Go and get something to eat.” She suggested, before making her way out of the caravan. Dusk had fallen, and if Hadwin was not back yet, she would not be showing him her best face when he did decide to return. She bid a quiet and contemplative Teselin good evening, the young summoner sitting quietly and close to the roaring fire Lautim had started, and inquired with Rycen as to the faoladh’s whereabouts, if he had returned at all. The illusionist pointed her in the direction of the men’s caravan.

He’d been back for a little while now, evidently, but upon hearing Chara and Briery were having a rather delicate conversation in her caravan, he’d seen fit not to interrupt. When she found him, the shape-shifter was lounging on a cot, looking very much like she’d expected to find him: inebriated, and basking in the numbness that alcohol offered.

“I hope you’re not too drunk to stand.” The ringleader announced, shutting the door behind her. No sooner did the faoladh sit up that she tossed him the shimmering costume: fitted leggings that would stretch and allow for his flexibility, and a slightly looser yet still fitted shirt--left half-open in the front, as per his request for some sex appeal. The garments were lined in gold, with matching gold decals in the shapes of intricate flowers she’d sewn onto either shoulder, as well as into the hips of the leggings. For something thrown together in an afternoon, he had to admit, the craftsmanship was superb. But no less could be expected of someone who had a history of sewing all manner of costumes for all manner of people.

“Try it on for size. I need to see what adjustments need to be made, then tomorrow I’ll have you practice in it before the show, just to be sure you won’t suffer any wardrobe malfunctions.” At her request, she didn’t leave; rather, she turned her back to offer him privacy. Not that she thought he would mind. “Let me know when you’ve got it on--and only when you’ve got it on. No surprises, please and thank you; I think you know well I like to feel in control, and between your summoner and your Rigas friend...” A slow smile crept over her face. “Oddly, you are the most predictable thing in my life, right now.”

“Of course,” he agreed with a vehement nod. “I seldom choose what’s easy or practical. Always the longshot bet, I am. A lost cause going for the lost color. I connect and cling to a manifestation of visions and dreams. What I want doesn’t exist in my world, but I’m undeterred. I’ll always strive for that impossible thing. And that’s my answer to you, Briery Frealy.” He leaned a palm against the wood grain of the far caravan wall, the pads of his fingers exploring the whorls and frayed edges like a blind man giving a thorough appraisal of his environment. “My statement; I’m an impossible man, living an impossible life, and I’m loving every impossible minute of it. The rage, the passion, the hate, the fear; I welcome every shade of red. Every diamond and heart, from ace to ace.”

“Speaking of,” his eyes returned their luminous golden gaze on the acrobat, unblinking in his stare, an intense dissection both invasive and intimate. “I see it inside you. The red. Where it affects you most.” He pointed to her abdomen. “I see it in the blood of your cycle. In the moon, when it peaks to full, and a month has elapsed. Dark stains on white sheets. I see it in the pain circles that bloom behind your eyes, when you’re suffering the most agonizing of episodes to date. I see your insides rupture as you writhe, bedridden and miserable, convinced of the end. The end of a pain-free existence and everything you hold dear. I see it in disassembled tents and discarded costumes, in broken caravan pieces--flashing all colors. They fade under the baking sunlight, bleached of their vibrancy. Dreams destroyed and abandoned by the roadside. You are nowhere to be seen. When the dream ends and the disease takes over, you disappear. Those are your fears, painted by the red.” At the conclusion of his analysis, he shook his head, clearing away the trance-like spiral of visions which overwhelmed and coated over his regular eyesight, rendering him blind to an extent.

“Probably didn’t want to know all that,” he said in his normal, folksier speech, running a hand over the back of his neck, “but if you truly have nothing to hide, any insights I share about you come as no surprise at all, I’m sure. The prevalence of these fears have faded along the edges a tad, but they’re never far from reach, Brie.” To help diffuse the weight of his previous words, he smiled and shrugged his shoulders in a disarming gesture. “I’ve got a lot to hide. A lot of things I’m not proud of doing. But chances are if it’s you who’s asking...I might fess up and tell you about the darker side of me. I’ll need enough alcohol to outfit an army, true, but I’ll say the words. Might shake your opinion of me, but,” he hesitated, “you should know who you’re dealing with, in any case.”

Better she hear it from me before she discovers it, herself. From you, Hadwin thought, addressing the vengeful ghost of Fiona who always hovered in his periphery, watching with the blurred face and the glass-cut teeth.

“Or from your sister,” the voice shot back, in mocking tones, as Hadwin departed from the caravan and headed towards the inviting smells of woodsmoke, of spice-rolled meats, and of the bready, pungent notes of a strong, full-bodied ale.

“Pah.” Chara would have spat, if she had enough spittle or the proclivity to engage in such a gross habit. “It’s in Alster’s nature to include people, out of kindness and sympathy. But we both know he needs no one else but his warrior fiancee. Once they reunite, all other lives are mere accessories. Lilica--” she held her arms together to prevent a visible shiver from assailing her body. She remembered her latest conversation with the dark mage over the resonance stone; how she sounded so eager, even desperate for Chara’s arrival. “She and I were growing apart, when she was called to answer the responsibilities of an awakened kingdom and I, to resume caring for a broken one. We are much too changed, especially I. She fell in love with a Rigas, not,” she gestured to herself, “this. And my father--Lilica can be his surrogate daughter. They shall have each other. Why am I bothering to reason with you, Teselin? You’ve already proven your tendency to bond with the dregs of society, rationale be damned. Necromancers, wolves, and crooked leaders. Who will stir your emotions, next? The mongrel’s murderous sister? Go and locate her, then,” she called, as the summoner excused herself from their company. “Add her to your list of people you wish to befriend.”

Once Teselin merged into the crowd, her slight form overtaken by larger bodies, the echo of her last statement refused to die, even with her departure. I believe in you, and in Stella D’Mare...That hasn’t changed, it won’t change. Stubbornly ignorant to the last, Teselin persisted with her twisted logic, as though her life depended on her manufactured truth. She believed in Chara because she needed to believe in a cause, needed to believe that her sacrifices in Stella D’Mare served a purpose. Her subsequent torture, the blood of Mollengardian soldiers on her hands...if she found no meaning in her suffering, no reason for the pain, surely, she’d lose faith in her reality. That was all. Chara, like Stella D’Mare, was a symbol; she’d lost her personhood since merging with the land and later lost everything else, when her connection to the land sundered to the sea. She was adrift, now; anyone who dared to follow her, she feared, would also remain adrift. Don’t follow me, Teselin. Find another purpose. Let me drown in peace; I shall not take you with me.

Now that their excursion group had dwindled to two, Chara expected Cwenha to brush aside the conversation and resume shopping, but even she was not quite finished with her opinions. As a reflex, Chara’s hand cupped over an ear, its mutilated tip concealed beneath the shroud of her head covering. “Did you think I enjoyed slicing off the tops of my ears? That I had some lapse in judgement and sanity, and used the knife for the pleasure of it?” Her mouth curled into a sneer. “No. Mollengard is looking for an escaped Rigas. My pointed ears give me away, so I fixed the problem. Next,” she frowned, and stroked the blonde tips of hair that poked from beneath her shawl, “I shall have to dye this an unflattering color. They stole my magic--but only I can steal the rest. Me,” she jabbed a finger at her chest, her voice pitching to manic levels. “I am in sole control of my appearance, and of my fate. Your ringleader would do well to stay out of my business. However much she helped you--that is of no consequence to me. You chose to stay and train under her. And you were unwell, as you’ve stated. Not sound of mind. Nonetheless, in your unsound state, you chose, and people respected your choice. Now--respect mine,” her jaw clenched, but not for long. The silver-clad acrobat had accepted her ultimatum, even if her agreement carried doubts and concerns, which aligned with the overemotional summoner. “And that is where you are wrong,” she said, before opening the door to the next shop. “My worth is up to me. No one else.”

At dusk, Cwenha and Chara returned from town, arms full with bundles of clothing. No longer clad in the garish and overwrought peacock-blue gown, Chara had outfitted herself in a sensible gray-blue tunic with gold accents about the collar, and khaki-colored trousers. The look departed from her typical fare, but she was in an atypical situation, too removed from her past to decide on a bold and fierce style. That part of her life--buried under the waves.

When she entered the womens’ caravan, she nearly stepped on the ringleader, who, sprawled on the floor, surrounded herself in shimmering thread and even flashier red fabric, its color so sharp, it hurt to stare at it for long. Setting down the bundles, she selected the middle one and dropped it to Briery’s uncluttered side. “Your gown. It served its purpose, but I will require it no longer. As for payment--I assure you, once you reach Braighdath--”

But the words left her as Briery, already knee-deep in some saccharine speech about the importance of reaching the city as an unbroken unit, mentioned Alster. Unbidden, a laugh rippled from her throat, raw and wounded and steeped in irony. Alster. What corner of the world hadn’t he managed to help? Evenso, what were the odds that she’d end up in a caravan of people indebted to him?

Why? She relinquished her rule to him; he had countless others in need of his attendance. How did he manage to slip through the cracks, and find her in obscurity? Although his aid had occurred in the past, in Eyraille, his actions trickled down, ignoring the rules of space and time and traveling to her ears to whisper their reassurances. I’ll never leave you behind, the whispers spoke, in gentle cadence. How could she doubt his promises? Leave it to him to set forth a chain of events a month in the making. Whether purposeful or not...she received the message.

And it tore clear through her.

Legs bowing, she sat on the closest settee, unable to control her shivers. “That bastard,” she muttered. “He won’t leave well enough alone until he solves every bloody problem. You are the reason he stayed so long in Eyraille, instead of returning to his people in Stella D’Mare?” Her hands curled into fists. Tears spilled from her eyelids and moistened her cheeks. “That bastard, interfering with others’ lives out of some misplaced goal to save everyone. Why?” She said aloud, her eyes squeezing closed. “Why does he bother? I don’t deserve...I’m no longer worth...No!” she cried. “I can’t accept...he has to accept,” she took a shuddering breath. “...to move on without me. Why won’t anyone respect that!?” Leaning into her hands, a pained sob exploded from her lips. “If he will not let me rest...by the heavens, I will strike him down! I swear, I swear…” She repeated the words, a near endless mantra, until her tears lessened, her head bobbed, and her consciousness carted her into an uneasy sleep.

Meanwhile, in the mens’ caravan, Hadwin shared in a similar position to Chara; not mentally, but horizontally speaking, enjoying the blissful remains of his controlled state of inebriation reclined, and relaxed. Briery was quick to join him inside, and she did not come empty-handed. Clutched to her chest, his costume billowed out in dull (to his eye), but variegated sparks of color, which he imagined simulated a roaring fire. Sitting up from the cot in time to catch the slinky material as she threw it, he drew it close, admiring the stitching, the accented strips of gold, and the elaborate flowers that perched on the shoulders like twin birds of paradise. He followed the severe drop in neckline, clicking his tongue in approval of the somewhat revealing V-shape he would get to sport for the audience.

“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint,” he said, gathering to his feet without trouble or wobble. “Also, relax; I didn’t drink much, tonight. I stayed on my best behavior; promoted the show, in fact.” As she turned around to allow him dressing privacy (to which he yearned to entice her to look, even to peek over her shoulder), he shed his boots, trousers, and tunic with a swiftness befitting one accustomed to disrobing. “People are drummed up in anticipation. The town doesn’t get a lot of traveling shows. A real shame, but we’ll fix that, right?” Fully dressed in his leggings and exposed shirt, he tapped Briery’s shoulder. When she spun around, he modeled the costume with a swagger that highlighted every one of his skintight “assets.” “Closest to being naked; it’ll do,” he said, testing out the elasticity of the fabric by flipping into a handstand and widening the span of his legs into a near-split. Returning his feet to the floor, he rose, and checked out the full ensemble in the floor-length mirror between them. “Looking good. May have to hire you to make all my clothes from here on out. You really flatter my ass. And my abs.” He clasped Briery’s hand in something of a jubilant shake, which yanked her forward and close to him. With his opposite hand, he patted her on the back, an innocent enough gesture, if not exuberant in its handling.

“My, that is odd, Briery. For you, though, I’ll play the part of reliable and stable. Not my normal role, but,” he shrugged, “whatever helps. Everyone’s afraid of losing control of some aspect in their lives. Even someone like me, envoy of chaos that I am.” He leaned towards her and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Go on and rest, if you’re up to it. I’ll work the rest of the evening with Rycen on my daring escape act. Well,” he winked, “after dinner, of course.”

Early the next morning, following breakfast, Chara, who had devolved into silence after last night’s revelations, approached Briery before her training session with Hadwin. Bleary-eyed and wan-cheeked, the former Rigas caster appeared far suited for a different resting place than upon a settee for an evening’s duration. And on the settee she had remained--as evidenced by her rumpled tunic and mussed hair from beneath the covering of her shawl. Ignoring the presence of Teselin, Cwenha, and the mongrel at the open campfire, she knelt beside the ringleader and whispered in her ear a request for a private audience.

Once they relocated inside the empty woman’s caravan, Chara reprised her position on the very settee on which she had dozed, uninterrupted for hours, and rested her hands calmly in her lap. “About last night,” she began, with a sigh. “My...reaction. No doubt it besmirched any faith, however little, you have for my wellness. I...you took me by surprise with your information. That is all. Alster is my cousin. In fact, we were affianced, for decades, before his attention drifted elsewhere. He is my oldest...friend. And,” she hesitated, “I...owe him. I owe him for his commitments, for his agreement to take on the responsibilities of Rigas head indefinitely, for…” believing in me, her thought finished. Like Teselin, she was certain he thought well of her, despite what happened in the past, and what was occurring in the present. Still, her mind demanded why. Why did Teselin retain her loyalty, when all evidence revealed that she rallied behind a lost cause? Why was Alster’s presence everywhere, and why did it hum with...comfort? With a white healing light, like trapped residual energy that reacted...to her? Impossible. She was vanishing. She lost her magic, her status, her star, and thus, her right to live. And yet...she felt the celestial pulse like a soft stroke over the skin. It searched her. I found you, it seemed to say. Chara Rigas. You’re...alive.

She cleared her throat, realizing she’d lapsed into a long, staring silence. “So...I shall...accompany you to Braighdath. And...provide navigation, to ensure the trip is a painless one. I have one request, though.” She twirled a lock of her blonde hair between thumb and forefinger. “Help me to dye my hair. Brown, if possible. I am not who I was before. I need to see proof of this change.”

“Well, even if my gown did not suit your tastes, I am glad you found it useful for some time.” Briery was not at all offended by the Rigas woman’s distaste in her attire. To the common eye, her preferences could be considered rather garish, though she suspected it had more to do with the fact that Chara needed a channel for her hate and her frustration. And taking it out on an inanimate object was not only safe, but preferable. “There is no need to pay me back, though. The dress you ruined with your blood had never really fit me, properly, anyway. Better to make room in my limited space for things I will be more inclined to wear.”

The ringleader had hoped that dropping Alster’s name might sway Chara to reconsider her position, especially if they were related, but she was not prepared for the deluge of raw emotion that it wrenched from the blonde woman’s body. How she collapsed on the settee and clutched herself, like a window had been thrust open, and she was not prepared to tolerate the light it let in. It left Briery feeling understandably confused: she was acquainted with Alster, clearly, but were they even on good terms? Did she curse his name out of affection, frustration, or both?

Sticking her sewing needle into a pincushion, she gingerly pushed her supplies aside as she climbed to her feet, cradling Hadwin’s costume carefully on the crook of her arm. She’d spent too much time and devoted far too much care to have it wrecked so soon, a thread or decal snagged on a splinter of wood because she moved too quickly. “I cannot say for certain that I was the sole reason Alster Rigas remained in Eyraille for as long as he did. He is acquainted with the Eyraillian princess and her new husband, after all, and this took place during the kingdom’s week-long celebration of the spring Equinox. Seems more likely to me that it was mere coincidence--providence, on my part--that our paths happened to cross, allowing him enough time to help me. While I am sorry that there is a possibility my condition may have influenced the length of his stay in Eyraille…” Briery bit her lower lip, mindful of her words, but knowing that this woman deserved the truth. “But I am forever grateful that he did. He did not just save me from pain; he and the healers he worked with saved my life. The life that I want to continue to lead. Without him…”

She trailed off, recalling Hadwin’s vivid description of the fears he saw in her, red like blood seen through transparent skin. Though it had not been his intent, those words chilled her, hitting far too close to home, and bringing to mind the more horrible thing she could think of: the death of their troupe. Of her profession, her family, and everything she had built over the past decade. With or without the threat of her disease, the Missing Links disbanding--any one of them--was not a life she wanted to think about. And, thanks to Alster, and to the healers Elias and Daphni, she didn’t have to.

And she couldn’t apologize for Alster’s help. Even if she could take it back, to see him arrive earlier to his home… she wouldn’t. Because it was not something that solely affected her, and she needed to look out for Rycen, for Lautim, and for Cwenha, as much as herself.

But with the Rigas woman fallen apart in a state of distress, she could not say as much. “It is not up to us who sees our value, Chara,” she offered gently, though new better than to say too much, or to venture too close. She was not someone the distraught woman wished to confide in, and she had to respect that. In fact, she wasn’t sure this revelation had made things better for her, or worse. “I do not know Alster well; we were acquaintances for a week. But if he did not give up on me, a mere stranger with no bearing on his life, then I have a hard time imagining that he would give up on you. It is so easy, to live for your own gain, when no one else is counting on you. But… how many of us, in this world, in this life, can truly claim that they are not part of a web? And if we unravel… we end up causing so many people to unravel along with us.”

Briery placed a gentle hand on Chara’s shoulder, but only for a beat, respecting the woman’s need for time and space right now. “It’s going to all come together,” she said to her, neither patronizing or saccharine. Simply matter-of-fact. “It always does.”

It went without saying that Hadwin’s face, his easy and teasing demeanor, was a welcome one, following the way the acrobat’s conversation with Chara Rigas had ended. He could drop a mood as easily as he could lift one, and fortunately tonight, he chose to lift hers. “I know you can’t tell, with your wolf eyes, but I think this colour might be the most striking of the entire troupe.” She informed her newest member of the troupe--and he would be happy to know that on more than one occasion, she considered chancing just a quick glance over her shoulder… But consideration was as far as it went. “Good of you to bolster our image, too. I had a good feeling about this town.”

She turned around when he tapped her on the shoulder, and couldn’t help but beam at her handiwork; and, perhaps at how well Hadwin pulled it off. “Looking good, if I do say so myself. Turn around, let me see the fit.” Briery gave him a good once over, taking into account the fit in his shoulders and arms, his legs, around his buttocks, and the give of the fabric as he moved. Just as she’d anticipated, it was perfect. But she never designed or sewed a costume that was anything less.

“Yes, this should do well. One thing, though; you’ll have to put up with the costume being soaked with water for your escape act, if we’re going to incorporate fire. At best, it’ll be a little uncomfortable, but… if you’re trying to capitalize on the sex appeal, the fabric will cling to your skin. Consider it my compromise.” His enthusiasm over the apparel tore a light laugh from her lungs. Contrary to Cwenha’s strong opinions, Hadwin could really be a remedy for stress, from time to time. “All I did was throw some fabric together in accordance with your measurements. Your ass and your abs,” she couldn’t help but press her fingertips against his abdomen, which was about as firm with muscle as her own, “those are all yours. Come on, Hadwin; even you’ll admit you could wear a potato sack and still have any ass you’d care to chase. But I am glad you appreciate my craftsmanship.”

Giving him a pat on the shoulder, her smile faltered a little as she glanced to the front of the caravan doors. “Chara Rigas is currently losing her sanity in my caravan, so I’m not exactly sure just how much rest I’ll get tonight… I think I’ll stay here and ride out the wave until she cries herself to sleep. But do let me know how things progress with Rycen. I’m excited to see what the two of you can come up with. Tomorrow, though,” a slow smile crept across her face as she took a seat upon the only settee in the oversized caravan--one far larger than usual, for dear Lautim’s sake. “It’s you and me, until we perfect what we hashed out today. You’re going to get sick of my company, Kavanagh.”

For Chara’s sake, Briery spent most of the evening away from her caravan to work on extraneous projects, only returning late into the night (or early into the morning) to rest. Sometimes, it seemed as though sleep were a luxury, and not a necessity for the ringleader when she was at her best, for she was also the first to rise to get breakfast started. The morning was a relatively quiet one; Lautim wasn’t the only mute among the group with their new charges. Teselin said nothing, and picked at her food, and Chara had also lapsed into contemplative silence since their conversation the night before. Rycen and Hadwin were the only exceptions, feeding off one another’s foolish energy, which was a welcome contrast to the otherwise somber mood.

It came as a startling surprise when, following breakfast, Chara requested an audience before Briery set off to train with Hadwin. As much as it struck her as strange, it was the first time the Rigas woman had approached willingly since she set foot in her caravan. Of course, the ringleader agreed, and followed her back into the privacy of her caravan to hear her out. Chara seemed nervous, and oddly… apologetic. The ringleader wasn’t sure whether or not to interpret the change in her charge’s attitude in a positive light, but she had to admit, after her outburst and a quiet night alone, the caster seemed moderately more stable.

“I have not doubted your wellness in quite some time, Chara Rigas. You haven’t made any attempts to slice off any more body parts, and you’ve been cooperative during our travels.” Briery lifted the settee opposite Chara, and pulled out the same shimmering fabric she’d been working with the day before. Except that this piece was not for Hadwin. “I only feared where your decisions might lead you. The path alone might suit some, but as beings of flesh and blood, we are not apt to thrive. And if you are, in fact, Alster’s cousin, then I would be failing him to see you off, alone.”

Without warning, the acrobat turned her back to the Rigas woman and pulled her tunic from over her head, replacing it with the skin-tight garment she’d taken from inside the settee: the small project that had kept her occupied the night before. Living in such close quarters with her fellow performers, she seldom thought twice about changing in front of them--at least, when it came to Cwenha. Woman to woman, she didn’t think Chara would mind. “I am glad that you changed your mind. What you choose to do when you reach Braighdath is entirely up to you, and I won’t try to sway your decision either way. But I do think it imperative that you make it as far as to reunite with your kin. That way, at least, you will not have regrets, whatever it is you may choose.”

Grabbing a ribbon to tie back her loose, brunette curls, Briery turned back to the now far more reasonable Rigas woman, and pressed a sigh from her full lungs. “Oh… are you really going to make me do that?” She sounded despairing as she approached, and took a lock of Chara’s silky, blonde hair into her fingers. “You and Cwenha have no idea how good you have it, with your flaxen locks. You really want to die it to look like this?” The ringleader pointed to her own hair, which, though bearing golden undertones, still resembled a tarnished bronze, at best. Not shining gold, or platinum white, like her Rigas friend and fellow acrobat. “Change can be good, I suppose… but it kills me to turn this any other colour than what it is. If it is what you want, then you have my word that before we leave this town, you’ll be a brunette. How does that sound?”

With the two of them in agreement, Briery politely excused herself to return to the tent set up just outside the caravans, where Hadwin should have been waiting for her. She had to give the faoladh credit; today, his punctuality surpassed her own. “Sorry for the delay. Fragile negotiations with our friend Chara were taking place,” she explained, shrugging her shoulders. “She’s agreed not to go off and abandon us out of some self-defeating need to be alone, so long as I agree to dye her hair brown. That gorgeous, blonde hair… she must be off her rocker.”

As he took note of the top half of her costume--crafted of the same fabric as his own, tight all the way through and bearing her midriff--she flashed him a sly grin in response. “I couldn’t help myself; I was a little jealous of how well your costume turned out, and there happened to be enough of the material left over to sew part of a new costume for myself.” From the waist down, her legs were clad in their usual fitted, metallic gold, which aesthetically complemented the tiny flecks of gold in the red fabric. “And, hey--now we can match a little for our joint routine. Not to mention… I know you cannot see true red, but I thought it might offset the way you usually see red in me. Something not associated with my deep-seated fears of this wonderful life coming to a tragic end for one reason or another. Anyway--we’ve got work to do.”

Effortlessly dropping into a split-leg pose, the acrobat proceeded to stretch her muscles. “I hope you’ve already warmed up; we can’t risk you pulling a ligament or any other injury on your debut evening.” She teased, as tension released in her spine with satisfying cracks as she leaned backward. “If you’re going to be my golden boy, then our act has to be golden. Don’t disappoint me, faoladh.”

“Soaked in water? Oh I don’t mind that at all.” Hadwin’s grinning teeth glinted in the low lantern light. “That’s a sexy look for me, if you imagine it matting my hair into a messy tangle.” With both hands, he ran through the rust-brown of his locks, actually neatening his chosen style of disarray with every brush and stroke. “Droplets running down my face, pooling from my collarbone and trickling south.” Lowering one hand, he traced a finger from his throat and followed the trajectory of an imaginary droplet down the plummeting V-neck, where it disappeared beneath the fabric. “Or, conversely, I’ll just look like wet dog.” He scrunched his nose in distaste. “Hopefully not smell like one. With all the insults our lovely Cwenha has lobbed at my head, she’s remarked the least about my smell. But I chalk that to the fact that she’s still sensitive about the time she got skunked in the woods and reeked for days.” He rubbed his upper arm, with the memory of a bruise. “Last time I mention she wear a black and white striped costume for a show. All digressions aside,” he leaned into the touch of her fingers, its light graze against the same area which, less than a week ago, had been reduced to a gaping, bloody hole, “you flatter me, Brie. While I’m confident I could ‘sack’ someone in a potato sack--and in fact I may have done that before, except replace potato sack with an empty barrel--clothes are essential in crafting the person. You know, for those who aren’t comfortable wearing just any skin, naked or barreled or furred, like yours truly. And I happen to fancy your creations, so believe me, I’ll be commissioning you again, in the future. But,” he smacked a hand on her shoulder, “glad you approve of my ass. Doesn’t do too many tricks, I’m afraid, like make clothes, so I will say you’ve got it beat, on most avenues.”

Further testing out the elastic properties of his costume’s sleeves by idly practicing a few shoulder knotting maneuvers, he nodded casually to Briery’s concerns, as though hearing about a party member’s loss of sanity were as commonplace a complaint as learning someone had tracked up dirt and mud indoors and refused to clean the mess. “Sounds like a plan. I look forward to having you, tomorrow.” His features lit into a grin. “Somehow, I doubt I’ll get sick of you, Briery Frealy.”

The rest of the evening, as planned, he spent with the illusionist, preparing for his debut solo act. With an additional set of chains that Hadwin enticed out of the local constable (who happened to be enjoying a drink at the same tavern, earlier), they both agreed he perform the escape on a high podium, surrounded by a circle of controlled flames. As their delicate timing required, the moment the circle tightened, and threatened to creep up the flammable stairs of the podium, he would burst out of the chains and leap and roll off the podium, to center stage. For the act, they would not utilize the framework of an actual wooden stage. As a safety precaution, the only wooden structure would be the podium, set and grounded in the dirt. Besides, Rycen had explained, small towns did not require an elaborate stage set-up, (the Equinox Festival of Eyraille, and others of its ilk, the exceptions), and a large tent sufficed for the expected size of their audience.

Well into dark they practiced the act without any fire, concentrating first on the timing and Hadwin’s acquaintance with the durability and structure of the chains. Once, they tested with a small amount of flame, not wanting to exhaust the pyromaniac’s exhaustive supply. They saw moderate success (insofar as Hadwin escaped in time and pounced from the platform in a graceful tumble and roll). The transition from “moderate success” to “huge success,” they agreed, relied on the inclusion of more fire than originally measured. On any other occasion, Hadwin would take the risk upon himself, accepting no outside interference or good sense from his peers. But The Missing Links was Briery’s brainchild. Her pride, her dreams, manifested. Her life. The terror in losing her troupe--it burned deeper than most other fears. Therefore, to see any part thwarted, and to be the cause of its hiccups, be it minor, or worse yet, its downfall, didn’t sit right with him. After all, the ringleader placed her trust in him.

And he wouldn’t fuck it up.

So it was agreed, among the faoladh and the illusionist, to inform Briery about their collective idea to increase fire production during the escape act.

When dawn broke, and breakfast around the campfire ended, Hadwin donned his costume, arrived at the tent, and obediently fell into a series of warm-up stretches--all while the ghost with the pointed teeth tittered and taunted from his periphery.

“To think, I had to die to see the day that you would domesticate yourself for another woman. For that broken-up summoner, I could understand. She’s a version of Rowen you can still save. But this acrobat, who won’t fuck you for your efforts? Who won’t do anything but craft you a pretty collar and teach you cute tricks for her sole profit and gain? I raised you better than your father’s outdated traditions of kowtowing to an alpha, Hadwin.”

“You didn’t raise me at all,” he muttered, as he spread his legs into a split. “You fucked around, and you threw me into it, and then we both fucked around, and then we fucked each other. And even when you’re dead, you continue to fuck me.” He straightened from the stretch and folded his legs closed. “When will it be enough, Fiona? Goddammit, when will you find peace!?”

It was then that Briery entered the tent, to a scene of Hadwin rising from the floor, talking to himself in gradual notes of rising anger and volume. Easing out a breath, he turned to see the ringleader approach, and acted as though she were not privy to his one-sided conversation. “Working on a monologue,” he explained, by way of a flippant shrug. Now was not the time or place to admit his hauntings from his mam’s wrathful ghost. “Think it needs work.”

The acrobat went on to detail the reason for her delay. Hearing about the escapades of Chara Rigas was a welcome departure from soaking in the dregs of his rich inner life. “Eh, just let her do it. At least she’s entrusting you with the procedure, and it doesn’t involve sharp objects and hacked skin. We both know she’s losing control and struggling with her identity. If an impermanent cosmetic change will help her along the path to self-discovery, I say let her at it. Those luscious blonde locks will return. But between you and me,” he leaned an elbow on Briery’s shoulder and whispered conspiratorially, “I know of some alchemists in that D’Marian diaspora going to Braighdath. If you want blonde hair, say the word, and I’ll make the arrangements. We’ll complete your golden look, yet. Unless...when you say ‘golden boy’ in reference to me, you mean literally. Because,” he frowned, and swiped a few russet strands from his forehead, “I may be able to dazzle in a burlap sack, but as a blond, I think I’ll lose a few dozen appeal points among my adoring crowd.”

When she pointed out the adjustments she made to her costume, he drew back a few inches to sweep eyes of appraisal over the identical fabric to his, in the shade known as red. “Hmm.” He shared in her sly grin with an accompanying smirk and a raised eyebrow. “I can’t even fault you for it, bushy-tail.” He smacked the narrow strip of her bare midriff with his jutting, bony knuckles, a mere swat from an uncurled fist. “Source of pride for me; I’m an influencer of color. But I like that, Brie. Turning the red I see in you around, and wearing it as an emblem of power, playfulness...togetherness. And hey, you never know,” he oozed and effused, “this could trickle down into my dreams. You in this color, in true vibrancy.”

As the subject shifted to their act, he chimed in with, “Oh, almost forgot. The escape act with Rycen went well, last night. So well, in fact, we’re planning on adding more fire. A ring of it, surrounding a wooden podium I’m going to jump from, after I de-chain myself. What say you, boss?”

Throughout the morning and well into the afternoon, the two hammered out their routine for public consumption. What before looked like an improvised, uncoordinated jumble transformed into a choreographed, synchronous dance between two people who had known the steps by heart for years. And though he was stiff from yesterday’s practice, with his endurance stretched to broader and more interesting levels of thinning, Hadwin followed the acrobat’s guiding cues with little struggle or indications of tiring. Anticipation for their eventide show thrummed his heart in short bursts of energy. Readiness sheened like sweat on his forehead and eagerness, like the panting of his tongue.

The appointed hour was close at hand. Briery and Hadwin, to preserve the litheness of their overworked bodies, terminated practice just shy of nightfall, devoting the time to relax and set up the tent. Lending assistance where possible, the faoladh took a short break when he caught Teselin entering through the flaps. He erupted into a grin and draped an arm across her tiny shoulders. “Heya, twerp. You’re our first attendee. Ah, wait--no, you’re my bodyguard. Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the show, though. Clap loud for me--even if I gaff and bring this whole tent to the ground. No likelihood of that, not with Briery the cruel taskmaster on the scene. But,” he ruffled her hair, “your support I value most, kid. This show’s for you.”

After the summoner’s arrival, they lifted up the front facade of the tent like a curtain, and welcomed the townspeople to fill the space inside and outside. Considering the troupe’s special designation as the singular source of entertainment that evening, the entire town, by estimation, turned out for the show, quickly snatching premium spots and squeezing together like pieces of mosaic. After remapping and rerouting the crowd to account for emergency escape routes and the like (for obvious, fire hazard reasons), the show roared to colorful life. Literal colors flashed on the dirt they designated as the stage as Briery, resplendent in gold, introduced silver-clad Cwenha, glittering blue Lautim, supposedly green Rycen, and Hadwin in the fire-red he saw in fears and dreams. Each stepped forward and demonstrated a sampling of their contribution to the overarching performance, with Hadwin leaning on his hands, one hand, rather, in a spinning corkscrew of a handstand-turned backflip. Rising, he winked to the crowd with his kohl-rimmed eyes, the outer corners of the lids daubed in red glitter up to the brow-bone.

As they all absconded behind the curtain, the ringleader stayed behind, and kicked the show into action in a backwards fashion, drawing counter to their usual fare. This time, they started with Rycen, to stir the audience with tricks of sleight of hand, bad puns, colored smoke, and popping sparks nipping at his heels like ill-behaved toy poodles. The illusionist’s finale would inevitably transition into Hadwin’s debut. And as the green-clad Rycen took his bow, he explained his last trick with fire, real fire, pointed to the podium around where the fire would rise, advised the audience stand back, and with all cautions stated and said, urged Hadwin to the stage. The faoladh, soaked beforehand by buckets of water and dripping in all the right places (as was his delight), was escorted through the curtain by Lautim, the giant carrying the heft of the heavy link chains and manacles. As he ascended the podium, Lautim’s meaty hands slammed the manacles on Hadwin’s hands and proceeded to wrap the rest of the chains in tight lashes around his chest, arms, and abdomen, crisscrossing them in seemingly impossible knots. Done with his task, the giant stepped back, and receded behind the curtains.

“Now, I’m a law-abiding citizen,” Hadwin addressed the audience, with a cheeky smile aimed at the constable in the crowd, “for those of you wondering. Because I know you’re all wondering, ‘chains are for criminals.’” He rattled his manacles, for sympathy. “And this,” a pick appeared in one corner of his mouth, “is a tool used by criminals. A lockpick. Not really pleading my case as innocent here, am I?” He chanced a grin, as the circle of flames shot around his podium. “Ah, no matter. Let’s make sure I don’t burn.” He spat the lockpick into a waiting hand. Fumbling with the object, his fingers twisted and stretched in all attempts to reach the keyhole, but to no avail. The flames grew higher. The lockpick tumbled out of his grasp and plummeted into the flames far below the podium.

“Well,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I’m well and truly cooked. That was my only shot out of this blasted situation. Not like I was blessed with natural flexibility or anything.” The smoke climbed, but billowed away from the podium, through a natural side split in the tent. In a sudden crack, his hands slipped out of the manacles. Another series of cracks, and his shoulders went concave and collapsed from behind. Chains shrugged off of him, little by little. He shook violently. The metal slunk down his arms, ever descending. He shrugged out of the chains with both arms. Shoulders realigned forward and hands swerved into place. By the time the collection of discarded chains pooled to his feet, the flames had reached the first step of the podium. “Looks like it’s out of the frying pan and into the fire,” he said, and without further warning, leapt from the podium, rolled forward in the air, and cleared the circle of flame. He somersaulted to his feet in time for Rycen to douse the flame. Hisses intermixed with the smoke, sailing through the air and through the vent to outside. Standing tall, Hadwin wiped the sweat from his brow, and voiced a loud, phew, of relief.

“Ah, no. What I meant to say,” he coughed, to cover up his manufactured faux pas, “was ta-dah! I had it all under control. Handily.” An out of socket hand waved to the audience, before he took his bow, and departed behind the curtain.

It was not the first time Briery had stumbled upon Hadwin’s seemingly one-way conversation with someone who appeared not to be there. She could recall a handful of times before, typically on occasions when she’d run into him deep in the woods; times when he thought he was alone--or so it seemed. He wasn’t talking to himself; no, self-talk was something even the Missing Links’ ringleader was apt to do from time to time, if only to hear and organize her thoughts aloud. The shapeshifter actually thought he was talking to someone, another entity present in the reality that was his aloneness…

She had never thought to comment on it, or to ask him about it, simply because he had never brought it up, himself. Everyone had demons, had secrets, that they were not inclined to display to the world in words or pictures: and she respected that. Chances are if it’s you who’s asking...I might fess up and tell you about the darker side of me. Briery believed him; that he might tell her, under the right circumstances (ergo: inebriation). And maybe, just maybe, someday she would ask. But that day would not be today. Not with a show and Hadwin’s debut as a performer on the near horizon.

The acrobat offered no more than a shrug at the excuse of his “monologue” and offered a half-grin. “We’re circus performers, Hadwin; not minstrels and troubadours and thespians. I’m afraid your monologue won’t have a place in our show. Though I am eager to see the two acts that will.”

Briery couldn’t help but agree with how Hadwin weighed in on Chara’s decision for yet another cosmetic change to her appearance--albeit an impermanent one. It wasn’t a difficult task, and the fact that the Rigas woman had approached and entrusted her with the task meant that her sanity couldn’t entirely be lost to the wind. There was still hope, so long as some concessions would be made. “Of course I agreed to do it for her. I am no alchemist, myself, but I know of a few fabric dyes that won’t irritate skin, and that will more than likely colour blonde hair. As for my own…” She pulled at a loose curl that framed her face, shining bronze with an undertone of gold. Not glimmering and eye-catching like Cwenha’s, or rich like Chara’s, but also not altogether unattractive. “Personally, I don’t think either of us has what it takes to be blonde,” the acrobat commented, with a wry smile and shake of her head. “So I think I will pass on an appointment with an alchemist--and so should you. When I say I want you golden, I do want you to dazzle--and you don’t need to change your hair to do it.”

She’d figured he wouldn’t mind her small change in costume, for the sake of their routine together. Just as she and Cwenha complemented one another on the trapeze, silver and gold flying through the air like shooting stars, two matching firecrackers synchronized in a dance of skill, danger, and trust made just as much sense. In a way, though she hadn’t entirely thought it through, it was also a symbol of where she stood with Hadwin, and where the faoladh stood with her: as equals. Both clad in the same vibrant, eye-catching colour. “A colour can only symbolize what you decide to make it mean to you,” the ringleader commented, returning his grin. “I can let red symbolize my blood and pain. Or I can let it symbolize my power. Maybe if I take control of it, I can influence the way you see it in me, as well. Though… are you implying you want to see me in your dreams, faoladh?”

Briery’s cheeky grin reached her hazel eyes, and in a single, smooth pivot, stepped forward to take one half of the open collar of Hadwin’s shirt into hand, tugging him forward ever so slightly. “Because that seems rather ridiculous, when you’ve got me right here, in the flesh… why not save the dreaming for those times when our paths diverge, hm?”

Something glimmered in her eyes that had not been there, before. Something daring, passionate, and full of conviction, where before, uncertainty and yearning had dwelt. Briery Frealy’s most recent visit to Eyraille had changed more than just her physical health. In the past month, she had become more hopeful, more daring, and more sure of herself. More willing to take risks; and in Hadwin’s company… perhaps it was his infectious influence, but that urge to take risks and step into uncharted territory had intensified.

But even if anything were to become of that daring flicker, the gleam that suggested she was ready and willing to take chances she’d never have taken before, there was no time to explore the feeling. They had a day of preparation ahead of them, and Hadwin had yet to prove to her that he was ready. Briery took a modest step back, letting go of that uncharacteristic flirtation that she’d dared to try on for size, and returned to the confident leader she had always been. “Of course Rycen wants to add more fire; he’d set the entire tent alight if I agreed it was a good idea.” She shook her head and scratched the back of her neck. “I had a feeling the two of you together might prove a little ‘dangerous’. Then again… that is precisely what attracts our crowds, more often than not. So--while it might be against my better judgement… you have my blessing. For now, let’s work on what we’ve got going, hm?”

Throughout every run-through, with every tweak, alteration, and addition, Briery and Hadwin’s partnered routine came together beautifully throughout the morning. By mid-afternoon, the ringleader hadn’t a doubt in the world that they wouldn’t pull it off and wow their audience with their synchronicity. By then, the ringleader relinquished the faoladh to Rycen, who had already built the set-up in which Hadwin would find himself, and explained the logistics of it. From thereon out, the minutes in the day seemed to fly by, until at last, night had fallen, and people had poured into the tent--filling it, in fact, to the point where some organization and redirection was necessary, for safety purposes. Hadwin and Rycen hadn’t been kidding: this town was starved for entertainment, which played in their favour in a number of ways. For one, even a bad show was better than no show, not to mention a place like this did not have standards when it came to watching performers, since so few passed through.

Well, that was bad news for any future performers. Because the Missing Links were going to blow these citizens’ minds away.

While the Missing Links were ready and willing to put on the show of a lifetime for these townsfolk, however, Teselin could not share in her joy. She was a bundle of nerves, walking into the tent, her dark eyes searching desperately for Hadwin. The shapeshifter was fortunately not hard to locate, dressed in shimmering red with gold accents. And anyway, he found her before she registered his new guise. “I know it’s just a show, but… please be careful.” The young summoner begged him, already scanning the audience for any signs of his sister. “I’ll watch out for you, tonight, and at any sign of danger--real danger… promise me you’ll drop what you’re doing and leave. Can you promise me that?”

Even at his reassurance, Teselin did not look convinced, but she dutifully took a seat at the very front--closest to where Hadwin’s act would be taking place, so that should circumstances take a turn for the worst, she could be the first to take action.

Having witnessed one other show from this very band of performers, the young summoner knew more or less what to expect, the moment that ringleader Briery Frealy took the stage, resplendent in shimmering gold, and the same fiery red that clothed Hadwin’s body. After a circuit of introductions, the ringleader stood down and gave the spotlight to Rycen, whose talent--while less flexible or death-defying--was no less entertaining, with his sleight of hand, practiced humour, impeccable timing, and an uncanny ability to read exactly what the audience wanted at any given moment. The illusionist at last took his leave with a final bow, but not before welcoming Hadwin to the stage, following some cheeky comment about being unable to help himself when it came to playing with fire.

Hadwin, of course, was a natural, which was no less than Teselin (or Briery, for that matter) had anticipated. He talked the talk, exuded the charisma, and when Lautim closed manacles around his wrists, he was very convincing when it came to looking worried; enough that his performance easily had Teselin on the edge of her seat, holding her breath. She had expected to protect him from Rowen... it had never occurred to her that she might be just as likely required to protect him from himself…

But of course, he wasn’t about to let himself die by such ridiculous means. The crack of his dislocating bones could be heard throughout the tent, enough that it made some of the more squeamish members of the audience cringe--Teselin included. Nonetheless, his feat wowed the crowd, drawing cheers and shouts of approval as his act came to a close, and he took a bow before disappearing behind the curtain.

The next act was Briery’s and Cwenha’s, one with which Teselin was familiar. The ringleader began her walk along a tightrope, and ended up on the trapeze, along with her smaller, silver counterpart. The two flew through the air, their timing and movements all perfect and in sync, drawing gasps and cheers from the audience with their gravity-defying spectacle. And when Cwenha took her leave, Briery took to her aerial silks, twisting herself in them and gracefully unraveling all the way to the ground--at which point Hadwin stepped out again, catching her straight from the silks before her feet could touch the ground.

There was no way that routine could’ve been put together in two days; and yet, it had been, a few hours short of that, in fact. Teselin knew Hadwin was strong and capable, but he lifted Briery like she weighed nothing at all, as if her body bore no density, and his muscles didn’t know strain. It was more than just a show of strength and flexibility, though. The ringleader was really putting her safety in his hands: trusting him to bear her weight, to catch her mid-flip, to spin her when necessary, and all while making it look graceful and effortless. The young summoner had been right about her gut feeling, that there was something between the two of them that neither had acknowledged verbally. However, it all came out in their performance, in how they carried themselves and one another, how they moved with one another. It wasn’t the most breath-taking or danger-defying act of the evening. In fact, it was tame, compared to Hadwin’s last-second escape before going up in flames, and Briery’s anti-gravity act on the tightrope and the trapeze.

And yet, not a sound could be heard from the audience as the dancing duo flashed gold and fiery red in the yellow lamplights that lit the stage off to the side. No one made a sound behind the curtain, either, until Briery’s feet finally hit the ground, and hand-in-hand with Hadwin, the pair took a bow--followed by a roaring applause.

“And to think, we were only luck enough to acquire this gem days ago,” the ringleader announced, before stepping back to give Hadwin another moment alone in the spotlight. “Show your love for Hadwin! With some luck and love, maybe we can convince him to stay.”

She might have been joking; or, on the contrary, entirely serious. It was impossible to tell in that moment when she was Briery Frealy the glittering, gold ringleader, and not Briery Frealy the ambitious acrobat who had challenged her fate to obtain what she had today. Hadwin retreated behind the curtain, again, and Briery introduced Lautim, who would close their show with his strong-man act.

To her great relief, the remainder of the show went without a hitch, and Teselin finally lowered her shoulders from her ears as the sated crowd gradually filed out of the tent. She took it upon herself to wander behind the curtain to join the performers, at that point, to reassure herself that Hadwin was, in fact, alright. And he was: more than alright, he and most of the troupe were beaming with delight over their success. Only Cwena refused to partake, standing off to the side, looking like a sullen porcelain doll.

“Son of a bitch; I told you not to go dislocating yourself.” Briery ragged on Hadwin, but her broad smile betrayed whatever frustration accompanied the shapeshifter’s faux-pas. “And what do you do? Go and dislocate your fucking hand. You’re just lucky we didn’t have a squeamish audience.”

“Ah, give him a break, Boss. He pulled off two routines with barely two days’ practice--and excelled. I think he can get away with breaking the rules just a little.” Rycen was quick to come to Hadwin’s defense--not that Hadwin needed to be defended. Briery was not really cross that he’d gone against her wishes just a little. It was difficult to be appropriately irate when you were swimming in success. “I think we’ve all deserved a night on the town. What say you we hit up one of the taverns? I guarantee people will be dying to buy us some grog. I doubt any one of us will go unrecognized, after tonight.”

“Count me out. You know how I feel about taverns.” Came Cwenha’s quick reply. “I’m going to call an early night. The rest of you fools can be as reckless as you want.”

Briery lay an arm across her shoulders, both sympathetic and understanding. “I’ll bring you back something good to eat. Try not to be too bitter? I don’t think we’d have drawn in quite so many donations without Hadwin’s help.”

“Just because I have to tolerate the mongrel doesn’t mean I’m going to speak fondly on his behalf.” The silver-clad woman snorted, and moved out of Briery’s reach. She met Teselin’s eyes briefly. “Are you going with them?”

“I… no. I’m not one who has often frequented taverns. They make me uncomfortable.” The young summoner admitted, and glanced over her shoulder, still slightly on edge, now that she knew how stealthy Rowen was. “I’ll go back, with you. Just…” Her eyes wandered to Hadwin one more time. “Be careful? Rycen is right. You won’t go unrecognized.”

“Relax, my darling. I’ve kept an eye on him before, haven’t I?” Briery’s smile was warm as she turned to face Teselin. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes. Of course. Just… come back safe. All of you. Okay?”

With Teselin reassured and Cwenha adamantly determined to sulk, the remaining four of the troupe (Hadwin included) tucked away the valuables in the tent, and then set out for one of the town’s finest looking taverns. Their choice was largely inspired by the venue’s tall ceilings, which were enough to accommodate Lautim’s massive height, but it was a nice change to have a drink in a place where the pewterware actually appeared to be clean.

Rycen--whose passtimes were not entirely so different from Hadwin’s, in many ways--immediately made a beeline for the counter, where he proceeded to flirt with a very pretty barmaid with red hair. Lautim did not sit, for the barstools were far too small for him, but did slide some coins across the counter and nodded in the direction of the barrels full of grog: the only indication he would give the barkeep that he wanted a drink. Briery chatted up one of the servers, who, in fact, had just come from their show, as Hadwin began to prowl for whatever tickled his fancy that evening.

But he wasn’t alone in his pursuits for long. After a few minutes, the ringleader tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. “Don’t worry; I won’t stand in your way of sacking any of the barmaids.” She joked, and reached into the pocket of the satchel strapped across her waist. From within, she drew a pouch, the contents which clinked metallically against one another, and placed it in his hand. “This is one fifth of tonight’s earnings. It’s yours, and I won’t take no for an answer. No one in my troupe works for free.”

Briery closed his fingers around the pouch, and her warm touch lingered. Hesitant to draw away. “You were great, tonight. Not just for a newblood, either; you blew the crowd away, and its because of you that we were able to be so fortunate, tonight. You earned this money. And I...” Her hazel eyes sought the gold in his gaze. So similar to the gold in the costume she still wore, in the glitter on her eyelids and collarbone and bare shoulders.

And with barely a second’s notice, she leaned forward, pulled his body toward her own, and united their mouths in a kiss. Not as practiced as his was, just a few days ago, but the intent was there. The need was there, and the message was clear. “I thought I might thank you.” Briery murmured, when at last she pulled away. “For a job well done.”

After Hadwin’s debut act had gone up in smoke, so to speak, Cwenha and Briery swept to the stage and performed on the tightrope and trapeze together. Though he had seen the gold and silver duo in action dozens of times before, he briefly joined Teselin in the audience to watch, his eyes, as usual, tracing Briery’s timed and graceful movements with a dedication that only the mesmerized could employ. When it came time for him to rejoin the set, he waited in the curtains behind where the silks spun and wrapped Briery into a cocoon, and emerged to catch her at the moment of her unraveling. It was a delicate show of precision, one they’d practiced more times than the routine itself, but the payoff manifested in the form of intense applause as he lifted the acrobat high in his supportive hands.

Once the applause faded, they began the dance, a tease of steps meant to simulate a predator stalking its prey, and the prey escaping. He would pounce at her, and she would slip beneath and reappear in his blindspot. He’d grab and spin her; she would lock her thighs around his neck and disengage. Even without the use of music, which, to Hadwin, was always an essential piece of the show they lacked (excepting Cwenha, who refused to sing for anything that involved him), the graceful dance of cat and mouse carried its own beats and rhythm, through every purposeful foot forward and twist of the body. The dance concluded with him reaching for her hand as she fled. The duo turned to the audience, flung their connected hands to the air, and bowed to another roar of applause and whistles. Until Briery drew from his touch, to announce individual accolades for his part in the dance.

“Oh, how she flatters me,” he said, as he bowed to the audience. “She found me in a midden heap in an alleyway, fighting for table scraps with the other stray cats. As long as I’m fed,” he winked at the crowd, “well, who knows?”

He retreated to the curtained area, slipping past Briery with a deliberate, soft grazing of his shoulder against her shoulder. Though subtle, the teasing smile spreading across his face was not.

At the show’s conclusion, all the performers, plus Teselin, congregated behind the curtain to discuss their resounding success. Energies ran high and exuberant, as Hadwin bounced between Rycen, Teselin, and finally, Briery, once she joined the conversation.

“I’m with Rycen on this one,” Hadwin said, with an infuriating grin. “I was improvising. Besides, it came at no surprise that I was dislocating myself to escape the chains. If anything, I was showing the audience how I did it. Sure, a magician's not supposed to reveal their secrets, but I couldn’t let them think I was using trick chains.” He nodded to the pile of iron links all gathered in a slithering mound behind him. “I’ll have to deliver some of ‘em back to the town constable, who so gracefully let me borrow his stash. I’m sure he’ll be telling the townsfolk about the solidness of those chains.”

When the illusionist went on to suggest an excursion to the taverns, Hadwin beamed, the sparkle of the costume reflecting red and gold in his eyes. “Oh hells yes! I’m ready to squander my exhaustive days of training on some wasteful grog and a roast rump or two,” he said, his smile turning suggestive. “And Briery,” he wandered close to where she stood, reassuring Cwenha, “you don’t need to ask her to play nice with me. You can’t force it. My hands are dirty, and I smell of the old country, besides. I’m nothing but a reminder.” His eyes passed to the silver-clad woman’s face, a modicum of understanding soothing out any sharp edges in his usually boisterous voice. “I get it, cygnet. That’ll never change. About me, about you….the past’s set in stone. No matter how much you try and forget, the decisions you make today are related to what you left behind. They don’t rule you, but they still exist. So does that country. So do the people, good and bad.” He threw his hands into a shrug. “I can’t stop existing for you, Cwenha. And if there’s any chance I’m staying on board for the long-term, this,” he motioned the space between him and her, “is gonna be a problem. Not for me, mind, but for you. I’m not your enemy. But if it helps you cope, yell and grumble about me all you want. For our next act, I’ll even paint a target on my costume and hand you daggers to throw at my back. Whatever helps to dispel your anger. I’m not your real target, but I’ll act as proxy.”

Stepping back in retreat, he pivoted his feet in Teselin’s direction, the shit-eating grin returning in full force. “Can’t say I’ll be careful, scamp, but I’m in good company. My sister won’t be able to penetrate this crowd. If any harm comes to the Missing Links, I’m sure the town will rise to our defense, like our own personal army or something. Unless we’ve got a few detractors. Always a possibility. Point is, though,” he thumbed over to Briery, “she’s saved my sorry ass before, and I trust she’ll do it again. I’ll be back before you have the time to miss me, kid.”

On their way out the tent, the Missing Links minus Cwenha encountered a woman with a shawl covering her head and shoulders. A grey-blue tunic peeked out from beneath the drab, dirt-colored fabric. “I suppose your show was adequate,” Chara said, her attention mostly focused on the ringleader. “You are well-disciplined in your craft, and I daresay you are in a position to be performing for quite a while. Once you deliver me to Braighdath, and to Alster, you will be forever in his debt.” Her eyes roved lazily to Hadwin. “You, too, spy-turned-circus-performer.”

“That’s my fatal flaw, isn’t it?” Hadwin scratched the side of his nose, feigning humility. “Can’t commit to one path. Good to be flexible in multiple avenues, though. But,” he shared a pointed look with Briery, “with your permission, bushy-tail, perhaps I’ll stick with the circus life for a while.”  

Bidding their farewells to Chara (who, like Cwenha and Teselin, did not wish to take up space in an already crowded, loud venue), the four of them rolled into town and entered the large establishment in the middle of the square, a two-story lodge-like structure festooned with hunting decor on the inside: deer and boars’ heads on the walls, a hung-up bow with a pinned arrow, rows of antlers, and a roaring hearth, above which two crossed spears presided. Populating the tables and bar stools were a cadre of grizzled men, (and some women), clothed in hides, skins, and tunics the color of dust, fitting well with the decor of the semi-rural environment. However, when they noticed that the newcomers were, indeed, the performers from the show, the patrons exploded into cheers and grins, raising their tankards and howling in jubilation. Hadwin even spotted the constable, presumably with some men who fell under his rank, who contributed to the revelry with the loudest whoops of them all.

“I could get used to this,” Hadwin whispered to Briery. “Fame and celebrity. Better than the kind of notoriety that’ll get you arrested. Small wonder; I can continue my civil discussions with that town constable without fear of capture.”

He didn’t explore the floor for long, however, before the ringleader sought him out at the bar a few moments later and handed him a pouch heavy with coin. “Did you really think I’d argue with you about getting paid?” he said, his fingers lightly stroking the underside of her lingering hand. The cold metal within the pouch began to warm with their collected body-heat. “I got into gambling and swindling to pay off debts and to finance my expensive drinking and drug habits. Being a faoladh fucks with my metabolism. Means I have to throw in more than what I’m getting out; otherwise it flushes from my system, and I’m back to the dreadfulness that is sobriety. If I can help it, I don’t work for free. It makes me wonder about my debt to you, though.” He cocked his head ever-so-slightly, his body radiating with interest. The space between them closed. “How much more do I owe you? And what can I do...to stay in the red? Metaphorically, and, well,” he ran a hand along the contours of his wide V-necked costume, “physically? Because I wear debt rather well, Briery.”

As the ringleader had met his gaze, so did he, kohl-rimmed eyes accentuating the pierce of his unblinking stare. He looked beyond the flicker of her fears, of the red of despair and agony and fading dreams, to the accents of brown and gold alight in her desirous eyes. When she leaned forward, he captured her kiss with waiting lips,  pressing with tongue, with eager receptiveness that did not devolve into overzealous desperation. He followed the give of her mouth as it ebbed and flowed, until it ebbed, and detached, and drifted away from him. The exchange, though short-lived, cast his heart into a boiling cauldron, where it steamed, and popped, and bubbled.

“Did you just give me a bonus?” He whispered into her ear, as an excuse to stay close, and so she could hear him over the shouts of the rowdy tavern. “Don’t tell the others. Don’t know how they’ll take to this preferential treatment.”

With hesitation, he slid away his hand from her hand, and pocketed the pouch of coin in a larger pouch he’d clipped to a belt that his form-fitting leggings did not require, save for the utility. With him, he carried his pipe, the tinderbox, a small stash of hashish, his brass knuckles, and a bit of the stimulant that he’d distributed to Teselin and Chara for their emergency trek out of enemy territory. Since then, neither he nor the two women had need of it, but just in case, he carried the potent substance along with his preferred methods for getting high. Naturally energetic and prone to hyper and sometimes anxious bursts, his attraction was to downers, like the hashish, grog, or opium; the stimulant sat counter to his typical needs. But one could never divine when the need for something so influential would occur, and so it remained with him.

“You know,” his hand returned from its pouch management, to rest along the contours of her cheek, “if you ever feel up for….more, I’ll abandon all other pursuits to make that happen with you. However much or little you want. We’re already intimately connected to our bodies and their rhythms. There aren’t many secrets that we haven’t explored, that we don’t know. Hells,” he chuckled,” you’ve seen....and felt, when I got hard, during our practices. Glad I had that under control for the show. ...For both acts.” Half-turning to the bar counter, he snatched his tankard and brought the frothy ale to his lips. “Thing is, I’m always ready for you, Briery Frealy.” He smiled, but gone was his jagged grin filled with bravado and hedonistic delight. It was a smile borne from care, from trust. From something deeper. His lips found hers again, but it was brief; a sign of his parting, and a respect for her space. “And I’ll be here, if you decide you’re ready for me.”   

Though far from practiced in the realm of intimate contact (much unlike the man she was kissing), Briery let go of her hesitation long enough to let her instincts guide her. They guided her open lips against the faoladh’s, her tongue to press against his, invited the closeness of his body and the heat emanating from it. He felt warm: perhaps as a lingering result of the physical exertion he had put himself through on behalf of their show, or due to the multitude of bodies that were packed into the expanse of the tavern, or the alcohol that coaxed warm blood to the surface just beneath his skin. However, she could claim any such excuse for the warmth that blossomed in her own cheeks, and traveled down, down, further and further…

“You really want to stay in my debt?” She asked with a laugh, after pulling away, albeit a little reluctantly. “I’ll admit, that costume is becoming of you. You may not see it, yourself, but you wear red well, faoladh. And… I did tailor it to your measurements, in particular. It doesn’t suit my own routines or Cwenha’s, and it sure as hell won’t fit Lautim. And Rycen is adamant about dazzling in green. It really would be a pity to have crafted this for a lone show. Besides…” The ringleader’s smile reached her eyes, and she slid one of her hands along the open V-neck of Hadwin’s costume. “If I recall correctly, this fabric cost a pretty penny. It deserves to be done justice--don’t you think? That is, if you are serious about wanting to stay...” She took the shimmering fabric of Hadwin’s costume between her fingers. “When it was just me and Rycen, we struggled. When we found Lautim, it gave us enough diversity that we began to pick up a following. And when we acquired Cwenha, we flourished. I can only imagine what heights we could reach with a fifth member…”

At his mention of a ‘bonus’, Briery only snorted and shook her head. “You really think Lautim and Rycen are going to give a rat’s ass about whom I choose to kiss?” She nodded in the direction of the giant, who was sipping ale and watching with quiet amusement as Rycen dazzled not one, but two lovely young women with a few card tricks. There was no doubt he’d have them both by the end of the night; what she wondered was whether he would have them separately, or together. “And Cwenha isn’t here to see it… I won’t tell if you don’t.” The ringleader winked, but her eyes softened just a little, recalling what Hadwin had said to the silver clad acrobat earlier. Cwenha would never admit it, but she had even detected that his words had struck a chord in the young blonde woman. She hadn’t retreated with quiet as much anger as she usually did.

“Though… you know she doesn’t hate you. Not really. She hates the idea of you, and everything that you bring to mind. Everything that happened to her that she just wants to forget, but you cannot just forget trauma, no matter how much you want to; it wouldn’t be trauma, if you could.” She shook her head with a modicum of sadness, hazel eyes drifting to the counter in thought as she took a sip of the ale one of the bartenders had slid her way at the flash of a shiny coin. “You know all that, though, because you’ve seen her fears. I don’t even need to tell you what happened to her, where she came from, or why she is with us, today. But it is even more than that. Cwenha is no fool; in fact, she reads people very well, and I think she can read you as well as you can read her fears. She lashes out at you because she fears how you might treat her or look upon her if she didn’t: with kindness, sympathy… maybe even a little bit of care. And after what happened to her, nothing can convince her that it is safe to let anyone love her… or even like her. So she makes herself as undesirable as possible. With us, her own troupe, she does not hesitate to show that she cares, but gods save us all if anyone tries to show her comfort or sympathy.

“I might have rescued her, in a sense, but… I never really saved her.” She went on, and for a moment, guilt dulled the glimmer on her face. “She is still sad and broken, and she would rather feel that way forever than to fully trust anyone, especially of late. Hell, I idiotically broke her trust back in Eyraille. If Alster and the healers hadn’t been able to help me, I told her, under the influence of a drug, that I’d planned to leave the troupe. So that I wouldn’t weigh on them like deadweight, anymore, with a disease that prevents everyone from thriving. Obviously, that did not turn out to be the case, but… she has not forgiven me. I don’t know that she will. But anyway,” she looked up from her ale, to Hadwin’s patient and receptive features. “What I mean by saying all of of this is that… I want to thank you. For understanding her, and for not holding her circumstances or what they have made her against her. You talk a lot of shit about yourself, Hadwin Kavanagh, but you are a far better person than you give yourself credit for. And that is why…”

Briery paused, lifting a hand to cover his own, pressing its warmth against her cheek without once breaking eye contact. “That is why I feel ready to take risks. Because you are here, and… I have never met another man who has respected me the way that you do. You can have anyone--don’t try to deny it, we both know it to be fact. Except, you could never have me. And yet, you never once stopped gracing me or my troupe with your company. You never turned your back on me or wrote me off as something not worth your time. You didn’t refuse when we asked you for help, some time ago, because I was bedridden and we were starving. You never gave up on me, Hadwin. So…” She leaned in again, her lips only a hair away from his own as she murmured, “I cannot think of another person I’d rather entrust my body to.”

The ringleader closed the distance between them yet again, slipping a hand around his neck and pulling him physically closer. She might have been slightly inebriated, but she was a woman who could handle her alcohol, and had come to this decision prior to imbibing. It had crossed her mind the moment Hadwin had crossed her path again, and reached out to her for help. A part of her was still hesitant; it had been but a month since Alster Rigas had healed the lesions inside her afflicted organ, and she had begun taking Elias’s tonics daily to put an end to her monthly cycle, which inevitably had been perpetuating her disease. There was no way of knowing if it was safe to become intimate, but… how long would she continue to let her disease rule her life and decisions, now that she finally had it under control?

The truth was, Briery Frealy did not know if she was ready to go too far. But she knew that she wanted to be.

“Geez… have some class and get a room, you two!” Rycen drunkenly called from the other end of the bar, the two women on his arm giggling at his antics. “We’re not exactly hurting, tonight; it’s not like you can’t afford one.”

Instead of dignifying the illusionist with an answer, Briery flipped him off with a distinct single-digit gesture using her free hand, without drawing away from the kiss that had her so enraptured. But oxygen and breathing were unfortunately something that living bodies required, and they were finally forced to part. Though it was not without bringing a flush of colour to the acrobat’s face, or a wanting glean to her hazel eyes. That warmth that had begun in her face had spread throughout her whole body, by this point, and only intensified the longer she spent in Hadwin’s company. “I may have become slightly aware of what was going on underneath your tight pants when we were practicing.” She smirked, her hand still lingering on his shoulder. “Not your fault; tight-fitting trousers don’t favour men. And… I might have lied when I said I didn’t see anything, that time you’d finished transforming in the woods. Not my fault about that, though; the moonlight was bright. Though, on another note… the moron back there has a point.”

The ringleader leaned in again, and searched his eyes for answers to the question she would ask anyway. “Do you mean it? That you’d drop anything for… us? Even in a place like this, with at least three other women eyeing you up?”

Just because she was a little drunk didn’t make her blind, and didn’t made her oblivious to Hadwin’s wants and needs. But it would’ve been a lie to claim that that very awareness hadn’t been in part her motivation for approaching Hadwin that evening. Fueled with adrenaline from the show, bold with the aid of ale, and unable to suppress the curiosity of her desire any longer, she seized the opportunity while she still had it. “What if… I said I was ready now?” She went on, before she could overthink it. “The illustrious womanizer back there has a point. We did well, tonight. We have cash to spare for a place upstairs for a period of time, if… if you really mean what you’re saying. Not like we can really chance anything at the caravans,” the ringleader added, with a coy smile. “Especially not with Cwenha and your two charges, there. And even if we could find a moment alone, the bunks aren’t exactly conducive to any activity that isn’t sleeping.”

One hand came to rest on Hadwin’s knee, and Briery leaned in, briefly pressing her cheek against his to whisper in his ear. “I’m not afraid… not right now. I’m ready to take a risk. I want to take a risk.”

Of course, he obliged her: she wouldn’t have breathed a word of her desire if there were even a ghost of possibility that he might reject her. Briery Frealy’s fears might not have been rooted in rejection, but she was a woman with a sense of pride, and he had never threatened that pride before. Yet another reason why she was willing to entrust him with such a risky and fragile desire. Briery slid another handful of coins over to the barkeep, who raised his brows at the amount and was prompted to ask, “How many more ales are you looking to down, Miss?”

“Not ale. I’d like a room, if you have one available.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” He shrugged, palming the coins and jerking his head in the direction of a staircase to the far end of the tavern. “Travel through these parts isn’t common this time of year. Not yet warm enough in early spring. Here,” he reached beneath the counter and handed her a key. “This should get you into number 4. Third door on your right.”

Briery smiled her thanks and took the key, hopped off the bar stool, and cast a single glance over her shoulder at Hadwin before making her way toward the staircase. Together they ascended, the ringleader found the room with a distinct number 4 carved into the door, and turned the key in the lock. It released with an audible click, and closed with the same sound, after they were both inside and she shut the door behind him.

It wasn’t until she found herself inside, alone with Hadwin and ready and willing to do what they had come here to do, that Briery realized she hadn’t been entirely honest about her fear. Pressing her back against the door, she pressed a sigh from her lungs, and faced Hadwin with a shy smile. “I… wasn’t entirely honest. About not being afraid.” She confessed, and clasped her hands in front of her. “But I wasn’t lying: I am ready to take a little bit of a risk. But only if I am taking that risk with you. I’m not afraid of pain, because I know that you’ll stop in a heartbeat if I ask, without asking questions. I already entrusted my body to you when we danced, this evening, and you didn’t drop me. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, this… trepidation, I guess you’d call it. It has everything to do with me.”

Briery pushed her body away from the door, her gold costume glittering in the light from the sconces lit along the wall, that firelight also picking up on the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. “It’s me. Because I know the extent of your experience, and with that kind of experience comes expectation. I’m not afraid of being intimate with you, Hadwin. I’m afraid that, after years of leading up to this moment… that I’m only going to end up disappointing you.”

Closing the gap between them, the acrobat pressed her hands against his chest, her shoulders shaking with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’ve got a lot of life skills. I know how to survive, and I have what it takes… but this is an area I’ve understandably never explored. I want to, now. I want to know what it is like, and to know what I was missing. But I can’t help but wonder where I will measure up, in your history of partners. You know, in a way, I used to pride myself a little in the fact that I was the one person you couldn’t have.” She teased, nudging his shoulder. “Made me a little bit of a mystery, didn’t it? Made you wonder what it might really be like to lie with me. But the truth remains that I’ve nearly been alive for three decades, and I’m still a virgin. There is approximately zero chance that this is going to be absolutely perfect, even if it doesn’t hurt me. What I’m trying to say is…”

Briery hesitated, before looking up from the ground to meet his eyes again. So that he could see for herself that her concerns were sincere. “I don’t want to be a waste of your time.”

When it remained obvious that Briery didn’t want him to go anywhere, Hadwin accompanied her to the sole available barstool in the establishment and offered her the seat, whilst he leaned against the counter with his ale in hand. In midst of the move, he caught the attention of several woman, who batted coquettish eyes at him in a bid for his company. At risk of losing their interests for good, he ignored them, and kept his body leaned towards Briery like a flower reaching for the golden rays of sunlight. Though he guzzled ale and refreshed his tankard with coin for the bartender to take, and in quick succession, he did not lose any beats of the conversation with his newest partner in crime. But funnily enough, it was honest work that he found under her employ--the first honest job he held since bread-making as an adolescent. Even the process of kneading and baking dough didn’t stay honest for long.

“I’m all for wearing and displaying this flashy work of art like a peacock on the prowl, Brie,” he said, propping an elbow on the counter and slouching to meet her height on the barstool. "It's doing wonders to my self-esteem--and believe me, I don’t need any more of it. Let’s hope I don’t become one of those fame-hounds who stirs drama for the rest of the troupe and splits up the group.” He laughed and took a long, refreshing swig of ale, concealing the dram of uneasiness that clung to the bottom of himself like sludge. For as much as Briery feared the dissolution of her troupe, Hadwin’s own fears spoke in the voice of his mam’s vengeance ghost, as a reminder of the inevitability of his existence. Sooner or later...he would fuck it up.

“But you know me,” he said with a smoothness to rival that of the foam-top of a frothy ale. “I’ll stay until the winds take me elsewhere. I still want to try my hand as a troubadour. Or a traveling bard. Can’t let all those monologues go to waste. Cwenha will be glad to rid of me, besides.” As the subject shone a spotlight on the silver-clad acrobat, Hadwin nodded, absently swirling the grog about in his tankard. “I do something similar.” His tone was quieter, more reflective. And as evidenced by the clicking of coin and request for another ale, his following bit required some outside aid. “Except I go in the dead opposite direction. I welcome it all. The desire, the sex, the attraction. It can’t hurt if I seek it for myself. I’m good at it, and I like it. But anything beyond surface-level flings and fancies...pah!” He snorted. “Always escaped me. That’s going in too deep. Much easier to talk shit about yourself...as you’ve so eloquently put it. Easier to act up, act out, antagonize people, make them despise your existence. Twist their words, announce their mundane foibles or greatest flaws, tease them relentlessly, welcome hate, and ire and make them fear you. You become the monster, and in so doing, you repel kindness, and love, and care. Things you don’t deserve, because you’re too defiled, and tainted, and wrong. What would you do if you had these things? How would they last in your unsteady hands?”

When he returned to his ale, he noticed he’d drained it to the bottom in the span of one minute. Sighing, he slid a coin on the counter and ordered two more replacement tankards. “It was my mam,” he announced, unfocused eyes floating to his periphery, to spot the blurry figure with the glass-cut teeth. Grinning. “Had a real gambling problem. And a drinking problem. An everything problem. Was always in need of an escape, of a fix. Sound familiar?” His lips twisted into a smirk. “It’s what I mean about bloodlines. Better off not knowing your blood-ties, Brie. Anyway...she kept the truth from my da. Wasn’t hard because he didn’t give a fuck what she did outside the clan grounds, so long as she didn’t cart it back with her at the end of the day, or drag our name through the mud. And to get rid of the evidence at days’ end, her building, towering debts, she got desperate. Started roping me into her business. Taught me to gamble, to cheat, to use my Sight like a weapon. I’d find some dirt, dig it up, and blackmail her way to freedom. But then she got cocky. With me on board, she made greater risks, and greater failures. She spent money on drugs, on drink. A constant, steady stream. Never enough for her...or for me,” he shrugged, and guzzled more grog. “She started whoring herself around for money. And when one of her clients took an interest in me,” he paused for a beat, “she got me involved, too. From family business to family business, hm?” He made eye contact with Briery for the first time since he led into his tale. “From dough-maker to dough-pounder. My clientele was mostly older men. But sometimes there would come a woman or two. Especially when I crossed from boyhood, to adolescence, to adult. Then I was attracting older women. ...Like my mam.”

At utterance of a truth he’d never spoke aloud, he laughed, loud and animalistic, a mix between a howl and a yelp of pain. His limbs shivered from the sudden exertion, crooking at odd angles to temper the sensation of bursting out of his own skin. Of shifting into a wolf, and running away from Briery, from the tavern, from The Missing Links and Teselin, who waited eagerly for his return. In the darkness of the forest beyond the town, Rowen lurked, ready to slay the monster his mam had created. Who his mam had fucked. In every conceivable way.

He laughed until the ale caught the essence of his madness and drowned it, returning him to his senses. It helped that Briery’s concerned gaze and steadying hand gripped him back to reality, to the tavern, to them, and the conversation that inspired him to overshare the past with his loose, wagging tongue.

“So...yeah,” he offered, in awkward summary. “I know it’s nothing personal with Cwenha. I’m easy to hate, so she’s free to it. I don’t trust easy, either. You know what to expect when people dislike you. It’s a whole other mess of emotions when people profess to like you. But,” he stroked along the contours of Briery's heat-flushed cheek, when she transferred his hand to her face, “it hasn’t done me wrong, yet, with you. Not for all the years I’ve stormed into your life with my bombast and irresistible charms...that you were immune to. I’ll admit,” he traced the cupid’s bow of her lips with his finger, “in the beginning, I saw it as a challenge. Even if we could never get intimate, I wanted to explore all my options with you. And the fact that you actually looked forward to seeing me...couldn’t ignore that,” he chuckled, and his finger reached to tuck the stray tresses of hair behind her ear. “You didn’t view me as a nuisance. Hardhearted git that I am, it’s nice that someone knows another side. And that I could get there without having to sleep with you, first. It was novel.” As their faces near-touched, he broke the barrier by pressing his nose to her nose. “Still is.”

Interrupting the closing of their lips and eyes and space, Rycen’s voice cut a swath through the tavern, his practiced projection loud enough to still an entire audience to silence. Pausing in his advance, Hadwin snapped open his eyes and glanced at the interloper. “Here here, oh font of wisdom!” Raising an ale to the illusionist, he downed the rest of his contents and smacked it upon the bar-top. Then, to Briery, he added, “well it’s better than fucking on the table. And it would’ve been his table, too, because I’m really admiring its curvature and rigidity, not to mention its proximity to that little alcove under the stairs. ...I jest, of course,” he patted Briery’s arm in reassurance as she rose to her feet and paid the bartender for the room. “It was always going to be a room with you. Private and safe. And,” he grinned his row of sharp canines, “I know you looked that night in the forest. No pretense here, though. You can look however much you want, because I’m dropping everything for you. Including my leggings.” He winked. “Everything else, too.”

Together, they climbed the stairs to the designated room that belonged to them for the evening. Once inside, Hadwin withdrew his tinderbox and lit the small sconce in the corner of their chambers, filling it in a faint, flickering, but warm glow. The space was sparsely decorated, utilitarian in design, with a bed, a small table, and a chest for clothes. Shutting the door and bolting it to the locked position, Hadwin sidled towards the acrobat, but paused in his advance at her unsurprising confession. “I’d think you were daft if you weren’t afraid, Briery,” he said, keeping a little space between her, in case she needed some time to adjust. “Not to mention, it’s obvious. If I didn’t have my Sight, it wouldn’t matter; I smell it on you. The fear,” he twisted into a smirk, “and your virginity. But that’s what makes you admirable, bushy-tail. You’re afraid, but you want it anyway, so you put yourself in a position of wanting. That’s how you’ve gotten ahead in life, despite your complications. And...well, not to brag or anything, but I’m virgin friendly. Everything friendly, really. Comes with being a whore. I can be gentle as a lamb or fierce as a lion. But that’s not what frightens you. Not primarily.”

She closed the space between them, hands trailing up his arms and settling at his chest. In turn, he pawed around her back, digging massaging fingers into her sore joints and skittering up to her shoulders. “Every partner has something different to offer, Brie,” he said, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth. “Including you. And you’ve never disappointed me. Not since the first day I saw you swinging on the trapeze. It’s this that matters. Me and you, as we are. You’re always worth the wait. And if you’re worried about performance,” he chuckled, soft and sensual in her ear, “I know your body better than anyone else...sans Cwenha, perhaps,” he snorted. “But I think the feeling is mutual. You’re golden. This is just another dance. But the roles are reversed. This time, I’ll lead you through the steps.”

Lead, he did. Tilting her chin at an angle, he tied their lips together as his fingers roamed, from around her neck, her earlobes, where he resumed what his teeth had started, to stroking and clawing through her hair. With every deeper foray of mouths and tongues, he slowly guided them to the bed. Reading her body language, the supple waves of muscles, the heaving of her breath and the memory of their acrobatic dance before the town, he disengaged from their kiss and threw her atop the bed, pouncing after her like they’d practiced tirelessly for days. The bed shuddered and moaned from the rough treatment and the floorboards creaked, but eventually, everything settled, and stilled. Crawling over her on all fours, Hadwin lowered his head, buried it against the nape of her neck, and dragged his teeth along the delicate flesh, following the contours to her shoulders and collarbone until the fabric of her shirt denied him further entry. Rising to an upright position, he unclipped his belt and threw it to the floor, along with his boots. Then in one swift motion, he peeled his glittering V-necked top over his head. In respect for Briery’s costuming, he did not toss it aside, but rather folded it neatly before placing it on the floor in reverence.

By the time he returned to Briery’s needs, she had shed her top, revealing her small but perky breasts and her naked torso. So often had he seen her in skintight gold that sometimes, he wondered if her body really was decked in glitter, all the time. Resuming his all fours position, he returned to grazing her with his teeth, traveling around her breasts to beneath, then trailing to the sides of her waist in small, teasing motions. Reading the signals of her body, the smell of her, the taste of gathering salt, and the sound of her escalating heartbeat, he nipped at her, quick but purposeful. He took a tour of her with his canines, reversing his direction and heading north, to the mounds of her breasts, her collarbones, her shoulders, and back to her neck. He nibbled and bit, never for long, in bite-sized amounts. In certain areas, he licked, and sucked, and kissed. His fingers busied themselves, as well, kneading around her areolas, tapping along sensitive areas that existed only from the waist, up. In a sense, he was preparing her. Getting her used to the sensation of their new found intimacy, of his hands and his mouth and his body hovering close. So when his hands rested on the band of her leggings lingering ever close to her inner thigh, he searched her gaze for her consent. “I think it’s time we work on this,” he said, with the stretch of a grin. “You ready?”  

Briery’s small confession pertaining to her insecurity wasn’t so much an apology in advance as it was an acknowledgement of the elephant in the room: that being the fact that beyond her inexperience in this area compared to Hadwin’s vast experience, she had no idea how this would pan out. It could go off without a hitch, and make her feel foolish for ever worrying that it might hurt her. Or, on the contrary, it could very well trigger an episode of agonizing pain that she had managed to have under control for about a month now, leaving them both in an awkward and uncomfortable position. Regardless of the outcome, this was not a solitary endeavour, and whatever happened would affect the both of them. And she didn’t want to think of how it might damage their relationship, were she left fearful once again of intimate relations, and Hadwin left feeling guilty for causing her any pain.

It made her wonder if this was selfish, foolish. To pursue something so risky in spite of harbouring caution. Had she really come this far to put herself at risk of losing everything, if this triggered her disease? Was it really worth damaging her relationship with Hadwin forever?

The faoladh seemed to think so. At least, he did not appear to have any qualms or concerns, either way. “No--that isn’t what concerns me,” she agreed, for once feeling relieved that his Sight spared her the embarrassment of having to delve too deep. “I know you’ll take good care of me… you always have, when our paths crossed. Even when I was not able to offer you this.” The ringleader pressed her body so tight up against his own, folding and conforming to him as though she were made of clay, that she could feel his own heartbeat in her chest, and the conspicuous bulge between his legs. “I’m afraid for you, though. We’ve known each other far too long for this to be a fling… to not mean anything at all. I am prepared for my own risks, but… are you prepared? For crossing a line into something far different than you are used to?”

His actions said it all, and the acrobat wasn’t the only one throwing caution to the wind. She felt his blatant disregard for old habits in the hot breath on her neck, the teeth tugging at her earlobes, the fingers in her hair. Without thinking, she moved with him, hardly realizing they’d closed the distance between themselves and the bed until she felt the wooden bed posts against the back of her calves. Hadwin suddenly disengaged their lips, which were busy moving against one another, and Briery, trying to lose herself in the mood was about to protest when her dance partner threw her backwards, the cushion of the mattress breaking her fall. She hardly had time to react before he was on her again, his teeth and mouth hot against her skin, and she wanted more…

When he sat upright to peel the tight-fitting fabric from his torso, so did she take the same opportunity, gripping the hem of her sparkling cropped shirt and pulling it over her head in a single, fluid motion (she’d long since perfected the art and grace of getting in and out of skin-tight clothing). Like Hadwin, she placed the new garment aside, knowing well it deserved respect for the time and work she’d put into it. Small a gesture though it might have been, he’d earned a good deal more of her respect for that bit of care he gave to her hard work; made her feel recognized, valued. Enough that she knew he valued her as more than just another notch in his belt, more than another body to fuck. This wasn’t a mindless fling: for her, it was the introduction into a whole other part of life that she had been denied, and for him…

Well, she supposed she’d find out.

Aside from the obvious difference in sex and anatomy, the two of them were built relatively the same way, Briery realized as they revealed themselves to one another from the waist up. Like Hadwin, she had the defined abdominal muscles that indicated a strong and capable core, and of late, her thin albeit muscular arms had shaped up a little more, since the troupe had been faring particularly well and no one had been going hungry. Contrary to what was typically considered feminine and desirable, however, she was small in the hips and breasts, built so taut of lean, hard-working muscle that fat hadn’t a chance to cushion her with dainty or sumptuous curves. Though her physique had never bothered her, on a practical or an aesthetic level--and Hadwin sure as hell did not seem disappointed.

Stray specks of fine, multi-chromatic glitter had found their way to her collarbone and shoulders, giving her the appearance of something ethereal in the yellow light of the sconces. Almost akin to the mischievous glint in Hadwin’s golden eyes, before taking the liberty to explore her with his mouth and lips. Briery hadn’t anticipated how it might make her feel (frankly, she’d made an effort to shut out any and all expectation, good or bad), so the small gasps that escaped from her mouth whenever his teeth graze something particularly sensitive took her by surprise. I know your body better than anyone else, he’d said, and he was right. The faoladh was observant, and a fast learner, and she didn’t so much as have to hint at what felt good, and where. He read it in her heartbeat and her breathing, in the small jerks or tense-and-release of the muscles in her back and abdomen, in the flush that had spread across her cheeks, complementing the colour of their costumes.

And she loved the feeling--all of it. The warmth of his tongue, the soft, playful pressure of his teeth, which would let up just before they began to hurt each and every time. The ministrations of his practiced fingers, which along with his lips, made her aware of the tender area just beneath her right ear that made her shudder with pleasure. He would come out knowing her body better than she did, of that she was certain; but through him, she was learning, too, and she was loving it, evidenced by the intense heat growing between her legs. By the time Hadwin hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings, she felt as though her head was in a cloud. “Ready? Absolutely not; but I’m not waiting to be ‘ready’ anymore, because I might never be.” Came her breathy reply, hoisting herself up on her elbows to meet the shapeshifter’s eyes. “That’s not the point. But if you’re asking if I want you to remove the rest of my costume…” She placed her hands over his own and pushed downwards, until the fabric moved past her jutting hip bones. “Then the answer is yes.”

He obliged, tugging the form-fitting fabric over her hips, her thighs, her calves, until there wasn’t a whisper of clothing between him and her waiting body. Briery’s heart hate already picked up, resembling the pace at which it ran when they were dancing, under the exertion of their physical routine; whether it was due to nerves or desire, or a little bit of both, was anyone’s guess. But Hadwin still did not rush. He took his fingers and mouth to her thighs, where he kissed and licked and lightly bit, just like before… and it drove her crazy. She could hear her own pulse in her ears, feel it in her face, her whole body tingling as though it were alight.

But then he took it even further. She didn’t even flinch when curious fingers entered her (she’d undergone enough medical exams to know that never hurt her), though that wasn’t what shocked her. It was the warmth of Hadwin’s mouth, his tongue, titillating that small knot of flesh just north of where his fingers explored. “Gods,” she sucked in a breath, arching her back involuntarily. “I’d always wanted to touch myself, there… I was too afraid to try.” But afraid no more. There was absolutely no pain accompanying the pleasure; nothing to deter her from egging him on, from wanting more and more, that heat building between her legs. She was feeling particularly courageous; she wanted to take this risk, and go all the way with it. So when the faoladh at last murmured a request for consent to move forward, to touch on territory that had terrified her up until now, she did not hesitate to nod her agreement.

“It’s a little bit unfair that I’m the only one without any clothes right now,” she breathed, meeting and matching the desire in his golden eyes when she met them. Hadwin was more than happy to disrobe, climbing out of the tight-fitting pants she’d crafted specifically for him--and sparking a question that she couldn’t help but voice aloud. “Forgive me if this is a horribly virgin thing to ask… but how do you anticipate you are going to fit?” Though it was a serious question, on her part, she couldn’t help but grin at how ridiculous it must have sounded--and how it must have stroked Hadwin’s ego. “Hey, I’m small; it’s kind of a real concern! But if you’ve made it work before…”

Like he’d said, she wasn’t the first virgin he’d had; and she couldn’t have been the only woman with a relatively small pelvic floor. Clearly, there were factors that she wasn’t considering, factors of which she wasn’t yet aware, but as he leaned in and kissed her, and prepare to enter, an unexpected wave of panic rose in her throat, and she tensed, hearing herself suddenly breathe, “WaitI!”

She was vulnerable. She had never felt so vulnerable, and in that fraction of a second, a moment of weakness that had let her fear slip in, she’d almost had second thoughts--almost. No. I’m not going to live by fear, anymore. Briery expelled a shaky breath and closed her eyes. Forced her muscles to relax, one by one, and remembered her company. Remembered the haunted look in Hadwin’s eyes when, just within the past hour, he had divulged the darker secrets of his past to her. He had been vulnerable, too… more vulnerable than she had ever see him. It would have been easy to hurt him, but the thought was so far from her mind. Just as hurting her was so far from his.

“I’m sorry; I… just had a moment.” She was quick to apologize, once she regained her composure. “I forgot myself, for a second, but I’m alright. I’m alright… I promise. I…” She leaned forward and captured Hadwin’s lips again, hooking a hand behind his neck. He needed to know she was sincere. “I want this… with you. Just help me through my first time.”

And he did. He was patient, took it slow, paying close attention to her body’s tells, gently reminding her to relax when she’d tense up without realizing it. The dull ache of pain very nearly triggered her panic, yet again, but it was not the same pain that left her incapacitated and useless. It was merely the sort one would expect of someone who had never been intimate before, and it passed, very quickly. And everything that followed brought her back to the excitement she’d felt just moments before. Briery had always been quick to adapt, quick to acclimatize, and it wasn’t long before she was moving with Hadwin, even going so far as to hook a leg over his shoulder, which she found oddly more comfortable. For the second time, that night, they danced, but this time it was not for an audience, and not for anyone’s pleasure but their own. She found her own rhythm and paired it harmoniously with Hadwin’s, didn’t fight the sensations it brought, but let them wash over her, bring her to the edge… and she willingly fell, knowing without a doubt that Hadwin would catch her.

The ringleader felt as though she’d just finished a routine on the trapeze, in the aftermath of passion, a glowing sheen of perspiration settling on her naked skin. Hadwin had settled next to her, wearing the sort of satisfied grin that reassured her she hadn’t ruined this union in any way. And, most reassuring of all… she felt fine. Better than fine, with no indication that she might suffer a pelvic spasm at any time. The world really had opened up to her, and Hadwin had been the one to open the door.

“...did you really think that I would turn away from you? After what you told me?” An odd time to ask, with the two of them naked and entangled in one another’s limbs. But the question had been on her mind ever since he had opened up to her, over a stein of ale. “Every single one of us--the Missing Links--has left vestiges of a dark past behind us. Hell, Rycen was in jail when I met him, and I bailed his sorry ass out. We all came together and found one another because we had that one thing in common. You are right about blood ties; family does not mean blood. You are not born to family. You find your family, you make your family. The Links have been my family for the past decade… and we can be yours, too. For as long or as often as you need us.”

The ringleader’s fingers trailed over Hadwin’s cheekbone, her hazel eyes, still bright with the aftermath of desire, searching his face. “I know you cannot stay in one place for too long. You get stir-crazy, and I guarantee, caravans can be claustrophobic. I will never ask you to stay longer than you want to… but I hope that you will continue to find us, over and over again. There is always a place for you among us.”

He was not lying when he told Briery that every partner offered something different in bed. With Briery, it was her reception to his touch, to the nips and grazes of his teeth, the fingers that scoured the peaks and valleys that naturally comprised her lithe, athletic body. Not that a woman (or man) never reacted so viscerally to his practiced machinations, his artistry, or his hyper-attentiveness to every breath, shudder, twitch and moan. They did. Even other virgins, not quite certain of what they wanted, invited his expert opinions, and sank with pleasure. If they did not at first, he made it his evening’s goal to please them, sniffing through their deceit of “faking it,” and helping along a true climax to which both could share. Yes, she reacted just as he’d desired, but he suspected it was less about his movements and more about him. Were she ravished by another man, someone strange and unfamiliar, one; such a scenario would not have happened at all, given Briery’s history, and two; he doubted she’d fall to nonsense nibbles and massages, no matter how gifted her hypothetical man was at the act. Briery indeed offered him a different perspective, for she was the first person he bedded who was not a mere end goal. Nothing about their union screamed flimsy or fleeting, and this irrefutable fact held power over all physical interactions. He was not engaging her with the desperate poking and prying needed to fill a void that never closed. Nor did he approach her as a cure for loneliness. Whether they completed the act or not, being with her in any capacity...was its own reward.

And it terrified him.

“She will destroy you,” the ever-present blur with the cut-teeth seethed, a dark shadow presiding in the far corner. She flickered in tandem with the wall sconce, gradations of storm gray and stygian black. “You said it yourself, Hadwin. People who fancy you beyond your body, beyond your services...are a liability. Too unpredictable. They will not survive under your care. No one does.”

Look at her, he responded to the taunting voice, one he tried not to humor, or fight, out of the sheer futility of it all. Look at Briery, Fiona. She’s afraid I’ll open a wound in her that’ll never heal. That she’ll undo all the progress she’s made. And yet, she’s willing to go through with it because she trusts me. If I can’t navigate through my own fears, then I’ve let her down. I'd only fulfill your prophecy. I know how it works--so shut the fuck up, you damn mosquito.

Propelled by Briery’s powerful legs, Hadwin peeled off the resplendency of her gold leggings, incorporating it as part of their play. He teased and tickled the fabric over her rear end, bunched the fabric around her thighs and rested his hands upon her inner sacrum, gently rubbed the slinky material over the opening in between, and slid, with deliberate slowness, the remaining layer of her show-piece until it escaped past her toes and slithered to the floor. An escape act, operating at its own pace of glittering snail traces. Beneath him, he’d unmasked the acrobat, peeled off one aspect to reveal what she never showed her audience, her troupe, or even herself. Here, he was privy to her beautiful vulnerability.

In gratitude, he leaned down and kissed the well between her legs, blew across the opening...and gave an experimental lick, to get her going. No negative reaction. No shudders of pain or uncertainty. He continued in earnest, alternating between his tongue and fingers. First, he started strumming her inner thighs, a slow spiral that led him to the opening, the outer rim where the petals opened, to spread their heady aroma into his mouth, his nose, his senses. Deeper, he explored, uncovering the pistil, touching upon the inner chamber. She hummed and vibrated in his mouth, heaved against his fingers. No pain, he sensed. Her pleasure found voice, found words to describe what he was doing to her. Withdrawing from the well, he met her eyes, luminous with desire. “I can teach you, you know. Though...some secrets I’m taking to the grave. Otherwise...what use would I be to you, when you’ve got your fingers?”

When he got the go-ahead to continue, her voice clear-cut and bold in its agreement, his mouth widened into a grin as he grabbed the seat of his leggings. “You’re right. It’s downright unfair. Can’t believe I’ve gone this far without stripping down to my bare ass and pecker.” As ably as Briery disrobed from her top, Hadwin slipped out of his leggings with the efficiency of one accustomed to changing or removing one’s own skin. In seconds he appeared over her, the defining features of his core recurring along his thigh muscles and the sculpt of his firm buttocks. But what he did not expect was an unintentional compliment referencing neither feature. Sound laughter tore from his throat, emerging as more of a cackle marrying delight and amusement. “Oh Briery....you’re adorable. Keep talking like that and I might fall in love. Rest assured, my sweet virgin. There’s room. I was spelunking inside there before. Could hear echoes bounce off the cave walls. In all seriousness, though,” he crawled atop her, positioning himself between her legs, “it’ll be a little tight for you, to start. I know it goes without saying to tell you to relax and not to tense up in there, but you’re going to want to. But we’ll take it slow, and I’ll help you along the way.” His hands found her shoulders, massaging away some of the pressure and the fear that roosted within her tightening muscles. Her entire body radiated a sharp stench, shivering with frenetic rhythm, streaming in nervous, uncontrollable sweats. “All right,” he said in an even tone. “I’m about to enter,” he warned, “here we--”

Wait! Her frantic voice froze him in place. Their parts touched, but he didn’t go on. The shadow in the corner laughed at his antics, but he ignored everything but his partner. The fear was so intrinsic, he felt it twist in his gut and encroach behind his eyes. He could see little else but the color red. Not as he perceived it, but how it existed in Briery’s mind. Spots of blood. No, of pain. Ruination, like tattered curtains. A heart about to burst. Rupturing and malfunction, and regret.

“Briery,” he breathed. “Are you--”

But she was quick to decompress, as she regained her composure and insisted he continue. Still, he hesitated--until her lips sought for him, and he distracted her up there, while he connected down there. He pressed his face tight against her when she winced in reflex. Throughout, he'd break free from their kiss to whisper encouragements into her ear. “Relax. It’ll hurt less. It’s ok; I’ve got you.” Soon, the fear in her began to subside. Yes, it was still prevalent, and dominant, but it gained a softness, a fuzziness, and drifted to the background. Her body moved in accord to his gentle thrusts, following the beat like the one that played in their heads when they danced. In a feat owing to her cat-like flexibility, she laid a leg across his shoulders as though it were an arm, and he grinned against her lips. He expected no less of her, to exercise a bit of the routine while squashed horizontally on a plush surface. It was a small charm that surged him forward with the desire to finish and finish soon, but he held off. No dance ended with one partner bowing prematurely, while the other glided and spun in midst of the finale. As promised, he guided her; together, they swung high and fast, entangled and warm with each other, elated with ecstasy and swelling, beating in unison, hearts pounding and heads light and heavy at the same time. Pressure escaping, a thin hiss of deflation… a pop of release, at the apex of the world.

Together, they finished and together they fell, as one does in the air, when releasing one swing to grab for the one ahead.

“How....are you doing?” He asked, once he withdrew, from both ends, and rolled over on his back. She was fine. Minimal pain. Relief smoothed any residual lines that had burrowed into his face. “Damn,” he gave a low, steady whistle. “I’m good. This calls for an after-sex smoke.”

Emerging from the bed, he reached for his belt, withdrew his pipe, a baggie of hashish, and his tinderbox. Once he prepared the herb and stuffed it into the bowl, he created a spark and lit his implement until gray swirls of smoke spun their gossamer patterns in the air. Satisfied, he climbed back into bed and offered the stem to Briery, as he cuddled up to her. “Helps with pain, too. Even if you’re fine, it gives you a nice feeling all around. Oh,” he added, as he took a long drag and blew the room into a light haze, “I came inside of you, but I figure with your condition and the medicines you’re taking to stop your cycles, it wouldn’t be a problem. I’m clean, too.” He fisted a hand over his chest, as though to swear by his statement--however incongruous for one so sexually active. “Fast healing means diseases don’t stick. Not a bad trade-off, to be faoladh. Though...we have the distinction of existing both as wolf and human. We’re never singular. The two spirits live in us no matter which form we’ve chosen. Which means,” he sprawled onto his side, propping his head upright with an elbow and grinning with mischievous glee, “you fucked a wolf, Briery. You’ve lain with beast. Something to add to your list of depravities. Still think I have you beat, though.”

Whether it was his lighthearted mention of “depravity,” or the fact that what he revealed earlier still weighed on her mind, Briery took a significantly more solemn turn in the conversation. Pulling the pipe from his mouth, he adjusted his reclined position to lean, upright, against the headboard. “To be honest, I didn’t think you would,” he said, fingers following the wood grain of the bowl. “I thought that I would. That I’d run from here, from everyone, with no way of knowing if I’d return.” His eyes focused not on her, but on the far wall. The shadow with the glass-cut teeth had since moved from its place beside the sconce. “I left out the worst of it, too. I painted a great story of victimhood, didn’t I? I really embellished on the ‘poor me’ aspect of it all. But the truth--it wasn’t all bad. I liked it. The lifestyle of sin. Never a dull moment. Always action and interest and intrigue. I may have lost a lot of games, but I never lost to boredom. And the whoring around...I made that work, too. Had no choice. You start pitying your lot and you’re hopeless. Broken. Vulture-food. So I didn’t. Every day was a new lesson learned, a new chance to apply my skill and merit and grit. It’s when I embraced the darkness--because believe me, I sure as shit have done more wrong than your entire troupe combined. It’s why my sister’s after me. It’s why I thought about running, before.”

He blew smoke rings into the air, watching them disseminate and dissolve. “I’m not meant to last long, anywhere. I’ve been on my best behavior, but...I’m not fit for a well-adjusted life. I guess there’s already something wrong when I consider your troupe a ‘well-adjusted life,” he said, with a nudge of his elbow and a toothy smirk. “But it’s true for me. And what I’m saying is...I don’t want to ruin a good thing. To stay, and remain...it’ll all unravel to hell. I’m best enjoyed when there’s less of me. Thanks, though.” He leaned into Briery and nipped at her ear, for good measure. “For understanding. For...being a home. And for being you. If I had the capacity, I do think I might love you, Briery Frealy--saint that you are.”

But his life was forfeit, now. With Rowen on the prowl, he renounced his future in exchange for a grave. These past few days were a godsend, so I’ll die happy, Ro, he thought. Just let me get to Braighdath. Let me find the kid’s brother. Then you can have me. ...Before I turn completely rotten.

“I’m fine… I’m alright. I can’t believe I am actually hearing myself say that.” Briery laughed, but it was a sound of relief, without a trace of humour. Propped up with her back against the pillows, the acrobat ran a hand through her soft brown waves, which had come loose of her ponytail before they’d even removed their clothes. Though the gold glitter still adorned her eyelids and cheekbones, the Missing Links’ ringleader, without her resplendent costume, was as ordinary as any other woman--well, if any other woman could bend over backwards and clutch their own ankles. It was not a visage that she chose to show to anyone beyond her own troupe, for the sake of maintaining the mystification of her stage character, but it was a side of her she’d chosen to show to Hadwin. And now he knew her, inside and out, the ordinary and the extraordinary. And she had no regrets.

When the faoladh lit the herbs in his pipe and offered her the stem, Briery hesitated a beat before taking it, and drawing the earthy aroma into her lungs. She exhaled on a sigh, and her shoulders relaxed. “See, this is why I can’t let myself become too cavalier with this stuff,” she chuckled, handing the pipe back to its owner. “It’s too damn good. And I’ve got to take into consideration the expenses that actually keep me on my feet; not ones that dull the pain and make me forget why I care in the first place. Still… this is a nice reprieve to take the edge off. Though I can’t say I’m in much pain.” She offered a half grin. “No more than you’d expect from a virgin I guess. I’m… sorry I choked a little. I owe it to you for seeing it through with me.

“And, lucky for the both of us, there hasn’t ever been a hope in hell that life will ever develop in my womb.” Which, for many women, would have been a devastating thought. But to Briery, it was the smallest of blessings, especially tonight, when it had really mattered. “And thank the gods, at that! Not like I could continue on with this life style with a child on my hip. And this is my calling; nothing short of death itself is going to pull me away from it.”

She snorted at his comment about ‘fucking a wolf’ and elbowed him right back, wearing her own challenging grin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I know depravity, Hadwin; somehow, I don’t feel that what we just did together falls into the same category.” Briery’s hazel eyes softened, and rested her head on his shoulder. “What you came from and what you are now aren’t the same thing, you know. We might be a product of our circumstances, but they don’t have to define us. Say what you want, you’ve risen above it all for the mere fact that you don’t let it break you. And if my opinion holds any weight at all… I think you know a thing or two more about love than you’d like to give yourself credit for.”

The ringleader’s hand found his cheek, again, as he looked away from the wall in favor of settling on her face. “I’ve seen the way that you care. How you give yourself away when you see someone in need. I first saw it when you helped us out of a difficult situation; when all of us were in hot water because I was in too much pain to leave my bunk. You never even asked for anything in return; just a promise of a debt you may or may not collect later. I see it now in the way you care for that young summoner.” Her fingertips trailed down his cheekbone, coming to rest on the nook between his neck and shoulder. Her smile had turned soft with admiration. “You go out of your way to see that she is alright. You’ve taken her under your wing as though she’s always been part of your pack. Love shows itself in many forms, and you are capable of it, Hadwin… Maybe you don’t want to be, because that would make you vulnerable, and I know you can’t be vulnerable. But we don’t get to decide what or how we feel.”

Briery drew him into another kiss, but this one was not desperate or lost to passion as they had been during their intimate encounter. It was soft, and slow, and understanding. One that he could take with him when he left to travel alone, again.

“You can have good things and make them last, you know.” The acrobat commented as she finally drew away, her own lips still kiss-swollen from their passionate bout. “I’m proof of that. We’ve had darker times, but things are getting better and better for the Missing Links. Moreso in your company, believe it or not--you killed it out there, tonight. You’re a natural.”

Shifting her position so that she lay on her side, and facing the faoladh, drew their bodies together again, the aftermath of passion’s warmth still lingering on their skin. “We will always be a home for you, if you need one. Even Cwenha--you’d grow on her eventually, whether she likes it or not. You’ll always find friends among the Missing Links, Hadwin Kavanagh. Just… do me a favor, and find me again. Over and over until our legs aren’t strong enough to walk this plain, anymore. I want to look forward that crossing paths with you will always be a possibility.” Don’t die, was the unspoken request, but she needn’t say it aloud. He knew. And she knew that it was a promise he couldn’t make… however much she wished he would.

A lazy hand traced the contours of his muscles as Briery expelled a sigh. “I suppose we should get our asses back to the caravan, sooner than later… or your summoner will be up all night worrying.”

Except that they didn’t move, not that evening. Instead, they basked in one another’s company, took advantage of these casual albeit quietly meaningful moments. At some point during the night, they fell asleep, their bodies tucked comfortably into one another. When Hadwin opened his eyes again, the sun had risen, and Briery was pulling her leggings over her muscular calves. “Sleep well?” The ringleader drawled, casting a sly, satisfied look over her naked shoulder. “Here’s hoping Rycen had the good sense to divulge the reason behind our disappearance. Not like anyone would be surprised; and I don’t want your little summoner to have a heart attack because you haven’t returned. Fortunately… our dear Illusionist has a rather big mouth.”

She finished dressing and waited for Hadwin to do the same, before the two of them took leave of their room, and made their way out of the tavern and back to the caravans. Sure enough, Rycen had a huge, knowing grin on his face, and that was all she needed to know to feel reassured that he hadn’t kept their absence a secret.

“I see you took my advice. How was the room?”

“Probably about the same as yours.” Briery snorted, without a hint of shame. “Don’t pretend you weren’t in the intimate company of one--or a few--of your adoring fans. I know you far too well.”

“Of course I was. But I left before daybreak; can’t get too attached, you know. Or let them get too attached. Not when we’re heading out after breakfast. Speaking of,” he indicated the fire that he and Lautim had just gotten going. “Wanna lend a hand, oh charitable leader?”

Briery agreed, as Hadwin made something of an excuse to go and take a piss. He wasn’t long left to privacy in the thicket of nearby trees, however, before a familiar, cutting voice invaded his silence. “So you got what you wanted, then.” Cwenha challenged, waiting patiently for him to turn to meet her eyes. She’d known exactly what had transpired when neither he nor Briery had returned, last evening; she didn’t need Rycen to clarify.

The smaller, blonde acrobat stood just feet away, her pale hands clenched into fists, flames jumping in her sapphire eyes. “I don’t know why she’d want to take such a risk with someone like you. We’re all lucky that your foolishness didn’t result in something terrible. You might think it isn’t my business, but it is everyone’s business; because if Briery goes down, then we all do. She’s the heart and soul of this troupe.”

Muscles jumped in her jaw, overwhelmed with everything she wanted to say, without quite knowing where to begin. So she decided to begin where he’d left off, the night before. “You might fancy yourself a proxy to my hatred, but the fact of the matter is, you represent everything that is wrong with life and its circumstances. I don’t need to tell you what and who I was before the Missing Links; I’m not an idiot, I know you can see it in my eyes. And you…” She indicated his body, as if he were a pillar of misfortune. “Your existence spits in the face of mine. And I shouldn’t even have to tell you why.”

Something was different, this time. It wasn’t another of Cwenha’s sporadic diatribes, incited by Hadwin’s presence. The air was thick with something that the faoladh had, of late, become very acquainted with: and that was vulnerability. But also… shame. “Why do you get to be this way? So devil-may-care, finding opportunity in everyone and everything that crosses you? Because that wasn’t the result for me. Not for selling my body, over and over, just for the right to live.” Tension had built in her shoulders and chest, and tears had begin to gather in the corners of her eyes. “You fuck people like it’s going out of style, and you get off on it. You live for it, and you aren’t ashamed to admit it. I don’t know how it began for you, but for me, it was necessity--and that didn’t matter. It didn’t stop the bruises or bleeding. It put food in my mouth, but to what end? Long enough for me to learn to despise myself, until I just couldn’t take it anymore?”

A dark, humourless smile spread across her lips, as Cwenha took a bold step forward. “Briery really likes to think she saved me, that night. Talked me down from a bridge and all. But you want to know the truth? I wouldn’t have jumped, anyway; because I am too much of a fucking coward. And the only thing I yet have to look forward to, now that I am still selling my body, only in different ways… is for the hope that someday, I won’t be so cowardly. And that I’ll actually be able to go through with it.

“But you’re different. You don’t live with that shame; you don’t despise yourself to that extent. You found ways to make it play to your favor, and that… that is why I hate you. Because meanwhile, despite that I haven’t fucked anyone since Briery offered me another path, it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stand the feeling of being in my own skin. That not a day goes by that I’d rather cut it off my bones than continue to live with knowing what it has touched. But you can’t empathize; because you still crave being touched.” She shook her head, white-blonde curls bouncing against the backs of her shoulders. “I don’t pretend to believe life didn’t fuck you over in some way; I know it did. But that’s what hurts. That you’re still finding a way, a silver lining, and day by… I’m still rotting.”

The tears had found their way down her cheeks, then. It was a stark contrast from what the audience saw: a bright, beautiful girl with a bewitching voice and lithe agility on the trapeze. One whose calm smile never broke character, not even once. Because Cwenha chose to break behind the scenes, when no one was looking, and when it was safe to let her make-up run in rivers from her eyes and down her cheeks, in glittering streams speckled with silver.

“So, no; you’re not a proxy. You’re not a random target upon which I choose to unleash my fury. You know exactly why I can’t stand you, because I know you can see what I fear most. Tell me, then--say it out loud.” She met his eyes in a dare, blue irises shimmering like sapphires behind the tears that coated them. “Tell me what I’m most afraid of. Maybe in hearing yourself say it, then you’ll understand.”

She knew he could see it all. See the dissolution of the Missing Links, not unlike Briery’s deepest fear. See the faded colours and broken caravan, and the girl who couldn’t sing anymore. See long road ahead, only a single path, one that led her back into the arms of the people who had harmed her in the first place. And she knew he could see the knife; the one that was just out of reach, as she let others wreak havoc on her fragile body. The knife not meant for them--but for her. To put an end to her life, and all of the misery and pain that accompanied it.

At last she looked away, wiping her stray tears on her bare arm, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. “Maybe we aren’t so different. But you get to enjoy it; and I live to regret it.” She said nothing more, then, turning her body away from Hadwin as she made her way back to the caravan. By the time Hadwin made it back, she was nowhere to be found, and it didn’t appear that anyone had seen her. She had a talent for slipping into her bunk unnoticed.

Teselin was up and about, though, sitting next to the roaring fire as they doled breakfast out. The young summoner looked a little tired, evidence that she had been up worrying for a while, until Rycen had returned to reassure her of Hadwin’s safety. She offered him a small smile and moved over so he could take a seat. “So, I don’t know what I missed, between you and Briery disappearing last night, and Chara allegedly having Briery dye her hair brown before we leave… but I’m just glad you made it back safely. That we’re all safe.” That Rowen hasn’t been spotted, was the underlying message, but she didn’t feel the need to go into that. “Are you up for a game?”

She produced a deck of cards that Rycen had given her to occupy her time, and flashed a small grin; one of the more light-hearted ones she’d been able to manage, since before Mollengard. “I’d like to play a round without you letting me win. How will I improve, otherwise?”

“Well...far be it for me to contest your flattering account of me.” He rubbed a knuckle beneath his eyelid, pulling away faint streaks of black kohl. Forget his comment about fucking a wolf. He likely resembled a raccoon more than a canine, with his running make-up causing rings around the eyes. “It’s a skewed account, though, because I happen to like you and your troupe--and Teselin, too. None of you ever rubbed me the wrong way, or crossed me in the darkness. You never riled me up, or stood between me and a pot full of gold, or a fix, or a fuck.” He kissed her neck and smoothed the hair from her nape. “Never between. But you were always in reach...ready to welcome me however and whenever I chose to present myself. I didn’t lie to that audience tonight. I’m a stray, and you’re kind enough,” he wrinkled his nose, “demented enough, too, to keep feeding me, when others would have told me, ‘shoo.’ So maybe I’m a lost cause, after all.” His nose against her skin gently stirred the fine hairs on her neck. “To be so attracted to true kindness in a world where there’s precious little to go around. To want to harvest it, and protect it, and see it flourish. Maybe it’s penance on my part. Keeping alive some sliver of genuine beauty before I, and others like me, sniff it out and destroy it all. Yes, Briery, take it in while I’m still a little sloshed and quickly going sky-high.” He nosed her neck affectionately before gazing into the melting butter of her eyes. “I’m too blunt for poetry, so I mean it when I say you’re genuinely beautiful. Skin and glitter flake off, but your spirit’s tarnish-proof. Spit-shined and cleaned with rags. And yet, it still glows.”

He returned her kiss, his tongue hot from the pipe and pungent with the musky aroma of the hashish. Smoke curled out of his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. When he withdrew from his “dragon kiss,’ his eyes half-closed with contentedness. “You can’t ride a winning streak, Briery. Unless you cheat your way to the top. But eventually, people are going to notice you’ve shorted and swindled them, and that’s when you need to run. I run to see another day. To keep the luck alive. I’m a short-term charm--or a curse, depending on how you look at it--but the longer I stay with the Links, misfortune will find you. I’m still a wanted criminal, in several counties across this continent. I can stay under Rigas protection--Chara owes me that much--but that places me at a fixed geographic point, and the lot of you travel--myself included. It’s only a matter of time, Brie. I was never meant to last, and I made damn sure of it. But I’ll promise you this.” He slid his hands over her shoulders, shoulders he held with increasing tenderness over the past several days. “I’ll find you. In life or in death. I’ve got an impeccable sense of smell and you, my ambitious acrobat, stink.” With an irreverent smile and a wink, he doled her a harmless punch on the arm. “And I like it. You’re distinct. With this,” he poked his nose, “I’ll find you anywhere. I’m your permanent stray--and I love chasing squirrels.”

Though they had both agreed to don their clothes and head out of the tavern that night, the comforting sensation of skin against skin and skin against sheets, and the low flicker of firelight lured them to sleep in each other’s arms. When Hadwin awoke to sunlight writing patterns on their bed through the windowpanes, Briery was already up and about, halfway into her ringleader outfit. “Aah, a shame,” he clucked his tongue in disapproval as he lumbered out of the entrapping tangle of bedsheets and incubated warmth. “Best night in years, and now it’s all in past tense.” With a languid sweep of his feet, he escaped from his willing tomb, kissed the ringleader a good morning, gave himself a quick sponge bath over the basin, and slipped on his sparkling red outfit. “Doesn’t mean it’s over between us, though. I look forward to performing with you in the future--should you desire an encore.” Before he waltzed out of the room, he swept into an exaggerated bow.

They arrived at the caravan campsite with Rycen, eyes glinting with gleeful suspicion, greeting them, more pep in his voice than usual. “Oh, don’t I know that?” Hadwin said, grinning at the illusionist. “You’re welcome, by the way. With me out of commission, less competition out there for you, if you’d wanted another go. Or an all-out orgy.” With a parting squeeze of his hand to Briery, he removed himself from the conversation to go relieve himself in the thick brush behind the row of caravans. Once he finished his business, he pulled up his leggings and turned in time to see Cwenha’s approach. As usual, her fair face contorted, which happened whenever she was in his company. What differed, however, were her eyes, which had sought him for a purpose other than simmering anger, and her mouth, which twitched with the urge to spout something other than standard treatises extolling the terrible faults about his character--which he had heard before. This, he noticed, was a cry for help, disguised as a condemnation.

“That’s the question of the day, isn’t it?” he said, with a shrug. “Why the risk, and why with me, of all people? Thing is, to call me foolish is to call her foolish, too, because these transactions ideally occur when both parties are willing.” He snapped the waistband of his leggings high over his waist. “And much as I appreciate the power you give to my prick, it alone isn’t going to spell her downfall. Wouldn’t have gone through with it, otherwise. It was a fear that haunted her for a while, and now it haunts her less. She knows sex is possible, and it’s given her some hope. Give your ringleader some credit, you know. That girl’s constantly putting herself at risk for a better life.” As a counter to her bursts of rage-filled grievances, he responded with casual calm, lazily leaning on one leg with his head tilted to the side. Despite his relaxed stance, his observant eyes kept alert of her, watching, through the wisps of her most prevalent fears, her current state of mind.

“She’s not deluded, either. She knows she didn’t save you on the bridge. Not really. I see it, sometimes. In her.” For a flicker, his eyes looked beyond, towards camp. “A fear that she’ll find you dead in your bunk from a self-inflicted wound. She’s gotten good at concealing that fear. Shoving it into a far corner and closing the door. But like a cockroach, I slide through the cracks.” He waggled his fingers to simulate insect legs. “I’ve seen that room. And I’ve seen your blood. Your face--never smooth with serenity or relief. Makes sense for her, or for anyone, to imagine that as your death mask, when you’ve been a miserable creature for so long. There’s no mistaking the war raging strong inside you--and you’ll take it with you wherever you go. Whether or not you believe in an afterlife. Too much life kicking within you to die clean. Or to die at all. Call it cowardice, but you’re holding out for something.”

His tone, which had taken on a dreamy, ominous cadence, detached and thoughtful, returned to earth and dug so hard into the dirt, the transition was jarring--and full of gravel. “I also must thank you, Cwenha, for acknowledging my savoir-faire.” He presented her with a smooth, capable smile. “The fact that you’re fooled by it means I’ve gotten real good at pretending. You could say I’ve even become the pretender, after all these years. Thing is, I thought I had no choice--because my sister, yes, the one who’s trying to kill me, was waiting for me to come home, and to be well. And maybe it’s my fault, that instead of addressing my pain, I forced myself to like it. Even to love it. I chose darkness because the alternative was surrender--and I was too afraid to rely on the one person who could help me.” Yet another truth he had never stated aloud--and to the firebrand of an acrobat, no less! Why had he, of late, been so cavalier about matters so private, he’d rather bury them in an unmarked grave? To Teselin, to Briery, to Cwenha--even to Elespeth, he revealed unfortunate aspects of his character. Not like the latter two even cared, but...was he that desperate for people to listen? To relate? Or was it satisfying to speak the thoughts aloud, regardless of audience?

Whatever the case, he used Cwenha as a platform for his guilt, just as she used him as a platform for her latent vulnerabilities. Rowen, he feared, had developed differently, because he spent the formative years of her childhood protecting her from his darker emotions, never admitting the fault in his actions; the anger, the horror, regret, sorrow--and the fear of his inevitable transformation. Foremost, for her sake and for his...he wanted to be a good older brother. Stable and reliable. Loving. Never a product of his mam’s tampering to mold him to her likeness. You are just like me, Fiona’s vengeful ghost had said--often. Desiring love when you don’t deserve it. Your existence poisons others. Sooner or later, you’ll destroy them. Own who you are. Be the monster.

“So it’s true we’re similar,” he continued, “and it’s true that we’re different, because when faced with tragedy, we took diverging paths. Doesn’t mean I’m better than you. Objectively, I’m worse, because I perpetuate wrongness.” Own who you are, the voice in his head reiterated. “Each day I stand and survive, I make it harder for other people to live. I’ve killed, tortured, driven folks to madness, tarnished reputations, betrayed, cheated, and took advantage of the honest and fair. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. So yeah, I know I’m shit, Cwenha, but when you smell nothing but shit most of your life, you get used to it.”

At her insistence that he reveal her greatest fears, he rolled his eyes heavenward and crossed his arms. “You don’t need to goad me into spilling the obvious, here. It’s a prevalent fear your entire troupe shares. But tell me.” He leaned forward, piercing eyes narrowing. “If the Missing Links dissolves--and I see you’re already marking me as your harbinger of doom, the beginning of the end--is that it for you? All those skills you’ve learned as an acrobat, and you’ll throw them aside just to prove to yourself that you only had two choices in this life: whoring or death? I gotta say--that’s real sad, Cwenha. What were all these years in the Missing Links to you, then? A detour? A distraction? The dream is over and suddenly, you’re over?” As she retreated from him, he added, “I think I met my match. You’re just as pathetic as I am. We’re both sitting here, waiting for death, convinced we’re too spoiled for this earth. Difference is--I can laugh my way to the end, while you’re stuck crying, and hating, and blaming other people for your misery.”

When Hadwin returned to camp, he greeted Teselin with an exuberant wave and a toothy grin, and plopped down beside her, warming his hands at the fire. “Told you there was nothing to worry about, kid. Briery had me on a tight leash all night long. Wouldn’t even keep her eyes off me--that’s how seriously she took to guarding me in your absence.” The deck of cards piqued his interest, and at her comment about winning, his grin erupted into amused laughter. “You got me. Can’t put one past you anymore. All right, I’ll bite; we’ll play ‘fair.’ Let’s try that new game I taught you. Deal those cards out--” he curled a hand over her shoulder as he stood, “and I’ll be with you in a shake.”

On the far end of camp he spotted Briery, who was experimenting with a few fabric dyes. “Not going to disturb you long when you’re so diligently mixing up that concoction for our soon-to-be brunette,” he prefaced, his mouth edging close to her ear in a whisper. “But...I think you should have a heart to heart with the cygnet. Might be what you said to her in Eyraille, coupled with my winning presence--but she’s hurting bad. I’ll stay in the mens’ caravan today. Give you two some space.”

Nearly a week had passed since Elespeth’s exodus from camp, and since then, another problem began taking precedence over wondering of the she-warrior’s whereabouts.

Solveig was resisting the draught.

Already down to less than a third in the vial, Haraldur calculated that its failing efficacy would last for another week, at best. According to Forbanne scouts, they were less than a day’s trek from Alster’s team, at the tail-end of Stella D’Mare’s long-winding caravan. Once they caught up with Alster, and dispersed some Forbanne evenly throughout the diaspora in a coat of protection, Haraldur would consider them all fortunate if they arrived at the outskirts of Braighdath in a fortnight, let alone a week’s time. By then, Solveig would have long escaped her compulsion. Were they capable of holding her prisoner if she ceased cooperating? With Forbanne loyal to her, her chances of rebellion increased by the day, and it didn’t matter if they caught up with Alster. The newly appointed Rigas head was a powerful caster, but among a magically-resistant army, there was little to be done.

That evening, a Forbanne messenger entered his tent. Solveig requested his audience.

“Has her compulsion worn off?” he asked the messenger as he slipped on his armor and equipped his belt with weapons. The messenger nodded mutely. Checking to make sure he carried the vial of dwindling draught in his pouch pocket, he followed the messenger to the tent at the center of camp, where Solveig remained chained and watched by guards Haraldur deemed most loyal to him. When he entered, the hulking woman affixed him with a cordial smile.

“Evening, Prince Sorde. Come to dose me until I am your loyal puppet once more?”

Haraldur grunted, but did not acknowledge her with a voiced affirmative.

“Before you do...please hear out my proposition.” She nodded towards the guards that surrounded her. To his horror, every soldier had been replaced, and they formed a protective ring around the prisoner.

“I dismissed your ‘loyal’ coterie,” she said, lifting one arm in a shrug. “It means so much to me that this precious lot still responds to my requests. I would not ask them to kill you, though. Not that I dare to start a private war with Eyraille; I need their focus on Mollengard, and I’m sure Mollengard’s already painted me a traitor. Besides,” she rattled her manacles at him, “I rather like you, Haraldur. I like you so much, in fact, that I will give you this army you’ve stolen from my honest hands, in exchange for my release.”

Haraldur braved one step forward. Each guard drew their weapons in unison, and pointed them in his direction. “Why are you wasting my time asking for your release, when these guards could unshackle you and send you off?”

“A formality. And a courtesy.” Despite her shackled state, she held herself with enough pride to rival Chara Rigas. “Believe it or not, I am on your side. I want the destruction of Mollengard. I want to free the Forbanne from their rule. Once I’m released, I will return to Stella D’Mare, to rally the Forbanne still loyal to me, and to spur a war between us and Mollengard. We’ll drive them out of the harbor. Out of Andalari and out of Tadasun. It’s a war that needs fighting, now that the weak-willed D’Marians have left it vacant for undisputed occupation.”

He grimaced, tasting something foul and rotting in his mouth. “You just want to usurp the land for yourselves.”

“To keep it safe, until the Rigases return,” she said, with a magnanimous flourish. “We’re willing to compromise with the original land-owners.”

Haraldur snorted. “What changed?”

“It’s only fair that you don’t trust me. After all, we wanted the D’Marians out so we could claim the land without opposition. It’s a free-for-all now, don’t you see? Any faction can snatch it up. It is currently under Mollengard’s possession, but if my ragtag group of Forbanne stands a chance against the conquering nation, I need allies. Stella D’Mare. Braighdath. Eyraille. Work with me, Haraldur, not against me, and I promise you the preservation of the ancestral land of the Rigases.” She roved her eyes to the guards. “And your life.”

“This is a conversation you should be having with the Rigas Head. With all of us.”

“Act as envoy and negotiator in my place. They won’t listen to me, but you, they will. I must leave tonight, if I wish to return to Stella D’Mare in good time. I must ask you seek the cooperation of your Dawn Warrior, as well. She is our connection to an alliance with Braighdath. I know you’ll say yes, Haraldur. Not only do you choose life, but you desire Mollengard’s defeat. And if you want added incentive...I have not yet relinquished my power over you. So you will do as I say.” An eerie glint appeared in her brown eyes. “Consider yourself part of the Forbanne once more.”

Briery wasn’t fool enough not to heed Hadwin’s advice, especially when it came to Cwenha. She thanked him for his input, and made a note to gently ask after her trapeze partner after coming good on her promise to dye Chara’s hair a deep brown. The morning went off without a hitch, otherwise; the Rigas woman’s blonde locks hadn’t come out quite as dark as she might have liked, due to her pale undertones, but her locks did resemble a muddier shade of Briery’s brown waves, still a far cry from the blonde they had been. The lot of them ate, packed up, and were on their way before noon. Whether or not anything had transpired between the ringleader and Cwenha, the women’s caravan was particularly quiet as they traveled throughout the day. Come nightfall, when they made camp and started a fire to sup, everything seemed as it should; they were well on track to Braighdath, were all relatively safe, and Hadwin’s murderous sister had not been spotted in days.

It wasn’t until dusk, when everyone retired after a long day of travel which had followed a very successful show, that Cwenha deviated from the norm, slipping quietly out of her bunk to wander into the night; which could either be a result of having spoken with Briery, or not having spoken with her at all. Either way, Hadwin must have been keeping her in his peripheral vision since their ‘discussion’ that morning, as she didn’t wander far before the wolf made his presence known--in wolf form. Fortunately for the Links’ singer, she’d seen him prowl around on all fours before, and thus wasn’t alarmed. But it didn’t mean she wasn’t annoyed.

“If you’re going to spy on me, at least have the grace to do it on two legs.” She snorted, turning her back on the faoladh. There was some rustling in the brush as the wolf retreated, only to emerge as a human, moments later. At the very least, he was clothed from the waist down, which was more decency than she’d expected from him. “You know, I pegged you for a lot of things, but a snitch wasn’t one of them. I know you said something to Briery; she’s been walking on eggshells around me all day. Trying to get me to say something as best she can with the Rigas woman and your summoner crowding our space. But if you’re out here on my tail because you’re afraid I’m going to do something stupid… I thought I made myself clear that I’m not brave enough for that.”

Tightening the shawl around her shoulders to ward off the evening chill, Cwenha turned her face to the moonlit sky. The bright rays of the celestial rock made her blonde hair appear as silver as her costume. “I needed some space. I didn’t tell you what I did so that you could go and alert our ringleader, who frankly has bigger things to worry about. I just figured you deserved to know why I can’t stand you. Though something you said… did get me thinking.”

The acrobat leaned her shoulders against a tree and folded her arms. “You said you believed I was holding out for something; and that that’s the reason I’m still alive. Like I’ve still got hope. To be honest, I don’t know that that’s true. I do know that I’m too cowardly to off myself; I wanted someone to talk me down from that bridge, to show me kindness and a different path. Briery did all of that. But somehow… it wasn’t enough. Because I can’t rid myself of those feelings. Of what it did to me to be sold into the profession of a whore by my own father. I part of me had to die just to survive that, and I thought being a part of the Missing Links would get it back. Maybe… I was holding out, at one point. But nothing has changed. And I think that this, being here now, is only a result of knowing what it would do to Briery if I vanished. But if the troupe went under, then yes--I would choose death.” Cwenha’s pale eyes caught slivers of the moon’s rays, her irises paling against the light. “Because, skills aside, it would mean I’d have to continue living and feeling the things inside of me that tear me apart. The Missing Links distracts me from it, at best. Probably the same way the sex and drugs distract you.” She snorted. “And I’d rather… I’d just rather not feel at all, if there’s nothing to mitigate what my past has made me. Maybe we’re not so different, just biding our time until the end, but I still don’t like you… yet, still, I can’t bring myself to hate you, for all you’ve done for Briery. And that’s what leaves a bitter taste in my mouth; that you’re not the scum of the earth I wish you were. It’d be so much easier to hate you, that way...” And so much easier to hate another person than hate myself, were the underlying words that she chose not to speak, and which Hadwin likely picked up on, anyway.

Pushing away from the tree, the acrobat adjusted her shawl again and exhaled a heavy breath through her nose. “So, there you have it. Full disclosure, so at least there’s no pretense in the hot air between us. Just don’t go mouthing off everything I tell you to Briery; it won’t help. Not me, not her, and not you. Though I somewhat appreciate your backhanded concern…”

Cwenha turned her head back to the caravan, her solitude already spoiled by Hadwin’s nagging presence. She paused when her flimsy slipper, crafted of soft leather, failed to protect her delicate foot from stepping on something that made her wince. Nothing sharp, but hard and solid enough that it caused her arch to cramp. “Huh… that’s not a rock.” Brows furrowed, she bent down to pick up something that caught the rays of the moonlight. A ring; simple, but surrounded by tiny diamonds, one that resembled a wedding band. She held it up to the moonlight to get a better look. “Pretty. But can’t be good; looks like someone must’ve been having trouble in the paradise that was their marriage.”

What she didn’t realize, though, was that the ring belonged to none other than Hadwin’s prickly acquaintance, Elespeth Rigas.

In the week since Elespeth’s abrupt departure, Sigrid hadn’t stopped worrying--and hadn’t stopped holding out hope that they might find the former Atvanian knight before her reliance on the stimulant got the best of her. Whenever they stopped to set up camp for the night, the Dawn Warrior would take it upon herself to scout the area, in search of any sign that Elespeth had been there, or that might somehow be nearby, or an indication as to the direction she was traveling. Sigrid was certainly no stranger to hunting, but honing in on game was not the same as tracking a sentient person. Animals did not want to be found, and they tread carefully to keep themselves out of harm’s path for as long as possible, but when it came down to it, they could not outthink humans and their craftiness. People, on the other hand--even ones in compromised states, such as Elespeth--knew how to cover their tracks, and were already aware of the very methods of tracking that made humans the penultimate predators. And every night, there continued to be no sign of their AWOL comrade.

She didn’t speak to Haraldur much about her concerns; the fear that by the time they found Elespeth, it might actually be too late. It wasn’t so much that she and her cousin had drifted from what was developing of their familiar camaraderie, but rather, that their individual priorities had begun to shift. Haraldur cared about safe and efficient passage to Braighdath, while the Dawn warrior, ever connected to brothers and sisters in arms, could not let go of the fact they had let Elespeth down the day that Haraldur had insisted they leave her behind. She knew that they had broken the new Rigas’s trust in a terrible way; had they not been so quick to determine she was useless due to her injuries, she might have trusted them to help her wean herself off of the stimulant. She might have trusted them not to discard her at the first sign of withdrawal. But all of that was irrelevant, now; Elespeth was gone, nobody knew where she was, and they hadn’t the time nor resources to right themselves with her. It was already too late.

Nonetheless, she found herself stuck in a stalemate between her ideals and Haraldur’s decisions. She understood his way of thinking, why he had said what he’d said to the Atvanian warrior, and how he can come to his own conclusions. He was thinking like a soldier, which, being in charge of an army of some of the deadliest men and women Sigrid had ever witnessed, was beyond necessary. There was no room for softness or compromise; for at the first sign of weakness, the Forbanne loyal to him could relinquish their unyielding cooperation, and turn back to the next best option--that being following Captain Solveig. And they could not let that happen. So Sigrid had resigned herself to believing that her cousin did what he did in order to keep the Forbanne Captain well in line… at least, that was what she thought, until the morning she awoke to find that Solveig was AWOL.

“Haraldur!” The Dawn warrior hurried to her cousin as soon as she had noticed the terrible turn of events. It had only been a matter of time before Solveig would’ve become immune to the placating effects of the devil’s draught; and it appeared that that time had come, silently and quickly, right under their noses. “It’s Solveig; she’s gone. The draught must have lost its effectiveness, but… I don’t know how she could’ve escaped beneath our notice, with all of those Forbanne keeping an eye on her. Something has gone terribly wrong… I dread to think of what she is up to, with that newfound freedom.”

Something was wrong, more than Sigrid had initially thought. She realized it the moment she took note of Haraldur’s lack of surprise; as if he had already known, despite that he was hardly out of bed… “This is dire, Haraldur!” She emphasized, thinking he must just not have fully processed what she’d said. “Braighdath can wait; the only reason we were making haste to reach the city was to ensure that we got Solveig under control before she developed an immunity to the devil’s draught, and none of that matters now, with her gone. Hurry up--get your boots on, we have to search for her right away! What if she comes across Alster and the D’Marians? How will the elderly and those who are not fighting-fit stand a chance against her brutality?”

Still, Haraldur didn’t move, and this forced him into a position to explain himself to the Dawn warrior. So he did, word for word, the brutal honesty of it all. The conversation that had taken place between the Eyraillian Prince and the Forbanne Captain the night before. The revelations she had exposed; including the control that she still had over Haraldur. That she had been cultivating slowly, day by day, throughout this journey, and the compromise she had chosen to put forth.

Though already fair-skinned and fair-haired, Sigrid had never looked so pale, by the time her cousin had spoken his piece. “You let her… no. Haraldur, please tell me I just misheard.” The Dawn warrior’s shoulders slumped and she took a step back, shaken and confused. It wasn’t his fault, not if what he said was true, and Solveig had put him in a position where he was not able to refuse. But the fact that that horrid woman was free… “When did she leave? We might still have time; we can track her. We cannot let her take Stella D’Mare…”

Though as she spoke the words, she was all too aware of their futility. They were low on rations as it was, and at this point, were far closer to Braighdath than Stella D’Mare… turning to chase Solveig wouldn’t buy them anything but a waste of time. She was as good as gone.

Sigrid pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly. Tempered the anger and anguish, resisted the urge to yell at her cousin for not telling her he still felt the effects of Solveig’s compulsion. How long had he thought to keep her in the dark…? It shook her trust in him, however much she wanted to deny it. But what was done was done. “...forget it. The D’Marians will need our help when we arrive in Braighdath.” And I have someone waiting there, for me; just as you have someone waiting for you in Eyraille, she thought selfishly. With a drawn face and a sluggish countenance, she left Haraldur alone, and prepared to pack up camp with the remainder of the Forbanne who were somehow still loyal to the Eyraillian prince.

They spent the day traveling in silence, but come evening, just before they’d have called it a day and prepared to set up a new camp before they lost daylight entirely, their party encountered another, much larger venturing group. One that was instantly familiar, and for the first time since Elespeth’s disappearance, sparked some hope in the Dawn Warrior. But it wasn’t until she saw her friend’s face that she let down her guard. “Alster.” Sigrid’s mouth split into a smile, but it faltered when she turned to Haraldur, who she hadn’t spoken to since that morning. “...let me talk to him. To smooth things over. We have a lot of explaining to do, and I… don’t know how he is going to take the news of Elespeth’s disappearance.” Even if he already knows.

The Dawn warrior hurried forward to greet the Rigas caster. He did not seem worse for the wear, but like them, he appeared tired. Heavy, with the burden of escorting so many people to safety… Nonetheless, it was a relief to find that he was alright, along with all of the charges in his company. “Alster,” she greeted her friend, clasping his hands in her own. “I’m so happy to find you are well. I…” She paused. He hasn’t asked after Elespeth, which she’d thought would be his primary concern, especially after what had happened to her prior to their departure. He knew; and either he’d found her, knew of her whereabouts and knew she was well, or like them… he knew better than to look, and had to trust she was alright. That he was not in a state of despair told her that at the very least, the Atvanian warrior must still be alive. He of all people would know. “A lot has happened… I am sure we need to talk. But for now, let’s get your party settled and comfortable. Those working under Haraldur will be happy to help.”

The added manpower of the Forbanne soldiers hastened the construction of tents, and along with those able-bodied D’Marians under Alster’s care, the large lot had a place for everyone to sleep and enough fires to keep everyone warm in just a handful of hours. In that time, Sigrid thanked the gods that Haraldur had heeded her advice and hadn’t gone into detail about why neither Solveig nor Elespeth was among them, and Alster didn’t ask. He waited patiently for an opportune time to talk, and that time came when everyone else was sufficiently settled. The sun had long since set, by then, and as tired as the Rigas caster appeared, he did not look as though he longed for sleep.

Sigrid took a seat across from him at a fire when they were at last relatively alone, many having retired early to sleep, winded from the continuing journey to Braighdath. She only wished it was better news she had to offer. “Something… happened, last night. I was not privy to the details, first-hand, but Solveig has been developing an immunity to the devil’s draught for some time, now. She finally snapped out of the mind-control and put Haraldur in a position where he had no choice but to free her. He says she was headed back to Stella D’Mare, but… that she is no longer allied with Mollengard. Whatever she plans, it cannot be good, but being so close to Braighdath, we were not in a position to turn stop her. We’ve already burnt through the majority of rations, since we were off to a… slower start than we would have liked. It’s only over the past week that we’ve managed to regain momentum.” Since Elespeth left us, was what was left unsaid, and she needn’t say anything at all, because Alster knew before she even brought it up.

“No… she isn’t with us anymore. Not since  just over a week.” The Dawn warrior confirmed sadly at his inquiry regarding his fiancee. Sigrid’s shoulders slumped; he didn’t know the details, didn’t know what had transpired just before the former knight had taken off on her own. He deserved to know. “I’m sorry, Alster. We have let you down, and we let her down. The day before you somehow managed to defy the impossible and heal her injuries, Haraldur… he made the decision to leave Elespeth at the next town we were near encountering. Her injuries were so grave, she was struggling to keep up, and we… we were running out of time.” The shame didn’t belong to her, primarily, but she could not bring herself to meet Alster’s eyes. Because she knew she’d have let Haraldur go through with it. “I think… it broke her trust, in us. Made her feel like we were discarding her. But then you managed to heal her, and I thought everything was resolved. I didn’t realize… the effect that the stimulant had taken on her body. How dependent she’d become on it. So she fled when Haraldur only agreed to give her a little at a time; she stole from the Forbanne. We’ve been moving fast, but we haven’t crossed her path, yet. I’ve been looking, Alster, for signs of her every day. I… I am so sorry. We were not the comrades that she needed during her difficult time.”

She only looked up at the pressing urgency of her own inquiry. One whose answer she suspected, but needed to hear from Alster, first. “But she is still alive… isn’t she? Even if you haven’t found her, you’d know. You of all people would know.” And he did know--that she was alive, though he also divulged his lack of confidence that Chara or Teselin had made it. Sigrid’s heart sank further. They were all supposed to make it out alive… “We’ll find Elespeth, Alster. She is a survivor, even if her judgment is addled by that drug. Perhaps she is already in Braighdath; I cannot see her veering toward another path. She is too loyal to her promises for that… too loyal to you, no matter what.”

After the flood of noteworthy events--the spectacle of desire, of flashy costumes, fire, and fame--had rolled away and departed in tandem with the caravan, it took only hours for the doldrums of life to catch up to Hadwin. Not even the reveal of Chara’s new hair color amused him for long. While he didn't expect Briery’s efforts would produce a comical disaster with Chara’s formerly cherished head of blonde hair, he anticipated some level of sadistic delight--to keep to himself, of course. But the color was passable and the Rigas, upon checking her new shade in the mirror, nodded in approval and said nothing more on the subject.

When the caravans stopped for the evening, Hadwin all but sailed out of the back end in a surge of liberated energy, which lasted well into the night. Unable to sleep, he prowled around the woods in his wolf form, enjoying the cool night breeze on his fur. It so happened Cwenha shared in his propensity for late-night strolls. So not to startle her, he emerged from the brush, nosing the ground in a clumsy, cacophonous collection of sound. At her acknowledgement and request for a change, he grunted his agreement and dashed behind a bush, where he’d haphazardly thrown his trousers, earlier. In moments, he emerged into the moonlight, joints creaking and cracking with every step.

“Two people can’t bask in the light of the moon at the same place?” He raked a hand through his mussed hair. “Think what you like, but if I were actually spying on you, you wouldn’t know it. I got real good at the sneaky thing when Mollengard practically forced me into the practice. Snitching, though...that’s a selective skill. You gave me no reason to keep mum. But like I said,” he pointed to the glowing orb in the sky, “just here for the view.”

The silver-clad acrobat wore the moonlight like a stage costume; a little buffing and she’d turn into actual polished silver. But anything beneath the moon could appear ethereal. Even blood. Perhaps in respecting the sanctity and silence of their surroundings, Cwenha, when she spoke, did not shout, raise her voice, or burst into flames. Rationale led her words more than emotion. Ironic, considering the Moon’s association with feeling. With faoladh like him, it was a concentrated curse which few would ever shake. “My mam,” he sighed, “...everyone thinks she did it. Killed herself. Ran into a shepherd’s flock in broad daylight, as a wolf, and attacked the sheep. Of course the shepherds would kill her to protect their interests. I always thought about going that way. Like mother, like son,” he laughed, but it rang hollow. Mere noise to cover the memory. “Something indirect. Suicide-by-proxy. I was never afraid of death, but for some reason, I couldn’t orchestrate something of that caliber. It takes a certain level of commitment that I just don’t have. Recklessness is in my nature, but I survived every trial, like I’m fucking invulnerable. Or I’m clinging. Makes me wonder if I’m a coward, too, or if there’s more this body of mine yearns to do here. This troupe is where you’re clinging--and I find myself doing the same. Briery’s got that effect on misfits, I guess.” In a bid to lift the mood, he pinched his mouth into a grin. “My offer still stands. Next performance, you can throw knives at me till I’m a pincushion. Whatever keeps the hate sharp in your veins.”

Speaking of sharp…

“Well that’s one hell of a find!” Hadwin jutted his head over Cwenha’s shoulder (which she did not appreciate) to get a closer appraisal of the gold band. “Give it here. I know an authentic article from glass and paint. We could sell it for a mint, somewhere, if it’s not a forgery.” He plucked it from her fingers and twirled it around in the moonlight. Wedding band. Tiny diamonds surrounded by dainty filigree. He’d seen it somewhere, before…

In curiosity, he held the ring to his nose, and sniffed. Familiar notes, intermixed with an underlying potency. Sharp, like an herb. Forbanne stimulant. The rest…

“Huh.” He rolled the wedding band into his palm. “This ring...I know that smell from anywhere. Had many a row with her, in Stella D’Mare, and I know she’s carrying stimulant--which seems to be bleeding out her pores. Well, well...this tells its own story.” To clarify, he added, “This ring belongs to the fiancee of Alster Rigas--Elespeth. And whatever happened...it doesn’t look good. The two were on some shaky terms before, but I thought they patched it up. Anyway, last I saw her, she was bad off. Injured and bloody, with broken bones.” He curled his fingers over the ring and side-stepped from Cwenha’s space. “Well isn’t this a damn coincidence. Allow me to hold this for safe keeping. She’s not in this area anymore. Long gone, by the smell of it. And hell if I know she’s even still alive. But it’s best we don’t tell Chara. Or Teselin.” His eyes met Cwenha’s, and it reflected the solemnity in his words. “I think this is one secret we can both agree to keep.”

Consider yourself part of the Forbanne once more…

Those words haunted Haraldur. Haunted him in his tent, when he returned to salvage any dram of sleep, which by now was an impossibility. He lay on his bedroll, paralyzed, save for the latent twitching in his jaw, his eyelids, and his brow. Without cease, the images of Solveig’s release played back in his mind. Her smug smile, her long list of instructions that she “relied on” him to carry out, the shiver of her shackles as they slid harmlessly from her wrists and ankles, her graceful retreat, flanked by ten Forbanne which she requested as tribute, along with weapons and provisions. ...The ache in his chest when her massive figure vanished over the ripple of moonlit fields.

As promised, Solveig, in her exoneration, gifted him the small Forbanne army, ensuring they would follow his orders the moment she left the area. Sure enough, the tenuous tug of war between his will and Solveig’s slackened, and yanked itself to his end, opposition-free. But there was no freedom in his control. The Forbanne Captain made it abundantly clear that he was nothing but a slave. Her slave.

Forbanne once more. Forbanne once more…

His long-dreaded nightmares, a decade in the making, had come to pass. Forbanne, past or present, never escaped their masters. Even in death they waited, with whips and commands and the words, “freedom is an illusion,” oozing from their fat, oversized tongues.

Despite his toil, his cries for a better existence, for a salvation he could grasp and for the power to change his fate, she had unraveled years of progress in all of two weeks. And now, he didn’t know where he stood. Who was Haraldur Sorde? A pretender? Or a bastardization of two worlds?

Forbanne prince, Hadwin called him once. No, a few times. And perhaps...the title was apt.

The next morning, Sigrid flew into his tent in a panic, urging him into action by her report of the missing captain. Though dressed in his armor, his belt of weapons within reach, he did not move from the middle of his bedroll. Gesturing to the Dawn warrior for silence, he shook his head and sighed. “You’ll want to sit down for this news.”

In unfaltered speech, all fear having long dried away and evaporated during the long night, he explained the midnight meeting with Solveig, where he was surrounded on all sides by loyal guards and threatened if he did not honor her request for release. “You did not mishear,” he said, after concluding his account. “And I did not let her go.” Steel’s edge crept into his voice. “Should I have fought through the ambush and died in vain, when it was clear that she’s been playing us the whole damn time? Sitting back and patiently waiting for the draught to drain from her system, to commandeer the camp from under my nose? She knew exactly what she was doing; she only included me in her escape plans so I could be her stand-in for negotiations.” He sprung out of the bedroll and pushed to his feet. An aggressive hand swooped his belt from the ground and threw it around his waist, a blur of fingers and violent jerking motions.

“She ‘gifted’ me this army in exchange for cooperation. But I suspect they’re here to watch me, too. They’re her eyes. We give chase, we recapture her, and what will stop her from ordering the Forbanne to attack and kill us--or any innocent D’Marians? If I don’t concede, and refuse to relay her request for an alliance to Alster, to Eyraille, to Braighdath,” he hiked his voice down to a violent whisper, “they will know. I’m not under her compulsion, Sigrid.” I’m not, he repeated to himself, crushing Vega’s ring into his palm. “No matter what she claims. I’m under her threat. That’s the difference, here. All I can do is follow-through, and in the meantime win the undivided loyalty of the soldiers I now have no choice but to lead. If it weren’t for the trials we had to undergo just to apprehend her, I’d suspect she wanted to be captured.” He tossed his bedroll aside in an effort to fold it for packing. “This was ill-conceived, and I knew it. I told everyone not to mess with Mollengard. To engage from a distance. And look! Our naive efforts paid for nothing. Because of it, we lost a comrade, and dammit all if I can even look Alster in the eye on top of this whole fiasco, and tell him what happened to his fiancee!”

While his anger did not abate, he at least directed it towards dismantling camp and preparing for an expedited departure, pushing the Forbanne soldiers under his command in a demonstration of his displeasure. But he could not blame them. He was the upstart who usurped their previous leader, a leader who, on the hierarchy of Mollengardian military, outranked him. Still, he did not hide the seething fury behind his eyes, sparing only Sigrid as the company marched at a merciless pace on the road.

By evening, they had merged with Alster’s group who, informed of their imminent arrival by a Forbanne scout, prepared to accommodate the cadre of soldiers and their supply wagons. Though he met with Sigrid and Haraldur, briefly, Alster, fully entrenched in his foisted-upon leadership duties, refused to wind down, to shed away his affected apathy, or lose efficiency, until after both camps settled and were properly fed, and comfortable. Only when he lit the last fire did he seek Sigrid’s company, and rest. The “rest,” however, did not register in his muscles, which tensed and twisted into a wiry uprightedness, all for his steel arm; it tugged and tore him in the opposite direction, but the rest of him did not follow. To follow was to slump forward on the ground, and he refused any approximation of sleep, or relaxation. By the knots gathering between his brow, he was in physical pain, but he said nothing. Instead, his dolorous eyes tracked Sigrid’s expression through the flames, and he listened to her defeated words, the predictable stream of bad news to worse news. He expected nothing different. Nothing at all.

“I plan on learning the details of what happened. Haraldur wants to speak about it after we’re done here. Something about Solveig’s desire for an alliance.” Resisting the ongoing tug of his arm, he held the contraption against his chest, and sighed. “But what strikes me as shady is that she didn’t want to speak to me directly about it. She’s hiding behind Haraldur, relying on his pull and influence, because she believes--and she’s not wrong--that we’ll reject her request outright.” He blinked into the fire. “Nothing can be done right now. My responsibility is to the people; to guide them to Braighdath and Galeyn, before we starve. We already anticipated the possibility of losing Stella D’Mare for good, since we effectively relinquished it to Mollengard.”

His calm explanation of the situation faltered, however, when Sigrid addressed the elephant in the room. Slumping forward in his seat, he wilted before the Dawn warrior’s eyes, becoming smaller. One touch, and he looked ready to crumple and provide kindling for the fire. “It’s largely my fault, Sigrid. The two of you were doing the best you could. Elespeth shouldn’t have been traveling at all, but try convincing her of that, and all you’ll receive is a burst of stubborn pride. She really does represent the Rigas name well.” A twitch of something tried, and failed, to hold his lips into a smile. “I knew I needed to heal her, so I dabbled in experimental magic, and succeeded. But then…” he hung his head, avoiding Sigrid’s stare, “I could tell she was using, though she denied it. And I’m afraid I destroyed her trust, because when I left that evening, I confiscated her stash of stimulant, without a word. I wanted to believe her when she said it was harmless, so I reasoned that she wouldn’t miss what I stole. She was healed; I healed her. She had no need for the stimulant, but I still predicted the backlash, when I returned the following evening. She made it clear that she wanted me gone, too broken by my betrayal to even look at me.” The fire leapt, and he shivered, growing colder.

“I went about a delicate situation the wrong way, through deception. So convinced I knew what was best. So determined to fix everything, right away. I’m the catalyst, Sigrid.” He closed her eyes, still too guilty to look her in the eye. “I’m what drove her over the edge. And…” Sigrid’s question caused him to flinch. “She’s alive. Every night I try to find her, but she’s always on the move. Every night, I try to communicate, but she doesn’t sleep. Her mind is closed to me. But this much I know.” He lifted his head, and dared to meet Sigrid’s inquiring gaze. “She’s not in Braighdath, or even approaching Braighdath. She’s veering dangerously off track. In more ways than one. Her life, I feel it fading. She may be alive now, but…” The but hung in the air, and no words followed to lift the burden. A soundless pressure hissed from his mouth. He clamped his jaw to prevent the escape of his composure, but by then, it was too late. Tears blurred his vision. He drove the heel of his good hand against his eyes, pressing so hard, it only encouraged more moisture.

“I don’t know what to do, Sigrid.” His voice cracked, wavering into something unrecognizable. “I can’t lose her.” A sob choked in his throat. “I can’t, and I don’t know...I’m stuck here! I’ve sent scouts. For her… for Chara, and Teselin. But...I can’t do anything!”

“You can’t do it because there is still something tying you to this world. Maybe more than one thing.” Cwenha regarded the faoladh knowingly, her pale eyes as piercing as the Sight that allowed him to see everything that others would sooner hide. “It’s like you said to me. You said I was holding out for something. If that’s true, then I haven’t any idea as to what it is… but I can’t discard what you said as being wrong, either. You won’t die because something is still keeping you here. You might flirt with death; I know a part of you wants your deranged sister to find you and cut your heart out. But a more prevalent part of you wants to survive, because like it or not, you’ve got something to live for.”

The small acrobat examined the short nails on her dainty fingers, expelling a sigh through her nose. “You survive for the summoner, because she needs you. You survive for Briery, because, however insane it might be… she cares for you. But I think you also survive for yourself; for the sake of life. Because you know there are experiences out there that you haven’t had, places you haven’t seen, people you haven’t met, and you want that. You want all of it. I wish… I just wish I did, too.” Cwenha dropped her hand to her side, where it hung, loose and defeated. “But I don’t; and I hate that you do. I hate that you can find bliss within your misery. You can find air underwater, and here I am, holding my damned breath, when I should just let the water into my lungs… I hate that somehow, despite how fucked up you are, you’re somehow better off than me. Call it jealousy, or what have you; it doesn’t really matter.”

And to add insult to injury, that sharp pressure beneath her arch drew a profane curse to her lips; one that no one would expect someone with the appearance of a porcelain doll to use. Pretty as it was, she felt too bitter at the tiny, beautiful piece of jewelry to care whose hands it fell into. “Take it.” She shoved it into his hand from over her shoulder, very nearly punching him in the face (which might have been intentional). “Do whatever you want. Doesn’t matter to me.”

She wasn’t about to give the wedding band so much as another thought, and had already turned to head back toward the caravans, but something the shapeshifter said stopped her in her tracks. “Alster’s fiancee?” Cwena spun on her heel, then. Though her interactions with Alster had been brief, back in Eyraille, she had nothing but respect for the caster-turning-healer. After what he had done, simultaneously saving Briery from her own body and their troupe from being forced to move on without the glue holding it together, this was not a matter to which she could turn a blind eye. “Are you sure?”

But she didn’t doubt his senses; it was that she wanted him to be wrong. However, there was nothing but certainty in his golden eyes when she dared to meet them. “I wonder if Alster knows.” She mused, concern flooding her fair features, which contorted in the moonlight. “And if he does, I cannot imagine what it must be doing to him… or what it will do to him when he finds out. Especially if she… you know.” Somehow, speaking the word ‘dead’ felt wrong; like she was tempting fate, and so, she avoided it. “But, for once, I think I am inclined to agree with you… It won’t do anything for the summoner or the Rigas woman to find something else to worry about.  This… should stay between us. Though if you think there is a chance she was headed in the same direction as we are traveling… perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep an eye out. Especially if she is hurt.”

Sigrid wasn’t sure how much she could tell Alster that he didn’t already know, being connected to Elespeth as he was, and with Captain Solveig very obviously awol. But much though it hurt, the events that had taken place over the past week needed to be put into words, and he deserved to hear those words. Even if it meant he would never trust her or Haraldur ever again. “I was angry at him, when he told me just this morning… I cannot deny that a large part of me still is angry. He has yet to fill me in on the fine details, as well, but I… do not think it was his fault. It definitely is not what he wanted, and he was in a difficult position where there was no good answer. You are right; all we can do is move forward.”

It crushed Sigrid to see the way Alster seemed to shrink at Elespeth’s spoken name. She wanted so badly to reach out and offer comfort, to give him reassurance that the Atvanian warrior would emerge at the end of this unscathed, but she knew better; and Alster wasn’t an idiot. “It was more than pride that drove her forward, Alster. It was necessity--and you cannot beat yourself up over it.” Advice she herself should heed, but it was always easier to console others than to own up to one’s own mistakes and forgive oneself for them. “We were taken off guard; Solveig sabotaged our plan, and when we finally had her under our control, there was nothing else we could do but to move forward… and you were not in a position to heal her. You know that; you had all of Stella D’Mare to guide safely to Braighdath. All of those people counting on you, and you know--and she knew--that you could not abandon them for her. This is naught but a product of misfortune, for all of us…”

What the Dawn warrior was not aware of, however, was what had transpired between the two betrothed the night Alster had healed Elespeth’s grave injuries. So he had taken what was left of the stimulant… and that was what had encouraged her to not only approach Haraldur for more of those potent Mollengardian leaves, but to take her leave of them entirely. It made sense, now; Elespeth wouldn’t just up and leave without good reason. And she had not left because her sentiments towards her comrades had grown sour. She’d wanted control back, and when Alster had taken it away, and Haraldur refused to relinquish it to her… she was forced to take matters into her own hands. Because that was what dependency did to you.

“I understand why you felt the need to do what you did.” She said at last, careful not to encourage the regret she sensed in Alster’s voice. “Of course you wanted to trust her--you are to be married. What do you have if you cannot even trust your own fiancee? But I… I could’ve told you, Alster, that she’d grown dependent. Again, through necessity. She had to come this far, with broken bones, fighting through so much pain, she had no choice but to use the stimulant frequently. It was the only thing keeping her on her feet. And I… am to blame for that, Alster. I gave it to her.” Sigrid clasped her hands in front of her and sighed. “I’ve been plagued by the guilt of it all since we first departed, but again, we were without a choice. There was no other way to get her out of Stella D’Mare. So she took the herb, consistently, and it did what it was supposed to do. But even after being healed so thoroughly, as you were able to do for her, she would need to be weaned off of it… which was what Haraldur had offered to help her do. Except that she didn’t want that power in someone else’s hands. She was so convinced that we had lost faith in her, that she finally lost faith in all of us. You were not the catalyst, Alster.” She reached across the low-burning fire to touch his hand. “We all were. We all… let her down. But it doesn’t mean it is too late.”

To her great relief, the Rigas caster confirmed that her friend and sister in arms was, in fact, still alive. This news alone brought a smile to her face, but it was not enough to placate Alster. “Of course she is still alive, Alster. She is a survivor; that was the reason she was placed on this mission to take down Solveig in the first place. Had anyone else been in her position, they would not have made it through; of that, I am certain.” But all she could do was watch with unbridled sadness as Alster Rigas unraveled before her, like a unwound ball of yarn. All of them were so close to victory, so close to reaching Braighdath, and yet he… he was already so defeated.

“Alster…” The Dawn warrior rose from her seat and moved to crouch behind the stricken man, resting a hand gently on his good shoulder. “You will not lose her--I know it. But you’re exhausted, and you’re in pain; you cannot see the forest through the trees. Let me help you. It’s been some time since you had any relief from that arm.”

With his murmured agreement, Sigrid helped him out of his tunic, and took her needles and tincture from the utility belt strapped across her waist and hips. His muscles were tight and cramped, the flesh around the welded metal so inflamed it felt hot to the touch. She understood the need to be more careful than usual. “Pain can really could your judgment… you need to start feeling better before you can start thinking better.” She informed him gently, carefully sticking the tiny needles into the points that would offer him relief. “I know everything seems very grim, right now, but we cannot give up hope when it still presents itself to us. Elespeth… might have said and done things that she will regret. We all have, at this point.” She heaved a sigh. “But you’re connected to her; and for as long as she is alive, we will set out to find her. I’ll do it myself, if you want. We’re not beholden to being a nanny to a barely complacent Solveig, anymore, and… I don’t know what help I’ll be, sticking around here.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Haraldur’s tent, a sinking feeling in her stomach that things had changed between them. Trust had changed, and much though she wanted to make amends, to let go of the anger she felt when she knew his hands had been tied, and he hadn’t any choice but to let the Forbanne Captain go. But now… at this moment in time, there were more dire matters at hand. “If you want, I’ll make it my goal to find Elespeth. If she is… fading, as you said, then she will be slowing down. Give me whatever you can: whatever inkling of a direction you feel she is traveling in, and I’ll bring her back… I vow not to return to Braighdath until I do.” Naimah will understand, she told herself, without knowing--or feeling--that it was true. Her relations with the Kariji woman had ben brief, back in Stella D’Mare… she had no real reason to believe that she would even be waiting for her. All that mattered was that she was safe.

And that Elespeth returned safe, as well.

One… two. One… two. One foot in front of the other; that was how Elespeth had made it for the past day and a half. Since she’d begun to take note of the cold, again, of exhaustion and hunger, all things she had been ignoring by using the stimulant as a crutch… that is, until it ran out.

It wasn’t supposed to; she’d made sure of it, when she’d managed to confiscate two full pouches from the tents of a handful of Forbanne back at the camp. It was supposed to last her the remainder of her trek to Braighdath, and them some. There should have been enough to wean her off of its effects, long into the aftermath. But in the Atvanian warrior’s determination to make it to Braighdath on her own, alive and well, she had decided it would be worth it forego sleep. To forego food, and to forego rest, in favour of moving forward and arriving at the city long before the others, to set preparations in motion for when Alster and Haraldur’s parties arrived. That had been her plan, in earnest, but it had required her to consume more of the Mollengardian herb than before, and somehow… somehow, she had lost track. And now…

The former knight stumbled, catching herself on the trunk of a tree before she could fall. It had been just over a day since she’d run out, and suddenly, everything was catching up to her: lack of sleep and food, old injuries, and the defeat she’d been putting off since the day Solveig had gravely injured her. She was slowing down; sometimes, her heart beat too fast, and sometimes, it was too slow. Nausea threatened her so frequently that even when she came across some early spring berries to put into her stomach, she could never keep them down. And it wasn’t long until dehydration sapped whatever strength was left from her body, leaving her barely able to pull herself along.

One… two. One… two. One… Elespeth didn’t realize she had fallen until she stopped counting. It was a moment before she took note of the grass and dirt in her face, the pain in her chest from a racing heart with nothing to fuel it, and the ache that resonated throughout her whole body, trembling and shaking from the superhuman exertion she’d been putting herself through. It’s fine… I’ll be fine. I’ve survived worse… But as she clutched at the dirt to push herself upright, something she realized to her horror that she was barely able to do, as her arms had grown so thin, she noticed something missing. Her left hand was bare, no ring occupying the space of her ring finger. She hadn’t taken it off--she wouldn’t give up on Alster so easily! So, how…

It fell off. That was the only thing that made sense, and for the first time, Elespeth took note of how her body had changed. Her fingers, her wrists, everything about her was so much thinner, the bulk of her muscle largely gone from the lack of nourishment she’d opted for. And, staring at her bare finger, her heart sank, remembering her last words to Alster: I’ll see you again in Braighdath.

But… what if she didn’t make it that far? What assurance had she that she was even traveling in the right direction?

“...I’ve made a mistake.” She croaked, the first time she’d used her vocal cords in a week, and she barely recognized the sound of her own voice. Elespeth curled in on herself once she gave up on trying to get to her feet again, pulling her knees to her chest as her exhausted body convulsed with violet shivers and shakes. I just need sleep. The former knight told herself, shutting her eyes against the glare of a sunset that should have been beautiful; but it just hurt. I just need sleep… I’ll make it to Braighdath. I’ve survived, before...

Sigrid spoke reason, and Alster appreciated her levelheadedness, especially since he’d lost all sense when it pertained to Elespeth. Though he’d promised to move forward with his many, many charges, he attributed the ability and the strength of mind to the Serpent, who strangely guided him through the endless gauntlet of travel, delegation across distances, and adhering to a strict schedule on the road. Alster was in charge and the ideas, the words, and the actions were his own, but the will, the concentration, and the stamina belonged to the Serpent. Despair and everyone dies, the creature would hiss. It was an exaggerated version of a worst case scenario--but it illustrated the importance of his assigned position. They needed him to lead, to persist and persevere. They needed someone capable, stable, and unbreakable. For the Rigases and the D’Marians, he exemplified all the correct adjectives, and drove the sprawl of refugees forward--though at times it seemed as if he were operating out of a dream state. So heavily partitioned was the battle-hardened leader from the truth of him, that whenever he returned to his tent at day’s end, he had a hard time believing the Serpent hadn’t taken control of his body and mind, and led in his stead. But the entity did not lie. I see you are finally understanding your potential, It often effused. I am finding you more tolerable, in this mode. Less insufferable.

Where the Serpent failed, however, was in convincing Alster to exercise the same stalwart, detached focus on Elespeth and her disappearance. Whether symbolic or as a result of their blood bond, his heart resided in the Atvanian warrior; when she suffered, it suffered. When his mind reached out to her, across the spatial folds of time, awareness, and dreams, his chest would seize, and the pulse would squeeze itself into sickly beats: sluggish and faint one minute, fluttering in mad successions the next. He was too connected to the thread of her life to regard it with cool, pragmatic concentration. No matter how much competency he presented to the world, if Elespeth was in danger, his heart ceased to function at optimum. And no one short of Elespeth herself could soothe the purple and black bruises that formed after every violent tremor.

“I should have prepared for this,” he said in between his urge not to break down sobbing. For so long he swallowed the tears and welcomed the tinge of ineffective numbness; no longer. “I should have been part of this plan. We focused too few resources...on the most unpredictable part of our escape. I should have been there for her. I told her to return to the estate. She was close. There was time. We had options, dammit!” He took in a crooked breath of air, all smoke and no relief. He coughed and choked until his lungs cleared. “I know it’s too late. What we did in the past...how we contributed to this outcome--it doesn’t matter.” Another breath, this time away from the fire, raised his chest and calmed him, somewhat. “I need--we need--to look forward at a solution. I won’t fail her again.” And, taking a page from the Serpent’s extreme provisos, which eerily paralleled his mother’s attempts to motivate him through fear, he said, “Fail, and I’m dead.”

He was about to protest Sigrid’s offer to lessen the pain in his arm, feeling too undeserving of relief and wanting to suffer just as Elespeth was suffering, but what would that prove? How would his prolonged discomfort help his fiancee, if it compromised his ability to be of use to her, and to Stella D’Mare? Wiping his tears with his good hand, he nodded, and opened his tunic, exposing the puffy ring of ravaged flesh, which crowned the clunky, oil-slicked hunk of burdensome steel. The inflammation had expanded into a growth-like consistency, and no manner of gentle needlework by Sigrid’s practiced hand prevented the stinging, convulsive wave of pain that spread from his shoulder to his upper spine. Closing his eyes, he sat as still as the procedure allowed. A few minutes into the process, and he was almost grateful for the sharp, unrelenting stabs along the tender skin. It provided a distraction from his far more damaged heart, and at last, allowed him to think practically.

“I’ve sent three scouts to look for her, approximating her location and where I think she’s heading. I’ve given them all resonance stones, but so far, I haven’t heard a word from them. That’s why I suspect that she’s gone off into some pretty deep, dense territory. Not that these scouts are skilled trackers; they’re really all I have. But if she were heading to Braighdath, she wouldn’t be so off track from where they’re looking.” He opened his eyes, which floated skyward, to the stretch of stars across the spackled universe. “She’s drifting. Disoriented. And so very weak. She can’t find the guiding star, no matter how bright it shines.” The fingers of his good hand rose, and shakily traced a constellation. Aerione, the Heron, low on the horizon. At the wading bird’s wingtip, the white-blue of its alpha star, Alster, blazed. In actuality, two stars. A binary. The second, Elespeth, providing light and taking light. Together, they created something so bright and unified, that when it reemerged in the spring, and later dominated the summer sky, none could miss its four-tailed brilliance.

From the sky, his hand descended, surrendering in a spiral to his lap. “This will make tracking more difficult. We can’t anticipate where she’ll go when she’s so lost. But you’re right.” He hesitated. “She is slowing down. So with you on the search…” Daring to hope, he looked over at the Dawn warrior, who finished applying the needles, and had proceeded to remove them from his skin. “I trust you can find her. Sigrid,” he laid a gentle hand on her lap, “will you look for her?”

She agreed, of course, and the smile that tugged at his face was the closest approaching to genuine since his last encounter with Elespeth. “Thank you, Sigrid. I’ll give you everything you need. Provisions, extra weapons, a compass, a map, and detailed directions. If you wait until morning, I’ll have a resonance stone ready for you. The second you find her, contact me--and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Determination enlivened his previously dead eyes. “I moved heaven and earth just to reach her side, to heal her. I’ll do it again. In the meantime,” he fit his arm, significantly free from swelling, through the sleeve of his tunic, “we’ve got it handled here. Haraldur and me. I’ll talk to him, keep an eye on him and the Forbanne. If something happens, like if the soldiers rebel...well, my magic can’t affect them directly, but that’s not a problem.” He straightened his spine, and the Alster tasked to lead and protect sparked in his aura like a lightning storm about to descend. “I can still take them down.”

A week had elapsed since Cwenha and Hadwin discovered the wedding band of Elespeth Rigas. True to their arrangement, neither informed Chara and Teselin of the news, but there was no workaround with Briery. If Hadwin was to search for Elespeth, the ringleader needed to know, so she could corroborate a false story with Cwenha in case the summoner poked around the mens’ caravan during their long travel days and wondered of his whereabouts. In mutual agreement, they pulled Briery aside the morning after discovery, showed her the ring, and explained their suspicions regarding the owner of that ring: Elespeth Rigas, betrothed of Alster, was allegedly in danger, and Hadwin, as a wolf, had the nose and the speed to locate her.

“It’s a rescue operation, except instead of a man with a bunch of sniffing dogs, I’m all those things combined,” he said that morning, as he helped her hitch the horses to the caravan. “I’ll be back before dinner each night. Just going on day-long forays--and it’s better than holing up inside without shit to do. Cwenha agrees.” He snaked an arm around the slight woman’s shoulders and grinned. “All you have to do is cover for me, you two. If I catch Rowen on my trail, I’ll abort mission and swerve back here, no sweat. She may be fast, but she can’t outrun me. Never could.”

He wasn’t asking for permission, and Briery knew that; he was merely communicating his desires instead of running off without a word. In other words…

You’re being responsible? Pah! Fiona’s words snorted in his head. And all I had to do was die to see the day. Her pussy must’ve been life-changing, Hadwin.

He left, with Cwenha, and headed for the woods. But before shedding off his clothes and handing them to her for safe-keeping, he turned to the silver-clad acrobat and tilted his head. “Who knows, cygnet? Perhaps your aid in this endeavor will ease your grouchiness towards your pessimistic world-view. I know I felt real great when I busted Chara and Teselin out of Mollengardian prison and saved their lives. It works wonders for your self-worth. And maybe this is a false alarm; maybe Elespeth doesn’t need anyone to find her. But if she does, and if I do find her, any help you provide is gonna make you a hero.” He shrugged. “Getting ahead of myself here, I know. But even if this whole thing is bust, it wouldn’t make you less of a hero because of one simple fact.” He nodded his head in the direction of the caravans, out of view among the thicket of forest which they tread.

“When I was on that stage for the first time the other night, I saw the effect it had on our captive audience. They were happy. Awed. Maybe even moved. And you get to do that, Cwenha. Everywhere you go, people see you. At the very least, they’re entertained. But every so often, there’s someone in that crowd who’s inspired. Who looks at you and thinks, ‘I want to be her. I want to do what she does.’ And maybe, in your own way...you’re saving lives. Your song or your acrobatics...it’s art. Whether you’re doing these things to bide your time before you die, it still has an impact on those who watch, and listen.” A fond smile crossed his face. One steeped in memory. “I mean, that’s how I came to know Briery. Because I saw her up there, and she inspired me--and I wanted to tell her that, in person.” He piled his boots, tunic, and belt on the ground, waiting until the end to remove the final article of clothing around his waist. “See, I find those pockets of air in the water because I trained myself to search. If I didn’t, I'd drown. You can find ‘em, too. It’s not exclusive to me or anything. And really, they're everywhere.”

Instructing the blonde-haired acrobat to turn around, he shed his trousers, shook into his wolf form, and sniffed for Elespeth’s lingering scent.

And so it went on, for a week. Mornings and evenings were most ideal times to search, when the environment was cool and moisture clung to the air. However, in keeping to his promise, he retreated to the caravans before the smells of supper’s sweetmeats cooked and sent its delicious odor wafting from afar. He always stayed within the caravan’s range, which restricted his area to narrow gouges of land surrounding the secondary road they traveled on. Dipping farther into the wilderness meant losing track of the caravan.

Complicating matters in the search, a series of windy days scattered Elespeth’s scant scent in eddies, until his tenuous grasp on it was all but gone. But even with all the hitches and obstructions, he knew he was gaining near. As the days wore on, the scent strengthened, helped along by a rainstorm, which practically illuminated the warrior’s signature, trapping it in puddles and slicks of mud. Then, distinguishable footprints began to appear. Emboldened by the signs, Hadwin ignored the fade of daylight and broke into a dash. With her scent locked in, he found her in minutes: a shivering heap of skin and bones curled into the fetal position. She didn’t look human: more like a collection of rotting wood and leaves, matted by mud. But there she was, beaten and defeated and reeking of stimulant. And somehow alive.

Slowly, he padded in approach, making a few guttural noises to announce his arrival. She didn’t react. He nosed her hand, then licked it. No response. His tongue transferred to her face, where its slobber traced webbed lines across her forehead and nose. He pressed his paws on her shoulder, gnawed on her fingers, and finally, rammed his snout into her ear, and howled.

It worked. Her eyes fluttered open and her head feebly twisted towards the disturbance. So she could view him better, he backed away about a dozen paces, and sat on his haunches. Then, he transformed, a shuddering of skin and cracking bones. Naked and human, he crawled a little closer, but remained sitting in an attempt to cover up, for the sake of decency. Though it hardly mattered.

“Elespeth,” he said, tone sharp and authoritative; worlds away from his playful, irreverent candor. “Give me some sign that you’re aware, right now.” He snapped his fingers before her eyes, observing her reaction and reactiveness. They followed, and blinked, but her movements were almost negligible. “Can you move at all?” Her limbs twitched, but they lost all will to obey any order but to lay, and decompose beneath the tree. He smacked his lips, thinking furiously. They were at least three leagues from the caravan; carrying her for that length in the dark while naked and exposed did not bode well at all. He would have to run back and fetch help, but by the time he returned…

“Sorry I’ve got nothing for you. My naked flesh doesn’t have pockets; otherwise I’d have brought you some stimulant. There’s a caravan about twelve stones from here, but neither of us are fit for walking tonight. Guess you just have to warm yourself with my sunny company until I figure out what to do with you.”

He didn’t have to figure it out for long. Another smell entered the vicinity, coming from downwind; though it was faint, he recognized the distinct spice of it. Oil and grease, warrior’s leathers, feminine, tall...blonde.

“Well, you’re in luck.” He reserved a grin for his fallen comrade. “Someone else is looking for you, too. I’ll be right back.” Shaking back into his wolf form, he scampered into the darkening woods, following the scent of Sigrid Sorenson--who had just moved within his range.

“We didn’t have options, Alster. I know you want to tell yourself that now because you feel terrible for what happened, but you know as well as I do that we had to leave as soon as possible. It would’ve only been a matter of time before Mollengard caught on to what was happening and retaliated.” Sigrid squeezed his good shoulder reassuringly and shook her head. “No one made a wrong move, back in Stella D’Mare. You needed to get out, you needed to get the denizens out, and you did. And Elespeth, Haraldur and I had to subdue Solveig, and get out, as well. We did all that we could. If you want to lay blame upon anyone… then really, it should be me, though.”

The Dawn warrior sighed, taking care of where she placed the needles, knowing that there was no way to make it painless, like it usually was. What he really needed was time away from that burden of an arm, but she was already well aware that nothing and no one would convince him of such a thing. “I am a unique fighter; I do far better in a formation, and I was trained to think it infallible. And maybe with the remainder of the Dawn Guard, that is true, but it was just the three of us, and I instructed Haraldur and Elespeth to heed a formation… we didn’t have a back-up plan, and we should have. So when Solveig pulled the rug out from under our feet, we fell. And Elespeth took the worst of it.”

Standing back to see her work, and to let the precision needles coated in analgesic tonic do their work, Sigrid folded her hands on her lap. “I can’t say for sure what might have happened, otherwise. Maybe if Haraldur and Elespeth had fought the way they are used to fighting, all would be well… but Solveig still would’ve still exerted control over Haraldur. We still would’ve been unprepared, and we hadn’t the time nor resources to ensure a fail-safe in the aftermath. But if you have to blame someone, Alster, then blame me. For failing to think ahead…”

After the tiny needles had time to do their work, the blonde warrior went about removing them carefully, one by one. The affected area was still swollen and inflamed, but she noted the relief in Alster’s posture. Anything to give him reprieve from physical pain, considering the mental and emotional anguish he was suffering, was better than nothing. “So then we don’t veer toward Braighdath--we look elsewhere. But she confiscated a lot of of that herb; more than enough to get her through to Braighdath. If she burned through it this quickly, then my guess is she has only recently begun experience disorientation. And I know the ways to and from Braighdath; some are more impassable than others. I will know where to look--and I will find her. You have my word, Alster.”

He didn’t smile, not quite, but the hope in his eyes was enough to reassure her she’d made the right decision. This encampment would not miss her; and Haraldur needed space. Not to mention, this was a step toward forgiving herself for not being the ally that Elespeth had needed. If only she had known the self-reliance that the Atvanian warrior had been struggling with… she could have been a better ally. A better friend.

“Tomorrow.” She agreed with a nod, standing and brushing dirt from her trousers. “Tracking at night in unwise and seldom yields fruitful results when you cannot find footprints. If I were you, I would call your scouts back in, lest we lose anyone else unnecessarily, especially if they are not trained in tracking.” Truth be told, neither was she, specifically, but the skills came with the territory of being a Dawn warrior and a hunter. “I’ll need food and water and medicine if… for when I find her. In case she is critical condition; I’ll need to keep her stable until you arrive. For now…”

Sigrid reached out and touched his flesh and blood arm. “Get some sleep. Rest. She’s going to need you, when we find her, and she is going to need you whole, and functional. You have been charged with looking after a good deal of denizens, but you must also look after yourself. She needs a strong pillar to come back to.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time Briery Frealy had been taken off guard with the kind of news that Cwenha and Hadwin (the oddest duo she could ever imagine, at that) delivered one morning, after breakfast. Cwenha had taken her aside, first, and Hadwin had casually broken off from Teselin moments later. Immediately, the ringleader’s face became drawn with concern. “If the both of you are in on something--together, with no profanity and bloodshed,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “then this absolutely cannot be something good.”

“We’ve got a common interest in a certain missing person.” Cwenha placed the dainty wedding band in Briery’s hand. “I stepped on it around the area, last night. Hadwin recognizes it; at least, he recognizes he scent. It belonged--belongs to a woman named Elespeth: Alster Rigas’s fiancee.”

“His fiancee?” Briery’s hazel eyes grew wide as she looked down at the ring in her hand, and held it up to the light between her forefinger and thumb. The tiny diamonds shimmered in the morning light, but dirt had become caked in some of the filigree. If this did belong to Elespeth’s fiancee, it hadn’t been on her finger in a little while… “You are sure this belongs to her?”

“Hadwin smelled her scent on it.” Cwenha clarified--and it was one of the first times she’d used the faoladh’s name in a sentence that was not condemning him, or peppered with profanity. “If he’s met her, then he would know.”

“And you are certain she is… missing?  You don’t take this as a sign that perhaps they have mutually separated?”

The silver-clad acrobat shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t ask me. I don’t understand how romantic relationships work.” Thankfully, Hadwin picked up where she left off and filled in the details. He was acquainted with both the Rigas caster and his fiancee--in fact, more Elespeth than Alster, evidently. Outlining the plight of Stella D’Mare, and his own role in helping to evacuate the city (and get some well-deserved revenge on the nation of Mollengard), he specifically noted the condition in which he had last seen Elespeth Rigas: bloody and broken, barely able to stand on her own two feet, yet somehow alive. And somehow, she had manage to venture all the way out here--a far cry from Braighdath, considering she had come from Stella D’Mare. At some point, she must have veered westward and lost her guiding light. Hadwin posited that it might have had something to do with a certain stimulant he smelled on the ring.

“She must have wandered alone. This path is not well traveled; you’d be seeing far more footprints, hoofprints, or carriage tracks. Precisely the reason we’re taking this route, with your sister on your tail.” Briery pressed her lips together. “I… we all owe Alster Rigas a boon that we can never fully repay. If the safety of his fiancee is within our power to secure, then we have to find her. The closer we get to Braighdath, I imagine, the closer we’ll get to her, if that was her initial destination. But we cannot utter a word to Chara or Teselin.” The acrobat’s already serious demeanor grew slightly more severe. “Of course I will cover for the both of you, but neither the Rigas woman nor the summoner is stupid. And neither of them are in any shape to tolerate this sort of new pertaining to Alster Rigas; Chara, in particular. So do what you have to do, but the both of you will be back in time for dinner every evening. No later than first nightfall. I am a performer, but I do not claim to be a practiced liar.”

And so the clandestine operation to track down a potentially endangered Elespeth Rigas unfolded. Day after day, for a week, Hadwin and Cwenha--united by the most unlikely of causes, which related directly back to Briery’s well-being--left the caravans to search for any clues that their missing charge might have passed through. And each and every night, they came back empty-handed--except for one evening, when Cwenha returned alone.

“We found her.” Was all she said to Briery, cheeks flushed and out of breath. “She’s not good… but we found her.”

And they were not the only ones in search of Alster’s missing fiancee. True to her word, Sigrid opted to arrive in Braighdath later than what she had originally promised Naimah, in favour of finding Elespeth and bringing her back. But Alster had been right: the Atvanian warrior had veered far off the path, and at this rate, she had added several more days, maybe even a week, to reaching Braighdath at all. She did not have dogs to track scent, unfortunately, and tracking a human was far different from hunting game. Occasionally, she would stumble across a footprint, and the sharp smell of the herb Elespeth depended on. For days, she wasn’t even certain that she was following the right trail, until she came across a smattering of the herb across the forest ground, like they had been spilled. Days’ worth, by the look of it. To her knowledge, no Forbanne had come this way, nor would they have a reason to. And if Elespeth had lost this much of the stimulant, likely without realizing it… then it was no wonder she was slowing down.

And it was more than likely that she was in critical condition.

Stirring in the brush sent the Dawn warrior’s defenses, and she reached for one of the arrows Alster had gifted her with prior to her departure. Not a person; this was the sound of a wild animal with an agenda, one making directly for her. Holding her breath, Sigrid notched the arrow in her bow… and then lowered her weapon, mouth agape. “Hadwin?”

Lowering her weapon, she took a good look at the red wolf, who barked and growled to get her attention. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I don’t have time for antics. I’m looking for--wait! Where are you going? Hadwin, if you know something about Elespeth…!”

The wolf was already making his way through the thicket, barking for her to follow, it seemed. Whatever he had found, he wanted her to see it, and… a feeling in the pit of her stomach spurred her to follow. She didn’t have a nose sensitive enough to track a human, but Hadwin…

He was fast as a wolf, and the Dawn warrior was breathless just trying to keep up, for what felt like a half hour. Finally, something came into view. From a distance, it appeared as little more than a heap, earth-coloured like leaves… but leaves didn’t wear boots. Didn’t wear a green tunic, and didn’t smell of the sharp tang of a foreign plant.

“...by the gods, is that…” It was. On closer inspection, the what she’d thought to be leaves was human hair, pale skin marred with dirt and mud, suggesting the figure before her hadn’t moved in at least a few days. Sigrid’s heart raced, dread clouding her peripheral vision as she honed in on the figured over which Hadwin hovered, barking and nudging with his snout. It was as she’d feared.

“Elespeth.” The blonde warrior discarded the bulk of her weapons and hurried to crouch before the fallen figure of her friend--or what was left of her. Elespeth had grown so thin, pale… she was cold to the touch, potentially hypothermic if it had rained and she hadn’t the strength to seek shelter. Her heart was beating, her lungs drew air, and her body occasionally attempted some form of a sluggish movement. She was alive; but barely. “It’s going to be alright.” Whether the murmured words were meant for Elespeth or to placate herself remained unclear; even Sigrid herself wasn’t sure. “Just hold on. You’re going to get help.”

She couldn’t fish the resonance stone out of the breast pocket of her tunic fast enough. Her own hand trembled as badly as the tremors wracking Elespeth’s body. “Alster.” She spoke into the smooth rock, a shuddering breath escaping her lungs. “I found her. I’ve got Elespeth--she’s is unwell, but alive. We are far west of the original path, in the forest. You need to get here immediately. Hurry!”

Though he arrived in under a half an hour, he couldn’t come soon enough. Every second she spent alone with a barely conscious Elespeth and a wolf-form Hadwin kept her heart racing, anticipating the very worst. The former knight was not awake enough to take food or water or oral medication. Between herself and the faoladh, they kept Alster’s fiancee as warm as possible through physical contact, though nothing could quell her tremors. Alster arrived to find Sigrid trying to rub life into Elespeth’s stiff fingers.

“She’s alive,” she reiterated, noting the panic on the Rigas caster’s face. “But I think she went into shock some time ago. She can’t stay conscious; we need to get her to Braighdath immediately. Hadwin, you--”

But by the time she turned to address the real hero, the one who had led her to Elespeth’s compromised form, the faoladh had already taken off. Having done his part, she figured he felt there was little else he could do to be of help.

Since Sigrid’s departure a week ago, life on the road had slowed to a crawl. Combined with his lingering edginess over Elespeth’s well-being and the arrival of the Forbanne, who, under Haraldur’s command, posed no threats and facilitated transport and efficiency tenfold, Alster counted the days as weeks, months...a lifetime. The sick and injured under his care were either dead from exposure, stable in the designated wagons set aside for the infirm, or long transferred, either by night steed or roc, to Braighdath for more immediate healing. The first three units of the D’Marian convoy had already reached the city with the others close behind. Each section commander reported to him, via resonance stone, regarding preparations for everyone’s imminent arrival. Haraldur, with the exception of his dire news involving the escaped Forbanne Captain and his condolences over Elespeth, kept to his task of ordering the soldiers under his strict command, and seldom provided any company. These events, taking on their natural, self-sufficient progression, left Alster with little to no busywork. Precious few distractions. Nothing to do but worry and pine and pace and jolt awake from nightmares too numerous to count.

Despite the Dawn warrior’s advice to build his strength and rest, doing so was impossible, knowing every minute that ticked by brought Elespeth closer to the threshold between the world of life and death. Hollow self-assurances and fragile hope could only help him so much. She has my ring, he told himself. It will protect her from death. I have to believe that it will. My magic is strong and so is our bond.

But even that assertion rang with an odd discordance in his head. Something was off. Severed, and lost, and helpless to save his beloved. What if, a small, fearful thought trembled, she no longer possessed the ring?

And just like that, the possibilities for disaster flooded his head in a torrent so massive and overwhelming, that the Serpent, for the first time since their pact, had retreated Its presence from the foreground of his consciousness.

Though he spiraled deeper and deeper into a consumptive despair, Alster did not surrender the search for Elespeth. In dreams, he sent countless messages, which all went unanswered and unheeded. He tracked through muck and muddy terrain, the remains of their once beautiful, shared sanctum, but no echo of her carried on the wind, and no reflection of her green eyes shone within the murky brown stream.

When he awoke from his inner wanderings, he concentrated all his skill and power in opening the air and stepping through the wrinkles of space to end up at her side. For days, she hadn’t moved, an observation that caused him alarm, but at the very least, it allowed him a fixed point for establishing a magical bridge, using her soul as the destination. But each time he tried to open the air, he failed to maintain the connection, and the spell destabilized, rippling like a tangle of curtains caught by an endless gale.

For long hours each day, he persisted, but for days, the gates to the other side, as always, denied him entry. “Why!?” he cursed aloud during one instance, in the safety and isolation of his tent. “Why can’t I reach you? Let me reach her. Let me reach you, Elespeth!” But he could not connect with someone who didn’t want to connect with him, who was not receptive to his energies...who could not be receptive because she was too gone in mind and soul to find his star, no matter how it dominated the sky, or how desperately it orbited her like a nucleus. Elespeth would not answer. Because she was trapped inside herself.

On day seven, he received the update from Sigrid through the stone. Elespeth...unwell but alive. It was the best possible outcome he could ask for; a realistic ‘best’ in a worst case scenario. Almost crushing the stone to his face, he hurried a reply. “I’ll be there, Sigrid. Do whatever you can to keep her comfortable and stable.” Luckily, he’d completed all responsibilities for setting up camp that evening. Everyone was settling, and all travel ceased for the night. It was the ideal moment to arrive. On shimmering air, he’d appear, cradle her in his arms, and vanish to the other side, where he’d provide her with the best care possible.

...If only he could.

Ordering his next in charge to oversee the camp and field any attempted visitation or interruption from entering his quarters, he retired early, sealing up his tent and lighting the dark space with low intensity balls of etherea. As before, he drew open the curtain of air, and as predicted, it shuddered with an abrupt close. Panic gnawed at the edges of his sanity. Get it together, he berated himself. Concentrate. She needs you. You can’t fail.

Forcing his eyes shut, he fell into an uneasy meditation. Shaky of breath, he counted. One, two, three, four. Air streamed from his mouth. Limbs shivered. The pain in his arm spasmed and he jolted into painful awareness.

No. No. No!

Time was slipping. He didn’t have the luxury for indulging in amateurish mistakes. No room for trial and error, for experimentation, or doubt, reacting to silly stabs of pain, or debilitating emotions. He called for perfection. Do it right or you are dead!

He closed his eyes again. Breathed. Counted. Sank into the sensation. Floating. He floated in the welcome infinity of the void, unanchored to the troubles of the world.

Alster…

He swam to the sound, to the light that beckoned from afar. A cross-pointed star. White-blue. It overtook the impenetrable black, and cried out in pulsing waves.

Alster. Alster…

“I’m here,” he called back, closing the unfathomable distance between himself and the blinding light. “Elespeth, I’m here. I’m coming.” Their forms collided with each other, and the unification popped the void into clamorous, engulfing light.

Alster snapped into wakefulness and reflexively grabbed his chest. Elespeth was not yet gone. She had found him, signaled for his help with the light they shared. He felt their connection click in place. Temporarily at least.

Shooting to his feet, he raised his good hand, and parted the air. A slit appeared within the tent-space; the parting of gossamer curtains; a door that opened, and stayed open. On the other side, a hint of forest: Sigrid, a wolf-like beast, and the vague hints of a human, discarded like leaves on the ground. Elespeth. Holding his breath, Alster stepped through the air, and materialized before them in the forest. His eyes never left the figure at his feet.

“Stars,” he gasped, unable to hold back his shock. “Elespeth!” He dropped to the ground and pulled her into his arms, flinching at the grind of her bones jutting from beneath her tunic, and at how easily she rested against him. As though she weighed nothing at all. She smelled of rot, a human mistaken for a corpse and buried alive. He clutched her tighter, unable to stop the tears that gushed out of his eyes.

“Help me lift her,” he whispered, after a length pause. Obliging him, Sigrid hauled Elespeth by the underarm, while he took her by the left side. The limp form between them sagged at a severe angle, as though she were boneless--or broken, everywhere. His head twisted to search for the beast he’d noted from his periphery. A wolf, that Sigrid identified as Hadwin. But the creature disappeared, seemingly swallowed by the earth. No time to wonder about the mysterious wolf-man’s role, he focused on the still-open doorway in the air, where beyond, soft-blue lights of etherea flickered in anticipation for his return. He’d never stepped through with another living being before, let alone two living beings, one of which acted as the endpoint. Taking the endpoint with him could stretch out the fabric of space, as opposed to just bunching it up into many accordian-like wrinkles--as was the case, before. I don’t care, he thought. I’ve already moved heaven and earth for her, and I’ll do it again. The universe was elastic, and resilient. A little bit of stretch was of no significance.

Not in this world, anyway.

“We’re all going together,” he told Sigrid, lifting his steel arm to widen the doorway for the three to fit abreast. “At the same time. Just hold your breath; this is instantaneous.”

And it was. The moment they entered the rift, a waft of bitter cold, too quick to register as more than a shiver, pulled the skin into rows of gooseflesh, but nothing more. First, they stood in the forest, and next, they stood in a tiny tent. With the wave of a hand, Alster smoothed the air, and the doorway closed.

“Come on,” he said, never once ceasing movement. “We have to take her to the medic’s wagon.”

Together, they transported her from his tent to one of the dedicated wagons next door. In case of emergency, he kept his quarters close to his injured charges, as many patients also needed attention in the middle of the night. Inside the wagon, mostly empty but for a few huddled bodies near the front, Alster searched for a bedroll. While Sigrid supported the half-dead warrior, he rolled out the bedroll and piled it with thick, woolen sheets. Before transferring her, they peeled off her soaked and sodden clothes, sponged away all the dirt and residue clinging to her skin and hair, and dressed her in a clean, loose-fitting gown. Once they settled her on the bedroll, Alster hovered his steel arm over her cold and clammy skin, using a spell to send radiating pulses of warmth to the core areas of her body, with his metal prosthesis as the conductor.

“I’ll stay with her here, tonight,” Alster said, concentrating his warming spell around her chest and neck. “Get some rest, Sigrid. You more than deserve it, for finding her after such a long and tireless search. I can’t thank you enough. There’s nothing I could do to repay you for what you’ve done. You may say it’s mere penance for cleaning up a mess you believe is mostly your fault, but no. It’s not.” Leaning forward, he kissed Elespeth gently on the forehead. “We may have contributed to the problem in our own way, but ultimately, it’s all circumstantial. Speaking of,” he drew back from his betrothed and gave Sigrid a questioning look. “That wolf...you said it was Hadwin? What was he doing there, and why did he leave?”

He listened as Sigrid gave a brief account on the wolf-man, who’d come crashing through the woods to lead her straight to Elespeth. Once Alster arrived, he took off, leaving behind a mystery surrounding his involvement. “I suppose he was in the area and happened upon her body? If that’s the case, however coincidental it is, I’d like to thank him, too. Maybe he’s also on his way to Braighdath.”

As his radiating arm traveled towards Elespeth’s groin area, his eyes drifted to her hands, which he’d arranged at her sides. Specifically, her left hand. The ring, as he’d feared...was gone.

Did she dispose of it, herself? And what did that mean for them, once her health improved?

He couldn’t help it. His heart plied itself into an agonizing twist. She doesn’t want to be with me anymore. She’d rather die…

It’s the drug, a voice of reason reassured him. The stimulant was in control. Not her. She’ll come back around…

Eventually.

Despite Alster’s protests, Sigrid stayed the night with him, providing company and support, helping to warm Elespeth or assisting in getting her to swallow small sips of water and broth during the few times she drifted to consciousness (but never to full awareness). By dawn break, the Atvanian warrior’s temperature had stabilized, but the occasional tremors to her body indicated the continuous symptoms of her withdrawal.

Loathe to leave her side, Alster made arrangements with his next in charge to helm all outside operations, including the deconstruction of camp and the prompt return to the road, in his place. Equipped with resonance stones, he still delegated with representatives from afar, lent his aid to other patients in need, and checked outside the confines of the medic’s wagon, on occasion. But for the most part, he stayed with Elespeth and cared for her for those final travel days, when at last, they reached the outer boundaries of the long-awaited city--five days later.

While Sigrid hadn’t a shadow of a doubt that Alster could perform the feat of cutting a rift in time and space to step from one location to the other, no matter the distance (after all, he’d had to be successful in order to do it to heal Elespeth), the Dawn warrior wasn’t sure what to expect after contacting the Rigas caster by the summoning stone. How long would they be in wait for him to arrive? Minutes, hours… or had it taken him days, even, to find the right balance within his magic, with their sacred connection, to reach her the first time? And now that she was barely conscious… more shell than human, by the looks of it, what did that mean for their bond, anyway…?

“I don’t know how you found her,” she said to Hadwin, who had curled up at Elespeth’s legs to keep her lower body warm, while Sigrid held her close to transfer heat to her upper body. “But… thank you. She’s been missing for weeks; all because of a ridiculous power struggle that never should have happened. I know the two of you have been at odds, in the past, but for what you’ve done for Elespeth--and Alster, at that… I am happy to provide protection to you, whenever you may need it. That is my promise.”

Rubbing her own chilled hands down Elespeth’s arms, it was a shoddy attempt to warm her up, at best, but night had long since fallen, and they were not within their power to do anything but wait for someone more capable of helping her to arrive. Even the medicines the Dawn warrior had taken with her were useless, considering the Atvanian warrior couldn’t swallow anything in her drifting consciousness. Alster, you need to get here, she thought, trepidation turning her stomach in knots. Elespeth was bad off, but she wasn’t trained to know just how bad. And if someone, Alster arrived too late…

Fortunately, she didn’t have time to finish that thought before what she could only describe as a ‘tear’ in the night air, and a familiar figure--Alster Rigas--stepped out as if from behind an invisible curtain. He made no means for small talk, and stumbled unyieldingly toward Elespeth. Sigrid relinquished her hold on the former night so that the Rigas caster could take her into his arms. “We should be careful,” the Dawn warrior suggested, as she obliged Alster and took Elespeth from beneath her arms. The Atvanian warrior gave no resistance; she was limp as a doll, and looked just as lifeless, were it not for the tremors that shook her frail body. “I don’t know what other injuries she might have sustained…”

Sigrid didn’t quite clue into what Alster meant to do, until she found herself heading toward that uncanny tear he had made in the night. Something unnatural, unstable, and it did not inspire her with confidence that it would work at all. Certainly, Alster had managed to pass through it, and pass back, but she was not magically inclined, and… wasn’t it risk enough, taking Elespeth along as well, in her fragile state? “Are… you sure about this?” She heard herself ask, all the while knowing that they did not have any other options.

Alster must have known that, too, because he did not deign to provide her with an answer. She did as she was told, holding her breath and bracing herself for the worst--something terrible, like pain, or feeling the essence of herself being torn apart in one vicinity, only to reconvere in another… But it was nothing like that. Just a second of intense cold, where nothing existed, not even air, and then… there were were, inside a small tent. Somewhere else entirely.

Sigrid took but a second to marvel at what she had just witnessed--what she had just done, which up until tonight, she’d thought seemingly impossible, but it wasn’t long until she remembered the meager weight of the fragile life in her arms. Following Alster’s lead, they made for the wagon adjacent to his tent, and she took Elespeth’s shrunken body into her arms as the Rigas caster set out a suitable place for her to rest. “Her clothes are soaked through from rain and dew,” she pointed out, but Alster was already on a solution, sifting through spare clothes until he found a gown take the stead of Elespeth’s ruined attire. Together, they gingerly removed what was left of the rags that clung to her pale, cold skin, and as Alster took the time to lovingly clean her off dirt and mud, Sigrid simultaneously checked for other, superficial injuries. The occasional cut and bruise marred her skin, but it appeared that all of the damage was in the inside; the burden that the stimulant had placed on her organs, particularly her heart, whose beat was frighteningly erratic; at times, far too fast, as though preparing for fight or flight, and other times so slow that it required a good deal of concentration to feel for a pulse.

But she was alive. And she would recover, now in the hands of people who could give her the treatment she needed. She was weak, her body and strength completely spent, deprived of the necessities to keep it alive: food, water, and warmth. The former two were contingent on whether or not she could stay conscious for any given amount of time, but at least the latter was feasible, and Alster was already on it.

“I wasn’t the friend that Elespeth needed, when she needed friends most.” The Dawn warrior reiterated, sitting with her back against the wall of the wagon as the Rigas caster went about trying to stabilize her body temperature. “She wanted… needed someone to believe in her, even when she was so broken, and I didn’t. I let her down then, but I will be the friend that she needs, now. Among the Dawn Guard, if one is hurt, we all hurt. If one bleeds, then metaphorically, we all bleed; it is the price we pay for the unity that keeps us strong. And this…” She spread her hands, indicating not only Elespeth’s prone form, but Alster, as well. “I do not see this as being any different. I’ll stay.”

At his question regarding Hadwin’s motives and his involvement in finding Elespeth, Sigrid heaved a sigh, wishing that she had more light to shed on the enigma that was Hadwin Kavanagh. “I don’t know why he was where he was, but Hadwin found me. He knew where Elespeth was, and led me to her. As to why he took off…” She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “I can’t pretend to know him well, why he does what he does. But for all the trouble he finds himself in, I think he does want to do some good in this world… on his own terms. To be honest, were it not for him, I am not sure I’d have found her in time. Tracking people is nothing like hunting game… and I don’t have the luxury of a heightened sense of smell, like he does.”

She noted the way that Alster’s gaze drifted to Elespeth’s hands… her left hand, in particular, one that no longer bore the dainty glimmer of an engagement ring. Her own heart ached for him and what he must be feeling to see that his own fiancee no longer wore a ring, and reached out to rest a supportive hand on his shoulder. “You don’t know that she took it off intentionally.” Sigrid tried to reassure him, for whatever it was worth. “Look at how thin her fingers are. More than likely, it fell off sometime during her futile venture toward a city she had never been to. She might not even have noticed it was gone, if she was using the stimulant so recklessly… Even if the two of you had a disagreement prior to her departure, I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I knew she would be a mess of a person when called to duty when the two of you were arguing, back in Stella D’Mare, which is why I insisted you talk it out before it was too late. You may have hurt her trust, like the rest of us have, but… that is not enough for her to turn her back on you, and your future together. I believe that wholeheartedly.”

The days that followed were difficult for everyone; Alster, herself, Elespeth, and those confused at their leader’s sudden lack of presence during the upkeep of daily travel. But Sigrid and Alster took turns keeping a close eye on the Atvanian warrior, whose consciousness was still sporadic, at best, and whose awareness of people and her surroundings had not quite returned. Wrapped in blankets, her body continued to tremble violently in the throes of withdrawal, and any attempts Sigrid made to offer her tiny amounts of the stimulant to curb the withdrawal just a little were useless, for whenever Elespeth found the strength and articulation to form words or move her limbs, she could only murmur about her discomfort: the cold, or the heat, although they had come to realize that often when the former knight was feeling either extreme, her body temperature was in fact at the polar opposite. At times, it was a struggle to get her to keep a blanket on her body, but the former knight was never awake and aware long enough to prevent them from covering her up and tucking her in again.

In all truth, Elespeth had never felt so lost in all her life--in more ways that one. She couldn’t even recall her last coherent memory, and the line between the waking world and her vivid dreams was nowhere to be found. After falling in the forest that final time, finally succumbing to the weakness in her aching legs and the shivers that wracked her thin body, she drifted into an dizzying darkness from which she couldn’t find her way out. In her dreams, while her body lady dying from exposure in the wood, she was still wandering, with strength in her legs and decisiveness in her heart; in her dreams, she was still on her way to braighdath. The trouble was, every time she was sure she had reached her destination, she would blink, and more woods would appear. More trees to navigate, and it just grew thicker and thicker…

It wasn’t until Hadwin found her that he’d managed to disrupt the endless dream that she was living in her mind. For a brief moment, light spilled into the dark forest; moonlight, which she could barely perceive from the slits in her eyelids. For the briefest of moments, she was aware of intense cold, with a creeping suspicion that something wasn’t right… but just as soon as her eyes opened, they had closed again, and she found herself back where she started, searching for Braighdath; determined to get there before the others, and to prove that she was not a useless invalid like they’d thought her to be since sustaining her injuries.

The next time the former knight opened her eyes, it was not to the stinging chill of the forest. She didn’t know where she was, but it felt as though the ground underneath her was moving, and contrary to the numbness she was used to, her limbs felt as though they were roasting in an oven. Something was covering her body, which she found the strength to kick off as she groaned. “Too hot…”

“No, Elespeth. You’re too cold.” A voice reached her eyes; feminine, but authoritative. Vaguely familiar, but she could not quite fathom how… “Can you sit up? You need to drink some water.”

Her body moved, but not at her own accord. Someone took her by the shoulders and sat her upright, before pressing the cool rim of a mug to her lips. The water that trickled over her tongue and down her throat was heavenly; she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. But it was too much, too fast, and it wasn’t long before she dissolved into a coughing fit. The arms that held her eased her back down, and that voice spoke once again, but not to her: “She’s coming around, Alster… she’ll be fine. This is more than she’s been able to drink since we found her.”

She dissolved into that dream state once again, and continued to wander those woods, with a determination that she was too far gone to realize didn’t matter. It wasn’t until some time later, about a week after Sigrid had found her, that Elespeth Rigas opened her eyes for more than a few seconds, and for the first time in a long time, came to some sense of awareness. The ground no longer moved beneath her. She didn’t recognize her surroundings when her eyes came into focus; they were unfamiliar, some non-descript room with spartan wooden walls, dimly lit by a candle, a window covered with curtains so she couldn’t tell the time of day. But none of that mattered to the former night; after all, it was impossible to focus on the trite details of one’s surroundings when at the forefront of her mind was just how sore every inch of her body was.

Against her better judgment she pushed herself into a sitting position. Elespeth caught herself, her head in her hands, when the shakes in her limbs intensified with every attempt to exert some use of her muscles. “What…” She felt her mouth form the word, but her voice was left behind, somewhere in the part of her throat that she hadn’t used in weeks. “The woods… I’m not… where is this…?”

Daring to look up, the Atvanian warrior looked around, as if in search of anything to provide her relief from the pain and the trembling, but aside from a wash basin, some blankets, and a few wall sconces lit to take the edge off the darkness, there was nothing to be found. Had she made it to Braighdath? But… how? Why couldn’t she remember anything beyond falling in the forest? I don’t know where I am, how I got here… Try though she might, Elespeth wasn’t moving from the bed in which she found herself. Not only did every movement hurt and ache, but she couldn’t coordinate her movements from the tremors that had total control of her limbs.

Her limbs… What is this? Elespeth saw them for the first time; her hands, her arms, mere twigs compared to the musculature she was used to from wielding a sword. She could see the fine bones in her fingers, and those that jutted from her wrists, as if something had been eating away at her from the inside out… This isn’t me... this can’t be me! The panic inside of her cried, as her breath caught in her throat. Gone was the strength that she had always know, that which had carried her through thick and thin… all that was left were the remnants of what used to define her. As if everything she has built herself up to be had vanished, overnight, with no hope of returning.

He didn’t know the specific moment when it happened, but Alster started to hold out hope once more.