She hadn’t expected him to agree--not after overhearing his conversation with Rowen. Hadwin was dedicated to his family to the very end, even if they sought his blood, and no matter how they had bonded over the past half a year… no matter what she meant to him, she could not measure up to Rowen. And she didn’t blame him for it. What if it came between Hadwin or Vitali? She challenged herself, as a way to mitigate the impending heartbreak she predicted. What choice would you make?
But… that’s different. That’s too easy. There is no choice. Her mind quickly amended; she didn’t even need to think about it. I would choose Hadwin. Because Vitali… he doesn’t pursue death. He isn’t threatened by it. He has mastered it.
As life and circumstances were wont to to, however, she was wrong in this moment. Not about what she would do were the situation turned on her, but about Hadwin, and what he valued. About the fact that he had heard her, and he understood… of course, he understood. Because at that moment, the fear and panic dominating her features had nothing to do with her biological brother. It had nothing to do with her wayward magic and the dangers it posed. It had nothing to do with her concern for Sigrid and the state of her future, or of Elespeth and her heart. It had everything to do with seeing the faoladh walk away from this mess safely, and walk into safety. Walk away with her--and not toward Rowen and her knife.
The surprise and relief was as palpable on her face as her tears, which Hadwin wiped away with his fingers. It was a futile effort, on his part, as more flowed in their place. Her small shoulders shook with repressed sobs, but she managed a small smile, all the same. “Thank you.” She breathed. Her fingers trembled; she didn’t let go of his hand. “Thank you. We can figure things out in Galeyn… and we’ll give Alster and the Dawn Guard what they need to figure things out, here.”
Trusting his intuition, the young summoner followed Hadwin out, clearing away from the dark situation behind them completely undetected. She had never seen him flinch at death or murder, before; it didn’t strike her as the sort of thing that could bother someone with such tough skin. But that was more than death; that was so much more than a mess in an alleyway, because it had been the actions of someone he cared about. It compromised not only his safety, but Rowen’s, and Teselin had just forced him to make a an emotionally-wrenching decision: prove his commitment to Rowen by offering his life to her, or moving past it with her. A ‘replacement’. It was no wonder he still appeared unsteady when they were finally in the clear, his limbs shuddering in fidgety motions, like it pained him to stand still.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” the young summoner assured him, though how he thought her to be calm and collected in the face of danger was beyond her. Her dark eyes wildly scanned the area for--well, anything. Signs of Rowen. Signs of someone else stumbling upon the body of the councilman in the alley, and somehow gathering enough correlation to pin it on the two of them. For once, the faoladh was too preoccupied with his own demons to take immediate notice of the fears swimming through the eyes of others. “And I’ve seen… I saw the others. When she was done with them… I never thought I would become accustomed to seeing so many dead bodies.”
I’ll make it up to you, he told her. Suddenly, dead bodies didn’t seem to matter. Make what up to her? None of the murders had been his fault. She knew as well as he did that he was helpless to stop Rowen; hell, she hadn’t even been able to divine a pattern to her killings. All of this unbridled magic, and it couldn’t even save a single life… “You don’t owe me anything, Hadwin. You have nothing to atone for.” She hadn’t intended for her voice to come out so soft, but… for once, like the shapeshifter said, he was soft. Squishy and vulnerable, and somehow, she felt as though raising her voice to anything above a near whisper would leave bruises on his skin. Hadwin was never vulnerable; this encounter, these murders of Rowen’s doing… It was unraveling him in a way where he barely knew how to cope.
“Hadwin…” That haunted, faraway look in his eyes enticed her to gently pull him to a halt in their retreat from the bloody alleyway. He looked faraway, lost, and uncoordinated. For the first time, he didn’t seem sure of his next move--and she never would have anticipated what that move might be.
The next thing the young summoner new, the faoladh had pulled her into his arms--right in the middle of the street, as if this were either some tearful reunion or goodbye. It turned some heads, to say the least, but Teselin didn’t give any of the onlookers a second glance. Just when she thought she’d rid herself of those pesky tears, there they were again, welling up in the corners of her eyes, but not out of fear or despair. Teselin pressed her cheek against Hadwin’s chest and drew a shuddering breath. “You believed in me when no one else did.” The whisper was carried on a barely repressed sob. “You were kind to me. You helped me… you saved my life. I could never just let you go or forget about you, Hadwin. Whatever happens… I want us to move forward together. Even if Galeyn’s food gives you indigestion.”
Pulling away, she wiped her tears on her tattered sleeve and nodded her agreement. “Right. Let’s talk to Alster… see if he can help us leave as early as tonight. But, before we leave…” The ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. “I think you know that you cannot leave without saying goodbye to someone else, in particular.”
Working with Alster had given Sigrid a means to take her mind off of Gaolithe. Though the accursed sword was always a lingering problem in the back of her mind, the Dawn Warrior had left the majority of research into its origins and machinations to the Rigas caster, and the ever stubborn and loyal Naimah. It was not that she did not wish to have a hand in finding a way to circumvent the sword’s curse--to remain on this plane of the living, remembered, and among the people she loved for a little bit longer--but rather that she refused to be so self-indulgent, when there were more serious matters at hand that demanded immediate attention.
Such as the disappearance of D’Marians, followed by a handful of bodies that seemed to have all been killed the same way.
“No,” she agreed to Alster’s thoughts as he voiced them aloud. “It isn’t Locque. The sorceress is someone with an agenda, and that agenda appears to be reliant on getting our attention when she wants it. Which is why she used Elespeth to carry out that first murder. If all she wanted to do was indulge in gruesome killings for the fun of it, she’d never have had your wife carry it out.” The Dawn warrior bit the inside of her cheek in thought, azure eyes focused steadily on the floorboards beneath her feet, as if she could divine the answer in the knots and grooves as some claimed to be able to read tea leaves. “Even if she had seized control of another mind, why would she bury her clever work? No, this is someone… something different. And you say it was only D’Marians that were found?” Looking up, she pressed her lips into a thin line. One of her hands curled into a fist. “I don’t care if it is treason to call out my own city. But it may be worth investigating the council of Braighdath. They made no mystery of being displeased with the outcome of Elespeth’s hearing; particularly that one vile man in question. I would not put it past him to see that you feel loss, as well. Of course, I cannot go on a hunch, but I’ll mention it to Roen. We will get to the bottom of it, if that man is responsible.”
Thoughtful though Sigrid’s hypothesis might have been, it went out the window not a moment later, when there was a knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a certain faoladh (who had not had kind words for her, when they’d last met), and Teselin (for whom she had not had kind words…). Typical of the wolf-man’s nature, he got right to the point with the bad news, which left Alster pale, and Sigrid with her mouth agape. Somehow, in a matter of minutes, this situation had gone from dire to am all-out state of emergency.
“...you’re sure? That it was… him?” The Dawn warrior sought clarification, which Hadwin and Teselin alike acknowledged with an account of what they had seen. Warmth flared in Sigrid’s cheeks. “Well, whomever the killer might be… they’re doing a pretty awful of job of setting up Alster, if that is indeed their intent. I will not deny that the death of that particular councilman is going to turn heads and rouse anger, but the Rigas guard have also reported the bodies of three missing D’Marians. Even if Alster did not agree with councilman Thamon during Elespeth’s hearing, how would that motivate him to go and murder three of his own people? Not only that, but what would he have to gain from further alienating Braighdath, when to its credit, it has not ceased in lending aid to the refugees?”
“We don’t know any more than you,” Teselin interjected with a defeated look. “Only what we saw. And given how the council sought to approach Elespeth’s case… it is best for Alster to be cautious, right now. It doesn’t have to make logical sense if the council of Braighdath wants to believe he is responsible.”
She couldn’t deny that; but the council also couldn’t deny an alibi. Particularly not if that alibi was not only a proven tried-and-true warrior of the Dawn Guard, but also the chosen wielder of Gaolithe. “Hadwin is right.” Sigrid commented, and squeezed Alster’s shoulder. “I have been here with your for the past several hours. Your guards have also been in and out in that time to relay information. You are at no loss of alibis. If you ask me, we should be worrying less about how the council might spin this, and more about finding this murdered, before any more lives are needlessly sacrificed.”
However Alster chose to approach this was ultimately up to him; and now that Hadwin had come to relay what he’d wanted to, he seemed particularly eager to leave. At first, Sigrid thought it might have something to do with her--and the words she had exchanged with Teselin. But it seemed that the young summoner and the faoladh had other things on their mind, and chose to let bygones be bygones. So long as they were able to leave Braighdath that very evening. The Dawn warrior’s eyebrows knit together curiously. This series of killings must have shaken young Teselin enough to finally want to take her leave; and of course, Hadwin wouldn’t have it any other way but to see her safely. “Teselin,” she called to the dark-haired girl before she stepped over the threshold and closed the door. “I’m… I know that saying I am sorry for what I said to you will hardly suffice. But… I just want you to know that I am sorry…”
“You don’t have to be sorry, Sigrid.” The young summoner dismissed her concerns with a soft smile. “Just… be well. Take care of yourself. And… let people help.”
I am, Sigrid wanted to tell her, but couldn’t find the words before Teselin closed the door softly behind her. As soon as they were alone again, something occurred to Sigrid that they hadn’t yet considered. It came to her as she dwelt upon the people to whom she still owed apologies for her unacceptable behaviour; Elespeth, being one of them, for she had yet to tell the ex-knight how sorry she felt… and the other, being her cousin. “...what about the Forbanne?” At the Rigas mage’s confused look, Sigrid went on to explain her train of thought, one that suddenly made a good deal of sense, the more that she thought about it.
“Locque isn’t the only one capable of mind control. Look at what happened to Haraldur; that was not Locque’s doing. It was Solveig’s. She’s still got her claws in Haraldur’s mind… who is to say she doesn’t have a hold of any of the Forbanne?” The Dawn warrior paced the length of the room, that flush still lingering on her cheeks. How had she not considered this before? “We’ve been overlooking Haraldur and the Forbanne this entire time. I won’t point any fingers, but… I will go ask him about it. To see if he has noticed that any of their behaviour has been off, lately. It is hard to imagine one of the Forbanne not getting caught in the act of murder; subtlety and stealth are not their forte. But… you never know.” She cased one last glance over her shoulder before looking to Alster. “Leave this to me. I’ll report the murder of councilman Thamon to Roen. For now… just stay here, keep out of sight until we have publicly established that you couldn’t have had anything to do with this.”
Teselin hadn’t been wrong; after having traveled in the company of the Missing Links for as long as he had, Hadwin could not leave Galeyn without saying goodbye to the acrobat, Briery Frealy. The two of them found the ringleader tidying up around the women’s caravan, sorting through fabrics and props, when Hadwin made his presence known. As always, Briery greeted them with a warm smile, and put aside her armload of props to give her full attention to what it was Hadwin had come to tell her. She often did that, Teselin had noticed. She was someone who really listened, and wanted to make it obvious that you were heard. It was no wonder she was so easy to take a liking, to. “You mean the disappearances?” The ringleader clarified, and by the ashen pallor of Teselins’ face, she was right. “The two of you are right to be cautious, I’d say. Frankly, I wondered why you’ve been sticking around for as long as you have. I cannot be so vain as to assume any of that had to do with the possibility you would miss my company.”
Briery grinned, folding her arms across her chest. She wasn’t clad in gold, today, though neither did she look eager to depart. “There are still D’Marians present that could use a little uplifting. We plan to stick around to lighten the mood, a little, until the rest have been relocated to Galeyn. To be honest, that place intrigues me; it would be foolish of us to have come all this way without paying it a visit as well, I’d say. So you can bet that we will take care--and our paths shall cross again, soon.”
Briery reciprocated Hadwin’s kiss, but without that desperate edge. For the first time since she had come to know him, the faoladh seemed uncertain: of the future, of what was to come, of whether they would meet again. He needed to see that someone had faith that all would be well. And she was happy to show him that, in a slow, lingering kiss. She was sure they would meet again; there wasn’t a doubt in her mind, and that was evident in her kiss. “Be safe in Galeyn.” She smiled, and cupped his cheek. “I have a costume here that will only fit you, after all. I’d hope you’ll get at least a little more use out of it.”
Briery’s reciprocating kiss was not enough. He wanted more. Her everything and his everything, like how they bonded in dance and transcended a whole new level of intimacy. He wanted the proximity of two bodies hurling at each other with a primal hunger to tear until the skin was torn, and bloody, and raw. His tongue scooped and his canines pricked, demanding more from their farewell. And when she withdrew from his lips, his hand applied pressure between her shoulder-blades, firming her in place, and barring her escape.
“No,” he whispered, all steam and anguish. A self-destructive heat brightened his gold eyes. “Not yet, Briery. Touch me. Touch me anywhere. I don’t care where. Just do it.” Heeding his own instructions, he grabbed for the ringleader’s hand and directed it under his shirt. The cool press of her fingers against his torso satisfied his heavy lids to a close. He traced them over the fading scars of Rowen’s handiwork from months ago. The unfinished job; a glaring reminder that, long as he lived, he remained her mark.
“Rip me apart,” he instructed, curling lips over his teeth in a suggestive growl. He bounded forward with enough force to ram her against the inside wall of the caravan. “I know you’ve got claws. Tear into me.” Underneath his shirt, he cupped her hand, the sharp points of her nails dragging and digging into his skin as per his puppetry. “More,” he urged. “Dammit, Briery, More!” But the woman stayed limp in his arms. Limp with fear. A deer, in the ready jaws of its killer. His predatory instinct grew, filling his mouth to the point of slavering. One calculated move, and he could snap her dainty neck. But it wasn’t what he wanted.
I’m the prey. I was never on top. Never in control.
“Feed on me.” He captured her mouth into a dangerous kiss, sharp with the tang of rust. Streams of blood, mixed between their shared receptacle. He suckled at her, moaning as the rush of euphoria blinded him, to the point where he could no longer determine what he felt. Pain, or satisfaction? Self-loathing, or bliss? Her fears...or his fears?
The more you struggle, Hadwin, the more you warp and shift into my likeness, the always-voice tweeted, sadistic glee painting her words. Every day, you shrug away your skin, your identity, and become more and more like me.
In his temporary blindness, he saw it. The color Red. The way that Briery experienced its vibrant pulse, whenever it stained her bedsheets or hung in viscous ropes down her legs. Or when the agony spotted her vision like migrating pox marks on the skin.
But you always knew you would come to the realization...
Pressure, bubbling pressure, overtook him. A vat of caustic liquid, boiling in his head. The lid popped, and the liquid overflowed...
...that I am you. And you are me.
...scorching him alive.
Forever, the shadow effused. Sweet, sweet poison.
“No!” he cried aloud. His vision cleared. The Red receded, but not the voice.
You are me. Me. Me. Me.
“I’m not you!” He scrambled backwards, unpinning the ringleader from the back of the storage wall. Clutching both sides of his head, he ran his nails so deep into the skin that it left behind bloody welts. Refusing to acknowledge Briery, he turned away, breaths heaving so noisily, the sounds resembled a guttural, demonic entity.
“Briery,” he squeaked, the resulting noise drained of all resonance or vigor. “ I--”
Shaking his head, he swept out of her range, out of the range of caravans, and plummeted into the woods. He at least had the sense to call to Teselin, who’d been waiting by the campfire, in a tone that suggested his emergency escape was bowel-related. Traveling far enough to conceal any sign of the colorful, inviting place that acted as his home for so long, that he’d fucked, like he knew would happen, he whirled on a tree and rammed his fist into layers of bark. It was far from the first time he concentrated his frustrations on a stationary object; on the contrary, trees were his go-to punching bag. The shiver of his bones unknitting, like someone twisting apart a sapling to unveil the green sinews inside, the crunch of his knuckles caving, the gashes that spilled his blood with all the gusto of a dam bursting...it relaxed him. The more violence on himself, the better. And he needed an extra helping, today.
But his ‘therapeutic’ method was short-lived, when a rustling in the bushes nearby revealed Cwenha, sporting equal-parts swan-like gracefulness and swan-like aggressiveness. Dammit. He was too occupied with his hand mutilation that he didn’t notice when she’d emerged, or for how long she’d been lurking in the ‘murder woods.’ Might as well own it.
“You caught me at a bad time.” He swerved around, not bothering to conceal the gore of his maimed left hand. “But it’s not like I’ve never seen you at your worst--not like you really had a ‘best,’” he snorted, “so we’ll call this even. To answer your unprompted question, because I know you care,” he plastered on a smile, “this is only a temporary thing.” With a sickening crack, Hadwin wrenched the wrecked hand back into its proper sockets. The wounds, which had been gushing a moment ago, reduced to trickles, then to nothing at all. Even the fresh scratches on his face had pinkened.
“Maybe I’ll offer my services to Galeyn. Become something of a rat, or a guinea pig. I mean, there’s gotta be something they can extract from my blood to help other people heal just as fast. And it’d be a noble cause or some shit. What I’m saying is,” the fingers of his ruined hand waggled with normal functioning, “I’m leaving, tonight. With the summoner. Praise the heavens, right? I’ll be out of your hair for a time. Maybe,” he muttered, “for longer.”
He blew out a sigh and leaned against the fist-splintered tree. “Between the two of us...all that liveliness you envy about me, it’s predicated on a simple principle. You read it as liveliness. Everyone does. But what it really is, is fear.” He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped the residual blood from his nearly healed hand. “I’m afraid. Always have been, since I was a tot. I just know how to manifest it as something different, now. Excitement instead of anxiousness. Anticipation instead of dread. Opportunity in danger. It works out...for the most part. But it was never a longterm solution. Because every day I dare to survive, the fear, my Sight, eats more of me. And one day, all those failsafes that have worked for me in the past, they won’t do it anymore. I have no fucking clue why I’m telling you this,” he eased into a laugh. “Maybe ‘cause you get me just as much as you hate me. But the fact here is...I can’t live long. That’s the truth of it. My options now are: do I go on my own terms, or do I let the fear turn me into something I despise, which’ll slowly devour me? That’s why, Cwenha. That’s why it’s so desirable for me to wish for death. To let my sister kill me, while I’m still me. But it’s also why I laugh louder than you and liver harder than you; just making up for the lost years I won’t see.”
A slow wide yawn revealed his sharp canines. “Nothing like some self-pity talk, huh? Boring you to tears, I bet. Well, that’s enough of my soapbox. Now, I figure, maybe I should tie my sob-story in with some shaky moral about living life to the fullest or some shit, but that’s not helpful, and too weak a statement to inspire. And I’m not here to inspire. Really, it’s a reason. As in--you have no reason to envy me at all. That’s it. Well,” he tossed his head towards camp, “we’re both heading the same way, so let’s go. There’s dead bodies in these woods.” His tone turned to something fierce, something underlining, and serious. “Don’t be a casualty.”
Since his appearance at the courthouse in Braighdath, Haraldur had once again withdrawn himself and his forces from further involvement. While ready to declare war on behalf of Eyraille should the council name Elespeth guilty, the ruling never came to pass. According to his scouts, Queen Lilica of Galeyn had made a surprise visit and flipped the trial in the accused’s favor. Elespeth was now safe, and recuperating, near the hermit kingdom’s extensive garden with its noted healing properties. The Night Garden, they called it. He wondered if its magic would affect him, or any of the magically-resistant Forbanne under his leadership.
He also wondered if his statement to the council made any difference at all. By now, he was used to the feeling. Extraneous baggage. Insignificant. A non-threat, despite his command of seven-hundred blood-thirsty soldiers and his compromised mind, which could not shake Solveig’s orders. She’d implanted them before she left for Stella D’Mare, and while some days her influence faded, offering him hope for the end of his compulsion period, other days, the reminders, no, the orders, dominated his thoughts until he could think of nothing else but obeying. When he had arrived at the courthouse to defend Elespeth, he was so assured of its retreat that he opted to risk his standing, whatever remained of it, to show his support in person and plead her innocence. And though he’d known his quarry was present inside the building--Hadwin Kavanagh--
Kill him, kill him, kill him, the ghost of Solveig’s orders whispered.
--the compulsion wouldn’t have him. He was breaking free, regaining autonomy. It couldn’t last! The urges to submit and follow-through without question were waning. Retreat was a surety...
Until he’d laid eyes on the man, his target.
And the flood of forsaken orders rushed to the forefront of his mind. Kill kill kill.
What would have happened, if he’d attempted to kill Hadwin Kavanagh before a crowd of witnesses? Would the council then believe in the likelihood of mind-control, or write it off as some stage play...or, at best, a petty feud between two rivals? No. They’d likely never prescribe to the former as a legitimate defense. So why was he foolish enough to believe they would listen to him?
On his return to the Forbanne camp, he chose, then, to cling to the only trump cards that ever belonged to him. Death and war. Solid promises. Should Braighdath overstep...he was ready for them. Be a soldier, he told himself. A commander. They don’t care for you as a person. Only when you’re safe and home in Eyraille can you be more.
He listened to his self-instruction, and though his war declaration never panned out, he concentrated his efforts in the art of leadership. As Prince of Eyraille, his new focus was in providing aid to the D’Marians in transition to Galeyn. Enlisting his services as a transport, Haraldur and the Forbanne gathered and organized the luggage too cumbersome to balance on the backs of Night steeds or in the talons of rocs. They would handle the load, carting them in a wagon trail, and travel, without the speed of Night steeds, on the two week trip to Galeyn. Now that half the D’Marian population had relocated to their newest temporary home, Haraldur estimated his departure to happen in another fortnight. A month until Galeyn…
Yet more time away from home. Away from his pregnant wife. Was it possible to keep to his promise? To see the birth of their children?
It was starting to look like a lost cause…
“Sir,” a Forbanne sentry appeared at his open tent flap. “Sigrid Sorenson wishes an audience with you. What should I tell her?”
Sigrid? His brow shot upward. What did she want?
No reason to read too much into the situation, he thought. A business-related visit. Nothing more.
“Bring her here,” he said. A few minutes later, she arrived, frazzled and threadbare, if a person could share the same qualities as old clothing. But who had benefited from the recent parade of tragedies and violence? Evidently, only the mysterious witch in the woods. At this juncture, they all looked like rags.
“Sigrid Sorenson,” he said, with a formal air, his face a slab of slate. With a bow, he allowed her entrance inside the tent, spacious enough for two people to stand and have a conversation. Clasping his hands behind his back, he betrayed no indication of remembering their last encounter some weeks ago. It was irrelevant, anyway. One didn’t fight wars with people; they fought with tools. He was one such tool. “What can I do for you?” A common question for the tool to ask.
She relayed the latest update regarding the missing D’Marians. While he had volunteered a few Forbanne to search for the bodies, the Rigases conducted the majority of the investigation. Apparently, they had uncovered three bodies. Not only that, but…
“The councilman?” It proved difficult to mask his surprise. “From the trial? So Alster believes his murder is related to the murders of the D’Marians? And he’s doubtful that the sorceress is responsible?”
Next, Sigrid offered up her hypothesis, and the more she spoke of the Forbanne’s complicity, the less eager he was for her to continue.
“They didn’t do it,” he interjected, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would know. I’m linked to every soldier at this camp. They follow orders. Even if they’re Solveig’s orders in disguise. None have ‘gone rogue’ and are running rampant on a murder spree.” The green in his eyes darkened as they narrowed at the woman who renounced their familial ties. “I don’t like your accusations, Sigrid. We’ve been nothing but cooperative and unobtrusive since...my incident. Besides, Forbanne don’t have a preferred method of killing. And they aren’t known to bury the dead. Now, if that’s all,” he grabbed the resonance stone from his slapdash table, “I have to arrange for more roc transport from Eyraille. My guards will see you out.”
She knew he was desperate; she could sense the urgency in his voice, in his heartbeat, and in the way he kissed. But Briery hadn’t realized that all of that desperation, that dire need to be in the moment, had seized control over Hadwin’s decisions and his desires. When she parted from their kiss, he didn’t pull away--nor would he let her pull away. Something swam in his golden eyes; maybe it was desire? Or…
Touch me. Touch me anywhere. The ringleader had never known the faoladh not to be in control. Of course, they had only ever been intimate once, and that had been a time when Hadwin had known full well that losing control on a virgin who had still feared the act of sexual intercourse was out of the question. Did he think that now that she’d overcome that obstacle, she was ready to pursue something more with such reckless abandon? She wished she could; she wished it were possible to be that person, even if only for him, and only in this moment, when he so needed it. But the truth remained that just because Briery Frealy had confronted her fear, it did not mean she had overcome it. “Hadwin… I’m not sure that this is the best place,” she murmured, when he grabbed her hand and forced it under his shirt. Her finger felt along the ridges of the scars across his abdomen, and for a moment, she understood. He could be lost to her at any moment--at any wrong turn. One day, he would be dancing with her, and the next… gone. Was this his concern, with all of the the murders that had purportedly occurred since Elespeth’s trial? Was he afraid that now would be that last time?
If that was the case, then she obliged him. She pressed against the hard muscle of his abdomen, against the ropey scars… but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more, far more than she was comfortable with, and when she did not oblige, he grabbed her hands and dug the blunt points of her nails into his own flesh. With a forceful shove, he had her against the wall, crushing her lips against his own. Her first thought was to push him away; she should have pushed him away, but she didn’t want to have to. Not Hadwin. Not someone whose proximity she cherished, someone for whom she cared perhaps a little too deeply. She couldn’t push him away--and so, instead, she let the fight out of her body, invested any and all faith in him that he would withdraw, and let herself go limp.
Just as she’d anticipated, he did withdraw. She’d known he would, because whatever had just happened had not been a result of some driving carnal desire. There was something else in that desperation, something that she had seen before, but to which she had not paid any mind. Even now, when at last he jumped back, leaving her to slump against the caravan wall, she did not quite understand what it was that quietly ailed him behind the scenes. “Hadwin,” she whispered, climbing to her feet and straightening her body. “Are you…”
He was gone and out before she could finish the thought… but not without attracting a certain pair of intense blue eyes, who bore witness to his desperate flight. Cwenha did not hesitate to confront Briery, who had gone pale with concern in the aftermath of whatever atrocity the shapeshifter had inflicted. “Did he hurt you?” The young singer demanded, her eyes two flaming sapphires of pure fury. “I’ll kill him. To hell with his damned sister--I’ll gut him myself!”
“He didn’t hurt me, Cwenha. He didn’t hurt me.” The ringleader squeezed her protege’s shoulder and shook her head. “But he isn’t alright. Something is… wrong…”
“I don’t care what he did or didn’t do. He doesn’t get to just run off like that. Not without owing you an explanation.” There was no extinguishing Cwenha’s fire when it ignited; and there was nothing that Briery could say to stop the silver acrobat from setting off to give the faoladh a piece of her mind.
And that was precisely what worried Briery. “Cwenha…” She tried to object, but the smaller woman held up a hand.
“I’m not going to kill him. But don’t think I’m going to let him get away with mistreating you.” That was the last thing the blonde woman seethed before stalking off on soft, agile feet. With all the grace of a swan (and not a far cry from Hadwin’s endearing nickname for her), Cwenha moved through the dangerous wood like air, so light on her feet that nary a twig snapped beneath her slippered toes. She’d have made a good thief, with the stealth that came so naturally to her, but while the Missing Links had occasionally resorted to those more unsavoury methods of survival, Briery had never requested her assistance in them, knowing well that she’d always preferred a more honest way of living. And while she was far from an expert tracker like the faoladh, Hadwin hadn’t sought to hide himself; merely, he’d wanted to put distance between his body and the caravans.
She found him fighting with himself just a few moments away; tearing into his own flesh, spilling his own blood. To anyone else, the sight might have churned their stomachs; but not Cwenha. She’d seen blood, before; she’d drawn it, not from herself, but from others, back when she had to fight for her own survival on the daily. And while seeing the wolf man at his lowest, at his breaking point, should have provided her with a twisted sense of glee… she felt nothing. Not pity nor sadness, not anger nor joy. Looking at him, the way he was now, falling to pieces in front of her… Cwenha felt nothing.
“I’ve always wanted to see you like this.” She said, after a prolonged moment of silence. The silver-clad woman did not approach, but not out of fear; perhaps it was out of respect for his desire for space. “I wanted to see you suffer the way that I do. I wanted to see you struggle with the very notion of your own existence, fighting every day to find yet another reason to stay alive, be it intrinsic, or for another person. I don’t care how sick or twisted it is; I have yearned to see this. To know I’m not the only one suffocating from the air in their lungs. But now that I have…”
She sighed, and her shoulders sagged in what could not be mistaken for anything but disappointment. “Fuck.” In a far less than graceful gesture, Cwenha rather childishly kicked up dirt. “Here I thought this was what I needed to see, but… it doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t bring me joy or reassurance. I think I’ve always known that you and I were alike. I knew you were just as vulnerable, but you never showed, and that just… it pissed me off to no end. That you’re able to hide it, and I can’t. No matter how hard I try. Even when I’m performing, it’s there in my song.”
The small acrobat folded her arms across her chest and shook her head, pale curls bouncing against her shoulders. “Here’s the thing, Hadwin. You don’t get to decide whether you live or die. Neither do I, because the fact is you can’t wink out of existence without affecting the rest of your surroundings. You think I’m still here because I believe things can change for me? That some miracle will occur, where I can come to terms with my past and everything has corrupted me? Or because I am too much of a fucking coward to do myself in? No--hell no. I like to call myself a coward. But the fact is, I’m here for Briery. Because part of what keeps her going is knowing that I’m still going. I’m here for Rycen, because the stupid ass had a little sister, once, who he failed to protect. Who died while he was in jail, and so when I showed up, he got the opportunity to play big brother again. I’m here for Lautim, because he doesn’t have to talk for me to get him. I’ve had more riveting conversations just sitting with him in silence than blathering on with the others--and he needs that, too. That understanding. It’s not up to me whether I get to live or die--and it isn’t up to you. Do you really need me to spell it out?”
Taking a step forward, she ticked off two fingers, her middle and her index, and held them up. “Two reasons. There are at least two reasons why you are not allowed to die, faoladh. One of those reasons is a certain summoner, who clings to you like a security blanket. And the other reason, we both share--Briery. Because no matter how much I try to make her realize she is being a fucking idiot, she cares about you way too damned much. Enough that she’s been lighter on her feet when you’re around. Enough that she told me you didn’t hurt her, just now, when we both fucking know you did. And I will not let you hurt her even more by going toes up in the ground. Do you understand?” Those two blaring sapphires for eyes bore into his with all the conviction of anger incarnate. “You do not get to die right now. I don’t care that you choose to disregard the summoner’s feelings; she’s not my concern. But Briery is, and she needs to believe that you are going to keep fighting, as much as she needs to believe that I will keep fighting.”
Turning to head back the way she came, she stopped to make sure Hadwin followed. “You owe her an explanation, you know. She’s going to be worried as all hell for you, so it’s up to you to tell her something real--real enough that you’re not parting ways on that note.” She wrinkled her pert nose. “Believe me, she won’t let you off that easy. It takes more than that to scare Briery Frealy away when she is dedicated to a cause, or a person--especially if that cause is that person.”
True to her word, Sigrid headed straight from Alster’s room at the inn to the Forbanne encampment located beyond the walls of Braighdath--but she took her time. This would be the first time she’d have spoken to Haraldur since she’d mercilessly pushed him away, some weeks ago. And now that she finally had a reason to confront him… it was far from under ideal circumstances, and what was worse, there was no way to approach this that wouldn’t sound accusatory. I owe it to Alster, she thought, considering how the Rigas mage had been looking into Gaolithe’s origins and properties on her behalf with Naimah. And… I owe it to Haraldur. I owe him the truth, even if he won’t hear it.
The Dawn warrior was met with Forbanne sentries, who instructed her to wait while they discerned whether or not their leader would meet with her at all. To be honest, it came as a surprise when the sturdy form of her cousin did send his guards to retrieve her. When she arrived at his tend, he was all military propriety and countenance. Not an ounce of warmth; not that she expected it, or deserved it, after what she’d said to him. “Something dire has occurred--well, has been occurring for some time. I thought you should be in the know. And I wanted to know your take on it.”
Sigrid went on to explain that D’Marians had gone missing and wound up dead, all killed by the same means and in the same way, before segueing into the most recent murder that had taken place today: that of councilman Thamon, whose body had been found, gutted in an alley. “It doesn’t make sense that any of this could be related to Locque.” The Dawn warrior rubbed her head pensively above her brow. “If she is a threat, then all of this would be rendered in a more… extravagant manner. No subtlety, and no hiding. A spectacle was made of Elespeth, forced to kill that woman. Something to rile up the city, no doubt. Were the councilman the only casualty, then yet, perhaps I’d consider it her doing as some twisted political statement, but… what use would she have for killing a handful of D’Marians, and then hiding the bodies? It doesn’t add up. To be honest, we aren’t even sure where to begin looking, so… I just thought I would begin to ask around.” When her dark blue eyes moved from the ground to his face, they were not without guilt. “Haraldur, I need to ask… do you think that any of the Forbanne might possibly be behind this? After realizing that Solveig still has a hold on you, I wonder if she doesn’t still have a hold on the minds of the other Forbanne. And that they might act against your own wishes or without your permission, in favor of her orders…”
She should have known that Haraldur would not readily be open to such a hypothesis; in fact, she did know, but it was impossible to avoid the issue when they needed to leave no stone uncovered. “I’m not accusing, Haraldur. I’m investigating. No, it doesn’t make sense that the Forbanne would go on a killing spree, either… and I doubt that they would conduct murder in the same way that the victims were found. It just occurred to me that if anyone sought to stir discord among the D’Marians and the people of Braighdath, Solveig would be a perfect candidate, should she so choose…” Sigrid sighed and turned her palms face up. “I believe you, alright? If you’re absolutely certain that it was not the doing of the Forbanne, then I’ll leave it at that. But you can’t fault me for asking questions when everyone’s life is in danger, with a murderer on the loose…”
Haraldur was through with her, though, and already turning his back to her. This had not been all that she’d wanted to discuss; she’d wanted a chance to explain herself, for the way she’d acted some weeks ago, pushing him away after missing Alster’s and Elespeth’s impromptu wedding. But the Eyraillan prince had already resigned to turning away from her, just as she’d turned away from him. And in the time since they’d last spoken, Haraldur had accepted that she was not his family, anymore. “...no, that’s not all. At least, I hadn’t planned for it to be. But I can see that it doesn’t matter.” Sigrid shook her head. “I wanted to tell you I am sorry for what transpired, before. But you’ve already accepted it, so… let it be as it may. You’ve a wife and a home and soon to be children. There never really was a place for me in your life. Forget about me; you may not have a choice in the matter, anyway. I’ll see myself out.”
Her heart heavy with regret, the Dawn warrior pushed her way past the guards to leave the encampment and its leader behind. She’d made this decision, to alienate the only person who shared a part of her bloodline. This was on her; so she prepared to live (or die) with the consequences.
In spite of the whole blasted situation, Hadwin laughed, far too amused by Cwenha’s shameless sadistic streak to take any offense by her comments. “Not what you were hoping for, hm? That’s the problem with expectations. They’ll disappoint more than satisfy, more often than not. I’m a bit disappointed, too. I thought one day you’d find some version of me to tolerate, but if it’s not me as a dead man, or as a fragile flower, I guess, for now, I’m best appreciated when I’m tongue-tied.”
He held his tongue to his nose, but it slid off, and writhed back into its jagged, slime-walled cave. “Can't stick it. 'Course I can't; it’s a two person act.” His hands threw up in surrender. The gesture, though flamboyant and lighthearted, somehow reminded him of the gravity of their subject, one that no manner of laughter and smart-ass comments would erase. The fact remained that he was standing at the aftermath of his madness, having survived the episode by pulverizing parts of his body, while a witness to his deeds bore down on him without an ounce of mercy. Granted, every interaction with the cygnet followed the same protocol. If not for his lapse of decency with Briery, they would have a normal (mostly one-sided) argument, with its winner (Cwenha) already established beforehand. But now...it was not the same. Because his control had slipped, and there was no use pretending that it never happened, or that it wouldn’t happen again.
“See, Cwenha,” he sighed, “be as pissed off as you want, but I needed to hide my vulnerability. When you’re on your own, you need to look out for yourself. Anything to survive, right? The moment the predators and scavengers smell weakness on you, you’re dead. Of course, you’re not a stranger to this way of life.” He pointed to her chest. “That was you, before Briery found you on the bridge. When she took you in, introduced you to the Missing Links, you didn’t need to hide anymore, because everyone had your back and accepted you indiscriminately. They were your pack. A safe environment to express yourself however you wanted, without fear of the scavengers ready to swoop down and pluck you alive. So,” he threw his bloody cloth for her to catch, “you chose the path of the forever bleeding creature. That’s your prerogative. And you’re free to bleed everywhere because you can; because they’ll protect you. You wanna be like me?” A row of glittering teeth grinned at her. “Cast aside your pack. If you live a few years on your own wits, congratulations; you’re a seasoned heart of stone. It works the opposite way, too.” His healed hand absently stroked the broken pieces of bark protruding from his fisted point of contact. “You find people who accept you, who care for you, who want the best for you, and then watch as your emotional needs come flooding through. Now, you’re vulnerable. And that’s why…”
His head slumped against the tree. “...I’m right, and you’re right. I’m right, because I told you once you were holding out for something, cygnet. You can’t die because of them. ‘Cuz they need you just as you need them. Together, you’re the Missing Links, right? One link breaks, the whole chain breaks. And you’re right, cuz,” his eyes flicked towards camp--home, “somehow, I’ve become part of that chain. But let’s make this clear; I’m not here extolling death because I wanna fuck over everyone who gives a damn about me. It’s because I don’t want to fuck them over while I’m still alive. You think I’m a disaster now?” A humorless guffaw popped out of his mouth. “Just wait. You’ve got good reason to fear the dissolution of your troupe; I’m that reason. You’ve had it right the whole time. So I’m gonna throw a wrench in your uplifting ‘don’t die’ speech; if not for Briery, you wouldn’t give a fuck if I died. Thing is,” he kicked some deadfall from his path in his shuffle towards the break-line, where trees met civilization, “I'd give a fuck if you did. Why?” he blew his lips together, as though to expel his demons through noisy exhalations. “I don’t know. I'm a masochist.”
When they reached the outer borders of the forest and the caravans drifted into view, Hadwin pressed his hands together, in an alleviating crack of knuckles. “Don’t worry about Briery; I’m going back down to redo my send-off. Even if I didn’t want to, doesn’t matter; I owe it to her. Plus, the twerp’s down there, waiting. I can’t bail. I may be a piece of shit, but I’m an earnest piece of shit. Or trying to be, anyway.”
Sure enough, the moment he stepped foot on the campsite, Hadwin directed his feet to Briery. After a few fresh slaps of his cheeks and deep, encouraging breaths, he poked his head inside the open caravan, where the ringleader hadn’t moved since his assault. Courage, a once inexhaustible resource for someone of his ilk...wavered. But it was too late to retreat. Their eyes met.
“So,” he began, unsteady in his navigation of a delicate topic; another first for him, “I’ve got a lot to answer for. First off, I’ll start with,” he looked away; the Red still pulsed in his Sight. “...Sorry. I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing to do. You weren’t ready for that level of...kink. Or intensity. Or...balls to the walls insanity. Or just...it’s a dance, and I stripped away your right to participate as, well, you. And dammit, I know our rhythm better than to invade.”
Both hands raked through his hair, throwing its wild waves into deliberate disarray. His next bit...wasn’t easy to discuss. “I’m gonna sit here; okay?” He jerked his chin towards the open mouth of the caravan, the creaking of floorboards protesting at his presence. He made sure to sit far from Briery. “This isn’t an excuse or anything, but...here goes. So it’s a rite of passage for me to go mad and die. Yeah,” he shrugged helplessly, “I’m cutting straight to the point. I’m a lone faoladh, exiled from my clan. What happened to me was a culling. Cut off the infection at its head, and it’ll shrivel up and die. That’s the principle. Faoladh are cursed beings, never meant to make it on our own. Guaranteed death if we stray. Our Sight determines how we’ll go. And I,” something of a proud smirk crinkled at his eyes, “held it back for almost eight years now. Maybe I could keep going, who knows? But I can feel that I’m,” he hesitated, “slowing down.”
And I know why, he thought. Rowen’s gonna be the death of me...one way or another.
“Also,” he caught the shadow figure in his periphery, “remember my dead mam? Well, she’s right there,” he nodded to the opposite end of the caravan. “And she likes to torture me with fears, ad nauseum, until I want to fucking explode. Is she my Sight’s manifestation of madness? Is she some kind of vengeance ghost, here to plague me because I’m the reason she died? Who the fuck knows, or cares?!” His voice pitched; he was almost yelling, now. To curb the potential encore of his formless dance, he fit his fist into his mouth and bit down, hard.
“So that’s me in a nutshell,” he said, staring at the bleeding bite marks on his hand. “Fucked beyond retribution. But I’m ready for the end. Better than losing my mind, and who I am. My sister knew that; it’s why she tried to kill me. So,” he pressed the heel of the blood-spackled hand into his eyes, “here’s your chance to throw the rotten apple out of the bushel. I know you love picking up strays, but,” a wistful smile replaced the defeat in his words, “I was never permanent, anyway.”
After Sigrid’s failed attempt to reach her cousin through explanation and apology, she returned to the walled city, which had devolved into chaos not seen since Elespeth’s trial. Native Braighdathians shouted epithets to passing D’Marians on the street, and large riots congregated near refugee housing and the inn, temporary home of the Rigas Head and his council. Dawn warriors appeared on site, mitigating the hostility and attempting to establish order, but to little avail. Fear swept like an epidemic amongst the people. Two dead within a month; a councilman’s wife followed by the councilman, himself. No such tragedies befell Braighdath prior to their acceptance of D’Marian refugees. Fault rested on the ruling Rigas family; demands for their blood passed from lip to lip. Alster Rigas stood against Councilman Thamon’s ruling, they chanted. In his displeasure, his need for revenge, he silenced the man, for good, gutted on the street by some hired assassin and left to hang by his own entrails.
Amidst Sigrid’s hurried route to the inn, where the majority of citizens rioted, someone called her name. A familiar head of dark curls bobbed through the crowd and stumbled free. Naimah regained her balance and loped over to the blonde warrior’s side. Two sheathed scimitars dangled from each hip, less a decoration than a steely warning.
“Sigrid!” she shouted over the roar. “They’ve breached the refugee barracks! It’s unsafe, there. I don’t...I don’t know what’s happening! They’re saying Alster Rigas killed the councilman? That’s preposterous!”
She listened as Sigrid updated her on the latest information regarding the murder...and all of the ones before it.
“They don’t know. I’m sure they don’t know! About the murdered D’Marians!” She grabbed the Dawn warrior’s arm and dragged her to a less populated corner of the main thoroughfare. “They’re demanding all refugees leave the city, immediately. I was chased from my chambers.” Her hand rested on the hilt of one scimitar, in memory. “He broke down the door and pressed a knife to my throat. I managed to grab these in time,” she nodded to the scimitars. “And...he breathes no more.”
Choking back revulsion over her necessary deed, she sucked in nothing but resolve and some facsimile of calm. “I doubt they’re ready to listen to reason, right now. D’Marians are fleeing the city, but some Braighdathians aren’t satisfied with retreat...and some D’Marians aren’t so compliant, either. The riot's just an excuse for some to commit violence. It’s,” she pressed her weary body against the wall, “turning into a blood bath. And too much for the Dawn Guard to handle, I fear.”
The moment she spoke the name of Braighdath’s resident militia, dismayed shouts and pattering feet revived the tumult on the thoroughfare. “They’re coming!” several dozen voices announced in varying levels of disharmony. “Run! It’s a siege!”
Before Naimah could comment (or blindly follow the mob’s instructions), the distinct sound of marching invaded the cacophony of the thoroughfare. From around the bend, she caught their behemoth forms and patchwork armor. To the layperson, they would look like a band of the fiercest mercenaries an army could hire, if not for their disciplined formation and the crest of Mollengard emblazoned on breastplates and cuirasses.
Forbanne.
And leading the procession, eyes beset with the fiercest of glares, Prince Haraldur Sorde directed his soldiers to advance.
“Return to your homes!” their commander ordered. Down each row, the Forbanne repeated his instructions in unison, ensuring that everyone in the vicinity heard and understood. “And you will not be harmed. Return now, citizens of Braighdath. This is your final warning.”
Or what, then? Naimah, in the safety of their alcove, glanced at Sigrid with the same expression of uncertainty. Would he endanger civilians? Would he kill them? Or was this a mere show of military might meant to cow the city into forced compliance?
“What should we do?” Naimah laid a hand on Sigrid’s arm, as before, either to grab it and remove her from the situation, or to keep it close. To keep her close.
Although Cwenha wore her characteristic frown (it was a wonder her youthful face hadn’t acquired wrinkles from those perpetual expressions of displeasure), the silver acrobat did appear to listen to the faoladh’s desperate and vulnerable words, however absurd they might have sounded. But the truth was, she hadn’t come to gloat, or to take pleasure in his misery (which was something she realized was now impossible, anyway). She hadn’t gone after him to watch him suffer; she’d gone after him for Briery. But not only Briery; for there was also that sickening part of her that could relate to him. A part of her that was familiar with his pain, even if it was not the same as her own. And the more that the blonde-haired woman came to realize this, to dwell on this similarities… the more difficult it was becoming to despise Hadwin Kavanagh. And she wasn’t sure that that sat well with her.
“Yeah, you did. You weaseled in and became part of the chain.” She acknowledged after a moment passed in silence. Cwenha kicked up rocks with the toe of her slipper, not inclined to look at the person she was addressing, since it was difficult enough to exchange these words at all. Yelling and cursing at Hadwin came naturally; empathizing with him did not. “Like it or not, dog, you’ve been one of the Links for a long time, now. Ever since you stuck out your neck for Briery and pulled her out of a disastrous situation. Whether you intended to or not, you earned her undying affection, that day. And you earned Rycen’s respect; hell, maybe even Lautim, but I have a hunch that man couldn’t hate on anyone if his life depended on it. And I…” The silver acrobat blew air from between her lips, deflating her lungs in a hot, sharp sigh. “I hated you for it because it meant we owed you. Because you’d found a way to get to Briery, found a way into our lives, just to come and meddle in it whenever you fucking pleased. But you want to know the worst part of all of this?”
Finally, whether through courage or conviction, the young singer turned her sea-blue eyes to the faoladh. “The worst part is, somewhere along the line, even I came to accept you as one of us. Another misfit who suffered some fucking terrible life circumstances, one way or another; yeah, I knew you’d dealt with shit. You think you hide it well, but take it from someone who spent a good part of her life suffering: you’ve go tells.” Cwenha raked a hand through her pale curls and looked away, again, before he could make eye-contact. “So that gave me another reason to hate you. That you’d managed to carve out a solid place among us means that, contrary to what you think of me… fuck. I can’t believe I am saying this. I’ll only say it once, so you’d better fucking listen.” She took a long breath and clenched her small hands into fists. “Yes, Hadwin, I would give a fuck if you died. And not because Briery would be devastated. Believe it or not, knowing you’re out prowling this world somewhere gives me a sense of stability. It gives me someone to despise other than myself, and that offers me a reprieve, however small, from wanting to direct all that hatred to me… but you already know that. You’ve said yourself that you know why I can’t stand you. You know I need another target; so you’ve been that target. You accepted the role and played the part. I try not to think about the fact you’re just putting on an act; if I contemplate it too much, then all that hateful energy I get to expel means nothing.”
The two of them paused at the border of the trees, just as the two caravans vaguely came into sight. Cwenha took another breath to steady and compose herself. “You aren’t what’s going to break this chain, either: I am. Somehow… it’s going to be me. Because I am the weakest, rustiest, most compromised link in this chain.” That small revelation seemed to take the faoladh by surprise. She could feel his curious golden eyes on her. “I don’t know how I know; call it a hunch, or call me a nihilist. But it will be me. I knew that as soon as I let Briery take me under her wing. And yet… and yet, I stayed. Because I liked how it felt to be among the Links, and I didn’t want to lose that. Because I’m a selfish bitch, and I pursue what makes me happy--or less miserable--even while knowing how it might affect the people I care about. So you can rest assured, your own miserable destiny isn’t going to undo us. If I really thought it would, then I’d make one hell of a better effort to chase you off. That, and I think if you truly believed that… the good in you would encourage you to stop coming around.”
Fixing her azure eyes on the women’s caravan, Cwenha rolled her shoulders back and gestured forward. “Go and make up for fucking with our ringleader’s heart. She cares way too much about you to let this go the way it did; and, fair warning, after that shit you pulled, don’t think she’ll so easily let you take off, if she doesn’t think you’re alright. But that’s your problem to deal with.”
On his way toward the caravan, Teselin, who had obediently been waiting for Hadwin to return from what must have been a lengthy call of nature, took note of the blood on the faoladh’s clothes as he passed. Of course, her immediate reaction was to panic, but Cwenha had anticipated this, and laid a hand on her shoulder as the shapeshifter disappeared into the caravan. “I’m not gonna tell you he’s alright,” she said to her. “But he’s not hurt. Just leave it alone, and trust me on this.”
Meanwhile, Briery hadn’t left the caravan since Hadwin’s untoward behaviour, and his hasty, guilty retreat. Conflicting emotions had begun to clash in her mind and in her heart, leaving her to sit helplessly upon one of the settees, shoulders slumped and brow creased in confusion. He could’ve hurt her; he’d been on the brink of betraying her unyielding trust, and the ringleader of the Missing Links had no idea how it would have ended, had he not fled. At the same time, a part of her felt guilty for freezing like a deer who’d spotted a hunter. For not being able to live up to his expectations, even if she’d been taken off guard. But what concerned her the most wasn’t what might have happened, but rather, the fear and sorrow and regret in the faoladh’s eyes before he’d taken off. And that was why she could not allow herself to feel betrayed: he knew he’d overstepped a boundary that she hadn’t realized had existed, and he felt remorse. For that, in the aftermath, all that she could feel, herself, was regret. If this was to be the last time she saw him, for quite some time…
Fortunately, that did not appear to be the case. Briery found a way out of her sea of concerned thoughts when Hadwin poked his head in the caravan again. Her first instinct was to stand, and her second was to rush toward him, especially at the sight of blood on his clothes… but that second instinct, she resisted. In case it wasn’t what he wanted, and for fear of giving him the wrong idea, that she might be consenting to his previous advances.
She didn’t say anything, at first; just let him take a seat and say his part, and she listened, as she was always wont to do when someone needed to get something off their chest. The apology was frankly something she’d expected; she knew Hadwin well enough to anticipate that he’d have the grace to admit when he was wrong. But what he said next, as a means to explain (or at least clarify) what had happened… She couldn’t keep silent, after that. “I think… a part of me knew. Well… I’ve always suspected something. You’re not one to train in monologues, after all, and I’ve walked in on your one-sided conversations more than once.” The ringleader folded her hands on her lap and hazarded a smile, but it didn’t last. “Here’s the thing, Hadwin. You can tell me all you want that you’re not permanent, here… but you’re wrong. You might have lost your old pack, if you can even call the likes of them a family, but like it or not, you are part of our family, now. We are your pack; the Missing Links, and the young summoner. You’ve worked with us, fought for us, and defended us. And I hate to disappoint, but… there is nothing that you could tell me that would make me turn my back on you. Nothing.”
Reaching across the caravan, to where he sat, Briery laid one of her hands upon his bloodied knuckles. “Regardless of the history of your kind, I am a strong believe that we are not victims of our destiny; we make our destiny. Shape it to our liking. And I am certain that it is not too late for you. You’ve worked for me, before; so as your ringleader, and as someone who cares… I am asking you not to give up. Not just yet. Can you… can you try to hold on? For a little bit longer, in case things change for the better?” When he looked up to meet her hazel eyes, it wasn’t fear that swam behind them; it was guilt. “I know this is selfish of me to ask. Just as it is selfish of me to expect Cwenha to endure an existence that brings her so much pain. But the truth is, I am a selfish person, Hadwin. That is my greatest vice: that I surround myself with people who would otherwise give up, should I not request that they give life another chance. And yet… I’m not ready to apologize for my selfishness. Not yet. So, can you indulge me, and… forgive me?”
“Don’t mean to break up a touching moment, but… just thought you should be in the know.” Rycen poked his head into the caravan without knocking, a grim look on his face. “Word on the street says that the councilman who sought to condemn the Rigas mage’s wife showed up dead in an alley. Braighdath has had it with the refugees, it seems--and I doubt we’re any exception. Might be best for us not to overstay our welcome, and high-tail it outta here before the riot slaughters our horses, or worse.”
“More murders?” Briery pressed her lips together and stood, giving a curt nod. “Then we pack up now. I won’t compromise our safety any longer. Prepare the horses and have Lautim stock up the caravans.” Rycen nodded without question, and left to fulfill the ringleader’s orders, at which point she turned back to Hadwin. “Well, since we were both ultimately headed to Galeyn… why don’t you and your charge come along with us? It may be safer than waiting for the Night steeds come dusk. We may not have that much time.”
More had transpired in the time since Sigrid had left the inn and sought Haraldur than she had thought possible. Word had spread like wildfire of councilman Thamon’s death, and the city of Braighdath had finally broken under the pressure. The Dawn warrior entered the gates to all-out mayhem, with D’Marians and Braighdathians alike running with panic, throwing accusations (as well as blunt and sharp objects) at anyone and everyone they encountered, in hopes that the target they hit would mean something. Rigas guards and Dawn warriors fought in vain to bring some order to the chaos, but the frantic greatly outnumbered the rational, and she could only watch in horror as her people--the people whom the Dawn Guard had protected for centuries--struck their very own protectors.
A familiar voice amidst the din drew her attention away from the conflicting citizens, and she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding when Naimah came running toward her. She looked terrified, and had her scimitars attached to her hips. One of them shone with the red tint of blood. “Gods… Naimah! Are you alright?”
She was, but only due to her instincts. It was foolish for Sigrid to suddenly feel so protective of this woman, who had survived on her own for quite a long time, and who knew how to defend herself. But that didn’t stop her from taking her arm and pulling her close enough that their hips touched. “I know; the councilman was murdered some hours ago. I went to question Haraldur and the Forbanne… but it doesn’t seem as though the city wants answers. It wants revenge. Come one,” she gave a franic tug on the Kariji woman’s arm. “We have to get to Alster to figure out our next move…”
But that next move fell upon the shoulders of someone else entirely. They didn’t have a chance to make their way back to the inn before a sea of Forbanne captivated the city with their presence alone, and the cries of anger and anguish were silenced in light of the booming voices--one which belonged to her cousin. “That idiot… he’s going to make them suspect the Forbanne, if he throws around threats like that.” Sigrid hissed, still squeezing Naimah tight to her hip. “But I supposed we don’t have any other choices. If they don’t listen to reason, they’ll listen to fear…”
It was to her great relief that the leader of the Dawn Guard himself stepped out to mitigate tension. There was blood on Roen’s clothes, on his arms and face. He had taken hits, it appeared, but she doubted he had dealt any. The Dawn Guard was prohibited to harm innocents, even as enraged as the people of Braighdath were. “Come with me.” Sigrid urged Naimah, as she made her way toward the Dawn Guard’s temple: where Gaolithe still sat, untouched. “I don’t know that my cousin and Roen will be enough to get through to these imbeciles.”
“If you will not listen to us--we of the Dawn Guard, who have protected you for centuries--then I suggest you listen to the Prince of Eyraille and his army of Forbanne.” Roen shouted, so that the entire vicinity could hear. “Do as he says. Put down your godforsaken weapons and return safely to your homes. There is a murderer among us, yes, and we will find them. But until then, the Dawn Guard will not tolerate any further needless bloodshed. You disgrace this city with your behaviour. Go home, and find your heads, again.”
“How do we know it isn’t them?” Someone in the crowd cried, and jabbed an accusing finger in the direction of the Forbanne--directly at Haraldur. His free hand went to a knife secured in his belt. “These monsters, to whom we’ve offered refuge? This is where our kindness has gotten us, Dawn warrior! It is getting us killed!”
“Stand down, citizen!” Roen demanded, and placed a hand on his own sword in emphasis, although the people knew full well he wouldn’t draw it on them. “If you jump blind conclusions, then it very well may get you killed!”
“We can’t even trust the Dawn Guard!” Someone else cried; a woman who held a young child to her hip, clinging, terrified, to his mother. “This whole damned city has descended into madness!”
“You are right. It has descended into madness.”
A familiar voice called out over the din, and Roen frowned as the crowd began to part to grant someone passage through it. Sigrid took decisive steps through the crowd, with Naimah trailing a safe distance behind her, but she was not empty-handed: she bore Gaolithe, clutching the ancient sword in a white-knuckled fist. The blade, unwrapped and bare, gleamed in the summer sun. “Do you all realize what is happening, here? That if Locque is involved in these murders--and I am willing to bet she is responsible for at least one--this is what she wants? For all of us to dissolve into discord? To break alliances and burn bridges until every man stands--and will fall--on its own? Why the hell,” she brandished Gaolithe, sending people recoiling from its range, “do you think Gaolithe chose a hand to wield it now? We are entering a time of crisis, and it knew that before we did. It has ended crises before--it has brought us victory, and it will again.”
The Dawn warrior lowered her sword, as soon as it became clear she was getting her point across. She’d been right; it was fear driving these people to madness. It would be fear that would urge them to complacency. “Listen, all of you. I am not your enemy; the Dawn Guard is not your enemy. Nor are the Rigases and the D’Marians, nor the Forbanne, or any other refugees we have harboured. But we can be, and we will be if this behaviour continues. And for that--we, all of us, will lose.” She pressed her lips into a straight line and turned to meet all of the eyes in the crowd, at least once. “It is not just Braighdath that has seen the end of an assassin’s blade. Several D’Marians have been reported missing, whose bodies have been found in much the same condition as our councilman. If that isn’t enough, then believe me when I say after the way the trial of Elespeth Rigas proceeded, the Rigases and D’Marians want nothing more than to leave Braighdath and its premises. So if that is what you wish as well, then let them do it peacefully. Until then, every member of the Dawn Guard will patrol every entrance and exit to this city from this point on, until the murderer is found. Everyone will be investigated, D’Marians and Braighdathians alike. No one will leave or enter unaccounted for. And when the time is right…” She glanced downard at her accursed blade, and an ache spread through her heart. “We will have our justice. I believe that, in our history of victories. And so should you.”
She’d been right; the sight of Gaolithe had been enough to remind Braighdath that there as a reason for its awakening at this point in time, and while it might not have instilled the hope it once did, it was enough for the people of Braighdath to take their hands away from their weapons. It was enough for Roen and the Dawn Guard to begin to escort sectors of people from the streets and back to their homes. But it didn’t much feel like victory. “Let’s go see Alster.” Sigrid suggested to Naimah, as she carefully wrapped the accursed black back in its cloth and secured it across her back before making a beeline for the inn. Of course, when they arrived, neither of them were able to enter, for the forcefield that the Rigas head had established in the past handful of hours.
“Alster, it’s us!” Sigrid called, with hopes that he would hear from an open window. “Sigrid and Naimah. Things are calming down, but we need to figure out what to do next--let us in.”
Sure enough, the subtle buzz of magical energy weakened just long enough for the two of them to access the door. The two women climbed the stairs in haste, and found the Rigas head, pale and spent, sitting on his bed. “The short of it is, I don’t believe the Forbanne are responsible for the murders… though that doesn’t really help us much at the given moment. We need to get the D’Marians out of this city. Braighdath is unraveling… we can’t recover from here. If Eyraille’s rocs and Galeyn’s night steeds aren’t fast enough… then it may be worth considering having the healthy and strong make their way by foot. The Dawn Guard can accompany them, for safety, but…” She pressed her lips together and sighed through her nose. “They can’t stay here, Alster. Braighdath won’t find its sense of reason again for quite some time, I fear.”
Briery was so readable. Readable, and wholly genuine in her approach to life and in how she fostered relationships. Conversely, Hadwin, nuanced performer of the cheating, swindling kind, wielder of a sharp, silver tongue and accomplished in the craft of smithing convincing lies, had accepted his rougish destiny as necessity, when realistically, it was a mask he chose to don and not remove. Glib, cocksure devils like himself seldom inspired honesty, trustworthiness, or sincerity--nor were they quick to trust. Yet, she trusted him, mask and all. Yet, he trusted her. Every day in her company, he felt less impelled to breathe life through the mask like some troubadour of Comedy. The Hadwin Kavanagh who left a trail of exploitation and cheap thrills wherever he tread lost his traction when faced with the slippery-slick goodness of Briery Frealy. She roped him into her schemes, and he was helpless but to follow. And why? Why did her brand of purity attract him so goddamned much!?
Because, he thought, I wanted to be there when it spoiled. A first-hand witness account of the truth; that everything tarnishes. Everything…
That was his original thesis, anyway. But life was more complicated than upholding some stringent philosophy that judged people by gradations on a gray-scale. And what use was there to subscribe to Rowen’s methodologies? To him, purity no longer meant untouched, or spared from the hardships of an unjust system. It was by preserving their own goodness, and constantly persisting against darkness, that solidified their place in his eyes as ‘pure.’
No one was perfect, of course. Alster Rigas, aspiring saint of humanity, succumbed to the jaws of the Serpent. Elespeth set her life to the faulty examples of knighthood, which had blinded her from reason. And Teselin, well-intentioned little starling, withdrew from society, preferring false security and obscurity over addressing the acute fears that rotted away at her core. Briery…
Well, she might well be damn near perfect.
“If your only vices are selfishness and greed, you’ve yet to impress me,” he said, a half-moon smile exposing one sharp canine. “C’mon, busy-tail; we’re all greedy, selfish fucks. I thought that was the requirement to, y’know, living. Nothing at all to apologize for. Of course you’d never give up on me. You’re as predictable as your tightrope act; we all know you’re gonna make it to the other side.” He rolled his eyes, for emphasis. “Thought I’d be courteous, though. Give you the chance to respond honestly, after my huge unveiling that wasn’t fucking easy for me to admit at all. Gods, I’m sure you can hear my heart pounding; it’s ridiculous.” He croaked a laugh. “But...you know me.” Gently, he curled his fingers around the underside of Briery’s cupped hand. “In it for opportunity, and adventure. Not a quitter; never a quitter. Though...I don’t personally see my death as quitting, as long as I accept its course, but that distinction doesn’t matter if it means you’re still gonna lose me. So what the hell?” A huge grin replaced the droop of puppy-dog eyes, borne from the aftermath of speaking his greatest fear aloud. “Let’s go all the way. Fuck destiny. We’ll deal with whatever comes our way because I, like you, am profoundly selfish. I’ll drag all of you in the dirt with me if that’s your predilection. I ruin lives and I’m a heartbreaker, to boot. That’s not liable to change, any time soon. And you,” their hands entangled into a tight weave; he stared at them, lulled into thoughtfulness, “you’re too...fuck, Briery, you’re too damn understanding, it ain’t fair.”
He blew out a sigh and met her eyes, warm and enticing. Like two flickering candles behind two twin windows, inviting the weary traveler to return...home. The only contact they shared was through the bridge of clasped hands, and he wanted to collapse the bridge, collapse their chasm of distance. But he wouldn’t overstep. Not so soon after his transgression from earlier.
“Goddamnit,” he muttered, the hunger lighting up every furnace inside of him. “I want you so bad right now. To suck you like a barnacle and ravish you right and proper--do the dance we both know by heart. To give you everything you’ve been denied, and then some. No pain--only pleasure, because fuck, you know I can do that for you. But,” he withdrew his hand and stood up, idly checking his appearance in the mirror (a little scruffy, and like he escaped from a street-fight), “that’s not my decision. And like hell would we; may have ruined that chance for a good while, I’d say. Or for good. So don’t worry, Brie.” He glanced her way via the mirror. “I’m a big boy; I’ll get it together.”
He didn’t have to dwell long harboring the heights of his sexual tension, before Rycen hopped inside the caravan and briefed them on the situation inside Braighdath’s walls. Hadwin’s mouth clamped shut as he let each word marinate. Rowen, I hope you’re at least watching your goddamn spectacle unfold, he thought, bitterly. It’d be a shame if you didn’t get a good view.
“Oh yeah, that body.” He leaned against the dresser with a casual air. “Me and the kid found it, before. Surprised it took this long for the city to raise a stink over their dearest councilman. People’ll riot over anything; the man only just got popular. Tragically murdered wives will do wonders for your image. Hey, Tes!” He called over the summoner, who was sitting beside Cwenha, absently poking the fire with a stick. “Change of plans.” By his beckoning hand, she met him at the steps to the caravan. “We either need to find a fast day steed, or hitch a ride with the Links, again. If we head out now, we’ll beat the crowd to the roads, but it’ll be long travel.” The former plan sounded like the best option--their only option, presently, unless they wanted to sit out the panic and travel to Galeyn as scheduled. “I’ll leave it to you.” Because, were it up to him...he’d have difficulty deciding. On the one hand, he’d get to slum it with the Missing Links, reliving the cherished experience of getting tousled around in a tiny living space for long days among his favorite people. On the other hand…
Their slow pace would allow Rowen to catch them with ease, if that was her aim. And…
He’d have to reacquaint himself with his hand, because he never yearned for a woman (or a man) as badly as he was yearning for Briery. And that urge didn’t seem likely to fade during the lengthy journey to Galeyn.
Throughout his dread procession, Haraldur and the Forbanne had met some ready opposition. Braighdathians had approached to shout their accusations, emboldened by the backing of their unorganized revolt. They slung charge after countless charge (always of the murder variety), and the Forbanne Prince found it quite simple to ignore their petty, baseless nattering. But when he and his soldiers approached the town square, where the majority of the city rebels gathered, he deigned to speak--for the sake of clemency and for Roen, who failed to quell and disarm the citizens’ ire.
“If the Forbanne were responsible,” Haraldur singled out the naysayer in the crowd, his glare like lowering clouds before a pressure shift, “you’d know it. We don’t cover our tracks. We set examples, in plain view. No reason for us to hide the blood and flee from our crimes.” One deft hand transferred to the hilt of his sword, a subtle move that demonstrated, without conveying into words, his eagerness to demonstrate a Forbanne’s killing methods, should the rioter see a reason to retaliate. Some of the bolder citizens, including him, silenced their vitriol and receded into their mob formation.
But threats and promised action were not enough to establish order. Not until a voice cut through the crowd like the symbolic sword she wielded. Sigrid and Gaolithe pushed into the fray, both the warrior and her holy weapon gleaming gold in the midday sun. Her speech seemed to have the intended effect; slowly, the headstrong remains of the Braighdathian resistance front scattered, defeated before the true fight even began.
“D’Marians,” Haraldur’s voice boomed through the crowd, “follow us. We’ll deliver you safe passage outside the city walls.” With the stomping of his foot, the Forbanne swerved around and headed in the direction whence they arrived, picking up D’Marian stragglers along the way.
Meanwhile, Naimah, helpless but to stand back and watch the proceedings unfold, as Sigrid carted around that heinous sword in a last-ditch attempt to avert a crisis, finally darted back to her side when the worst had dispersed, her eyes never leaving the wicked glint of Gaolithe’s blade. It was the first time she’d seen it without its wrappings, and its proximity to Sigrid’s flesh...rankled her. How she wished to wrench it free from her hands and shatter the horrid thing into harmless pieces, but doing so would end her life, and possibly ensure the path of Sigrid’s onerous destiny. For now, she ground her jaw and stared onward, towards the formerly-besieged inn. Now, one could walk to the front doors without much resistance.
“Are you,” her hand gestured to the sword, “keeping it with you? Why not--” but her protests trailed away into inaudible whispers as the Dawn warrior’s powerful voice called for Alster, and allegedly pierced the magical barriers bespelled around the inn’s perimeter. Once inside, they scrambled up the stairs and into the Rigas Head’s room, where they found him slumped over his bed, pale as a marble statue, but unsteady as a leaf in the wind. He was trembling, his steel arm the only solid, unwavering structure attached to his failing body--which he had grappled for dear life.
Half-expecting him to startle from his bed as they entered, Alster did not react. With a shaky exhale, he rose to his feet and turned to face his guests.
“Yes,” he responded to Sigrid’s quick-paced instructions with a slow, almost meditative cadence--though everything about it betrayed his tremulous form. “I know, Sigrid. I’ve informed my generals by resonance stone to safely see all D’Marians out of the city. As we speak, they’re herding people out of the barracks and to the gates. Luckily,” he squeezed the cool, unyielding metal of his right palm, “we’ve transferred most of our less-able citizens to Galeyn weeks ago. The majority can go by foot; the Forbanne will accompany them. Haraldur already seems to be taking charge. Your Dawn Guard are needed here, I’m afraid--to douse the fires that our presence here has sparked.” His eyes grazed the hilt of Gaolithe protruding from Sigrid’s back, but if he shared a similar opinion with Naimah, he kept it to himself. “We’ll make this quick and painless. We’re getting quite good at emulating the nomadic lifestyle.” His dark smile only accentuated the dark hollows around his eyes. “Thank you for checking in on me. I’m glad the two of you are unharmed, at least. Though,” he lowered those haunted eyes to his feet, “I can’t say the same about everyone else. Four more have been reported dead. What else is to come, I wonder?”
Six dead D’Marians, one dead councilman...and the city fell like Dominoes. One by one by one, human nature reared its ugly truth and awakened in all souls, both active in their horribleness, and dormant in their purported goodness. Few Braighdathians were spared from the conflagration borne from their own twisted minds--
And it was a delight to watch. All from her view atop the wall.
Over the years, Rowen had developed the skill for climbing. First, she had tested her mettle on the grand oak trees that populated her country with their old-growth, moss-grown tangle of solid limbs and wispy branches. She’d climbed them in the dry season, climbed them in the wet season, when grip strength mattered less than balance, or falling to avoid injury. Finally, she’d graduated to buildings; squat cottages with thatched roofing, riveted wood surfaces, sturdy stone and masonry structures that often rubbed the skin raw, towers as tall as trees, and fortified walls with an unforgiving lack of hand and footholds. Briaighdath’s wall took some time to scale, but she’d excelled at ascending and descending (and jumping) in the weeks since she’d caught up to Hadwin and his coterie of circus freaks. What a gas! The man always kept questionable company, but to choose them over her? Worse even, to ogle the weak-willed summoner, swaying to her tears and her dependency?
He didn’t love her. Hell, Hadwin Kavanagh loved no one. Fiona had corrupted him, and stole the last of his goodness when she died. Now, he was a fully-awakened, fully realized human. A human, as they were meant to be. Like the whole of Braighdath, reeling in their transition from inauthentic decency to unadulterated malice. They all deserved to die. It was a mercy, to reveal the truth of their sin, and deliver them by the blade of her exacting knife.
If that were the case, why didn’t she finish Hadwin?
Because...she needed him to recognize that her crusade was necessary. That she couldn’t be stopped, nor would she stop. And for all his evil...he would cover for her. Always. The fool had his uses, unsavory talents and all.
After climbing down the wall of Braighdath with practiced spider-stealth, Rowen darted towards the woods. She had seen enough. Spilled blood and petty feuds, mitigated only by fear and the promise of some sacred sword’s deliverance. She resented Hadwin all the more for missing her brilliant orchestration of events. He would have taken sick pleasure in the spread of chaos and anarchy. Strife was his candy. Contrarily, it disgusted her...but she would see her ambitious goals through to the end:
Reveal the hidden darkness. Eradicate all darkness.
As she sat on the forest floor, isolated from society’s septic influences, she removed her blood-stained tunic, tiring of the textural awkwardness of fabric sliding against her skin. However, she could not anticipate the pleasure of shifting into her wolf form; the sensation of intruding eyes announced their arrival, raising the fine hairs on her neck.
“Who’s there!?” She drew her knife and pointed it at...nothing. The disturbance encroached, invisible to the undiscerning eye, as it did not yet reveal its true form. Not that it mattered; she sensed its presence, and smelled its lingering aroma. It…no. She. A woman. She reeked of magic. A witch; a sorceress. Could it be--?
“Are you Locque?” Her knife twisted, catching the weak light that passed through the forest canopy. “What do you want?”
“Now, I never said that selfishness and greed are my only human vices, faoladh; just my most prominent. Come on, now, you of all people should know I am no saint.” The ringleader’s mouth curled into a cheeky grin, a smile that was finally able to reach her eyes. “I’m a thief just as much as I am an entertainer; you can try to justify it all you want with cruel life circumstances forcing my hand, but stealing is stealing. I work with a criminal who I personally--and very illegally--broke out of jail, along with someone who I have a hunch has quite the aptitude and appetite to commit murder… and I think we both know I’m not talking about Lautim.”
Briery shook her head, but did not pull away from Hadwin, even in light of the shroud of shame that she carried around like an invisible blanket. “I get what you’re saying. Life makes us this way; what if I’d never been an orphan? Perhaps I’d have found my way into a more… well, socially-accepted profession that demands respect. Or what if my body was not constantly fighting a debilitating disease? I’d never have the inclination to steal. No, what makes me as impure and as tarnished as the way you see yourself isn’t just that I am selfish and greedy and committed--and, hell, may continue to commit--illegal acts. It’s that not a day goes by that I feel inclined to apologize for any of it. Because were it not for the path that led me to where I am, now… poverty, sickness, you name it, the Missing Links would not have found one another. And I… would not have found you.
“So… no. It will take more than a desperate lapse in sanity to push me away, Hadwin. I’m annoying like that; I cling like a periwinkle to a rock. And for some reason, you just happen to be my favorite rock.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He was warm; hell, he was always warm, to the point where she’d joked in the past of him being hot-blooded, which she’d teased him about fueling his insatiable appetite for adrenaline--and adrenaline-inducing activities. “I know that I can never ask you to stay. Not with the Missing Links, if you feel you’re too detached to be part of a chain. But I will maintain what I asked you before, when we spent the night at that tavern.” Briery squeezed his hand and met his golden eyes. “I am asking you to survive. If not for me, if not for the Missing Links, and even if not for Teselin… then for yourself. Because it is not too late, and not all is lost. Although, I’d like to think that I can find a reason for you to live for me… Let me contemplate that one a while.” She smirked. “And I’ll get back to you.”
In a way, she found that reason in his next confession, the way he blew air from his lungs and looked as though he was struggling to compose himself. With her free hand, the golden acrobat brushed her knuckles against his cheek when he averted his gaze in what appeared to be shame. “So you had a bad lapse in judgment. And what came of it, Hadwin? Are you hurt? Am I hurt?” Of course, the answer was plain and obvious, before she even shook her head. “Here’s the thing. Through you, I found out that it may be possible not to live a boring life of celibacy. Though while you might think I’m too understanding… well, you should also know that I don’t trust, so easily. Especially not when it comes to my body and my health. I chose to explore other avenues because of you: because you gave me that opportunity. Because you have given me more than ample reason to believe that I can trust you… and because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you would never hurt me. And what happened earlier… that doesn’t change anything.”
Briery closed the gap between them with the introduction of another kiss, her hand trailing down his cheek and hooking behind the back of his neck. “And I know I won’t have you around, all of the time, forever… so who is to say the selfish part of me doesn’t want to take advantage of having the company of the only person on this planet to whom I trust my body, broken though it may be? I told you,” her hazel eyes simmered. “I’m selfish. And not always for the right reasons.”
The suggestion that the ringleader was ready for him then and there hung heavy between them, but alas, the moment was not meant to be--not at that time, when Rycen delivered the news of the chaos engulfing Braighdath. More than fear, Briery exhibited an air off annoyance: not toward Rycen for being responsible, but for the awful timing of this most recent crisis. She huffed a breath of air and reluctantly took a step away from Hadwin. “This isn’t over,” she promised him with a hungry gleam in her hazel eyes, before the two of them stepped out of the caravan, met by Cwenha and Teselin, who also appeared aware of the bad news.
For a moment, the young summoner seemed overwhelmed at being presented with the options for their departure. Initially, waiting for a Night steed had seemed to be the fastest means of reaching Galeyn before Braighdath sought to suspect either of them for the murder of the councilman. But the fastest means were no longer the safest means, and it said a lot that Briery Frealy herself was hell-bent on packing up the Missing Links and fleeing, when the entertainment troupe had endured even after relations between the D’Marians and Braighdath had gone south, following Elespeth’s involvement in murder. “I… I don’t think that we should split up. Any of us.” She said at last, looking between Hadwin and the four performers, before settling her attention on the faoladh. “We may not have the luxury of safely awaiting a Night steed,” she then turned her eyes to the Missing Links, “and while I do not mean any offense, you don’t seem to have sufficient protection against whatever might await you, out there. We can help each other; let’s travel together.”
“Then we will stick together,” the ringleader agreed, giving Teselin’s shoulder a light squeeze. “We’ll pack up and depart immediately. Shouldn’t take us more than a day or two, if we don’t rest long at night. Come on.” Briery made a beeline for what few provisions remained around the still-flickering campfire. “If we beat the crowd, we’ll beat the panic, too.”
With the crowd cowed into complacency (however brief it might be), Sigrid and Naimah did not stick around to watch whether it was about to unravel. Truth be told, the Dawn warrior wasn’t certain that Alster would hear her plea from outside the inn, but it turned out that luck was in their favor, and she and the Kariji woman stole away to safety as soon as the faint hum of magic dimmed and permitted them entry.
The state of Alster Rigas, pale and trembling on the edge of his bed, did not surprise the blonde warrior in the least. He hadn’t been well since Elespeth had left, overburdened with guilt on top of the responsibility that weighed on his shoulders. It wasn’t so dire that he had ceased to think logically, at least. The Rigas head was right: as noble an offer as it was to have the Dawn Guard safely escort the D’Marians to Galeyn, as a gesture of goodwill when the rest of Braighdath sought to condemn them, those warriors were needed here to keep that very city under wraps. This was the first time in the long history of the Dawn Guard and Braighdath where both did not see eye to eye on matters, and while she had too much on her mind to dwell on it, she feared for what the future of the city and the warrior clan’s relationship might hold. “Wait… for more have been reported dead since this morning?” The blonde warrior asked for clarification. A crease formed between her brows. “Well, the number of D’Marians who remain is small enough that they shouldn’t be touchable if they’re escorted by Haraldur and the Forbanne, they should be nigh untouchable. Though… I feel I should tell you, I don’t think I should be part of any future correspondence with Haraldur. He doesn’t understand what is... going on, and… I don’t believe that he is in a place where he is open enough to try and understand. And I cannot fault him that.”
She was, of course, referring to Gaolithe, and the dark destiny it planned to deal her when it fulfilled its purpose. It did not escape her notice, the way that both Alster and Naimah looked at the blade with wary eyes. She didn’t blame them; at the same time, she wished it didn’t have to be their burden to bear, however unrealistic that might be. “I needed to make a point,” she said at last, answering the question that she thought she’d heard Naimah pose earlier, and the one that now lingered in Alster’s blue eyes. “And with the state of discord this city is in, I don’t trust that it is safe at the temple. Not if the Dawn Guard has its hands tied with other matters. But… that should not be our focus, right now.”
Sigrid spotted two familiar bottles tucked toward the back of Alster’s nightstand; one that held an analgesic tonic, and the other, tiny needles. How long had it been since the Rigas head had felt reprieve from the weight of his arm? “You’re probably in more pain that I’m guessing you are willing to admit,” she said, unsolicited, and picked up the two bottles. “I can’t control what is going on in this city; but at least, let me be of help in the areas where I can make a difference.”
She’d been watching from a distance--but that was nothing new. Locque had been keeping an eye on the city of Braighdath for quite some time. Before the strange visitors from Stella D’Mare had first made an appearance… long, long before. It had been a dull ordeal, to say the least, but if she could not shoulder patience, then she would not win. Galeyn had been lost to her for quite some time, but it wouldn’t be lost forever. She had known that there would come a day when the clever foresight of Theomyr Tenebris would pay off, and he would see his kingdom risen from its ashes. It appeared that such had finally come to pass, by way of a daughter she had no idea he’d had.
Locque had been there, the day Galeyn had awoken; once again, watching from a distance. She had witnessed the new queens overwhelming reluctance and her inaptitude to rule, and part of her had wanted so badly to seize that opportunity. Strike when the kingdom was at its weakest--they would not have the resources or the forethought to take her down, not like its former ruler. However, at the time, Galeyn still had the unyielding loyalty of Braighdath and the Dawn Guard, and there was still the issue of that eternally annoying sword. One which, if she perceived correctly, had awoken as soon as Galeyn’s new queen had set foot in Braighdath… and that could not have been a coincidence.
So the sorceress withheld her desire to strike while the iron was hot. There was no sense in usurping a kingdom--or reclaiming her home, as she saw it--when it was likely to be taken from her as soon as it had fallen into her hands. No, it was not safe to make a move until the once sleeping kingdom and its ties to Braighdath and the Dawn Guard had weakened; something that she could not rely on occurring on its own. So… when the lover of that influential Rigas caster wandered into her snare that night in the woods, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to set a little bit of discord into motion. Start small, and watch it unravel…
And unravel it did--far, far more rapidly than she had anticipated. But what came as most shocking was that it was not even her doing.
The source was not hard to find. No one was capable of hiding from the likes of her, if she sought to find them. Hence why Theomyr Tenebris had at last seen fit to condemn himself to a realm that not even she could reach, abandoning his earthly body and any hopes of ever seeing his kingdom again. There she was, on the forest floor; a small young woman, barely more than a girl, reeking of blood and bloodlust. She was the cause of all of this? The reason that the fortified city of Braighdath was completely coming apart at the seems?
It felt too good to be true. And her curiosity was too much to pay apt attention to stealth. Why not? Let the little bloodstained thing see her. It was not as though she would let her near enough to do her in. “Does my reputation still linger in and beyond the walls of this city?” Her voice was clear and soft; a strange, uneasy marriage of boredom and… kindness. But Locque had always been soft-spoken. It did not make her any less dangerous. “The city has been smelling more and more like blood, these days. I was curious as to why… and I traced it back to you.”
Locque stepped into a sliver of light, a gesture that indicated she was not afraid to make her presence known. As a person, she appeared wholly unremarkable; average height, dark brown hair that hung past her shoulders, a simple traveling gown and boots, and deep, brown eyes. She could have been anyone: a young mother (for she appeared no older than in her very early twenties), a wife, a sister, the waitress at a tavern that only occasionally turned heads. But being unremarkable was a choice she had made, out of survival and necessity; for she could look however she chose, to anyone. For now, plain and simple was less likely to intimidate this young woman.
“I won’t lie; part of me wants to ask ‘why’. Why go to all the trouble when you don’t really seem to have an agenda? It made me wonder if you were out for revenge.” She shrugged, giving the appearance on nonchalance. “But… I suppose in the end, ‘why’ doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. It didn’t, when Galeyn asked me why, two hundred years ago.”
There was mistrust in this girl’s eyes, that much she could tell. But it was not limited to her; no, this was just a girl who chose to trust no one. That didn’t meant that it couldn’t change, however. “I’ll be plain with you; I have no reason to want to harm you. Nor do you have any reason to want to harm me. On the contrary… you impress me. And,” she cast her gaze toward the wall that encased Braighdath. She could still smell the panic in the air; and it thrilled her. “Maybe we can even help one another. You are free to refuse, of course; I find it unlikely that you’ll want to make yourself known by bringing up my name to anyone, and if you did, I’d leave you no proof. I’ll turn and walk away now, if you want nothing to do with me. But if you are tired of running alone…” A ghost of a smile formed on her lips. “I would not be opposed to some company.”
It didn’t take much prompting for the named woman to appear. A bending of the air, an odd glimmer akin to sunbeams glinting off a lake surface--and a nondescript figure materialized like the water itself. Such a fluid motion, nothing so physical like a faoladh shifting from human to wolf, or wolf to human. A pop of the bones, realignment of the spine, the musculature, the vastly different physiognomy that, inexplicably, resided in one dual-abled body--none of the struggle resided on the serene mien of this infamous sorceress. What else was she able to achieve without pain? Could she hold eye contact for more than three seconds? See another person at face value, without having to bat away bothersome wisps extolling the darkest, most heinous crimes of saints and monsters alike? And was there really any difference between a saint and a monster? Given the choice, Rowen preferred the latter; at least they never pretended to follow some hollow agenda of ingenuine virtue and generalized sympathy. Of course, both sects deserved death in equal measure, but it was far easier for her to stomach those individuals who had already embraced their evils. Locque, smooth-faced, pain-free monster condemned by Braighdath, Galeyn, and Stella D’Mare, understood this unspoken classification. Then again, so did Hadwin, yet she would never agree to team up with him to any degree. His sensibilities did not align with hers; he loved the world, and she didn’t. He would undermine her progress with unconvincing spiels about their black-sheep fellowship, a club in which only they belonged. “We speak the same language, you and me; no one’s ever going to work out a sensible translation. It’s just us, kid, pioneers on top of the world.”
It was always a lie, because Hadwin always lied. He lied about the two of them; she would bet that he fed similar lines to his new project. Teselin. Ugh. But Locque...what reason had she to lie to Rowen’s face, when her clandestine dealings with the unfortunate Elespeth Rigas had been outed, and her intentions analyzed to death? She did not assume some innocent stance; she was unapologetic in her quest for reclaiming Galeyn.
Perhaps that was why...Rowen was open to hearing out her proposition. Besides...she sensed that were she to deny this woman the pleasure of her company, Locque could do far more harm to her than a mere shoulder turn in the other direction.
“I have an agenda,” she said, lowering the knife to her lap, where she’d discarded her tunic. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that she was sitting in the woods with her top half exposed. Not that she ever cared for modesty. “Kill the darkness. I can’t stand looking at it anymore. It needs to go away, and I’m tired of waiting for the so-called ‘good guys’ to fix this broken world with love and understanding. All they do is throw a blanket over the problem and ignore it. But the problem has a simple solution; a mass cleansing. Though I find it curious,” her red-brown eyes lifted to meet Locque’s, “that I see nothing of it in your eyes. The darkness. But my Sight isn’t faultless, and you use magic to hide yourself...and that likely includes your mind, too. I prefer it this way.” She lowered her eyes back to her lap, to the knife she kept gripped in her hand. “To see nothing. Let me see nothing from you, and maybe it won’t hurt me to accept your help.”
What the hell was she doing? Why even consider working with the sorceress that everybody reviled? She was a failed tyrant after power denied, and toying with lives bore her little consequence or conscience. This woman was darkness incarnate. But Rowen could never murder the likes of her; it would be a fool’s errand to try. And if their interests aligned...she’d make for a formidable ally. No need to rely on Hadwin to cover for any potential mistakes in the future.
He turned tail and fled with the summoner to his caravan of freaks, anyway. No help from him...
“My name is Rowen Kavanagh,” she said. “And I want to end as much of this miserable world as I can, before I die. How can you help me?”
Through efficient packing methods, unsurprising for a traveling circus, the Missing Links were well on the road to Galeyn before the D’Marians even gained their bearings. The trip was an uneventful one; no towns on the way meant an unchanging landscape of trees, some meadows, and gently-sloping hills. For the stimulation-dependent Hadwin, who had neither the time nor the resources to pack enough swill or hashish, time for him had slowed to a dead crawl. It didn’t help that once he and Briery had found a moment alone, to continue their “conversation” from before they left Braighdath, their lips seldom reached each other. Between Rycen, who’d barge in to ask for assistance with a jammed wheel or a temperamental horse, Teselin, who needed to check on Hadwin at regular intervals to make sure he hadn’t died, or Cwenha, who he was confident came to disrupt them on purpose, the faoladh was having better luck beating it off in the woods alone at night. Despite his sexual distress, the casual atmosphere encouraged relaxation and calm, two essential states of being he often took for granted. If it wasn’t screaming or on fire, he usually wasn’t interested in pursuing. But in light of events, of Rowen’s crimes and his little mental episode with Briery, he welcomed the quieter pacing. Boring, yes, but...nights sitting beside the fire never lacked in charm or good company. Cwenha included.
In opposition to the Missing Links and their merry jaunt through the countryside, Alster and the D’Marians were beset with innumerable problems from all conceivable angles. When the day of the infamous Braighdathian riot concluded, Rigas generals reported six deaths from the hands of the violent mob. Twelve D’Marian deaths altogether--and they were no closer to solving the mystery of the six butchered bodies (they had uncovered the other three, also buried in the woods). With the Dawn Guard too busy to assist, Alster relied almost exclusively on Haraldur and the Forbanne to herd together their demoralized collective of wretched people and broken objects. Credit to the Eyraillian Prince was more than due; if not for his clear head and seeming knack for organization of large groups, Alster would have dropped dead from a heart attack by now. On top of withstanding the vitriol from hostile Braighdathians, D’Marians were quick to share their unfiltered opinions of his leadership, as well. How could he let this happen? Why did he value his foreigner wife more than the needs of his people? And how dare he hide away in the inn, surrounded by protective magic, while D’Marians were picked off and slaughtered by the people once so eager to help!
I know, he wanted to tell them. I know I’m doing a poor job. I’m no leader. I’m too weak, mentally and physically. Moving outside to help you...I’m sure it would have killed me. I can’t be a martyr. Not anymore. I’m sorry I can’t die for you, like you’ve always wanted from me.
I can’t die for you…
It took three days to evacuate the city and its surroundings. Galeyn’s Night steeds and Eyraille’s rocs performed double duty to ensure quick conveyance of refugees off the roads and to the safety of the sleeping kingdom. Sure enough, by the halfway point, most D’Marians were transferred and accounted for, according to Lilica’s confirmations via resonance stone. Ignoring the advice of his council, Alster stayed behind with Haraldur and the Forbanne, refusing to abandon the few D’Marians too weak or injured to ride astride a horse or a roc. By the passing of each day, his heart weakened, but he was not yet debilitated.
I’ll make it to you, Elespeth, he thought, and the thoughts only strengthened for every league their carriages and supply wagons cleared. I know you need me. I need you. But...they need me, too. Everything to everyone. That hasn’t changed…
“Elespeth,” Chara entered her private bedroom at Galeyn’s palace, rolling in a wheeled contraption with a woven seat, “Lilica has received word from Alster. He will be arriving at the palace shortly.”
It had been almost a month since Chara agreed to travel with the monarch to Galeyn, and as she anticipated, the adjustment process...was glacial. Upon laying her eyes on the Night Garden and the clean, quaint sweep of the quiet kingdom, she couldn’t voice an opinion. Like Braighdath before it, Chara regarded her new locale as a change in scenery. Nothing more. Several times she’d tried to make sense of her apathy, but the only explanation she could muster was that it was not Stella D’Mare. Not even close. Nothing reminded her of home, not among a land more foreign than Braighdath. It, surrounded by overwhelmed and clueless people, naive about a world one hundred years into the future, made her yearn for the cosmopolitan bustle of her busy port city, flashy and diverse with wealth and ideas. So far inland, there was no ocean to watch, no serene waves crashing to shore, and no ships bobbing in the distance. Often, she whiled away the time not at the famed Night Garden which Lysander had grown to adore, but at the lakeside, the sole body of water to Galeyn’s name. She’d stare, her face a cross between longing and disappointment, as she squinted away the delineations of the shore. Ocean. Ocean. You are an ocean, she’d command the lake. But it never listened, and she’d wander back inside.
What is there to mourn? She had to tell herself, continuously. Stella D’Mare is gone. A mere, gutted-out shell of faded glory. This...is your home.
But for all that Lilica tried, it never felt like a home. Perhaps one day…
What mattered more than petty sentiments, however, was the rehabilitation of her father, and of Elespeth, who, shortly after Chara’s arrival, surprised everyone with her unannounced visit. Lysander’s legs still did not support his weight, but they looked less like shriveled black prunes by the day, a sign that garnered a bit of hope for an eventual recovery. Elespeth, on the other hand…
It had spiraled to the point where she required Lysander’s wheelchair to travel. Standing for longer than a few minutes at a time often sent her into acute spells of lightheadedness. After a series of collapses, one in where she smacked her head so hard against the floor that she almost concussed, the she-warrior finally swallowed what little stubborn pride and independence remained, and allowed the use of a wheelchair.
Positioning it beside the bed, Chara offered a guiding hand for Elespeth to take. She stood, wobbly on her feet, but made the three paces to the chair without incident. “He’ll be arriving in good time,” Chara said, grabbing the chair’s handlebars as soon as Elespeth shifted in a comfortable position. “I’ve been keeping track of the days, and his birthday is in five days. It’s a significant one, too. He’ll be turning one-hundred years.” She tilted her head, eyes fogging with nostalgia. “For milestone birthdays--one, two, three, four hundred--Rigases spare no expense. They host lavish parties, serve delicacies of all sorts, are presented with silk and gold and diamonds…”
She trailed off, and a heavy sigh replaced her buoyant, almost childlike tone. “Of course, there is no room for such nonsense. I doubt he would accept a celebration, tradition or no tradition.But,” she gave Elespeth a tight-lipped smile, “I’m sure he’d appreciate well-wishes. From what Lilica tells me, whenever she speaks to him on the resonance stone, he sounds like he is...deflating. I am afraid...this is all my doing.” With a gentle push, Chara wheeled Elespeth out of her chambers and to the hallway. “I thrust him into a position of leadership. He never wanted the responsibility. But...he looked so capable at your hearing, in Braighdath. I thought for certain he would excel as Rigas Head, as he excels in so many avenues. The pressure is more than suffocating; I know this well. And yet…”
She clamped her mouth shut before she dared voice a truth she’d kept buried since her arrival at Galeyn. Since sitting in with Lilica during meetings. Since accompanying her on diplomatic missions across the kingdom, interacting with the people and appreciating them.
I miss it.
I miss it so.
But I am no longer a Rigas, and a non-Rigas cannot possibly lead…
As she wheeled Elespeth down the corridor, to where they would welcome Alster and Haraldur’s arrival at the palace entrance, Chara dissolved into uneasy silence.
Of course, she had an agenda; if you could call a madness akin to revenge an agenda at all. Truth be told, Locque did not need to ask Rowen ‘why’. She had not come upon this bloodstained urchin uninformed, because the sorceress had ascertained long ago that she would never find herself uninformed of anything or anyone, ever again. Which was precisely why she had channeled her magic in such a way that everyone and everything would be forever transparent to her… Not so unlike the young faoladh, here, cursed to bear witness to the darkest side of every soul. Except, Locque saw far pas virtues and vices, all the way down to what was making someone’s heart beat: pain, longing, suffering… everyone lived with something that they were trying to overcome, and even when they did overcome the worst of it, there was always something else. And that was true power: seeing the point of weakness in everyone. It gave an indication of how to approach them; and, when the occasion was right… how to play them.
She wasn’t sure if she was of the mind to play Rowen, per se; not yet, at least. It wasn’t always necessary to seize control of a person’s mind if they were an open wound to begin with, everything exposed. “You don’t need to explain. I suppose nobody takes lives so thoroughly and so prolifically without a purpose,” the sorceress shrugged her shoulders. “But you’re entirely right; this is a world filled with darkness. The trouble is, without that darkness, light would not exist. Two sides of a coin. Although, if darkness was all that I saw… I am sure that I would be just as inclined to pursue a thorough cleanse. You are not without reason--and you are not wrong.”
Casually clutching her elbows, Locque closed the distance between them. “I am not without my own darkness; nor are you, for that matter. The difference is, what I am, those parts of me--real or fabricated--are all parts that I allow people to see. Down to my physical appearance.” To prove a point, she side-stepped into a shadow. It didn’t appear as though anything had happened until she stepped back into the light--and looked entirely different. Gone were her deep, brown locks, replaced with resplendent gold, and green eyes, and full lips. From a plain-maid to an ethereal beauty, all in the matter of seconds. “This isn’t real, of course. I am manipulating the light and shadow and colour that your eyes perceive; nothing as permanent as this, which I should also note, is not real.” Before Rowen’s eyes, the simple woman who had first approached her returned; brown hair, brown eyes, with a touch of a tan that suggested time spent in the sun. The very archetype of a commoner. “It’s not real, but I don’t remember what is real, anymore. And I’ve taken a liking to this form. It pays off to blend in. But you don’t care about any of that.”
A lazy smile touched Locque’s lips. She removed the drab shawl that had been covering her shoulders and offered it to the girl, who had discarded her bloodsoaked tunic. “I don’t know that I can help you end the world, Rowen Kavanagh. It is vast, and there will always be darkness. But it is not impossible to limit that darkness--or to limit the darkness that catches your attention. I think, in fact, there are a good number of ways that I can help you. You are driven; I see promise in you. And at the very least,” that smile twitched into something a tad more sinister. “I can guarantee that you will not be part of the consequences when I take back the sleeping kingdom.”
When Elespeth Rigas had arrived at the peaceful (albeit slightly disoriented) kingdom of Galeyn just a month ago, she had been able to greet its new ruler--Lilica Tenebris--while standing on her own two feet, without the necessity of having someone nearby in case she fell. She had been able to keep herself awake for at least a good fifteen to sixteen hours in a day, if not to help with the menial tasks of taking the names and state of health of the D’Marians who had made it to Galeyn, then to at least remain conscious and to wander the grounds, quietly and alone. Now, one month later, her wakefulness had reduced to less than ten hours. Whenever the former knight managed to maintain a period of consciousness, it was more often than not a matter of fighting off the urge to close her eyes. When she stood, it couldn’t be for more than a handful of minutes, lest her head begin to swim, and she fall. She had entirely lost the ability to argue that she was capable of being alone at any point in time; the healers who dealt with her wouldn’t even allow her to bathe without assistance. And deterioration to this extent had not taken a month… it had been but a handful of weeks, after arriving at the place that was supposed to turn her health in a better direction. She had not gotten better; she had gotten worse, and worse… and then, her condition had plateaued to what she was left with now. Something the healers simply referred to as ‘stable’; but that was as good as it got.
The revered Night Garden was not healing her. It was only keeping her alive.
With the arrival of a familiar pair of healers from away after about the third week--the Clematis healer, Elias, and the Sybaian healer, Daphni--a new surge of hope illuminated the gathering darkness that dampened Elespeth’s soul. Evidently, Vega Sorde--who was more than halfway through a pregnancy, by the sounds of it--had up and left her kingdom by roc and made for Galeyn, for reasons that she chose not to disclose, but which were no less obvious, considering her husband and the father of her children was bound to reach this kingdom soon. Of course, the two healers who had been overseeing the health of mother and child had been in quick pursuit, completely unwilling to let her recklessness go unnoticed--and, perhaps, to stop her from doing anything further that could be considered ‘reckless’ (though in Elespeth’s experiences with Sir Vega Sorde, she was a fire that could not be tamed).
When the Gardeners of Galeyn had found themselves unable to make a difference for the Rigas head’s wife, they had, of course, sought the opinions of these two healers who followed entirely different practices--and who were acquainted with the patient, to boot. It wouldn’t have been Elias’s first time healing her damaged heart, after all. After a thorough assessment of her heart and her overall health, however, paired with how poorly Elespeth’s body had tolerated magic in the past… the Clematis healer had gone silent for a long moment. And when he spoke again, he declared that it was not worth the risk; that the potential of even his own intervention going wrong, magical or otherwise, was greater than the chance that it would help her recover from her condition.
And Daphni… The Sybaian healer had bent her head sadly, and confided that she, herself, was not in any condition to help anyone. And that even the Night Garden could not make a difference for someone whose life energy was spent tempering the trauma that others experienced. The Night Garden and its Gardeners could not help her; Elias could not help her. And the only Sybaian healer left for potentially thousands of miles was unable to make use of her practice--which, even she admitted, would not be without risk. It all had to due with the nature of her illness: literally a matter of the heart. And organ that was struggling on its last legs to perform its only function, to pump blood throughout her veins, could not likely withstand the stress of surgery, of magical force, or even process the burdensome emotions of empathetic healing. It could keep her alive, if alive meant sleeping more often than not, and keeping movement and stress to a minimum. And that was all.
Unwilling to leave the distraught ex-knight without an inkling of hope, the two healers from Eyraille, and Senyiah herself--a Head Gardener--promised to corroborate on her case further, to come up with some plausible solution, because of course not all was lost. This was Galeyn; and the Night Garden did not allow lives to slip through its fingers so easily.
So Elespeth had no choice but to be patient… and not to give up hope. Especially when such a select amount of people knew the truth behind her deteriorating condition. Much as it ate away at her with pangs of guilt, she had not informed Alster. During those brief moments when they had spoken via resonance stone, she supplied him with nothing but reassurances: of course she was doing well. Of course she was recovering. Of course she was happy, safe, and at peace in Galeyn. If he saw through her lies, he never let on.
Nor did Vega Sorde, for that matter. Sadly, the two old friends had only managed to chance a word or two to one another in passing, as the Eyraillian princess appeared insistent on lending a hand in the D’Marians’ transition to Galeyn, despite being visibly pregnant at this point. Of course, Vega had shown concern for the former knight, who had appeared stronger and more substantial the last time they’d spoken; Elespeth merely told her that she was in recovery and would be back to her old self soon. That was that, and it had been a week since they had spoken.
Chara Rigas, however, was a more frequent visitor; and was, of course, far more in the know in terms of the truth revolving around Elespeth’s health. It did not take her by surprise to see her walk, unannounced, into her chambers that morning, with that blasted wheeled contraption at hand. Every time she saw it, her heart sank a little bit more, to the point where she almost preferred not to move at all, than to be transported at someone else’s will by wheels. But when she’d nearly lost consciousness after taking a fall and hitting her head on the marble floor of Lilica’s palace… well, that had lost her her right to refuse that wheeled contraption. At least Chara did not fault her for the grimace, each and every time she saw it.
“...today? He’ll be here today?” She’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while that morning, but mention of her husband drove her into full wakefulness in a matter of seconds. “You’re sure?”
She didn’t even realize what she was doing when she stood and allowed Chara to help her into that seat on wheels. Alster… when had she last spoken to him? Was it just last night, or a few days ago? Time lost meaning when she spent most of it asleep.
Chara was not through with taking her off guard. “Wait… his birthday? I don’t think…” Elespeth frowned, as if trying to remember something. “He’s never told me about his birthday; I’ve never told him about mine, either… how have we been married without knowing one another’s birthdays?” She shook her head and raked a hand through her hair. It had grown since her time in Braighdath; once having sat at her chin, it now touched her shoulders again. “Well, whether or not he cares to acknowledge it… the D’Marians deserve acknowledgement, after what they’ve been through. Not to mention, Galeyn’s native citizens haven’t seemed to have come out of their stupor, quite yet. Being asleep for a hundred years would do that to someone, I suppose…”
The Rigas woman’s tone drifted, then, from something wistful to undeniably guilty. But that was nothing new; Chara had worn a shroud of guilt and nostalgia for as long as she had been present in Galeyn. It was only now that she heard her admit to it… and to her, of all people. Someone with whom, a year ago, she had been at dire odds. “Chara,” Elespeth sighed softly and shook her head, staring at her useless feet as the blonde woman wheeled her down the hallway. “We both know that regardless of what position Alster is in… he would find a way to be overwhelmed. To take on more responsibility than he can handle. Even you can attest that he has a terrible history of just that. It doesn’t mean he isn’t capable… it is that he doesn’t realize he isn’t invincible.”
Something in Chara’s words weighed in her, though. It corroborated what she’d suspected from her conversations with him. Leaving for Galeyn was supposed to take weight off of his shoulders; relieve him of the burden that was her, and her poor health. Yet he was still crumbling…
What would it do to him, to find his wife worse off than before, in a place that was supposed to heal her?
“...stop!” The word escaped her mouth before she could think it through. Chara responded abruptly, drawing the chair to a halt, not far from a familiar door: a room where she had met with Senyiah, Elias and Daphni on a number of occasions. I can’t let him see me like this… I cannot greet my husband in that contraption, unable to stand on my own feet. As if to prove a point to herself, Elespeth did stand, and braced herself with a hand to the wall, despite Chara’s rebuke. “Don’t you understand, Chara? I am supposed to be getting better; I should be on my own goddamned feet. What do you think it is going to do to Alster to see me like this?”
That, Chara appeared to understand, though she was vocal in her disapproval of Elespeth standing on her own. “He can’t see me like this… I’m going to speak with the healers. I’ll be alright. And… I’m going to need your help later. Before I see Alster.” She hazarded a smile. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else with making me look my best. If he asks… just tell him I’m resting, and I’ll see him later.”
She did not give Chara a chance to agree or to refuse, before she pushed into the room adjacent to the infirmary, where the Gardeners--and now, Elias and Daphni--spent most of their time, when their didn’t have their hands directly in healing injured, ill, or malnourished D’Marians who had recently arrived.
“Elespeth…” Daphni was the first to look up from a book she was pouring over, but all three of them stood at the arrival of a woman who shouldn’t be on her own two feet. “You really shouldn’t--”
“Alster will me arriving shortly. He is exhausted, and overburdened, and he is going to want to know how I am. And… I want to know what I am to tell him.” The ex-knight pressed her lips into a thin line, her green eyes flicking from Elias, to Daphni, to Senyiah, and back again. “I’ve done everything you told me. I’ve rested; I’ve followed the advice of your Gardeners. I’ve spent time in the Night Garden, and this is the first time I’ve been on my feet more than two weeks. You told me not to lose faith; so, then, where are we at? What is the solution? Because if there isn’t one… then now is the time to tell me.”
“It…” The Sybaian healer began to speak, but her words were interrupted by a sigh. Guilty; she always looked so guilty, though Elespeth wasn’t sure how much of that guilt she should attribute to not hearing from these healers for a week, or the fact that Daphni felt helpless to be of any aid, at all. “It isn’t that simple.”
The former knight shook her head slowly and pressed her back to the wall. “I didn’t think it would be. But I need an answer; even if it’s one that I… don’t want to hear.”
“Then I will be honest with you, Elespeth Rigas. If honesty is what you want.” Senyiah was the one to step up and bear the burden of the news that the trio had avoided telling her for a week, though the Gardener did not look happy to do so. “There are many factors at play, here. One being that you are very weak, and your condition was not properly diagnosed in ample time. Another being that the Night Garden is not yet at its strongest and most capable, and may not be for quite some time, as it has only reawakened some months ago. But it can offer you one thing: a continuation of your life, with your condition.” She folded her hands in front of her and took a few thoughtful steps forward. “We witnessed your heart continue to deteriorate; but it seems that that deterioration has ceased. The disease has not progressed, and it will not, should you remain here, near the stablizing energies of the Night Garden. But… it does not seem as though it is currently able to put you into remission. Not right now, at least, while the Garden is itself recovering from a century of sleep. Perhaps, in time--”
“How much time?” Elespeth interrupted. Her face was pale, save for the colour that had bled into her cheeks with the weight of every consecutive word out of Senyiah’s mouth. “Are you telling me… This is not my home. It is not Alster’s home. One day, we are going to reclaim Stella D’Mare, and return to it. What will happen to me if I were to leave, now?”
The room went quiet. Nobody would meet her gaze. It was all the answer she needed, but Senyiah still dignified her with a response. “If you leave Galeyn… if you stray too far from the Night Garden, Elespeth, then we anticipate your heart will once again continue to decline in function.”
Die. Then I’ll die--why not just say it like it is? “Then… there is no option. I have no options.” She said quietly, more to herself than the others in the room. “Alster and I… have no options.”
“This is only the way things stand in this given moment, Elespeth.” Daphni, more attuned to the woman’s distress than the others. More than that, she sensed that the gravity of this news would shake Elespeth Rigas to her core. She was right to move across the room when she did; with Senyiah’s help she managed to take Elespeth’s arms before her already weak knees gave out. “We cannot give you the answers that you seek just now; and yes, it may take time. You will need patience. But know that we have not given up. Nor should you.”
Eyes fixed on the ground, already filling with tears, the ex-knight heard Daphni’s words; and she believed her. At least, she believed that Daphni herself believed what she was saying. But beyond that… faith was an elusive thing to grasp at. And she wasn’t confident her grip would hold. “...Alster isn’t to hear any of this. Not yet.” She breathed, leaning on Senyiah and Daphni to support her weight. “Please. I… need to be the one to tell him. But not now. Just… not yet.”
“It is entirely within your control how and when you discuss this with your husband, Elespeth. Our business is only to help. Not to hinder where we are not welcome. Let me help you back to your room--it’s still early. With a little more rest, you will surely have the strength to be on your feet to greet Alster later.”
“I have to be on my feet later.” Elespeth whispered to herself, more a wish than an affirmation, and let herself be led back to her room. If she faced Alster in this condition, barely able to stand upright… then there would be nothing to talk about. He would know. Maybe… maybe, he already did.
“For the record,” Chara elected to break her self-imposed silence with a thin smile, “my birthday is only eleven days after his. We used to celebrate ours together, in the past. I will be…” the smile faded, and an uncontrollable shiver threatened to jerk Elespeth’s wheeled contraption out of its smooth, straight trajectory. Ninety-six. She would be ninety-six. But without her body’s ability to age at the Rigas-designated rate, what did ninety-six truly mean? The rate of maturity for a Rigas equaled to one human year for every four years of aging, but her ratio of aging had depreciated to a one-to-one time frame. Ninety-six meant twenty-four. And twenty-five would hit her the next year. Twenty-six, twenty-seven...on a breakneck course to certain mortality. At her new, relentless pace, her father would outlive her. Heavens...the heart-afflicted Elespeth would outlive her! Unless…
She became suddenly aware of her charge when the woman, lacking all decorum or volume control, screamed a demand with such urgency, Chara wondered if there had been an emergency, and she was too trapped in her dratted brain to realize it. As prompted, she reared the little carriage to a halt. The wheels creaked with protest, not built to handle such rough maneuvering.
“What in Rigel’s name was all that for, Elespeth?” She demanded, but it was too late to react with displeasure when the rash warrior was already participating in yet another unsightly scene. “Oh for the love of--sit yourself down!” she hissed, reaching for Elespeth’s arm and steadying her in place. “How is jumping about so freely going to improve your health? If you tumble and split open your head, then Alster will see you in a worse condition. It is not like you can fool him, anyway.” Refusing to release her arm, Chara glared until Elespeth allowed herself to be led to the healer’s quarters. “He has an uncanny sense of knowing what ails a person--you in particular. Do you forget he is carrying around vestiges of your heart condition?” She was better off talking to the wall at this point. All reason had ceased for the incorrigible Elespeth and her coterie of bad ideas and poor judgment calls. Chara couldn’t blame her, though; not really. Were she cursed into a grim prognosis where the only “treatment” was bed rest, she’d have difficulty sitting still, as well.
“Fine,” she conceded, and opened the door to the healers’ quarters. “Let them deal with you awhile. What am I doing, playing handmaiden to you all this time?” However, as she abandoned the wheeled chair before the door and marched away in a huff, she looked over her shoulder and gave a good-natured scoff between her teeth. “It will take a miracle to make you look halfway presentable. Fortunately for you, Alster prefers his women dowdy and unkempt.”
Elias, having grown accustomed to the comfortable lifestyle at Eyraille’s palace, was incensed when Vega Sorde took initiative in entirely the wrong direction and forsook her post, her body, and the fetuses germinating inside her, to answer some call to action that nobody delivered her. Since her husband’s departure some months ago, the princess, in conjunction with her stomach, had grown more irate, restless, and impossible to please. Not that the Clematis healer felt impelled to placate her anxieties; Daphni performed that role in his place. But even with all her Sybaian perspicacity, her empathetic advantage meant nothing when they hadn’t presented the solution Vega wanted. And Vega wanted--what else?--her husband. So, acting on her own accord, she absconded from the palace in the middle of the night, and traveled by roc to where her impulsive heart desired. Which, judging by long-term plans determined by Stella D’Mare and her allies (namely, Haraldur and his acquired army), was to Galeyn.
Elias didn’t know how to process the information when Daphni ran into their shared chambers in a panic the following morning.
“What!?” He had erupted from the bed and followed her to the princess’ empty chambers. From what they gleaned from various attendants and witnesses, not to mention the king’s foul mood, it was confirmed. Vega, almost into her third trimester, had abandoned her duties and risked two developing lives to fly across the continent, and for what? Love? A sense of purpose? What greater purpose was there than to birth two babies from a previously dead womb and usher forth an era of luck, prosperity (and scientific curiosity) for Eyraille?
And what of Daphni? For months, they had tried for a baby, to no avail. He’d consulted texts, calculated Daphni’s ovulation cycles, adjusted their diets, attempted more favorable positions during coitus...and had even followed the unsubstantiated wisdom of superstitious housewives. No luck. While the Sybian did not outwardly show her disdain for Vega’s indecorous departure, Elias did not hold back the choice words he harbored for her selfish, puerile, flagitious Highness, whose existence spat in the face of those who wanted to experience the pleasures of parenthood, but were biologically unsuccessful.
His resentment burned so brightly for the deserter, that he’d nearly renounced his ironclad oaths that he, as a healer of the Clematis Order, had sworn to uphold. One did not disown their patient, not until they recovered...or they died. Admittedly, Daphni was the one to remind him of his--of their--commitment to Vega and Haraldur’s unborn children. And so, they had no choice but to follow the wayward princess to Galeyn. Of course, the optimistically-inclined Sybaian spun their trip in a positive light. Whilst they waited for Imogen to procure the serum and gem technology from Mollengard, as her promises to help Daphni held firm, why not use the opportunity to study Galeyn’s infamous Night Garden? After all, the leader of the Kariji resistance (and Elias’ inane brothers) had left Eyraille to gather more allies for their separate cause, and who knew when they would return? The two of them would make the most of a dire situation, Daphni assured him; while attending to the rankling princess, they would, in the meantime, research the properties of the Night Garden so often lauded as a miracle granter in outdated medical texts. Always carrying with him a healthy dose of skepticism, he refused to believe the stories unless he’d experienced them, himself. Perhaps, though...it wouldn’t be so outrageous to hope for a solution; for Daphni’s wellness, for her desired pregnancy. For something, anything, approaching...a miracle.
On this particular day in Galeyn, he was sitting at a table with a window facing the Night Garden’s unusual flora. With journal open and pen in hand, he jotted the details of his early-morning accompaniment with the head Gardener, Senyiah, recalling her lecture on the common uses of a prolific purple plant that sported unique spiraling patterns. In writing his own reactions and musings on the plant’s medical viability in treating patients around Galeyn, he drew on the opposite page a faithful facsimile of the herb, as clear a depiction as if he’d been staring at it through the window.
He was about finished cross-hatching the edges of a pinion-shaped leaf when the door swung open, and in walked yet another unruly patient, whose hopeless case he, Daphni, and the head Gardener had been investigating with express interest...and frustration.
“Elespeth,” Elias slammed his journal closed and stood with the other two healers in the room. “It is no matter of ‘you really shouldn’t.’ Do not. I am in no mood to entertain more malodorous disrespect aimed in my general direction. Float any air biscuits at us and I will remove you from this room.”
Despite her unauthorized entry into their haven-space, Elespeth had the grace to drive straight to the heart--the literal heart--of her concerns. It was a legitimate inquiry, and he had planned on delivering her an honest answer days ago, if not for Daphni’s strong arguments against his honest, but blunt, pronouncements of health. It was against his personal code to omit relevant information to the patient, having always valued his forthright approach to life, but Daphni was the self-proclaimed expert at human interaction, whereas he cared only for results, heedless of triggering one’s own defenses or distress. So he’d said nothing to Elespeth about her failing heart, or the singular solution to prevent it from further deterioration. But now....
Before he could remove the gag from his mouth, however, Senyiah beat him to the explanation. Unsurprisingly, and as Daphni had forecasted, the news reduced the patient into a fit of barely restrained tears. While he would not admit it unless prompted, Elespeth’s plight did prick him with...something. It was like a reflex, an unhinging of the jaw to say something...hopeful. Against all reason...he was invested in a miracle. No, not against reason, he remedied. He had experienced a miracle. Rebirth in the water. All signs of his terminal illness and their symptoms--receded like the waves that had once consumed him, and filled his lungs. If he could evade death, and find health and wellness, so too could Elespeth Rigas.
“Fortunately for you,” Elias appraised their patient with a cool stare, which betrayed nothing of his thoughts, “you are among the most accomplished healers in their respective fields, among a magical healing garden, and your husband, whose resolve borders on madness and, quite frankly, frightens me, is soon to join us. Between all of us, I see no reason why we cannot resolve your issue, in the long-term. But for the sake of my sanity,” he rubbed the side of his temple, in memory of the headache of Alster’s antics in Eyraille, “I will not tell him. Now,” he nodded as he stepped in Senyiah’s place, and supported Elespeth’s arm opposite where Daphni stood, “I will not reiterate your need for bedrest. I have restrained uncooperative patients, before. Yes, with belts and straps. Do not test my finite patience.”
Alster, his remaining D’Marian charges, and the Forbanne procession, led by Haraldur, arrived at the gates of Galeyn’s palace by mid-afternoon. Having alerted Lilica via resonance stone of their estimated time of debarkation, the guards posted along the walls anticipated their guests, and escorted them into the palace proper. With a sharp look at his unit, Haraldur directed his soldiers to retreat to a broad expanse of lawn. There, they stood, obediently trained into steadfast silence and stillness.
The two leaders were ushered down a winding pathway of expansive gardens, only a small offshoot of the Night Garden proper. But for one who had not yet experienced the wonders of such an alien landscape, it did not fail to impress. Haraldur, who for months had adopted a stoic, severe veneer of a battle-hardened warrior, allowed his tight brow to slacken and his eyes to wander over the stalks of what looked wheat if woven by threads of moonlight and the subtle, shifting colors of veins pulsing across leaves the size of row-boats.
Once they reached the front doors of the palace, rows of familiar faces greeted them; Lilica, stately in her draping purple gown; Chara, who, evidently tired of sporting muddy-brown locks had reverted to her distinct shade of blonde; and beside her, standing with an exaggerated back-curve of her spine...Elespeth. Her hair, too, was different, resting shoulder length and styled to flatter her face--no doubt Chara’s work. It relieved him to see her chestnut tresses grow out in waves; and while he would not share preferences with his wife, he missed its full-bodied appearance. To him, it symbolized….the beginnings of emotional healing.
He offered her a bright smile and a whispered promise of a proper reunion. For now…
Alster, in tandem with Haraldur, formally introduced themselves to Lilica’s advisors and the Gardeners of Galeyn. “Thank you, for accepting my people into your home, especially in light of the recent situation in Braighdath.” The Rigas Head bowed from his waist, though the weight of his steel arm teetered him forward, almost disrupting his tenuous balance. “I look forward to working together with you. Count on my full support in helping you to rebuild your kingdom.”
“Likewise.” Haraldur saluted, fist to chest. “My army will act as your shield against malevolent forces, magically-inclined or otherwise. We’re small in numbers, but deadly capable. Currently, we’re positioned outside your palace, lending a hand to the last of the D’Marian refugees. Station us anywhere you’d like; my place is with them, so arranging for my own sleeping quarters isn’t necessary.”
After settling their introductions and pleasantries, Lilica invited them inside for a welcome meal. Haraldur about declined, but even he could not deny the allure of a meal. Once they filed through the expansive double doors, Alster sidled to Elespeth, and offered the elbow of his good arm for her to take. “We’re husband and wife, now,” he said, by reason of explaining the gesture. “I think it’s time we earned the right to link arms in public.” Of course, the truth was written on his face, and on his body; the dark patches beneath his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks, the evident atrophying of muscle and fat which had exacerbated the unwieldy weight of his steel arm...he needed her for support. And he knew...that she needed him, too.
“How are you?” he whispered in her ear as they walked, a gradual, wobbly crawl trailing far behind the welcoming procession. “You...don’t need to lie, El.” His soulful blue eyes met with hers. “I’m attuned to you. I always have been. You can barely walk.” He gripped her tighter to his side. “And your heart…” he trailed off, looking at his feet. “We’ll talk about this later, alright? Let’s just get you seated, first.”
As they entered the modest but cozy dining hall, Alster found the closest and most immediate seating for Elespeth, acquired moments before her legs gave out from under her. Making a less than graceful flop on his own chair, Alster winced, then covered his discomfort with a self-deprecating laugh. “Can’t say I inspire a lot of confidence about my condition, either. Nothing of immediate concern, though.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I missed you, El. It’s been...hell. But what kept me going was knowing that you were safe, here.”
She didn’t understand their reasoning. How could they preach hope to her when, as Elias had so eloquently pointed out, she had access to three successful healers originating from different backgrounds and practices, along with a garden said to bring about miracles… and yet, the only hope for a woman with a failing heart was to remain stable within range of the Night Garden?
Because hope is all that you have left, a voice at the back of her mind reminded her over and over, as Elespeth drifted in and out of consciousness that day. The moment you give up the only thing you have left… you have lost.
Nonetheless, it was disheartening when she had been dedicated to the rules and advice that each and every healer delivered. Get plenty of rest; eat protein-rich meals for strength. Don’t stand for long, but do stretch and massage the legs so that the muscles would not atrophy. Elespeth had done all of that, and despite her uninvited appearance before the three healers that day, even the grouchy and blunt Elias could not argue that she had not been a model patient. Her goal had been to get well for Alster’s arrival; to make it worth it for the Rigas head, some small semblance of their luck taking a turn for the better after all of the trials they’d endured in Braighdath. And yet, somehow, she was not so fortunate as to have that desired outcome. Hadwin had once referred to it as a mere bout of poor luck; but the ex-knight couldn’t help but wonder if it was more than that. She had made a terrible mistake en route to Braighdath, had caused her allies and her loved ones undue concern… Was this not what she deserved?
Perhaps so. But it was not what Alster deserved, and that was what plagued her the most.
At least she could count on Chara to take the edge off by attending to her appearance. For all the Rigas woman maintained that she was very much a lost cause when it came to making her appear acceptable, she always did a fine job dressing her and styling her hair, and frankly, she seemed to enjoy the task. So before she greeted Alster and the others later that day, Chara had dressed her in a fine gown and had pulled back the front tresses of her hair away from her face, and had added subtle curls that added an attractive wave to her shoulder-length hair. There was not much to be done for the pallor of her face, but at the very least, she was not so deathly thin as she had been previously (though she had some pounds to go before her wedding ring fit on the appropriate finger). She allowed herself to be wheeled through the palace up until reaching the point just before Alster and the D’Marians would be welcomed, and then insisted she stand to greet her husband.
Among the others--Chara and Lilica, Daphni, Elias, and even Tivia, who seldom ventured too far from the sightless necromancer toward the borders of Galeyn--Elespeth stood tall to greet the procession of D’Marians and the Forbanne army, both led by Alster and Haraldur. A strange and nauseating marriage of sadness and happiness stirred in Elespeth’s stomach at the sight of her husband, whom she hadn’t seen in over a month. He was well… if well meant standing, breathing, and alive.
“You have no need to thank us, really.” Lilica interjected humbly from her place next to Chara, bowing her head. “After all… I am not sure I’d have had the courage to find or awaken this kingdom, were it not for your help. Consider this a means of paying my debt to you. And, prince of Eyraille,” she looked up, fixing her eyes on Haraldur, who was a giant in comparison to her ever-diminutive form. A small, knowing smile stretched her lips. “I hope that you and yours can make yourself at home, here. I think you will find good reason, to. For now,” she gestured behind her, toward a lengthy hallway, where attendants awaited them at the end. “I hope you have brought with you an appetite. We’ve been fortunate with the growth of crops since winter, and there is more than enough food for everyone. Though I cannot take credit for the planning of this meal.” The new queen of Galeyn laced her fingers through Chara’s, and smiled fondly at the Rigas woman. “I don’t know the first thing about preparing for guests, especially not to this end… So any gratitude for the selection and coordination of meals this evening is owed to Chara.”
At least they seem happy; or, on their way to being happy, again. The former Atvanian thought, witnessing that brief, tender exchange between Lilica and Chara. While she had never come to know the dark mage all too well, she was not beyond understanding nor appreciating what she had endure; through her own magic, a family that had wanted to leave her for dead, and--if what she’d overheard through the grapevine climbing the palace was true (and one who was bedridden had little better to do than to listen to idle gossip)--a father who could not return to her. Lilica Tenebris had done wrong, yes; time and again, she had done wrong, but as far as Elespeth was concerned, she’d atoned for it. And now, she was in a position where she deserved happiness.
More than atoned, even, Lilica was like an entirely different person from the dark, toxic thing she’d emt in Messino’s encampment. Later that day, while the palace had been preparing for the arrival of the last of the D’Marians, along with Alster Rigas and the Eyraillian prince with his Forbanne, the queen of Galeyn had paid her a visit to her chambers, carrying a small cup of potent tea that smelled strongly of earth and roots and bitter greens. Just because she had accepted a position as a monarch did not make her any less the herbalist that she was. “This isn’t anything like the stimulant that damaged your heart,” she reassured her before Elespeth could open her mouth. “All of it is from the Night Garden. It’s only temporary, but… it should give you the energy to stay on your feet a while, tonight, for when Alster arrives. It’ll be our secret, though; I’m sure the healers would be furious with me if they found out I was secretly encouraging you to be on her feet.” She offered a conspiratorial smile.
Elespeth had taken the tea with an air of hesitation and confusion. After all, the words she and Lilica had exchanged even since she’d arrived in Galeyn were few and far-between. So why did the queen herself feel inclined to reach out? “Thank you, Lilica. But… why?”
The question seemed to take her aback. It was her turn to hesitate. “I thought… it would make you and Alster happy, I guess. Do I need a reason?”
Whatever drove Lilica’s efforts to have Elespeth on her feet, that evening, the former knight was not going to let that potent tea go to waste; she hadn’t struggled to choke down that bitter concoction for nothing. With a smile that was as genuine as her love for him, Elespeth took Alster’s good arm, despite that his exhaustion was not lost on her. Could he really bear her weight along with his own, looking as exhausted as he did? For now, she decided it was best for the two of them to keep up appearances for the people around them, if not for one another. It wasn’t as though they could fool one another into thinking the other was well, anyway; much to her chagrin, one’s health was no secret to one another. “We don’t need an excuse to walk arm in arm,” she smiled, keeping her shoulders straight and her head held high as she took easy, rhythmic strides with her husband at her side. For a moment, she thought she could pull it off: even just one night of returning to a state of normalcy with Alster, pretending that nothing was wrong. But he already knew… of course he already knew. She didn’t even need to say anything before he divulged his knowledge of her condition, of her heart…
With Alster’s help, she took a seat in the cozy dining hall, one that was so different from the aristocracy she remembered growing up. Tables so long you could not see the person at the other end, unnecessary crystal wine goblets with jeweled decals along the rim, golden sconces lining the walls… Galeyn’s palace, though vast in size, did not boast this sort of luxury. The dining table was round, and seated perhaps twenty people at most, but every face was in sight. The goblets and dishes were all fashioned of simple pewter. Probably very befitting of Lilica, who herself had never known luxury beyond what she’d experienced in Stella D’Mare, before the Serpent had destroyed it…
“I wish you hadn’t done what you did. Taking on my pain like that…” It didn’t even make a difference in the end, she thought dismally. “I left Braighdath to relieve you of another burden, but you chose to keep one, anyway…” Not that she had a leg to stand on, accusing him of not looking out for his health. After all, she had no one to blame for her own condition but herself.
Now wasn’t the time for that talk, though. Lilica and Chara had put a lot of effort into this dinner of artisan breads, delicious, savoury vegetables, cheeses, and legumes, and she owed them a smile, at the very least. She even made a point to clean her plate and go for seconds of savoury green beans that weren’t quite like anything she’d ever tasted before. It wasn’t that hunger suddenly meant something to her; but she remembered to eat, every day, three times a day. And now of all times was the time to make a show of it. Maybe if I pretend I’m alright… maybe it’ll happen. Yes, a foolish part of Elespeth rather hoped that if she played the part, then the outcome would find her. Or, at the very least, if Alster could believe even for a second that she wasn’t worse off than when they’d last seen one another… maybe it could make a difference.
It was foolish, of course, but somehow the two of them managed to pass the evening lightly in the company of Lilica and Chara and Haraldur. To her knowledge, Vega also should have been in attendance this evening, but it was not her place to ask why the Eyraillian princess was not there now. Of course, judging by Haraldur’s disposition, which was more a soldier and less a prince every time she saw him… she wasn’t sure that he knew his wife was present. And she was not about to break the news to him, especially if he was not expecting Vega to have left the safety of Eyraille and put herself in danger.
When the evening had grown dark, and no one else could eat another bite, Elespeth almost sighed with relief when Alster politely asked if the two of them could be excused. She’d been ready to retire an hour ago, that potent potion Lilica had given her having long since run its course, but had held out instead of conceding defeat, lest she worry Alster. The two of them walked to her chambers, which had been suited for two people to begin with in anticipation of Alster’s eventual arrival. It was a bit of a walk, unfortunately, given its location which favoured proximity to the Night Garden on Senyiah’s recommendation. It was not stifling or dreary like a room in an infirmary; like the rest of the palace, it had its own humble touches, nothing too lavish or luxurious, but no less with a regality that was a step above what could be considered common. The serving staff even kept a vase by the window filled with fresh wildflowers that, even after a month, showed no signs of wilting.
So ironic that such a cheerful and serene room reflected nothing of the emptiness her prognosis left in her heart.
“I missed you before I even left Braighdath.” She confessed to him, crossing the room to the windowsill, where the moonlight spilled its shine on the smooth, wooden floors. “I thought by leaving, I’d been abandoning you to all the hell that arose from the chaos in that city… but that night we visited the Missing Links’ caravan, and you lost yourself so terribly…” Her smile faltered. “I didn’t want to believe I was deadweight, adding to your list of concerns. But I was deluding myself; so I came here before I could change my mind. Not a day went by when I didn’t miss you… it is so good to have you here. And, look.” Turning to face him, she took off her wedding ring and slipped it onto its appropriate finger. It still slid loose around the base of her finger, but was no longer in danger of sliding past the knuckle anymore. “It almost fits where it belongs. I’ve managed to put more weight back on; not so difficult to do, when I think I actually prefer the food here than in Braighdath.”
She knew he wanted to be happy for her, but there was no fooling Alster, and no show of small gains would keep him from seeking the truth of her prognosis. There were really no secrets between them, anymore; no pretending. No amount of work Chara put in, adding color to her cheeks and lips, would fool someone who was connected to her by blood. Any hope of one night of normalcy dissipated as she crossed to take a seat on the bed, her legs tired from what little standing and walking she’d done. “It’s not all bad. Just… not what I--what we might have hoped for…”
Elespeth smoothed her skirts and inhaled gently. Who, exactly, was she trying to convince: Alster, or herself? “Somehow… despite being so near the Night Garden, my health continued to decline after I arrived. The details as to why are up in the air, but I’m told it has to do with waiting too long on my part to seek treatment, and that the Night Garden is not functioning at its fullest potential yet. With at least half a day’s bedrest, I’m able to spent the other part of the day awake. Chara, of all people, has been oddly helpful in getting me around and keeping me company. Who’d have thought it would take the two of us reaching rock bottom to finally cooperate?” The corner of her mouth tugged into a grin, but Alster was not smiling. So hers did not last.
“As of right now… no one can give me a solution, or provide a cure. I’m too weak for a physically invasive surgery, and my body has never been able to tolerate magic to such a strong degree. The consensus is that I’m not strong enough for invasive treatment, either way, and that there is a greater chance of something going wrong than of a successful cure. But… there is a silver lining.”
If you could call it that. Alser took a seat next to her, and she covered his flesh and blood hand with her own. “The good news is… my decline in health has plateaued. And they don’t anticipate it will get any worse than what it’s at. Provided… provided I do not stray far from Galeyn. Or, more specifically, from the Night Garden…”
It was painful to look up and meet his eyes, which swam with everything left unsaid. Everything that they would need to consider, if she would not be able to leave Galeyn for an extended period of time. “I haven’t given up hope. Neither have the healers. Let’s see how things progress; there’s no reason to think a solution isn’t out there, but just hasn’t been found. I don’t want you worrying on this--alright?” Elespeth took his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his lips. “I’m married to the man I love; and we’re together again. I have everything that I want. I don’t see a reason, now, that things won’t improve.”
Leave the hard decisions for later, she urged the anxiety that turned her stomach. There’s no reason to give up… I can’t give up. For him.
If Alster had received advance notice regarding Lilica’s grandiose dinner plans, or the cadre of guests collected for the event, he would have at least splashed some rejuvenating water on his sweat-soaked face, rubbed the dirt stains off his traveler’s tunic, or slicked back his tangle of hair. Haraldur did not fare much better in terms of presentation; covered from head to toe in a fine powder, he looked like someone had dumped him into a grist mill. But as a seasoned warrior, donned with armor and weapons, he wore dust and detritus well. Alster, in comparison, appeared as he felt; a flawed gem caked in plaster. To crack the mold was to harm the jewel, too soft to handle pressure, or heat, or shattering.
“Why am I not surprised?” Alster, snapping out of his introspective fugue, roved his eyes to Chara. She had woven the crown of her head into an elaborate series of waterfall braids, which cascaded over her shoulders. An indigo gown hugged her hips and flared outward, a statement as bold as her red lips and silver eye-paint. Beside Lilica, she tilted her head at an angle that almost resembled the old Chara; proud, confident, and in charge. “Give her a cow pen and she’ll transform it into a ballroom. Watch she doesn’t redecorate your palace, Lilica,” he smiled slyly. “Your treasury won’t have a penny left.”
“Now Alster,” Chara pursed her lips, “is that how you greet your dear cousin you haven’t seen in a month? Furthermore,” she tossed her head in an exaggerated show of conceit, “I am excellent with money. As you have said, and I paraphrase, I can turn a pile of excrement into gold. Case in point,” her fingers curled around Elespeth’s shoulder, but her eyes sparkled with jest. “You’re welcome.”
“You do look beautiful, Elespeth,” Alster said, admiring how the gown flattered her growing figure and deepened the accents in her verdant eyes. “I look like a miser in your company, tatters and all.”
“Yes, you do,” Chara supplied before she turned to follow Lilica inside the palace. “It was all according to my plan. Revenge; it does not take much effort to cause you discomfort.”
As they entered the spacious foyer, two more notable faces floated into Alster and Haraldur’s view; Daphni and Elias, the two healers that Alster, for certain, thought were stationed in Eyraille indefinitely--or until Vega’s pregnancy, at least. “What a pleasant surprise.” He smiled and greeted them with a nod, too weakened to attempt a bow with his moderately off-kilter center of gravity, and too entwined with Elespeth to release her for a handshake. “I wasn’t aware that you were staying in Galeyn.”
“Me, neither.” An encroaching shadow hovered behind Alster and Elespeth. Haraldur, arms crossed, affixed the two healers with a suspicious stare. “What brings you here?”
Before the healers could generate an answer, another voice chimed in from the side. “Alster! Elespeth!”
Tivia rushed towards them, a blur of yellow fabric and yellow hair. For the occasion, she wore a breezy sundress, several layers of ruffles adding a playful poof to her ensemble. Her pale yellow tresses trailed sinuously past her shoulders and over the left side of her face, concealing the burn scars and her ruined eye in an artful fringe. “I’d say the two of you look worse for wear, but that is a given, considering our neverending spiral towards certain doom.”
“Is that a premonition?” Alster raised an eyebrow.
She shrugged, adopting a casual, almost flippant air. “There’s much to tell. Too much for now. Later.”
The Rigas Head nodded in understanding, choosing to cut his inquiries short when Haraldur, whose hawk-like attention snapped to Tivia, had transformed from stalwart, sturdy commander to an awkward structure standing tall in the middle of a field, swaying under an unclear purpose. For his sake, Alster dared not mention Vitali, or his health, or anything pertaining to the necromancer that so spurred Haraldur’s undying hatred.
Both star-seer and the Eyraillian prince seemed to bristle in each others’ presence, uncertain of how to act or communicate. They stared...at everything but the subject; the tiled floors, the walls, a painting on that wall--and what incredible color and blending styles the artist incorporated into the canvas! A work most deserving of display. Certainly worth the attention.
Electing to break the silence, Tivia coughed politely. “Hello, Haraldur. It’s been a while.”
Haraldur nodded, eyes now drifting to the vaulted ceilings. “...Yes. How,” he paused, straightened his necklace chain, and tried again, “how are you?”
“Better. Did...did Sigrid--”
His expression darkened, but a tic of some other emotion twitched above his eyebrow. A furrow, and it told the story of regret, and shame. “I know who she is now, if that’s what you mean.” In a surprising twist, he asked, “How’s the necromancer?”
“Still blind. Still cursed to live in the outer fringes of this society. A just punishment for his misdeeds against you and others, no need to worry.”
Sensing a severe downturn in the quality of an already tension-loaded conversation, Alster, Elespeth still at his arm, swept between them. “There will be plenty of time to reconnect later, but our entourage is clear across the corridor, now.” Sure enough, when Tivia and Haraldur turned around, they caught the retreating shadows of their company, including the healers, who had seemingly seized the opportunity to escape interrogation. Without another word, the one-time lovers pushed off, each at separate, incompatible paces. As he sighed, Alster readjusted his grip around Elespeth and resumed their shuffle to the dining hall. Though they faltered, their steps were companionable. Compatible.
“She lost her virginity to him,” he whispered, by way of providing context. “But if Haraldur thought this encounter was uncomfortable, he’s in for a rude awakening.” His whispers dropped to a wisp in the wind, self-conscious of the man himself overhearing. “Vega. She’s here, isn’t she?”
Yes, Elespeth had confirmed. Withholding all speculation on her reasons for making such a dangerous journey while pregnant, Alster would surely learn on his own, as she was expected to arrive at dinner. But when they all found seats around the table and servers came around with each course, the Eyraillian princess did not show. Perhaps it was for the better; Haraldur, sitting across from them, kept darting furtive glances at the healers, or at the door. Every few moments, he’d shift in his seat, eager to vault into action. Fortunately, Tivia chose to sit between Chara and Alster, and the two made concentrated efforts to interact with the food on their plates.
It was not a difficult task, however. Alster, remembering how much he enjoyed Galeyn’s food from his extended stay several months ago, cleaned several plates piled high with garden vegetables. The food never upset his stomach, owing, perhaps, to the healing properties of the Night Garden. At first, he thought that his arrangement with the Serpent for indefatigable magical stamina had eliminated his congenital defect altogether, as he’d forged their bond shortly before Lilica awakened Galeyn. But shortly after he departed for Galeyn, his digestion problems reemerged. Now that he’d returned to the hermit kingdom, surely, regaining all his lost weight and retaining nutrients would not pose a problem. As it stood, his wedding ring no longer fit him. Emulating Elespeth from her time in Braighdath, he transferred it to his middle finger. Throughout the meal, his thin hand was loath to leave hers, even to steal a bite of some sugar peas, or yellow carrots. His prosthesis did not excel in fine motor functions, like holding a fork or a quill to write, so...sacrifices were made. He removed his physical link to his wife, and ate--but with promises to reconnect when they had a moment alone.
The appointed time had come. Thanking Lilica, Chara, and all other guests present at the dining room, he stood, helping Elespeth to her feet. “It’s been so long since I’ve so thoroughly enjoyed a meal. Do thank the cooks, on my behalf. But I’m afraid it’s been a long journey, and I must see to it that I rest. We have a lot to do, tomorrow, and in the coming days. But I’m hopeful.” He perked a smile at Galeyn’s monarch. I don’t forsee a repeat of Braighdath, here. I know that I--we--” he gestured to Elespeth, “are among friends. So good night, my friends.”
With Elespeth’s verbal and non-verbal instructions, they reached her chambers, a quiet corner of the palace with a wonderful view of the Night Garden from the balcony. The longer daylight hours of summertime swept the outdoor vista in a false twilight, outlining the strange twists and curious shapes of Galeyn’s flora. Turning from the windows, Alster guided his wife to the bed and shared a spot beside her.
“I wanted your pain,” he admitted, sliding his wedding band around a loose finger. “I wanted to do something, El. Anything to decelerate the effects of your heart. With all the troubles in Braighdath that sprang up at once, it pained me that I could do little more for you. I would have.” He lowered his eyes and braced his steel arm against his chest. “Nothing is so hopeless. Nothing is so out of reach, or without a solution. But...it’s hard to solve a problem when you’re wading in a sea of them. Braighdath was--still is--falling apart at the seams. And I’m their new villain.” He smiled ruefully. “You don’t know how relieved I am that you didn’t stay. I know it was a difficult decision for you, and I can’t say I approve of how you disappeared in the middle of the night. But...I understand. It would have been too hard to say goodbye...again.”
He pressed in close to Elespeth, her touch like a balm his chapped and damaged skin had yearned for over the long, unyielding month of their separation. “There was a string of murders. Six D’Marians, gutted. We found them buried in the woods. But most shocking of all--councilman Thamon,” he hesitated, “ended up dead in an alleyway, his viscera wound around his neck like a noose. It was enough to rile up the city.” A shudder shivered through his shoulders. “They would have eviscerated you if you’d stayed, El. Well,” he remedied, “they would have tried. If it’s for you, there’s no hesitation. I’ll make myself an enemy of nations. Of humankind. It’s what happened, anyway.” His eyes closed, in memory. “They rallied against me, against all D’Marians. In the riot and the panic, we lost lives, and....we’ve lost their alliance, I’m sure. You don’t know how grateful I am to be gone from there. To be here, and with you….among people who care. Among people who have our backs.” Moisture appeared behind closed lids. “So it’s okay, El. Your condition...we’ll find a solution. I’m far from done with your case. Now that I have access to the Night Garden, to knowledgable healers, to trustworthy allies...there’s little standing in my way.”
Cupping her cheek tenderly with his good hand, he leaned forward and pressed an earnest kiss to her lips. “You’re well worth the adjustment, Elespeth. Anything to make you comfortable, to encourage wellness and the best environment for recovery…know that I will do whatever is necessary. If you must stay here...I can think of worse places for us to be. Like Braighdath.” His mouth twisted into something sour. “We’ve done impossible things, before. Continue to believe in me, El.” He rested his forehead against her chest, listening to her struggling heartbeat. “And I’ll save that heart of yours that has so captivated me.”
His eyes closed shut, again. New emotion welled, hidden from view. This can’t be happening, he told himself. I won’t allow this. I won’t. I’m done with this lack of control. I have the magic, I have the means, I have it all. He buried his face in her tunic, and barely contained tears moistened her fabric. Everything is possible. All solutions are possible. And yet…
And yet…
In a surge of emotion, repressed for so long in his bid to encapsulate the mien of a reliable, calm, unwavering leader, everything he’d buried flooded out of him in a fit of sobs and sharp, panicked breaths. All fabricated strength had foundered under the safe and loving arms of his wife. While she would support him no matter what, it killed him to have her see him so diminished, bereft of the hope he preached.
“I can’t,” he managed, in wounded whispers between sobs. “I can’t...let you down. You need me to be strong. For you, I...I’m sorry. We’ll be fine, El. ...I know it. I know it.”
All solutions were possible. Because he needed to believe it. Otherwise...he’d have nothing.
After dinner that night, Haraldur cornered the two healers in the hallway before they had a chance to slip from his unerring attention. Trapping them in an alcove, their only escape was to meet him head-on, with the blunt, honest truth.
“Where is she?” he said, his gaze honing in on Elias. While Daphni would lie to protect a patient or to spare someone undue distress, the Clematis healer preferred straightforwardness to circumlocution. As long as she did not try to feed him answers or instruct him to stay silent, Elias would answer truthfully. “Don’t avoid me. I know she’s here. You wouldn’t just abandon your patient in the middle of her pregnancy.”
“Believe me, I wanted to, after what she pulled,” Elias said, his requisite bluntness winning over secrecy. “Yes, she is here, and no, we did not sanction her travel to Galeyn, nor did we know about it until too late. Not even the king was informed.”
“I believe it,” Haraldur muttered. His hands, fighting for control over the situation, twitched at his sides. “Where is her room? I’ll find out anyway,” he added, catching Daphni’s reticent look. “Can’t help it, now. Obviously, this is what she wanted. So I’m going to give her the damn thing she wanted.”
In moments, he was at Vega’s door, rapping his tight fist against it in a knock. The latch clicked and revealed the woman on the other side of the threshold. His wife, copper-haired and willful--and quite pregnant. The distinct bulge stared at him as he entered her chambers and shut the door behind him.
“Give me one good reason why you’re here, Vega,” he said in a quiet fury. “One reason better than the safety of our children. If you can tell me that, maybe I can learn to forgive you. But that won’t happen because there is no better reason.” He advanced, one deliberate step at a time. His eyes flashed and heated, threatening to burn holes in his skull. “Let’s not even touch on the dangers of your trip, here. But do you also realize there’s a vengeful sorceress on the loose, who compelled Elespeth into murder? And she’s coming here, next? Could you be any closer to the line of fire? What the hell does your being here serve, Vega? Why?” A hint of desperation crept into his voice. “Your safety and their safety was my one comfort. My one consolation. Far removed and out of the way. Now…” He swerved on his heels and stalked away from her, in apparent disgust. “...You could have lost them, Vega. Harmed them. Did you even stop to think it through? Of course you fucking didn’t. You never do. That’s nothing new. It’s not like it matters, right? The lives growing inside you? Everything we did to save them? None of that compares to coming here to alleviate your boredom.” He wrenched open the latch for the door before the moment overwhelmed him. “I’ve got work to do. I’m not staying in the palace. Good night.”
He was falling to pieces in front of her; and it was all her fault.
Elespeth’s mind flashed back to Stella D’Mare; to lying, broken and immobile, on the floor of that abandoned building after Solveig had nearly crushed her against the wall. Alster had tried to help her, then; he had resolved to postpone the D’Marian exodus to heal her, but she had refused. And then, on the road to Braighdath, she had resisted Haraldur’s suggestion to take her to convalesce in a nearby village; she had further turned down his offer to wean her off of the stimulant. From there, she had stolen a copious amount of that damnable herb…
And she’d sealed her fate. This was her fault; and her husband was falling apart because of her poor, selfish decisions.
“You didn’t let me down, Alster. You never let me down…” The former knight wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him to her. Just holding him, having him near her again, however bleak the circumstances. “This is all because of me. Because of my pride… I let it get in the way of what matters. I didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, and yet… in my efforts not to be, that is precisely what I became.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, but didn’t share in his tears. Elespeth had shed her tears, earlier that day. The only thing left for her was quiet acceptance of her circumstances. “I am in the best possible place for someone in my situation. My health will not decline any further; what I need from you right now… I don’t need you to be strong. I don’t need you to fix a problem that you did not cause.”
The former knight pulled away and took his face in her hands, and wiped his tears away with her thumbs. “What I need… is for you to be well. You took on my pain, and I need you to heal from that.” A smile touched her lips, and she met his eyes. “I can’t be what you need me to be right now; one day, I’ll be your sword again. I’ll be your shield. One day… but not now. And we can’t both go down, Alster. Reclaim yourself… and I’ll catch up. You know I will. We’re going to be fine. We already are.”
Whether she was trying to convince him or convince herself… Elespeth honestly wasn’t sure. But in that moment, she believed it. She had to; and not for her sake. “Come to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow,” she urged him gently, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “When you’re not world-weary from travel. I’ve come to realize that the world looks that much darker through sleepless eyes.”
Despite bearing the burden of everyone’s anger and resentment--namely her brother’s, Daphi’s, and Elias’s, not to mention the likely majority of Eyraille--Vega Sorde found a contentment she’d been longing for in the newly awoken kingdom of Galeyn. Immediately upon her arrival (which, understandably, had shocked its monarch, a woman whom she’d previously known to be little more than a commoner), she hadn’t hesitated to offer her assistance to her, and to the people of this kingdom, as well as the D’Marians seeking refuge within it; and why wouldn’t she offer? This was, after all, not her first time organizing the movement of refugees, and she had valuable experience and insight to bring to the table. Some years ago, she’d spent tireless hours lending a hand to the refugees, which had resulted in her taking leave from the palace entirely for a good two months, at the very least… but it had all been worth it, and to this day, she hadn’t any regrets. Not in knowing she had helped to nurture the new beginnings of a once terrified people, who now thrived as farmers and artisans, all of whom welcomed her into their homes whenever she might visit.
As it turned out, Galeyn was hardly any different; and, unlike the place she had called home for the entirety of her life, Galeyn loved her. While the people had long been aware of Eyraille’s agreement to help, not only the refugees but the kingdom’s own native denizens, they had never imagined that the mountainous kingdom’s very own princess and Skyknight commander would directly insert herself into these affairs--especially considering she was noticeably several months pregnant. They did not know her reasons for risking her health, and the health of her babies to make the trek to their kingdom, and whenever they asked, she would replied that she wanted to lend a hand where help was needed; and it wasn’t a lie. She did, and her help proved valuable to them. When she was not pouring over lists of names of the D’Marians and organizing their means of boarding, she would check in on the Galeynians themselves to ensure that their were managing the influx of new people in a healthy way. Made sure that no one felt overburdened, and those who did, she lent an ear to their concerns, and promised that she would relay any and all words to their monarch, Lilica Tenebris.
And she did; Vega never fell through on a promise, and in the handful of weeks that she’d been staying in Galeyn, the Eyraillian princess and the Galeynian queen had begun to develop the vestiges of… well, she could almost call it friendship. Lilica suspected the reasons that Vega had chosen to take the risk of coming to Galeyn; that it had little to do with her, and everything to do with Haraldur, who was bound to arrive along with Alster Rigas. But that did not make her value Vega’s aid any less. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you were trying to steal my own people from me,” the queen had joked in passing, once. “They’ve grown quite fond of you in such a short amount of time. I only wish I could dote on them as thoroughly as you are able, to.”
“You are not at fault for not having the moments to spare in a day, your Majesty. I know this first-hand; my brother, Eyraille’s king, experiences the same disconnect. It is unfortunately a symptom of being a ruler and a leader. Greater duties will always come in the way of personal touch.” She had explained kindly, and rested a hand on Lilica’s small shoulder. “Rest assured, your people do respect you, and they recognize what you are doing for them. As do the D’Marians; you have more allies than you think.”
“I didn’t exactly give them much of a reason to respect me, when this kingdom first awoke,” Lilica had confessed, but didn’t elaborate. “But, Vega… do not think for a moment that I begrudge you any of the work you are putting in to facilitate the transition of D’Marians into Galeyn. On the contrary, I cannot deny that it has made my life and role leaps and bounds easier. But are you certain that being on your feet all day is… advisable?”
The reason for Lilica’s inquiry was not lost on Vega, and it was not the first time she had come across that question; in fact, she was faced with it every day, especially from concerned D’Marians and Galeynians. Should you be doing all this work? Are you and your children alright? Please, you should rest, there is no need to exert yourself. Every time she faced these comments, she had no doubt that they were well-intentioned; and why wouldn’t people ask? She had done the most foolhardy thing that a pregnant woman could possibly do, and people had every right to be concerned. But no matter how often she heard the words, it didn’t change her mind.
“I’m pregnant, your Majesty; I’m not dying.” She said, all in good humour, though it seemed to incite a modicum of guilt in Galeyn’s queen. “You don’t need to worry about me. Believe me, I am better here, on my feet, than I was in bed back in Eyraille. Your kingdom and its people…” The Skyknight commander heaved a light sigh, and Lilica did not miss that glint akin to sadness in her pale, azure eyes. “You are blessed, Lilica. A kingdom full of good people, with good hearts, who welcome change in anticipation of a bright future. It reminds me why I should remain hopeful about Eyraille.” Even if they never accept me back. There is still hope from that kingdom. I believe in it; I believe my brother can change it.
Of course she would eventually return to Eyraille, with her husband and soon to be born children. Of course she would face the kingdom’s wrath--or, more specifically, her brother’s. Caris was not one to hand out forgiveness like compliments on a good day; she wasn’t sure he would ever find it in him to forgive her for her most recent (and possibly most reckless) stunt. But that wasn’t what frightened her the most.
She knew, the moment Haraldur had arrived. Word had been sent via one of Lilica’s serving staff, while the Eyraillian princess was pouring over logbooks and family charts of the arrival of the last of the D’Marians. A dinner was being held for Alster and the Eyraillian prince; Daphni and Elias would also be in attendance. Without thinking too much of it, she, too, had agreed to be there. Yet at the last moment, something entirely uncharacteristic befell the bold princess; she got cold feet. She wanted to see Haraldur more than anything; wanted him to be more than just a face in her dreams. Time and again, she turned words over in her mind, premeditating what she would say to him, how she would explain why she had put herself and their children at risk just to be here…
But those words wouldn’t come. Because she wasn’t sure that there was any way she could spin her presence in Galeyn without inciting his fury.
“It’s alright. I’ll talk to him; you know I want to. Your mama just needs… some more time to think.” Vega sat with her hands on her uneasy stomach, speaking softly two the little lives inside of her as the dinner which she was supposed to attend progressed, and eventually passed. Daphni had not been exaggerating when she’d explained that maternal stress was felt but unborn children; she hadn’t felt quite so uncomfortable during her pregnancy as she did now, as if the little ones were squirming along with her. And it wasn’t until now that she’d felt helplessly uncertain and anxious. Fortunately, measured breaths seemed to take the edge off. “Just wait until he has seen how you’ve both grown… healthy and strong, like your parents. Resilient. You’ve already beaten the odds of never being conceived… all that is left now is to wait for you. Home doesn’t have to be Eyraille. Home is where we are… it is where we are together.”
Perhaps it was dumb luck in conjunction with the breathing, or the gentle cadence of her newly adopted maternal tone, but the unrest in her womb seemed to subside. A slow smile spread across her features. No, this was for the best; she couldn’t have regrets about leaving Eyraille. Her babies were safe and strong. They would not be born the soil of their birthright, perhaps, but they would be nurtured by the healing energies of the Night Garden, surrounded by well-meaning people who were already eager to meet them. Not her people; no, it was complete strangers who, instead of judging them as bastards, the way Eyraille judged her as some harlot, were eager and excited to welcome them into the world. As far as she could tell, she was the only self-aware expecting mother among Eyraillians and D’Marians, alike. They could well be the first babies born on Galeyn’s soil for a century. Where in Eyraille, she had been on the defensive from morning to night, every waking moment, here she was so at ease. Even Daphni couldn’t deny that the change in environment did favour her unborn children, for the fact it favoured their mother. Haraldur… he might be angry, at first. But he would come to understand.
A knock on the door startled her from her deep thoughts. Vega stood and heaved a sigh, preparing herself to face Daphni or Elias’s wrath for not attending dinner and skipping a meal. Of course, she had fully intended to eat when everyone else had retired… but the healers hadn’t found an end to their resentment for her flight to Galeyn. They’d find any excuse to be cross with her, and she didn’t try to dodge their anger. Better to let it out than to let it fester, and what was important was that they hadn’t given up on her, and instead had pursued her so as to continue to oversee her pregnancy to the very end.
But it wasn’t the Clematis or the Sybaian healer on the other side of the door, when she answered it. Her heart leaped into her throat at the sight of the man she’d come to see; the man she had longed to see. The way anger distorted his expression didn’t even register, at first, and the Eyraillian princess wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around him and pull him into a kiss. To pick up where they had left off… when he had left, the very day after their wedding. You found me, she wanted to say, as she imagined feeling the warmth of his embrace. I found you…
That rose-tinted haze before her eyes dissipated when her husband stepped into the room. It wasn’t love or longing she read on his face; it was anger. Hurt. Resentment. Everything she’d read in Elias’s expression, when he’d caught up with her in Galeyn, and more. “Haraldur.” She couldn’t filter her own tempest of emotions from her voice. Relief that he was alive and well; the bliss of seeing him again, at all, even if he was angry. The deep-seated longing that had weighed on her more heavily than the babies inside of her. Vega couldn’t fault her husband for being angry; but she couldn’t be angry back. “I know. I know that there is nothing I can say to convince you not to be angry…” When he made mention of the sorceress that had already threatened Braighdath, her thoughts drifted to Elespeth, who had grown so mysteriously sickly and so heavy with unspoken burdens. The Atvanian warrior hadn’t said a word to her about being compelled to murder… but, then again, she hadn’t made much of an effort to go and see her often. Whenever she did, the ex-knight appeared to be resting, which was what she did more often than not, these days. “There has been talk of this sorceress you speak of; I’ve been vaguely in the know… but I’ve also seen the effort Galeyn is making to keep danger out of the city. The Dawn Guard is even involved; how can I not have faith in Sigrid’s own kin?”
She tried to smile, but there was no way to make light of the situation when Haraldur was adamant to speak his mind. Vega rested a hand on her stomach, as if she meant to protect the children from the choice words he had for her. “I’ve been helping, Haraldur… with the refugees. With the Galeynians. I am no stranger to playing facilitator and mediator to a large influx of people running for their lives… and I think I’ve been making a difference. You can ask Lilica, yourself…” I didn’t have any comforts, she wanted desperately to confide. Not a single one. Not in never knowing how you were, when--or whether--you would ever return…
“I didn’t lose them, Haraldur. They are strong and healthy; I made sure of it, as soon as I arrived. I understand why you are upset. I know what could have gone wrong. I took every precaution on my trek to make sure all three of us were safe. But you are dwelling on a possibility that never came to pass. And… they’re fine. I’m fine. We are fine. And what is important is we are together…” She sought his gaze, searching for the faintest hint of understanding, a sliver of the love she felt for him, even in this most heated of moments. “I had faith that we would be safe, leaving Galeyn. I had to have faith… and I was right to. If only you can understand how much of how good this has been for us… for me and the children.”
As Haraldur’s anger spiraled into blatant condemnation, she felt an ache creep into her heart, like it had been seized by icy fingers. Boredom? If only boredom had been her only enemy! Certainly, she had been restless, but that was not what had incited her abrupt departure from Eyraille. “You don’t understand.” She whispered, fighting the tears that gathered behind the backs of her eyes. “I had to come find you. Every time we spoke, few and far-between as it was… I felt like I was losing you. I can’t lose you; I told you, I can’t do this alone…”
He wasn’t in the mood for hearing explanations that would only come across excuses. The Eyraillian prince’s departure was as abrupt as his arrival. Haraldur was gone before she had a chance to reach for him, leaving her alone in her chambers, which were fit to accommodate two. Even with her pregnant belly, the bed was far too grand for one person. She had been naive to think she had spent her last night in it, alone.
Haraldur’s demand to see Vega hadn’t sat well with Daphni from the moment he had cornered them. His loud aura had stirred unease in the pit of her gut, and even when he’d removed himself from their presence, she was not able to find a moment of peace in the hours that followed. Even long after she and Elias had retired for bed, she could not lie still, and found herself sitting up and clutching her knees, her mind racing for solutions. Eventually, the Clematis healer had awoken and inquired into her restlessness, at which point she decided to be honest. “I have a bad feeling.” Came her simple explanation, as her pale gaze fixed on the wall before her. “We should not have permitted him to see her. He had nothing gentle to say… valid though his sentiments might have been, they are damaging to her. And she’s already vulnerable…”
She would not sleep, knowing the exchange between the Eyraillian couple could not have gone well. Despite Elias’s protests, Daphni flung the blankets off of her, and donned her Sybaian robes from the end of the bed. “Someone needs to do damage control,” she sighed, and took her leave of her room, before promptly making for Vega’s chambers--which were not far, by her own request to keep a close eye on the errant princess.
Daphni only rapped once upon her door before she invited herself inside. The candles were not doused; the princess was not sleeping. She sat at a table, looking as though she was struggling to focus on one of the D’Marian logbooks. Her face was ruddy, her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, and her aura sported dark, consuming bruises. “...the twins are keeping me awake. They seem restless, tonight.” Vega feebly tried to explain the reason for her wakefulness in the wee hours of the morning. “I thought I might get some work done, since I’m already awake…”
It was all the Sybaian healer could do not to scoff. What did she take her for? There was no use in lying to her kind. “You knew he would be angry, Vega. You must have known this before you chose to leave.” Daphni kept her distance, maintaining a cool, even tone. Since learning that the Eyraillian princess had up and left in the middle of the night, alerting no one, the Sybaian healer had resolved not to feel sorry for this woman, no matter the circumstances. Vega Sorde had made her decision, however foolish it might have been; she would live with the consequences. “Neither I nor Elias can blame him for how he feels, right now, given the risk you took.”
“I know. He deserves to be angry; I will let him be angry. I just wish…” She trailed off a moment, lost in one of the many thoughts that were weighing on her mind. “It’s… lovely here, Daphni. Don’t you feel it, too? Maybe it is just the Night Garden, but since coming here… it is like I’m able to breathe, again. Like I was holding my breath in Eyraille, and suffocating without realizing it. I’ve had so much energy, the twins have grown stronger--you cannot deny that, not after Elias’s appraisal. I realize I took a risk; I know it could have ended tragically. But it didn’t, and we’re alright. We’re better than alright. I haven’t felt so at peace in…” In ever, she wanted to say. She had never felt so welcomed, so accepted, not even in her own home. “...I just wish he could see that, for now, we are better off, here. You can argue that Eyraille might not accept these babies, if they are not born on Eyraillian soil, but…” Vega turned an eye to the Sybaian healer. “Do you really think they’d have fully accepted them, at all? Born out of wedlock to someone who was formerly a commoner? I know this seems selfish; maybe it is. But I thought… that it might be the best chance. For all of us.”
And there it was; a truth that Daphni had been trying to ignore, in favor of focusing on the princess’s health, and that of her unborn children. But now she suddenly realized she hadn’t taken a holistic approach to looking out for Vega. She had known all along, had seen the way the Skyknight commander was wilting in the hollowness of her own palace… and, what? She had merely hoped that it was a passing phase? That Vega would awaken one morning, and snap out of it? This is my fault, the Sybaian healer sighed, as she felt that careful wall she’d fabricated between herself and the princess’s pained aura begin to crumble. I should have seen this coming. I should have done something…
“You cannot take back your decision. All that is left is to move forward with a positive stance, as you Eyraillians are so known to do.” She told the deflated princess. “I am sure that your husband will come to understand that, as well. Give him time to process it. And… please, get some sleep while you still can. Going into your third trimester, it isn’t going to get any easier.”
Daphni bid her goodnight and quietly took her leave, but she did not return to her and Elias’s shared chambers. Instead, she made her way outside, and spoke to one of the Galeynian guard about where the Forbanne had been stationed. When she found out, she did not hesitate to seek them out, and to make her request known. “I must speak with the Prince--with your superior immediately,” she said, when she was stopped for questioning. “If he is asleep, then rouse him. This cannot wait.”
The Forbanne sentry disappeared to deliver her message, and was gone for quite some time. Just as she began to wonder if Haraldur would speak with her at all, the Eyraillian prince himself arrived emerged from the shadows, looking as weary and as heavy as the woman he’d left, crying and heartbroken, in her chambers. “Come walk with me. We need to talk. I doubt this is something you wish to be overheard by your soldiers.” Daphni turned and glanced over her shoulder to ascertain he followed.
He did follow, and the two walked in silence for a moment, until they were clear of the Forbanne encampment, which was not far from the palace--which was probably for the best, with threats of a sorceress beginning to waft on the air. “Elias was not lying. Neither of us condoned the princess’s departure from Eyraille; I did not find out until she had already left. You are right to be angry, and we are, as well. But… I must confide, I do not believe her departure was spontaneous, or merely borne of restlessness. I saw it coming; I should have acknowledged it. I am not making excuses, nor am I asking her to forgive her. What is done, is done… though I think you should try to understand how and why it led to this.”
The Sybaian healer folded her hands in front of her, and veered toward the Night Garden. With any luck, its stable energies would curb any ire on behalf of the Forbanne commander. “I will be the first to confess that I believe I was not as attuned to your wife as I should have been. She is a very guarded person, and I’ll admit, she had me fooled for a long time. She was such a model patient for Elias and myself; she followed our advice. She took care of herself to the best of her ability. But…” Daphni paused, then, and pressed her lips together, remembering the stricken look on Vega’s face. Her bruised aura, sleepless eyes, when just that day, she’d been thriving… “...have you ever been a pregnant woman, alone, in a sea of people who want to see her fail?” Of course it was a rhetorical question. And for one of the only times she could remember, Daphni Adela did something drastic: she let herself feel angry.
“I didn’t think so. But here is the reality that you were not there to witness, Haraldur. Yes, Vega risked her life and the children’s to come to Galeyn. But what I failed to realize was how Eyraille was poisoning her. I am not talking about restlessness or boredom or impatience; your wife was trying very, very hard not to care that every time she left her room and turned a corner, serving staff would whisper. Or that every time she left the palace to tend to the needs of her people, the glances they shot in her direction could have withered flowers.” Glances that she, too, had witnessed. Why hadn’t she thought they were whittling away at Vega’s resolve? “Your wife is a strong and resilient woman. But even the strong will fail to stand when the weight of the people they are trying to care for comes down on them. Eyraille has far to go in redeeming itself; and I am not talking about the monarchy.”
How could she have been so blind, when this wasn’t the first aggression she’d seen toward an unsupported mother. Images of her own mother began to resurface; the coldness of the Sybaian clan that had left her to die, alone, because she had chosen to love and to bear a child by a means they considered unorthodox. Would she be around, had she found a safe haven, like Vega did? Or would she have endured until Daphni had reached puberty? I won’t feel sorry for her, she reminded herself, though she knew she was losing her resolve. Its her situation that resonates.
Daphni let her hands drop to her sides. But her fingers would not relax. They curled into fists. “Even I did not realize how alone and helpless she felt. I thought she was holding tight to that resonance stone night after night simply because she missed you; she was trying to find solace wherever she could. She was trying not to feel alone and overwhelmed. She was trying to… hold on. For you. But anyone will break, under pressure. So… she left. But contrary to your belief, it was not solely for selfish reasons. What do you think it does to babies, if their cannot cope emotionally?”
The Eyraillian prince could not be so thick as to not piece two and two together. Vega might have put herself at risk, leaving Eyraille; but she had already been at risk proceeding through an illegitimate pregnancy, in a toxic nation, all alone. They circled the premises of the Night Garden, but she didn’t lead them into it; she was hesitant to bring their roiling energies into its sacred space. “Don’t get me wrong, I am not impressed that she did not so much as consult Elias or myself before departing. But I cannot deny… her entire disposition has improved since she’s arrived: physically and emotionally. According to Elias, her blood pressure is more stable. She’s put on healthy weight with the progression of her pregnancy. And all of this happened before you arrived, your Highness, because no one has a reason to judge her, here. She’s in… frankly, she has found herself in a better environment. Whether or not anyone agrees with how or why she is here… right now, your wife and your children are thriving, and she is receiving the best possible care, between myself, Elias, and the Gardeners. She is healthy, her children are healthy, and now she has the Dawn Guard and your Forbanne soldiers as barriers of protection. How you choose to feel about that is up to you.”
Daphni took a step away, then, exhaling a breath that she’d been holding tight in her chest. Some of that anger seeped out with it; some, but not all of it. “I understand you feel betrayed. Take the time you need to be angry. But be aware that your wife is vulnerable, and will only grow more vulnerable every day as her pregnancy progresses. What she needs now is not to be alone.” She bowed her head and turned away. “Take my word for whatever you think it is worth. Goodnight, your Highness. Try and get some sleep.”
“How good of you to take a blind leap of faith, Vega, using our children as cushions in case you fell.” His words were ice; his eyes, dissecting. “Some people can’t have that chance. Others...they pay for it. Every single day, they’re reminded of how it all went wrong. So rejoice; you’re safe and they’re safe. That much I can be thankful for. But if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back out there to make sure the three of you stay safe.” The overlarge bed in the chamber’s center caught his eye. “Don’t expect me to live here, either. It’s no use, staying in this palace as your husband when there are threats to address. You don’t need me,” he whispered, and a skimming of regret undercut his voice. “You need my sword.”
With his last, haunting statement, he took his leave. A soft clack of the door, deliberate footfalls down the echoing corridors. Though he was a tall and imposing man, he knew how to slip by unnoticed, or disregarded. For so long, citizen Mollengardians chose to ignore the advancing terror of policing Forbanne, in fear of drawing unneeded attention to themselves. Look down, don’t engage, perhaps they’ll leave me alone. I’ve done nothing wrong… All thoughts no doubt running through their heads. Till this day, he still carried with him the trait of selective invisibility. It was effortless to trigger; he only needed to walk with a purpose, and walk with the intent to kill.
No one bothered him as he marched out of the palace doors, through the gates that cordoned off the Night Garden, and out to the small, surrounding field where his soldiers had set up camp for the night. With Queen Lilica’s go-ahead, the Forbanne established a perimeter around the palace, a wall of bodies acting as a ring of protection against invasion. Should the sorceress consider approaching with a magical assault, they would remain unaffected. But he doubted the woman, so prone to secrecy and clandestine movements would so boldly invade the center of Galeyn, unless as a diversion. No--what they really needed to prepare for was an attack of the mind. And Haraldur’s mind...again and again, the wounds threatened to tear from their sutures and bleed anew. The slew of events that had assailed him over the course of mere hours--Tivia, the discovery of the healers, Vega-- was enough to submerge him back into the same pit of helplessness he’d experienced in Braighdath. He wouldn’t allow it to happen. What good was he to anyone if he reverted to his pitiable self, too guilt-ridden to function? An unreasonable liability, who would rather injure his cousin (no...she’d renounced their ties, and he couldn’t blame her) than move forward with the grace to admit his faults, and with promises to do better? To be better? When he lost control and threatened the wolf-shifter’s life, he fell to despair and self-loathing. He was too dangerous to coexist alongside developed society. Too compromised by Solveig’s influence to mingle and live as someone deserving a name, let alone a lofty title bequeathed by a kingdom too drunk to notice what they were condoning. He wanted someone to understand. Desperate for an affirmation by someone who truly empathized with his plight.
No matter how much you believe that others accept you, they don’t accept the ‘real’ you. He remembered Solveig’s words from when they had her chained as a “prisoner.” Their challenge-fraught march to Braighdath, which he tried to partition from his memory. Because they don’t understand. They’ll never understand.
You’re charading as the person they want you to be. The truth roared in his ears. But you’ll never be one of them. You can’t escape who you are, no matter how much you try...
He was better off this way. Detached from his emotions. Better to be a reliable, predictable war machine than an open pustule, too afraid of living in freedom, of making choices because the consequences were seldom worth the price. So many attempts to move forward resulted in misstep after misstep, further proof that he was bound for failure as a human civilian. Why was it so effortless for Vega? It hurt, to see her vault through the skies and land on her feet. She, so certain of her heart, so unapologetic in her approach to achieving her desires, so certain of a future. Of them. Of a family...
But he was never permitted to have desires. And now...perhaps he was playing a charade. He was Forbanne. He was always Forbanne. No one cared to coddle a broken or rusty sword; doing so would not hone its edge or improve its quality in battle. Haraldur was a weapon. He was disposable. The moment he showed weakness...they would abandon him. Like Sigrid.
One day, Solveig would claim him for good.. And why resist? It was all futile. He tired of the fight over his autonomy. The strain to pretend, either as Haraldur or as Prince of Eyraille. The master always won over Forbanne minds. Malleable as putty. To think of a life beyond lifelong servitude was to delude oneself. To go out and live it, thinking he escaped an uncompromising destiny… was self-destructive. Well and truly, the only solution was death.
But…
I can’t let those children down, he thought, hand drifting to the chain around his neck. The weight of a promise, flashing in tree branches of gold. If I can do nothing more, as I am...I’ll fight for them. For a world where they’re safe. Where Vega is safe.
And Forbanne weren’t safe. He was not safe. His best role for them was as a sword. Swords did not point at nurseries, or kiss their wives to sleep; they belonged on the battlefield. It was the only compromise he could make, as a cursed soldier.
You don’t need me, Vega, he repeated to himself. You don’t need me…
He did not sleep at all that night, lying for hours upon his bedroll, staring with open eyes at the sloping sides of the tent the Forbanne constructed for him. Exhaustion from his long journey did nothing to convince his body to rest. Thoughts of the day’s events refused to clear, even when he committed to his future plans--if one could call resignation a plan at all.
In his restlessness, he kicked off his sheets, threw on his boots, tunic, and strapped a sword to his waist. Emerging from his tent, he’d intended on going for a walk, or training with his weapon, but a Forbanne sentry approached him, torch in hand. “Sir, a woman has come calling for you. She says it’s urgent.”
Haraldur sighed, and clicked his sword back into its sheath. “Who is this woman? If it’s Vega Sorde--”
The sentry shook his head. “Her name is Daphni Adela. Should I send her away?”
“...No.” He nodded for the sentry to lead. “Take me to her. If she says it’s urgent, I’m in not in any position to say no.” At once, the worst case scenario popped into his head. The babies. How did they fare? Was the demanding flight by roc too much on their developing forms? Did she seek him to announce some debilitating defect upon their birth? Another complication?
He breathed evenly and braced for impact as he approached the Sybaian woman, who waited for his arrival at the entrance to the Forbanne camp. “Daphni,” he said, in a polite, but detached clip. “My apologies for earlier. I had come unprepared to deal with a surprise visit from my pregnant wife. What’s your urgent news?”
As she prompted him for a walk, away from prying ears, his mouth deepened into a frown. “Is this about the babies? Are they--?”
Before they set off from camp, Daphni assured they were the picture of health and were, in fact, thriving in their mother’s womb. “So what’s this all about?” he prompted, as they headed towards the palace’s outer palace walls, leaving the lights of camp behind them.
Vega. Of course. The Sybaian healer’s “urgent” message was nothing but justification for the impulsive princess and her foolhardy venture to an accepting environment, free of spite and judgment. He did not lack understanding; Vega was always at odds with her kingdom, and he too bore witness to the snide whispers or the hostile side-glances. According to her, they happened with less frequency when he was near, owing, perhaps, to his intimidating size, or his status as a savior. It made sense, then, that once he departed for Stella D’Mare, any protective barrier surrounding her had dissolved, and the flood of vitriol returned, to lap ceaselessly at her feet. But however sound the reasoning, it did not account for Vega’s drastic undertaking, flying off without a word to a distant kingdom, completely ignorant as to how Galeyn would receive her unprecedented arrival.
“She was banking on luck,” he said, swishing through the low grasses that grew parallel to the Night Garden. “Hoping that it would all work out for her. It’s great that it did. It’s not that I wish her the worst. I know what she suffered in Eyraille. But that explanation isn’t good enough. Not enough for me to accept her flying to a potential warzone in the making, in her delicate condition. I’m sure she has no regrets; not if this kingdom welcomes her indiscriminately and she’s satisfied, emotionally fulfilled, and healthy. Great news for her, great news for the babies.” He came to a stop and glanced above, at the moonless sky and the multitude of stars. “But peace doesn’t last. She’s too close. Too involved. Too...vulnerable, here. Better to rot in her homeland than to risk herself for these people. Because she will. Why wouldn’t she pay for kindness? She starves for it. I,” he hesitated, “felt the same, when I used to guide Mollengardian refugees over the mountain passes, to Eyraille. Those people, those lives...I’ve never forgotten their faces. Their names. Or the people who died in pursuit of freedom. But,” his eyes followed the path towards the Night Garden, towards the outer walls of the palace, almost glowing white in the darkness, “there is a huge difference between her and me. I was never pregnant when I put myself in harm’s way.”
Unbidden, a plea rumbled from his mouth. A moment of weakness, of untapped emotion that he dared to slide to the Sybaian healer, whose mere presence sought it out of him without effort. The little Sybaian girl, Shayl, was another face, another name, he’d never forget. “I can’t lose them, Daphni. I may be Forbanne, but I won’t be responsible for the deaths of more children. Especially my own. You can tell Vega that’s what I choose to do, out here. She can go and enjoy her surrogate kingdom, blissful and content, and as you say, thriving. Meanwhile, I’ll focus my efforts on preserving this paradise for her and the babies. I won’t ruin that for her...by being a part of it.” Before Daphni could protest, he added, “You and I both know that as I am, now, I’m not good company for a pregnant woman. She needs love and support. I trust the people in the palace, no, the people of Galeyn, will provide that for her. It’s out of my hands.” Nodding his farewell, he turned around and headed back to the Forbanne encampment. “I appreciate that the two of you flew all the way from Eyraille to help her through this pregnancy,” he said as he made his retreat. “Look after her, and the babies, as you’ve been doing.”
While Tivia Rigas had not originally planned to visit Galeyn’s palace for the welcoming of Alster Rigas and Haraldur Sorde, it was hard to say no when she received a personal invite from the Queen, herself.
She and Vitali had been living in the outskirts of the kingdom, residing in a small village populated by six other people, a family of farmers. She didn’t want to impose on their lifestyle, which, as they explained, operated in much the same manner from one hundred years ago, except with another family populating the house that she and Vitali now occupied. But, they did not mind the quiet couple, and in fact, had insisted that she and the necromancer were married, and she hadn’t the heart to correct them, in fear that she’d scandalize their ostensibly traditional values. The family was immensely helpful in providing the means to live off the land, a concept that Tivia, as a Rigas, never needed to learn. Food had always appeared on her plate, cooked and presented on a gilded table beneath the glint of chandelier light. Now, she was learning to appreciate the toil of pulling the weeds, tilling the soil, planting the seeds, watering the crops, and waiting for the wiggle of a shoot to emerge from the ground. Luckily, with such attentive neighbors, and the influence of the Night Garden, which all of Galeyn felt, the spring and summer harvests shaped up to be bountiful for both neighboring farms. Now, if only she cooked as well as she farmed…
The sightless necromancer, as fitting for his fiercely independent attitude, did not allow his disability to impede him. Having hewn a walking stick for himself, he often trundled along the household or outside, keeping to the shadows or wandering at dark. Though unable to aid Tivia’s efforts in direct sunlight, owing to his supernatural light sensitivity, he opted to cook for them, and, admittedly, the quality of his dishes were worlds better than whatever nonsense vegetable stews she had managed to concoct. The days, though grueling and labor intensive, rewarded her with little victories, and it was safe for her to conclude that it was the happiest she had felt in years.
Of course, visions still plagued her. Horrors of Chara’s star sinking into the sea, or a Serpent rising up to swallow Alster’s star. Clouds crowding Elespeth’s star in thick streams of black smoke. Her father, Cyprian, her father, his star blinking madly. Airlea, her mother, her star trapped between brief stages of bliss and long segments of bleeding despair. And Haraldur, the only non-Rigas aside from Vitali to which she bore a psychic connection...his star spiraled, lost, into a sea of billions, slowly becoming indistinguishable from its surrounding counterparts.
All this, she witnessed, helpless but to watch. Quickly, she learned the futility of warning others of what she saw. Seldom could she change an outcome; only report on the inevitability. Lately, however, she sensed a larger disturbance by which all connected stars were affected--and then some. A vortex that seized the sky and shook all those glittering gems into shattered glass and blood-tipped shards on the fields and forests of Galeyn. Something was moving towards all of them, and it was impossible to ignore.
So when Lilica visited Tivia and her half-brother on the farm, days before Chara’s scheduled feast, she agreed to show up and reprise her role as the bearer of catastrophic news. Starting with Vega.
Ever since their last...encounter with each other, Tivia had always regretted how she approached the situation with the then-bereaved princess. At the time, she had lost her roc, and lost Haraldur to the throes of battle. To add insult to injury, Tivia decided then to confess her illicit relations with the man, as if knowledge of the truth would better the situation.
It didn’t.
And now, she was certain that a repeated offense would eliminate any shred of tolerance the two may ever hope to share. Because Tivia was heading to Vega’s chambers that morning--to deliver bad news.
That is my lot in life now, isn’t it? She thought, as her trembling hand hovered over the princess’ closed door. The doomsday messenger. If Death needed to employ a messenger, I am certain that I am one of his candidates for consideration.
Before she could change her mind and flee with the kick of her heels and an unceremonious scramble to the nearest hidden alcove, the door creaked open, and the red-headed and hot-blooded Skyknight stood before her, round belly jutting from the contours of her maternity gown.
“Vega.” Her foot wedged beneath the door, in case the woman decided to slam it in her face. “I will not stay here long. I won’t even bother with a formal greeting; there is no need, considering the history between us. I just wanted you to know,” she leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper, “that I...I see your husband’s star, and...I know what’s in store for him, in the future. What’s happening to him as we speak. And I...wanted to inform you.” While Vega was off guard, Tivia blew into the room, closing the door for an extra barrier of privacy. “The sorceress, Locque, she’s coming. She’s coming here, very soon. Few will be spared her wrath, including…” she sighed, stroking the long fringe of blonde hair over her ruined eye, “him. He’s regressing, Vega. Reverting to his Forbanne persona. I don’t know if this will make him more vulnerable to an attack, or less vulnerable, but...please be careful, your Highness. As long as he is active here in Galeyn, leading his Forbanne army and protecting the people from magic-related interference, you, and your children...they are targets for Locque to exploit. To control the man is to control his army, and you are a weakness. Stay hidden, if you can. And I would suggest…” she flinched retroactively, bracing herself for impact, “that you are not seen together. You’ll crack him. Perhaps it is best...for now, that he wear his Forbanne mask, if it will help to shield his heart. To shield you...and the babies.”
Vega had tried in earnest to get rest, that night. Truly, she had. After unintentionally confiding in Daphni that true reason why she had come to Galeyn, she had fully intended to heed the Sybaian healer’s advice and close her eyes long enough to calm the unease that coiled in her stomach and upset the children. But it was a far more difficult task than she’d initially thought, and hours of tossing and turning in the grand bed provided little relaxation for her or the two restless babies inside her. Vega had not been so foolish as to think Haraldur would stay with her, tonight, upon realizing she had left Eyraille. She had been prepared for his anger and his inability to understand why she’d done what she had… and all the same, a part of her couldn’t help but hope that she wouldn’t be alone anymore. So as to appease that part of herself that was foolish enough to wish for the currently unattainable, the Skyknight commander wrapped her arms around a second pillow, and held it close to her body, a pitiful semblance of company and comfort in lieu of the comfort a real person could provide.
Following a restless night lacking slumber, which had also affected the twins, whose movements made her uneasy and reluctant to rise from bed, Vega had a slow start to the next morning. There was still a lot to do, with the last wave of D’Marians that had come in; surely, some people at the very least were relying on her appearance to help organize and mediate this transition. And she would be there, for them, but the princess didn’t have it in her to move quite as quickly, today.
Taking a light breakfast in her chamber, Vega took her time to dress and ready herself that following morning, still feeling heavy and despondent from Haraldur’s words. She needed to believe that he hadn’t intended to hurt her. That what he’d said had only been borne of anger and surprise and confusion. Yet, when she replayed it over and over in her mind, she couldn’t help but feel he had wanted her to hurt, for as much as it hurt him to know she had knowingly put herself and the twins in danger. Well… if that had been his wish, then she hoped he knew he’d been successful. This was the first time since arriving in Galeyn, with its clear air and fresh environment and understand people, that the Eyraillian princess felt herself beginning to slip back into that heavy, suffocating despondency she had suffered in her own kingdom.
Taking her time nursing amug of herbal tea, as the morning began to approach early afternoon, Vega was interrupted from her heavy thoughts by a knock at the door. At first, she considered not answering; there was no one she cared to see, right now. Not the serving staff, nor the two healers who checked in on her at least three times a day. Not Lilica, who also inquired into her well being rather frequently, likely for feeling indirectly responsible to see to the Skyknight commander’s health and satisfaction while she was a guest in her kingdom. But by not answering, that would only rouse worry and suspicion, and then none of them would be out of her hair, and she would be faced with the endless questions, What do you need? What can we do for you? Is everything as you need it?
So she put down her mug of tea and opened the door. Tivia Rigas was not exactly the last person she expected to see… but the girl was certainly among those whose company she was not quick to anticipate. “Tivia…?” Too surprised to even considering shutting the door in her face, Vega stepped aside as the Rigas woman stepped into her room. Of course, Vega could only assume that Alster’s cousin had come to Galeyn with the influx of D’Marians at some point. But why the Rigas star seer would ever want to come and pay her a visit, especially after what had occurred during their last encounter… “I… what brings you, here? To me, I mean.”
The young Rigas (well, ‘young’ for Rigas standards, but still older than Vega, herself, in terms of years) did not waste any time getting to her point and making known the reason for her abrupt presence, when they had neither seen nor spoken to one another in quite some time. Vega was too perplexed by it all not to listen; and for good reason, it turned out. “The sorceress…” The Eyraillian princess furrowed her brows and frowned. “I’d heard whispers of her threat… Locque. Haraldur… he made mention of her, last night.” A subtle wave of sadness settled in her features, beyond her control, and too obvious in the lines of her face before she could check herself. What does it matter? She thought grimly. She can see Haraldur’s star; she can probably see mine, too. She’ll always know more than anyone wants to admit…
“I know he is regressing. We have been in communication through resonance stone for months; each time I spoke with him, I could hear it in his voice. He was… he’s slipping.” Her unsteady voice quieted in tone. Vega Sorde was by no means happy to let herself be vulnerable before Tivia Rigas, not with the stirrings of resentment still niggling at the back of her mind. But this girl… no, she was not her enemy. She was regretful, and what had happened between them--and between Haraldur--was in the past. Tivia had no reason to lie to her or stir up trouble when there was already plenty brewing, and even if she did… Vega believed her. And she believed her intentions were genuine. “That… that is, at least in part, why I left Eyraille. Because I am afraid he is losing himself. Perhaps he is regressing to protect himself; or in some delusional attempt to protect me and the children. And maybe now is not the time to try and break him of that. But… I cannot leave this issue untouched. You need to understand…”
Vega trailed off, and looked at Tivia--really looked at her--for perhaps the first time. Her distraught features softened. “...I know you understand. I won’t take your warning for granted; but… you must let me relay this to him. It’ll probably be the last chance I get to talk to him for… a while.” The princess flashed a tight smile and rested a hand on her round stomach. “I was never supposed to get pregnant; not after I died and came back. Not after I came so close to dying again… and now that I am, everyone I run into seems to think it is their god-given duty to shield me. To protect the babies. But it is not one’s responsibility but my own, and I will protect them. Coming here… yes, it was reckless. It was dangerous. But I am six months pregnant, and I can safely say I am done putting myself and my children in danger. Thank you, though. For… caring enough to warn me. To warn us.”
Slipping on a pair of summer shoes that she kept at the foot of her door, she bid the Rigas seer a quick goodbye without seeing her out of her room. But she did, at the very least, leave Tivia of a sense that the atmosphere between them had finally begun to clear. After all, there were more important issues toward which she needed to direct her energy.
Vega had no idea if her husband would even agree to see her, after the words they’d shared the night before. Or, rather, she anticipated he would turn a cold shoulder and simply refuse to acknowledge her. But this was her first glimpse of Haraldur, Commander of the Forbanne, who was evidently leaps and bounds a different person from Haraldur, Prince of Eyraille… and gaining an audience with him was not what she had imagined.
Finding the Forbanne encampment was not difficult, as they had established themselves around the perimeter of the palace. Almost like they were becoming a literal wall of defense… a sight that immediately made her uneasy. She was not ignorant of the impending danger, especially in light if Tivia’s very recent warning, but seeing these precautions… it gave her more insight into her husband’s state of mind. His worry, his anticipation that he would have to fight. In the time that they had been apart… this was who Haraldur had been forced to become. Not only to protect her; she had a feeling that this was the method the had developed to protect himself. To become the identity that came most easily to him…
He had only been an Eyraillian prince for less than a day. He had been a soldier for most of his life.
“I need to see Haraldur.” When it became clear that there would be no walking in and speaking to him without going through layers of Forbanne warriors, first, she made her intentions clear as possible. “It is regarding the sorceress, Locque. I have information that is pertinent for him to know.” Did they put two and two together--standing there, as she was, with a visibly pregnant belly? Were they even aware she was his wife? Hell, had he so much as mentioned to these people that he was married? That didn’t strike her as a fact that would earn him respect.
It was several moments before she saw his face. And she was more than certain his arrival was only contingent on the nature of the message she came to bear, and had nothing to do with the messenger, when her face--and the belly not so far from it--took him by surprise.
“Last night, you came to tell me what was on your mind. I let you.” Vega was impressed with herself; with how even she was able to keep her tone, using the voice she used among Eyraillian denizens when she was representing her kingdom. Not the lilting voice with its soft edges that she had adapted when she’d fallen in love with the person standing before her. “Now, I have something to say--a lot, actually, and all of it is relevant. I want you to hear me out. You owe me that much.”
Out of respect for the privacy between them, Vega took herself several paces away from the other Forbanne. This also seemed preferable for Haraldur, as he did not hesitate to follow, much to her relief. “I spoke with Tivia this morning. She sought me out,” she began, anticipating that beginning their conversation with the vestiges of their conversation last night would cause him to walk away before he heard her out. “Locque; this sorceress is the reason for this formation, is it not? For building a wall of able-bodied soldiers around the perimeter of the palace? Well, you are not wrong too. But I need to ask you--no, I am telling you, to be careful.”
Taking a breath, the Eyraillian princess lowered her voice. “...you were right. About keeping to your role as a sword and shield, for now. I don’t know how much this sorceress already knows, but she is going to try to control you. Because through you… she will try to control the Forbanne. And with a Forbanne army at her fingertips, little else will stop her. So…” She blew air from between her lips. “This is the last time I intend to see you; until this is resolved. I’m going to remove myself from your life; I will not interfere with what your accomplish, day to day. If she does not know that we are connected--or how we are connected… then she cannot use them against us.” Her hand traveled to her stomach. There was no question as to what she meant by ‘them’.
“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m in good hands, here, and so are the children. I am going to work on diminishing the spread of my title, here. Most of the D’Marians and Galeynians already know me as Vega, anyway… a person, a name. Not a title.” She smiled softly at those words, offering a small glimpse into the peace she had found since leaving Eyraille; a kingdom that often did not know what it had until it lost what it had. “There is a chance she will never know I am here. An indiscriminate pregnant woman would not mean much to her. So…” The princess sighed and spread her hands. “You win. I won’t wait for you at night; we won’t talk, we won’t interact, or have anything to do with one another’s lives. You can spend that time resenting me for my decision, if you see fit. But… I need you to know this.”
Vega pressed her lips together and sought his eyes. Not with anger or contempt, but a wistful sadness that accompanied a final goodbye. “I told you… I cannot do this alone. And I don’t intend to raise two children, alone. But even if I had waited, in Eyraille… would you have come back? Would you have been there for the birth of our children, Haraldur?” Perhaps he was taken aback by her question; whatever the reason, he said nothing. The princess swallowed a lump in her throat. “Right now, Galeyn may need a soldier capable of wielding a sword. But our children… are going to need a father. And if I had ever thought, even for a moment, that you would choose to lead them over raising a family between us…” She gestured to the Forbanne soldiers in the distance. At that point, her voice broke, far beyond her control. “...I never would have gone through with this. That is all I wanted to say.”
She could feel the tears threatening behind her eyelids, and with those words, Vega Sorde took her leave of the man who didn’t want to see her; and, as per his wishes, and for the safety of their children and their future (if they still had one), he would not see her, for quite some time.
Waking up next to Chara every morning was such a small detail that had made a difference in Lilica’s life, so much that she was afraid to dwell on it. The Queen of Galeyn had not anticipated that, just a month later, she would find herself back in Chara’s arms. Convincing the Rigas woman to leave Galeyn to come back with her was all she’d wanted; to know she was safe and well, in light of whatever she had suffered that would cause her to cut her hair, to dye it brown, to… her ears…
Lilica wanted Chara safe. And whether safe meant in her arms, or merely dwelling within the borders of her inherited kingdom, did not matter. So she had offered her space, from the very beginning. Her own room, one near Lysander’s. She had shown her the Night Garden, given her a brief tour of the palace so that she could get her bearings, but otherwise, made no demands. She wanted to reach out, of course; wanted to at least know where the two of them stood, after time and distance had separated them for so long… but she refrained, because there were too many unknowns, and because she did not know what would repair them, or push them further apart.
It was Chara who had ultimately come to her--had come back to her. The signs hadn’t occurred overnight; they were small, at first. Comments about how she looked well. Observations with regard to the beauty of Galeyn. Finally, on several consecutive mornings, she had peeked into Lilica’s room, admiring the masonry around the fireplace, or the pristine, white woven rugs that warmed the feet in contrast to the otherwise cold marble. At first, Lilica had silently rejoiced that the Rigas woman seemed to be coming back into herself, in that she had an eye to appreciate finery when she saw it. But what she came to realize, when Chara had stopped by on the fourth day, remarking on the same curvature and design of the elegant wooden bed frame, that this wasn’t just a sign of her missing the luxury of her home in Stella D’Mare. It was a shy request to stay.
So, the dark mage had assured her she was welcome to this room, if she did not mind the company. And that had been that.
From there, they had taken things slowly, and Lilica had yet to ask just what had happened to the woman she loved. Something had broken her; shattered her. She was not the same… but she was still Chara. And the Queen of Galeyn had faith that the Rigas woman would let her in the know when the time was right; whenever she had recovered enough to talk about it.
For now, all she could do was offer validation and opportunities for the woman she loved; anything that helped her take another step toward recovery. Lucky for her, someone who knew little to nothing about catering and entertaining, organizing a dinner for Alster and Haraldur upon their arrival was well within Chara’s abilities--and her interests. The Rigas woman spearheaded that operation with gusto, and it brought Lilica joy to see that spark of light in her azure eyes. She was coming around, coming back into herself. Maybe she hadn’t given enough credit to the healing properties in Galeyn; or maybe she hadn’t given enough credit to Chara’s resilience.
“Go back to sleep; you have no obligation to get up yet,” she said to the Rigas woman a few mornings later, who had stirred a few minutes after the Queen rose from bed to dress and prepare for the day. Even with Vega’s diligent help, there was a lot to do in organizing the influx of D’Marians.
But Chara was already awake, and reluctant to wile the day away in the comfort of Lilica’s grand bed. She was more energetic, as the days passed, and more eager to get her hands on a task than to deny her own existence, or the existence of the world around her. “I know I’ve already thanked you over and over for organizing that dinner, the other day, but I am not exaggerating when I say I couldn’t do it without you.” She commented, taking a seat on the foot of the bed. “Galeyn doesn’t have near the regality of what Stella D’Mare had, and yet… you still managed to find the best it has to offer, and capitalize on it. I’ve been here for months, and I couldn’t have pulled that together in a manner of days like you did. Actually… it had me wondering about something.”
Lilica reached for her hand and wove their fingers together. “I crossed paths with Elespeth the other day, while she was spending some time in the Night Garden. She mentioned something in passing about Alster’s birthday. It should be in a few days’ time--am I right? And, she also said… yours. It isn’t far off.” A slow smile illuminated her features. “I wish Galeyn could throw you both a party befitting a Rigas. We can’t; but… that doesn’t mean that we can’t arrange something. I would like to; for the both of you. But, admittedly… I would need a little bit of help. If…” She hesitated, and searched her eyes for any sign of agreement or disdain. Was this too soon…? “If… if it would make you happy.”
Tivia blinked in surprise. No deep-seated exploitations of rage? No raised voices, no seething remarks, no demands to leave and never again show her face? The star-seer’s one good eye averted, to the bulge and the twin lives developing inside. Safe. Healthy. Growing. For now. Their mother wanted a serene environment for the babies, a place where they could flourish and develop among the best and kindest of people. Perhaps it was why Vega extended a small measure of civility towards her; to set an example for her children. It didn’t hurt, that her proximity to the Night Garden was buoying her disposition, even if grim news of her husband dampened some of her salubrious vigor.
“I am afraid it is more than that,” she said, gently. A lullaby-smooth whisper disguised the ominous details she had gleaned from the twins’ father, self-conscious that they were listening in from their mother’s womb. “He seems to be regressing as a method of protection, yes, but...he is already under compulsion. Another woman controls his actions from afar. I’ve seen her, in my visions. She is in Stella D’Mare. She...holds his mind. So long as he follows her orders, he is not free, nor will he ever be free. I think he realizes this, but doesn’t want to alarm anyone.” She played with the ends of her mid-length hair. “He cannot be allowed to dip too far into his Forbanne persona, either. The stars, they have said to me, several times...that if he no longer lusts for ‘wolf blood,’ then he can gain dominion over himself. I,” she scrunched her nose, “don’t know of this ‘wolf,’ but they are a being close to us, and they have impacted us all, for better and for worse. If Haraldur kills the wolf...he cannot be saved, so I am told. He will have lost the fight, and the resolve to fight.”
“I...know that I have nothing kind to share, Vega.” In her gray eye shifted gradations of apology and regret. “But...please understand, it weighs on me to carry such information about my friends and allies and not share what I see. It’s a cursed power, glimpsing into destiny, tortured by the decision to simply watch events unfold, helpless in my knowledge, or to speak the future aloud and watch, helpless, as prevention, preparation, or evasion, leads people into a direct collision with that fate. So, I suppose what I am saying is,” she nodded, as in a daze, and stepped aside to allow Vega through the door, “do what you believe is best. There is one consolation I can offer you, however,” she called after the retreating princess before she strayed out of earshot. “The babies...they will be born.” But will they live? She wondered, morbidly. It depended...on if they all survived Locque.
The morning’s bitter arrival meant nothing to a man already kept awake by the parade of faces, of promises and dreams and a life he valued, that circumstances forced him to leave behind. Much as he shunted away his haunting thoughts through dedication to unloading the supply wagons at camp under darkness, training with his sword, or slinging the last of the swill that the Forbanne had carted from Braighdath, once he spent a moment in idleness, the thoughts littered at his feet like autumn leaves in a gale. Even his metaphors led him to dangerous associations. The Wind. Vega, resplendent beneath the ballroom glow of the Equinox Festival. Autumn. Kynet and Klara. Two attached oak leaves, emblazoned red and orange. Licks of flame in a world that rattled with the conflagrations of the harvest. And where did he stand? Where could he watch as those leaves spiraled and danced so far away….so out of his reach?
I love you, he told himself, in those unavoidable idle moments. I love you both. I love your mother. I don’t...I wish…
I wish I could be someone else. Someone better. The man I pretended to be for so long--I want to be him. Not Forbanne. Never Forbanne. No one cares when we’re Forbanne. We’re not, we’re not...human.
“Sir? ...Sir!”
An insistent voice stumbled Haraldur out of his reverie. He stood, holding a horse’s bridle while wandering farther from the horse that needed hitching to a wagon. They were preparing to deliver provisions to the closest D’Marian settlement, compliments of the palace, and a sentry had caught his commander in a visible fugue, gawking instead of working. Clearing his throat, Haraldur set the bridle on the ground and turned to face the man who vied for his attention.
“A woman has urgent business with you, this morning.”
Again? Perhaps Daphni had returned, to pile more insights on him about Vega’s decision-making process. It didn’t matter; what was done, was done. He had resolved to move forward, to concentrate on what little he could control; tenuous command of the Forbanne, protection for Galeyn, aid to the D’Marians. His wife...she was free to do what she wanted, so long as the children survived. So long as she survived.
“She has mentioned that it pertains to Locque,” the sentry added, before Haraldur could dismiss the visitor.
“Fine. Let’s go.” He gestured to the sentry to lead the way.
The distinct shade of copper burnished like a beacon, even in the morning sun. Before his men, Haraldur did not falter in step, but he swore his heart had redoubled its pulse.
“Vega.” Nodding his compliance, he dismissed the sentry at his side, bade no Forbanne to disrupt him, and relocated with her to a quiet corner of the bustling camp.
“Yes,” he confirmed, setting his jaw into the approximation of a stalwart officer tasked to report progress to his superior. “She wants the Night Garden. With Queen Lilica’s permission, we’ve chosen this assemblage to stand as one of the first lines of defense against a full-frontal invasion. It doesn’t account for underhanded tactics, I know, but this army is all I can contribute.”
Control. There was that word, again. No surprise, there. First, Mollengard, then Solveig, and now, Galeyn’s scourge? She can’t control me if I’m dead. The morbid thought struck him like an arrow through the bullseye, except the arrow in this case was Vega’s pregnant belly--and he had been stricken by it. Guiltily, he lowered his eyes, straightened his shoulders, and redirected his gaze to the parapets of the white palace.
“She can’t control me,” he said, with a sudden surge of confidence. “Not if someone else already controls me. If I commit to her, if I obey her, Locque can’t possibly interfere, or sway me.” That was right. Captain Solveig. Her prime directive never wavered, even as their distance grew. Kill, kill, kill. Kill Hadwin Kavanagh. Kill. Perhaps...if he did kill the wolf-shifter, it would solidify his mind-link with Solveig. Locque would be unable to wriggle her way into his head, Vega and the children would be safe...
“That’s a fair plan,” he nodded, numbly. “The D’Marians and Galeyn already know me as the Prince of Eyraille. I don’t think I’m able to diminish what I’ve inflated. But,” he curled his fingers over the wedding band on his chain, and hid the evidence beneath his shirt, “this will be a start.”
Her final question, one that had seemingly necessitated her visit to the Forbanne camp, had startled him. His hand flew from the edges of his ring as though it burned him, and his eyes widened, at a loss for how to answer, how to act. Detached and protective? Or earnest and reckless?
“I never chose the Forbanne over you. Over them,” he muttered. He drew towards her, towards her prominent belly, yearning to touch them, to hold them, to reassure them. I love you. I love you...But he froze, and his hand wavered in mid-air. It dropped, dejectedly to his side. “...I was removed from having a choice. I was taken, Vega. …What I do...is what we do.” He jerked his chin at the soldiers milling about camp. They were his subordinates--as well as his jailers. “Shackled to a command. That’s what I meant about choices. Your choice led you to a hopeful place, surrounded by grateful people. My choice to help Stella D’Mare, to guide Forbanne of like mind to freedom, it...damned me.”
Tightening his eyes closed, he shook his head and stepped away, resolving to clear his head-space and not succumb to weakness. I told myself not to crumble. Never again. Never, never…
When he opened his eyes again, they reverted to a pair of cool, green stones, incapable of warmth, or life. Haraldur was an object. Weapon. Kill, kill, kill, Solveig ordered. Kill, kill, kill…
“Go,” he said, but it wheezed out of him, a half-bodied order shaking on stilts. “Now you know the truth. Take care, Vega. Stay safe. ...Don’t come back here.”
She left, retreating down the hill. His wife...and his children. Away, away. Gone.
The world around him blurred, through a thin filter of tears.
Galeyn was no Stella D’Mare. Chara had come to terms with the fact. Not full terms, but to terms approaching full. But progress was progress, and Chara could not ignore the marked difference between the day of her arrival and now. Before, she’d resisted, even resented the strange attributes of Lilica’s inherited kingdom--Night Garden notwithstanding. How dare it remove Lilica from her life, and for a half a year? Whilst she presided over a broken crown of a city, fraught with fissures and rubble and invasion, the new monarch benefitted from a self-sustaining piece of land, which bettered its citizens with proximity to a magical patch of alien flora. It seemed that the more Chara rotted in the soil, the more Lilica’s flower, nurtured by the death and decay of her companion Rigas, grew, a beautiful specimen, created for the country she served. Yes, she resented Galeyn. Yes, she resented Lilica for her opportunities, which the universe offered up in exchange for abandoning Chara to the abominations of her dying city. Perhaps she never did cease her anger and jealousy, but reason, understanding, and gratitude spoke louder.
Without Galeyn, who would accept the D’Marian refugees? Without Galeyn, who would heal her father’s legs? Without Galeyn, who would have saved Lilica from her toxic magic? From herself? Certainly not Chara, or the bloated disease of Stella D’Mare. No. Galeyn represented refuge, for all those seeking or not seeking, and she could never spurn its existence over a petty vendetta. Not when Lilica looked so...radiant. Never had she anticipated such a drastic transformation would affect the dark mage. In mere months, the Night Garden molded her into a suitable ruler--complete with a physical makeover not even the likes of Chara could replicate through her fashion-discerning sense of style. With her sheaves of iridescent hair, smokey obsidian eyes, skin as white as her palace walls, and a stature as erect as many of the Night Garden’s towering plants, she was doubtless the product of her beneficial environment. And it was nigh difficult for Chara to keep away from her infectious presence.
That morning, atop the bed she’d commandeered (well, one half of the bed, anyway), she stirred in tandem with Lilica, and rose from the sheets, picking stray pieces of blonde hair from where they clung to her neck and shoulders. When the muddy brown dye washed out entirely from her head several weeks ago, Chara, too bothered to redye the color, reverted to her original yellow-gold. Entering their shared chambers that day, she loudly proclaimed that her experiment was a failure, and she would herewith be retaining her blonde locks. Lilica, though not explicit about the positive change, found plenty of excuses to run her fingers through their shoulder-length, or ogling her from a distance when she thought Chara did not notice. Admittedly...she liked the newfound attention.
“I am a firm and established morning person, if you remember,” Chara countered. Planting a chaste kiss on the other woman’s forehead, she slipped out of bed and shared with her bed-mate the morning routine of washing up and dressing in the appropriate attire. “And yes, do continue to thank me. Your kingdom is in sore need of some organization, and I alone am fastidious enough to tackle the task.” After daubing some rouge across her cheekbones, she settled next to Lilica on the bed. “Anonymity has its perks. To your Galeyn citizens, I am but a helpful D’Marian and nothing more. I suppose that is also why this kingdom appeals to the princess of Eyraille. Here, we all have a new start. A new beginning. No one here is aware of how horribly I bundled the last place I was in charge of, so they have no basis in fact.” She stretched a convincing smile on her face, but her attitude did not shift the meaning of her words. I horribly blundered Stella D’Mare. And I paid the price.
“Hm...a party? Yes, I daresay I can organize a spectacle for Alster and force him to mill in it all day long, navigating every uncomfortable situation imaginable all in the name of ‘celebration.’ But,” she shrugged, “I do think he would enjoy the recognition and the attention. I’ll have two days, so…” but she trailed off, and her smile faltered, when Lilica mentioned that it would be a party for both Alster...and her. “Oh, no,” she tossed a dismissive hand in the air, “I do not wish to be reminded of my escalating age. Yes, I am younger than Alster, but his face is eternally boyish; he’ll never crack. But I am not so fortunate. No; I am content to plan and facilitate.” I can feel this body dying. Accelerating. Decaying into maturity. What good is a birthday? And a birthday to celebrate what? A funeral of another year?
Fortunately, her inner musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. When Lilica answered, an envoy waited on the other side. “Your Majesty,” he swept into a salute. “Two D’Marians are requesting entrance. They wish to speak with you about travel arrangements? One character in particular seemed suspicious, so I asked them to leave, but he was insistent that I share his name, his companion’s name, and their relations. Do the names Hadwin Kavanagh and Teselin Kristeva mean anything to you?”
Chara choked out a cough when she failed to swallow properly. “They do to me. If travel arrangements are involved, are they asking about the necromancer?” The envoy nodded. “Let them inside, Lilica. We can trust them. Well,” she remedied, “one of them is a scoundrel, but,” she hesitated, “he saved my life. And the other one...you know the story of her. The summoner who has been searching for her brother.”
At the Queen’s approval, the envoy welcomed the two newcomers to the palace, sending them to wait inside a parlor by the foyer until Lilica (accompanied by Chara) could receive them and their request. Once they entered the side-chamber, the aforementioned ‘scoundrel’ hopped to his feet and stretched out a toothy grin. “Ah, your Majesty. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I saw you at the hearing in Braighdath. Classy entrance, perfect execution. I’d give you a solid A plus for timing--and for interrupting the council’s self-indulgent little circle jerk, there.” His luminous gold eyes darted from Lilica to the woman beside her. “Chara! You’re not a brunette anymore! Good riddance. You know, I’m starting to suspect Briery used actual mud to dye your hair, which would mean it was literally coated in shi--”
“--He’ll talk for years if you let him,” Chara interjected, pursuing her lips at the wolf-shifter’s mention of his ‘dung conspiracy.’ “The mongrel is Hadwin Kavanagh. And,” her eyes softened when they rested on the summoner, “Teselin Kristeva. Vitali’s sister.” She paused to allow Lilica to introduce herself to the two guests. “I take it you are here to inquire the necromancer’s whereabouts?”
“Yes and no.” He thumbed over to Teselin. “Pretty sure the kid can sense him just fine without us needing to detour through the palace and make a formal request or whatever. Would’ve been easier, too; the Forbanne barricade’s not easy to hop, especially when their commander wants you dead and all. But,” he punctuated with a finger, “I’ve heard great things about this famed Night Garden, and I’ve had a headache something fierce, lately. Thought I’d sniff the air and clear out some of my sinuses, too, while I’m at it. Wouldn’t hurt to bound around. Maybe find some Night Garden quality hash for my pipe, before we head off to big brother’s place?”
“Typical,” Chara snorted. “That’s entirely up to the Gardeners on duty. They are not keen on having curious onlookers mill about without a purpose. I’ve no doubt Teselin will behave, but you? Not without a leash.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re free to explore, with Lilica’s approval, of course, in exchange for a favor.”
“Oh?” The faoladh leaned forward, head tilting at a curious angle. “Do tell.”
“This is rather short notice, but Alster is celebrating his one-hundredth birthday in two days’ time and--”
“Say no more!” Hadwin shot his hand forward, almost in Chara’s face. “Got you covered. The Links would be more than happy to perform. Nothing like a Galeyn debut, and I’ve been itching for the chance to don my red-suit and light myself on fire again. If it’s for Al, they won’t say no. But damn,” he let out a low whistle. “One-hundred, eh? Oldest faoladh lived to sixty-three. Lucky if I make it past thirty. How about you, Lady Chara?” He raised a knowing eyebrow. “When’s your big one-oh-oh? Or did it happen already?”
“None of your business. Now if we are quite done, here,” she led the two guests out of the parlor and assigned them to a passing Gardener, “enjoy your tour. We’ll discuss a meeting with the necromancer and party arrangements once you return.”
Before Lilica could make the motion to exit the parlor and follow the procession, Chara slammed the door, holing them both inside. “Bastard,” she cursed, pounding a fist against the wall. “He knows I don’t want to tell you, but now…there is no reason to hide what happened, is there?” Her fist loosened, traveling upwards to graze fingertips along the tender cut-off points of her ears. “And I’d rather you hear it from me than from him.” She took a liberal gulp of air and hunkered into the closest chair. “The short story. ...During Stella D’Mare’s evacuation, Teselin and I were captured by Mollengard. I was using her to summon a massive tidal wave and destroy their fleet. We were caught unawares and knocked unconscious before we could fulfill the deed. When we came to, we found ourselves in a dungeon cell. You can only imagine what happened next,” she puffed out a laugh, but it sounded more like a wince of pain. “But they did more than torture us. They...sucked the magic out of me. All of it. What little belonged to me, my inheritance...everything. With the magic, my years...were stolen, too. Nothing I owned as a Rigas remained to my name.” She closed her eyes, not yet ready to watch for Lilica’s reaction--whatever her reaction.
“I would have died, there. They planned to kill us, both. That mongrel, Hadwin...he removed us from the premises and guided us to safety. We traveled with a circus caravan to Braighdath and somewhere along the way I...cut off all ties to my Rigas name. I thought I needed to make it a literal gesture. And,” she cupped one ear with a shaky hand, “this is the result. As I’ve told you...I’m not Chara Rigas anymore. I have nothing. I’m mortal, my pittance of magic is gone. My title, I relinquished to Alster. The city I failed is out of my reach. And...and…” she ground her teeth, “everything here is a slap in the face to what I’ve suffered. Perfectly preserved kingdom with its perfectly preserved people, a magical garden capable of fixing all problems, beautiful and serene and...I know that’s not fair of me to say.” She wilted in her seat, relieving her mouth of its previous tension. “There is nothing to blame but my circumstances, and no one to blame but the one in charge. I alone am responsible. But I…” her entire body shuddered, threatening to fold in on itself. “I was angry with you for so long, Lilica. Because you were not there. Because you did not save me. The only reason I’m alive is because I made a gamble with a gambler, and won. Dumb luck.” This time, she did laugh, a borderline manic chuckle. “My life devolved into a card game with Fate. No more privileged, hard-working Chara Rigas, earning her place through honest means. She died in that cell. No, she died in the ocean. In the tidal wave. What you see is the wreckage that washed up on shore...waiting until her short years end, and she dies for good.” Tears did not flow past her cheeks; she was too numb for them. Too bleached white by the tossing of the ocean waves. She was driftwood, bobbing in the wine-dark sea, too bereft of hope to regard the distant shortline as more than just a resting place. Galeyn...was the ideal place to exhaust her years and fade into obscurity.
Lilica wasn’t sure why she had been bracing herself for a dire refusal; after all, Chara had happily planned that dinner, some night ago, after all. She had been happy and content with the arrival of Alster and the others, and it had not appeared to take any sort of toll on the Rigas woman to be reunited with her family, and she had happily pounced on the opportunity to properly greet them. Perhaps she wasn’t giving Chara enough credit; the woman was resilient and adaptive to her ever-fluctuating environment, and while evacuating Stella D’Mare might easily have been her greatest hardship, she had not crumbled under the weight of that unfortunate necessity. While she was still somewhat removed from the proud and powerful woman that the Queen of Galeyn had come to know, that part of her that she loved had not changed; and that was the genuineness of Chara’s proud, stubborn heart.
“If you are comfortable organizing something, then I will give you full access to whatever resources Galeyn has to offer and leave it in your capable hands.” Lilica smiled, but the corners dipped a bit when the Rigas woman refused to make herself a part of the celebration. She would not be the first person to reject the idea of celebrating her age; but as a Rigas, someone privileged with the glow of youth for far longer than an average mortal… what did another year really matter? “But… are you sure? I think you have as much right as Alster to acknowledge and celebrate yourself. Or to find a reason to celebrate,” she mentioned, but did not push the issue. That Chara was willing to organize and participate at all was still more than she’d expected from the Rigas woman, when she had found her in that alley in Braighdath, a month before.
Before she could put forth and further, gentle protest, there was a knock at the door that forced the Queen to draw away from the woman whose very presence she wanted to absorb like sunlight. Being near Chara, again… it made her realize just how starved she had been for companionship. She opened the grand doors to the sight of a Galeynian envoy. “Two D’Marians?” Lilica parroted with an air of confusion. She had spoken with Alster and Elespeth just the other day (and both seemed to have wanted some time to be alone with one another), and Tivia had been keeping in touch with her frequently regarding the health of her brother… I wonder if he has finally taken a turn for the worst, she thought with an odd twinge of anxiety. Or, moreover, if the star seer predicted that he was going to…
When the envoy revealed the names of the two D’Marians in question, however, it came as a relief that this hadn’t to do with her brother. At least, not his health, or lack thereof. Why should I even care? She thought bitterly, disappointed in herself for lending a shred of empathy to someone who didn’t know the meaning of the word. He got what he has long deserved. My worry is surely misplaced. “I am not familiar with a Hadwin Kavanagh,” she reported, a crease forming between her eyebrows. “Teselin Kristeva, however…” Kristeva. Vitali’s sister--his other sister, bearing no relation to their Tenebris bloodline, it seemed. At least, not to her knowledge, though life was certainly full of its surprises…
Chara was quick to pipe in with regard to the first name. Lilica craned her neck to look over her shoulder. “You’re familiar with them both?” She confirmed, before nodding to the envoy. “If Lady Chara is familiar and comfortable with the two, then permit them entry. We will have an audience with them.”
The envoy nodded his understanding and left the Queen and her companion to ready themselves.
“Scoundrel or not… I think I will find it difficult to think ill of anyone who has saved your life.” Lilica said quietly, tucking her hair behind her shoulders as she pulled on a pair of pale slippers. White, cream, and ivory was not exactly the dark mage’s colour of preference, especially against the wash of her already pale skin, but from the moment it had awoken, everything about Galeyn--from the marble floors of the palace, to the wildflowers, to the robes of the sacred Gardeners--had an essence of purity about it. And she couldn’t well up and change what the kingdom was already used to. In a softer tone, she added, “Though, that you say your life was ever in danger at all… I hope that you can provide me with those details, at a later time.”
The appearance of the two individuals waiting for her in the waiting room did not spark any familiarity in Lilica; that is, until she took in the features of the young girl, dressed in threadbare clothes. Indeed, she saw Vitali in the depths of her dark eyes and the pin-straight fall of her obsidian hair. Then again, so did she see the resemblance in her own reflection. It gave her no right to resent the summoner based on relation. “Hadwin Kavanagh and Teselin Kristeva,” she addressed the two of them, in turn. “You are both welcome here in my kingdom. I apologize, I do not recall your face,” she said to the faoladh, specifically, “but… it has come to my attention that I have you to thank for Chara’s safety. Please allow me to be of assistance to you, by whatever means necessary. Is it the necromancer you seek?”
Echoing Hadwin’s appraisal, the young summoner gently shook her head. “No. I mean… yes, I did--I do seek out my brother. But it is not urgent. I have been assured that he is safe, and…” And what evidence do I have that he cares to see me, at all? The thought had crossed her mind, time and again, and for that, she decided to wait. Wait until she was at the point where it wouldn’t matter to her if he turned her away, for their utter lack of familiarity. “Thank you, though.” She tied up her thoughts with a respectful nod. “For keeping him safe. Even if it wasn’t really your intention to do so.”
“As much as I do not wish to sully your first impression of me, Teselin Kristeva, I cannot take credit for your brother’s well-being.” The Galeynian Queen confessed, and not without a vague air of guilt. “You have Chara’s cousin, Tivia, to thank for that. She hasn’t left your brother’s side in months, since we awoke Galeyn.”
“So I’ve come to understand.” She said softly. Was Tivia to Vitali, what she was to Hadwin? A surrogate in the absence of real family? Whatever the case… she owed the Rigas woman her gratitude. “I’ll pay her my thanks when I see the both of them.”
And she would; but now that she was here, in Galeyn, with her brother practically within her reach… she was no longer in a hurry. Because she still didn’t know what she wanted to say to him.
For now, there appeared to be another task to keep them occupied; or, at least, to keep Hadwin occupied. The faoladh appeared delighted at the opportunity to put work into another party; she didn’t have the heart to bring up the obvious elephant in the room that everyone except for Lilica could see. That being that the last time they’d had a hand in planning a party with the intention to lift everyone’s spirits, someone had lost their life, and Elespeth had ended up incarcerated for murder.
Judging by how heavily the kingdom of Galeyn was guarded, by their own people and the Dawn Guard alike, it didn’t appear that Locque had found a way to infiltrate as of yet, at the very least. Well… not insofar as the summoner could tell, anyway, and she had sensed the sorceress before. That, and Rowen would have a much harder time finding her way into this city, regardless of her formidable stealth and cunning. With those two cataclysmic factors removed… well, this celebration at least stood a chance of not being a disaster.
“We traveled here with a troupe of nomadic performers,” Teselin went on to explain, as Lilica clearly wasn’t familiar with the Missing Links. “They helped Chara and myself, along with Hadwin, and they’re friends of Alster’s. He cleared them for entry, himself, so I promise they won’t make trouble.”
“If you’re acquaintances of Alster and Chara, then rest assured, I trust you both. And your traveling entourage.” The Galeyninan Queen smiled. “And, of course, you are free to take a tour of this land, on the condition that you respect it, and respect the Gardeners who tend it. The Night Garden in particular, I am to understand, is not yet functioning at its full capacity. But if it is some sort of reprieve you are looking for…” She turned to Hadwin and shrugged her shoulders. “You may find it. But, before you go…”
Her attention turned to Teselin, clad as she was in clothes that were torn and stained. The girl didn’t much look like she’d been taking care of herself. “Teselin. I mean no offense, but… can I at least get you something more… functional to wear?” That thin frame, the lack of regard for how she looked or how she was dressed… something about it struck Lilica right in the gut. It is like… she is, as I once was.
“You needn’t go to the trouble, Your Majesty.” Teselin politely declined, with an air of detached indifference that Lilica knew better than to take personally.
“Needn’t I? We happen to share a… brother, don’t we?” To this day, admitting her blood relation to Vitali Kristeva was no easy feat. “I think it is the least I can do for you. Give me a moment. I can find something that will fit you better.” After all, while she was taller than the young summoner, it hadn’t been all that long ago that she’d unearthed this kingdom, herself made of little more than skin and bones. Not unlike Teselin was, now.
Whether out of gratitude, or for the fact she was too exhausted to argue, Teselin let Lilica fetch her something to change into, before she and Hadwin were sent away with one of the Gardeners to show them around the Night Garden. “No… I’m afraid I still can’t detest him, however annoying he might be,” the Queen said apologetically as she led Chara back to the bedroom. “Not if he saved your life. And… you know I’d have asked you to tell me, anyway. About what happened.” Her soft smile faded around the edges. “We’ve been apart for quite some time. And I realize you have needed time and space to process things, but… the frightened woman wearing your face in that alley in Braighdath did not occur overnight. Why…” She covered one of Chara’s hands with her own--the one that had made contact with the wall--and searched her face, “did that man have to save your life?”
It wasn’t easy for her, but to Chara’s credit, she told all. From how she was captured in Mollengard, to what that wretched nation had done to her and that young summoner… and how it had all unraveled from there. The scarred tips of her ears, her shorter, brown hair. Her scared and defeated disposition. And all of it was the fault of Mollengard.
No… not all fault belonged to Mollengard. But Lilica had long since come to terms with the fact that through her actions and her choices, however indirectly, she had hurt the one person she loved.
“No… you’re right. Nothing about this place is fair.” She agreed softly. Kneeling next to Chara’s seat, she wiped the tears from her face with her fingertips. “I thought the same thing, when I unearthed it. And part of me… still feels that way. I did not tell you this, because I know how you’d have reprimanded me, but…” Her hands fell away, and she heaved her own defeated sigh, leading into a confession that she had been keeping close to her chest for some time. Luckily for her, details of the incident had stopped circulating the kingdom long before Chara had arrived. “When I was… thrown into this, head first, I did not expect that it would be my responsibility to take my father’s place as Galeyn’s ruler. My father was supposed to come back. I thought… I had assumed that he would. That I would find this place, and he would return to the throne, and that I would return to you. But he did not come back, because he couldn’t. He rendered himself in such a state that he is incapable of ever taking a corporeal form, again. And this… this is what he had intended for me, all along. But he never said as much, because if he had, then he knew I never would have agreed.
“And I was… angry. I was so angry, Chara.” Memory of that bitter sentiment curled her fingers into tight fists, and Lilica’s dark eyes fixed on the floor. “That the only other man I’d ever called a father had left me to die, and he, my biological father, spouted all these meaningless apologies, but told me there was no other option. I was so angry that I… I lost myself. I tried to destroy it. The Night Garden, with the very same magic I used to destroy everything else in my life.”
That oily, dark fire that trailed in her wake. She nodded to the curious burns forever staining the pale marble of her floor, and that continued its pattern all the way through the palace, and out the main entrance. “I was so angry, because all I wanted to do was return to you, in hopes that you would be proud of me for actually doing something right, for once. Since the whole reason I left was to become someone who deserved you. But this damned place wouldn’t let me return… it wouldn’t even let me hurt it. The Night Garden may well be the only thing in this entire world that my toxic magic cannot touch.”
She did not bother to go into detail regarding the weeks that followed; that fever that wouldn’t break, some slow, painful, and thorough healing process she’d incited by way of attacking the Garden she had somehow bound herself to through awakening the kingdom. None of that mattered; it didn’t matter that she couldn’t walk away and leave the disoriented people of Galeyn without some form of leadership, however poor a leader she might be. They had been so desperate to reach for some semblance of familiarity that they hadn’t hesitated to accept Theomyr Tenebris’s daughter in his place. And as much as she’d wanted nothing more than to run back to Chara, who herself had proven to be a formidable leader, she knew the Rigas woman would never forgive her were she to turn her back on these people.
“What I am trying to say is, I agree. It is not fair. What has happened to you…” Her voice trembled, and she took a breath to steady herself. “I know you are not going to believe me. But maybe one day you will see the truth; and that is that what happened to you, to Stella D’Mare, is not your fault. Mollengard had a plan, either way. Were it not you, they’d have taken out someone else. But none of this makes you any less a Rigas. Magic or not… you are not any less the woman I stupidly left behind in Stella D’Mare.”
Her hands found Chara’s again as she stood from her kneeling position on the floor, obsidian eyes blazing with conviction. “I let you down. I should have been there to protect you. I could have waited to find Galeyn, but I didn’t, and I… I am more sorry than I can properly articulate. And sorry will never be enough to compensate for not being there when you needed me. So if you need to be angry, or be hurt, then be angry and hurt. But be angry and hurt with me. But do not convince yourself that there is nothing left of you. I see differently. Chara…” The Galeynian Queen tried to smile, before she realized there were tears in her eyes that trickled down her cheeks. “It isn’t too late. If what you want is to have your magic restored, then we are in the best possible place to make that happen. And, besides… we both know that you are a far more capable leader than I will ever be. And I… I could very much use your guidance and advice, should you wish to offer it.”
The once uplifted princess of Eyraille had been quick to return to a semblance of herself, the way she had been back in her own kingdom, following the last conversation she’d had with her husband. It didn’t make it any easier, knowing that he was within reach, but that she could not touch him. It wasn’t any easier to sleep at night, craving the warmth of his body, and his strong, reassuring presence. The worst of it was… she was not only living her nightmare, progressing through a pregnancy alone, but she no longer knew where they stood. Whether he would ever see fit to return to her, even after the threat of Locque came to pass…
Galeyn was still king to her. The people still asked after her and appreciated her help, and wished her and her children blessings and happiness. Once, their company had sufficed to ease her out of that lonely pit of darkness, but more and more often, she was more content to wander the Night Garden alone. It had occurred to her on more than one occasion to talk to Elespeth; if for no other reason, than just to have someone to confide in, but since the ex-knight’s health had taken a turn for the worst, she could not, in good faith and good spirits, unload her own burdens upon her friend. Nor was she comfortable talking to either Daphni and Elias, who saw fit to remain furious with her in one way or another for her decision to leave Eyraille, and she was nowhere near close enough to Galeyn’s Queen, Lilica, who had her hands full not only with her kingdom, but with the return of her suspected lover. So once again, Vega Sorde found herself very much alone in a situation where she’d wanted to be anything but.
Walking the Night Garden did not solve her problems. It did not help her sleep at night, did not cause her to cry any less, but in the moments that she spent time among the supernatural flora, she at least maintained a sense of peace and serenity. Most days, that is, but today had something else in store for her.
While running her fingertips over the soft petals of unfamiliar, blue flowers, something entirely out of the ordinary caught her eye: a wolf. Naturally, her heart leapt into her throat, and she found herself frozen with fear. Lilica had assured her that wild game was few and far between throughout the entire kingdom, and that the Night Garden was not a home to any beasts, save for some occasional birds. But she was not seeing things; this animal was very real, and it was coming toward her, and she was too numb and frozen to cry for help.
“It’s alright--he won’t hurt you! He isn’t a wild animal. Well… not completely.” To Vega’s surprise, a young girl with dark hair and a thin frame came dashing right up to the wolf, as if she were not putting herself in direct danger. To the princess’s astonishment, however, the beast did not make any move to harm the girl; instead, it stood on its hind legs and licked her face. “I do not think this is what the Gardener meant when he said you are free to roam the Night Garden as you please…” the girl added, speaking to the wolf as she wiped her cheek, then turned back to Vega. Her dark eyes widened. “Wait. You… you are the princess from Eyraille.”
“I’d… rather you just call me Vega,” the astonished princess said, her heart still beating in her throat. “What is… that wolf, is it your… companion?”
“He’s… only partially a wolf. My name is Teselin. This is Hadwin.” Teselin wrinkled her nose slightly at the wolf. “Maybe you should go shift back and try again at making a better introduction…”
“I...cannot detest him, either,” she said, in agreement with Lilica. “At first, I did, but I detested everyone and everything for a while after my rescue. Especially the ones who wanted nothing more than to help. I saw their attempts as a wasted effort. I had chosen my path, and wanted to begin anew, among people who would not know me for my name or past associations. Only then could I move on with the dregs of my new life.” After she had completed her story, more a vague recollection of events and her reaction to them than a detailed-ridden misadventure befitting a proper ‘story,’ she sank into the seat she occupied, still dry of face--but her body compensated for tears everywhere else. Her shoulders shivered; her arms quaked, her fingers trembled, and her chest wept, all in remembrance of the invisible scars they carried.
Her time as a captive of Mollengard existed in a separate universe, marking the divergence between Chara Rigas of Stella D’Mare and Chara of now. According to Hadwin, she and Teselin were imprisoned at the Andalarian fortress for five days. But in that separate universe of dank, bleeding walls, implements of torture, and cruelly-winking crystals that burned upon contact, five days translated to a lifetime. Even when she closed her eyes, vestiges of that time smeared across her eyes in streaks of blood and excrement, forever and now a staple of her dreams. Nay. Nightmares. She no longer dreamed of victory, of etherea sparking out of her fingertips, of gently-lapping shores of mottled aquamarine, or trays piled high with sumptuous, sugar-sprinkled pastries. No purple bougainvilleas, or luxurious baths scented with rosewater. No Lilica whispering reassurances in her ear. Why did the dark mage need to be a dream creation, though? Here she was, crouched beside Chara, reality made of flesh and blood and a soft, wispy touch. Tender. Caring. Late, perhaps too late to save what had already drowned...but she had not drifted out of reach. To make certain of their closeness, Chara trailed a hand over the other woman’s arm. Solid. Firm. No longer cold, or clammy, but it unmistakably belonged to her.
“Why would I have reprimanded you?” After Lilica had recounted her own tale that she too had hesitated in revealing, Chara shook her head, something of an ironic smile touching her face. “If I had the ability, I would have torched Stella D’Mare long ago. A beautiful blaze of ‘I’ve had enough.’ There is something satisfying in burning the ties that bind you in place. Leadership brings it out in you. Expectations that crush the spirit, demands too numerous to solve, the pressure to perform well, to address, and organize, and delegate. Add to the fact that you did not wish to lead, and the burden doubles. I can only imagine,” she sighed, “how Alster must feel, in turn. He had absolutely no desire to become Rigas Head. I did...and yet look at how I’ve struggled to feed and support a broken city. I understand, Lilica. Were I in your position...perhaps I would have done the same. Instead, I broke a few wine bottles, and plates...and tried to rip the floor apart.” With a nod, she acknowledged the burn streaks on the marble tiling. “Impressive firepower. If only I were so blessed with an avenue to demonstrate my rage. But in all seriousness…” she raised Lilica’s chin, removing her line of sight from the evidence of her rampage, “your tirade guided you to the Night Garden, and I imagine it provided you the means to heal from your magic. I see a marked difference, Lilica. Also,” her voice darkened, “a bold ploy from this sentient garden. After all, you cannot turn your back on a place that has so unburdened you from the bite of toxic magic. Even if you could return to Stella D’Mare,” her hand, still marred from the burn-scars of Cyprian’s assault, fluttered to her lap, “I will fully admit that it is far from a hospitable place. Look what it did to its leader,” her shoulders rolled into an exaggerated shrug. “So no, it is not fair, but if anyone is more deserving of healing and a hopeful future, it is you, Lilica. I cannot fault Galeyn for taking good care of you. Better than I have; better than I could. I,” she gave a rueful, shaky smile, “am quite an abhorrent person, all around. If I prescribed more to fate, perhaps I would even wonder if I am being taught a lesson in humility. But with its harsh, sadistic teachings, I am less inclined to listen to the lesson.”
With a huff of a courageous breath, she rose to her feet, fixing the wrinkles of her casual-wear gown. Like Galeyn and its fixation on purity, she wore colors of cream and white. Not that she had much say in her wardrobe, but it did build solidarity among the Galeynians, who no doubt questioned the prominence of this woman in Queen Lilica’s affairs--and in her bedroom.
“Of course it is my fault,” she said, with a hardness reminiscent of the old Chara. “I was the Rigas Head. Leaders must take responsibility for their actions, whether or not they are fully to blame. I paid for my folly by stepping down and relinquishing my title to someone more capable. Someone more interested in saving lives than invoking Mollengard’s wrath right before abandoning our ancestral land. To this day, I aver that Alster is the better choice. I wanted power because I had so little of it, and I yearned for that control. He wants power to improve lives. By that same vein, you do not desire power, and that makes you a more honest ruler, free of damaging egotism and megalomaniacal policies. Be that as it may,” she placed one hand on her hips, scrutinizing Lilica from head to toe, “you do have some work to do. I excel at menial tasks and time management. For you, I will play that advisory role. The unsung hero of Galeyn, bolstering your image from the shadows. I consider it a fair trade from my flamboyant Rigas upbringing; all style, no substance. It is,” her eyes traveled to the floor, “a preferable epilogue, for me. And,” her expression brightened, “a perfect opportunity to exact revenge on you for having left my company. Advisors are, after all, nothing but cantankerous bullies who push their own agendas with adamant force. It sounds about right.”
She opened the door to the parlor and waited for the Galeynian Queen to join her in the hallway. “My magic is lost,” she added, more as an afterthought for their prior conversation. “If I had access to the Rigas Blood Seal, perhaps through ceremony, I could regain my years and some magic through the pool of stored energy. It is only dispensed to a Rigas at birth, but I am an exceptional case. Unfortunately, the Blood Seal is in Stella D’Mare and vulnerable to those Mollengardian vandals who now have my magical essence to unlock its powers, if they so choose.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Wha--” she swerved around to the source of the divergent voice. Alster approached them, brow wrinkling as though in the midst of a calculation.
“I didn’t mean to pry.” His brow relaxed. “I was heading in this direction and I overheard. Anyway, the Blood Seal isn’t in Stella D’Mare. I have the Blood Seal. Rather,” he amended, “I’m the conduit. The sole conduit. No one else can activate its collective energies at this time--Mollengard included.”
“So let me get this straight, Alster.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “When you told me you spelled Rigel’s tomb to prevent the discovery and theft of our Blood Seal, what you really meant was that you took unauthorized ownership of it, circumventing all Rigas protocol so you could house it in your body? So then, you stole it, and flat-out lied to me about what you did?” She dropped her voice into an irate whisper. “Stealing our most sacred relic is treason. You would have been sentenced to death for your insubordination, acting as you did without express permission from me and the council!”
“I know.” A light of defiance shone in his eyes. “That’s why I kept it a secret. And since I couldn’t trust myself to maintain my secret, I placed a forgetfulness charm on myself so I wouldn’t have any memory of what I stole. And I didn’t remember, until Rigel stepped forward and reminded me. As we’d planned.”
Heaving an exasperated sigh, she took Alster by his good arm and hauled him into the parlor, along with Lilica, who had remained close-by. She shut the door and pinched the bridge of her nose. “What do you mean, Alster? Rigel? Lord Rigel Rigas, our progenitor, reminded you?”
“I hear your condescension loud and clear. Yes,” he stressed. “That Rigel. When he visited Elespeth and me during the reformation of our bond, he instructed me to protect the Blood Seal. So I did, Chara. I am. And since his spirit lives on in the Blood Seal, he is with me, now. I carry his wishes. It was a necessary move.”
“Carry his--” she made a face, “...what a lark! Of course you are hauling around our family’s future on your back whilst you regularly cavort with and consult our founder like a spiritual advisor at your beck and call! See what I mean, Lilica?” She flung her hand towards the Galeynian monarch, forcing her to weigh-in. “I have no basis in which to argue that I am a suitable or superior ruler when Alster here has the will of Rigel and the Blood Seal firmly in his grasp! Oh, how I’ve fooled myself for so long.”
“Chara--”
“No, no,” she laughed. “Do go on. It is not like I have any authority to condemn you for your actions. You are Rigas Head. Rigel speaks to you. You’re special. Lilica is special. I know my place. I,” she shuddered into a defeated state of calm, “...it is fine. So...you are saying that with the Blood Seal, you can restore my magic and my years?”
Alster exchanged a concerned look with Lilica, then nodded. “I...yes. We could have a ceremony in the Night Garden. Its healing energies should encourage the correct transfer. I’m unsure of its efficacy, performing this ritual so far from its origin point in Stella D’Mare, but as I’ve essentially unmoored the Blood Seal, it’s no longer location bound. A large part of Rigas blood-magic is geographically-sensitive,” he said, by way of explaining the process to Lilica. “We gather our strength not only from our three thousand-year-old legacy borne in our family Crest, but from the soil, the heavily-trodden land of our ancestors. Their spirits, their bones, their memories. The land remembers; the land records. Stella D’Mare exists as a font of powerful magic. The Night Garden, too, serves as such a place, ideal for energy-work of this nature. But Chara,” his mouth twitched into a frown, “if the ritual is successful, your strong ties to Stella D’Mare might fade, replaced with the Night Garden and its influences. It’s a trade. In return for grounding and centering in such magically-dense territory, the reacquisition of your birthright might present or manifest...differently. In other words, your loyalties may shift, and the magic you receive, a reflection of its properties.”
“Shift? To the Night Garden? Over my--over our--homeland?” Alster nodded his confirmation. “I…” she slumped against the wall, uncertain of the proposition. Uncertain of her future, should she agree to undertake the ritual. How could she betray her birthplace, her charming seaside city of unparalleled beauty and sophistication? Sure, it was in tatters, occupied by unaesthetic barbarians, but it was home. Her only home.
A home you’ve abandoned in favor of Galeyn, a sharp voice rebutted her sentimental ruminations. You’ve already agreed to live out your years serving Lilica. You cannot do so and still pine for your beloved Stella D’Mare all in the same breath.
“There’s no rush.” Alster placed a reassuring hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Take all the time you need. You certainly won’t be the first person to strengthen your ties to Galeyn through the birthing ritual--or in your case, the rebirthing ritual. Any Rigas born here will experience some pull to the Night Garden. I daresay the same could be said for any child, magically-gifted or not. And who knows?” He directed a smile at Chara. “Your deep love for Stella D’Mare could be enough to offset the Garden’s effect.”
The Gardener who Teselin and Hadwin had accompanied to the Night Garden was a straight-laced, soft-spoken young man, serious in almost every mannerism and bland in the spaces in between. When they arrived outside, to the expanse of the towering, spiraling, glowing, odor-emitting plants, the faoladh’s first thought was that he’d appreciate the scene better in wolf’s skin. Right as the Gardener released them to explore at their own leisure, Hadwin winked at the man, shed his jerkin, his boots, his trousers (much to the Gardener’s scandalized expression), and only then danced off to a privacy bush to transform. As he emerged, shaking out his ruddy mane, the wolf lolled his tongue out at the young Gardener, as a petulant child would to get a rise from an adult. The slack-jawed man moved his mouth as though to attempt an exclamation, but the wolf was already darting around the Night Garden, circling around oblong-shaped flowers and sniffing the air with curiosity. So many scents he’d never before inhaled! Sweet, heady, sour, earthy, savory, minty--all flora could be described by these basic flavor patterns, true, but one-word terms did not do them justice. Lightning-sharp, moonlight on a lake, clouds moving from the east, all four seasons represented in one space...better descriptors, but again, too vague or unhelpful to paint a picture. One smell, however, he could identify. It belonged to a person of high status, a woman he’d met only once, but was far from forgettable. Not with her roc-fierce eyes, her unapologetic bearing, hair of assumed copper-brightness, or the simultaneous death and life she emulated within her swollen belly…
Except now, all signs and smells of death had vanished. The woman radiated fertility. Like an apple approaching ripeness. Two apples, in fact. Unbidden, the wolf had loped into the open, towards the pregnant woman, the princess of Eyraille…
She spotted him, and fear clung to her like a tightly-wound blanket. Fear of him. Fear of what he represented. Fear of her husband killing a wolf, and falling, forever lost, into the talons of a raven. A raven, flapping against a red (so red) banner. The standard of Mollengard.
His eye contact with the Eyrallian princess was interrupted by Teselin’s emergence. In his joy run around the Night Garden, he’d fled from her, too taken by the newness of this place, of this experience, to realize he’d wandered off without her. After giving the summoner an affectionate lick, he abided her request and bounded off to fetch his clothes. When he returned minutes later, it was on two feet, each step emitting a crackle from his differently-arranged joints. He’d hiked up his trousers and slipped on his boots, but his jerkin hung open, exposing his bare chest. His hair, the same ruddy color as his fur, was a windblown mess across his forehead, despite the still, stagnant day.
“Ah, Tes, don’t hurt my feelings, now,” he said, giving the girl a mock look of affront. “I’m not a wolf partially. I am a wolf. And a man, too. Double perks. And I don’t need to introduce myself.” His knowing eyes landed on Vega. “We’ve already met. Though something tells me you don’t remember, Vega Sorde.” He flung out his hand, but not to shake; he pointed to the visible bulge in her stomach. “True, we’ve never met like this. But you’ve seen me as a wolf, before. I was there when Atli announced your pregnancy. In fact,” he wrinkled his nose, “I was the one who sniffed it on you, first. So we’re not strangers; far from it. But, out of respect for my pint-sized companion here,” he shoulder-bumped the girl beside him, “I’ll bite. Well, not bite, bite.” He grinned a row of sharp canines. “The name’s Hadwin Kavanagh, and yeah, the rumors are true.” He glanced behind him, towards the Forbanne encampment outside the palace. “Your husband tried to kill me. In Braighdath. It’s not right though, I say. We were doing fine before the Captain messed him up something fierce. Hell, we were sharing some whiskey and shooting the shit, back in Stella D’Mare. The only other sod I’ve met who could approach my drinking capacity. I don’t fault him for his murderous intentions or anything, but it sure makes it harder to get around. Me and the kid had to sneak through the barricade to get here, just so he wouldn’t spot us. You can relax, though.” He slipped a hand through his mess of hair. “I’m not stupid enough to pick a fight with him. But I’ll consider myself warned; thanks for the head’s up. And by head, I mean that, literally.” He knocked a knuckle against his temple, but didn’t otherwise elaborate what he meant. “So why are you so concerned about my death, hmm? I’m touched, I really am, since, y’know, people typically want me dead more than alive, but somehow, I doubt you’ve heard about me from your mate. He’s not the sharing type.”
She was so understanding, and Lilica felt so… unprepared for this side of Chara Rigas. The same woman who had called her errand foolhardy, prior to leaving to seek Galeyn, was now empathizing with her plight. Regardless that it was not the response she expected, it was no less reassuring. Even now, in the role of the person who had the least to offer, compared to her… Chara still made it all feel well, again. “Galeyn may be treating me well. But do not kid yourself into thinking it is as benevolent as it tries to come across. It had an agenda; it takes care of me because it wants me. Because somehow, the Night Garden needs to be bound to a flesh-and-blood being to direct its energies. But I can see through its manipulations; and… I don’t know that I will ever be the leader that Galeyn needs. Because I…” The reluctant Queen pressed a sigh from her lungs as she reached for Chara’s hand again, and squeezed it. “I do not think that I will ever be able to forgive it for taking me away from you. I thought… part of me though this was what I wanted. A place to belong, for even Stella D’Mare knew I was an outlier and would have nothing to do with me. But now that I have it… it is not enough. I realize that I was wrong. What I needed… all along, was just you.”
Certainly, Chara Rigas had not been capable of healing the wounds her magic had caused, or redirecting it through healthier channels. The Night Garden had done that. But it was Chara Rigas who had saved her from herself; who had shown her she was not doomed to walk her path alone. Chara, who had shown her that despite how toxic she was, even to herself, she was not beyond being worthy of love. You saved me, she wanted to say, but for fear of overwhelming the Rigas mage with the responsibility of her own well-being, she kept silent.
“Whether or not you step down, one does not simply stop being a leader, Chara. Even if you desired power, you are skilled serving your people. You might see that delegating Alster to fill your shoes is giving up, but you did not let your people down simply because you were not the one to lead them to Galeyn. And in the wake of your decision, you have already suffered terribly…” Lilica managed to quell the catch in her voice. Chara had likely already grieved and mourned what had happened to her; she wouldn’t reopen a wound that was beginning to heal. “I think it is about time you stopped being hard on yourself. It is far too early to accept defeat--and frankly, I wouldn’t have anyone else as an advisor, if you are willing to fill that role.”
Not all was lost; and she would go above and beyond to have Chara see that. But her thoughts were interrupted by another, familiar presence, who had evidently been listening in on their conversation. “Alster… I didn’t expect to see you, here.”
The Rigas Head had something to weigh in on their current train of thought, however; something that Chara, frankly, needed to hear. So she fell into silence and allowed Alster to explain. Obviously, the nature of Rigas magic was lost on her, when she hardly understood the nature of her own magic, to this day, but if Alster proclaimed that it was not too late to restore what Chara had lost…
“Chara, let him say his part,” the Queen of Galeyn urged gently, in an attempt to redirect the blonde woman’s errant jealousy. Perhaps her wounds hadn’t yet healed, if it smarted so to hear that significance of Alster’s current magical (and spiritual) dispositions. “He may have the solution you seek.”
The Night Garden: of course, it all came down to the Night Garden, as a means to provide magically-rich soil to restore what the Rigas woman had lost. But for what little time Alster had spent in Galeyn (and pointedly avoiding the Night Garden for the most part, at that), he was not wrong in his appraisal of potential outcomes. After all, the Garden was as sharp as a barterer, ever aware of the balance of give and take. It had given her a home, given her power, and restored her health… all in exchange for her freedom. But, if it was her magic and the longevity of a Rigas that Chara wanted back… would it matter?
We could be together, a guilty voice at the back of her mind reminded her, urging her to encourage Chara toward taking this risk. If we are both bound to Galeyn, by some thread attached to the Night Garden, then nothing will tear us apart. I will never be forced to leave her, again…
Except… the possibility remained that “together” was not what Chara wanted, anymore. Or, perhaps, not in the way that Lilica wanted it.
“He is not wrong to be wary.” She said at last, against the desire of that pining voice, when Alster had taken his leave of the corridor. “The Night Garden secured my allegiance to this place before I even knew what I was doing. And it has crossed my mind more than once that the Eyraillian princess may not know what she has gotten herself into, planning to give birth to her children, here. Withstanding the wrath of her own kingdom for not birthing the babies on Eyraillian soil may turn out to be a minor concern, depending on what hold the Garden decides to have over them…”
The fact that Chara was hesitating at all was indication enough that magic may not be all she wanted or needed, in the same way that finding a ‘home’ and belonging hadn’t filled every hole in Lilica’s heart. And why should she expect anyone to so readily sever ties to their home? Stella D’Mare meant more to Chara than perhaps she had realized, until now. It was her home. Regardless of what it meant for the two of them… Lilica could never fault her for that. “Whatever your decision, you know you have my full support.” She told her at last. “And you don’t need to decide now. If you’d rather sit and advise me, and join me in menial tasks for the time being… then I can assure you,” she smiled, “there is no end to the busywork I’ve been drowning in. I could use a hand.”
It wasn’t the first time she had seen this wolf, Vega Sorde suddenly realized upon meeting those golden eyes. The familiarity of the beast did little to offset her fear, but there was something about it… But why? This was her first jaunt in Galeyn, a place that simply hadn’t ‘existed’ a few months ago, so it was impossible that either of them had met while treading this soil before, and she most certainly would have recalled glimpsing a beast like this prior to now. Before she had much time to ponder the deja vu, however, the young girl interrupted them, proclaiming that they were unexpectedly safe, and… speaking to the wolf as if it could understand.
And it did understand; at least, it appeared that way, when the wolf licked the girl’s face and took off a short distance behind a copse of trees with bark that boasted a faint and curious indigo hue. Moments later, it reemerged; he reemerged, not wearing fur and fangs, but clothes and human skin. Either the princess was currently a victim of a very elaborate prank, or there really more to the beast than she’d thought. While the furry, dangerous creature had sparked familiarity, however, this russet-haired man was a stranger to her. But she was somehow no stranger to him.
“I… no. I’m sorry, I don’t recall ever meeting you…” The Skyknight apologized, one hand still resting on her swollen belly, as if to protect her children from her jolt of fear. The fear did not dissipate, either, not even in light of the change from predator to ordinary human. The initial source of that trepidation, however, was quick to change at the recollection of the Rigas star seer’s words to her a few days ago. Warning of a wolf; or, rather, the potential that her husband would forever be lost to her, were he to give into the compulsion to kill a certain wolf. And this man… this shape-shifter was easily the first wolf she had seen, in all her time in Galeyn.
This man. If Haraldur killed this man… then all hope was lost.
And, somehow, he was already well aware of the danger. “Wait. You… Atli.” The princess’s heart sank a little at the memory of the late Mollengardian healer. Were it not for him, there was no telling how long it would have taken her to realize the unique and miraculous condition of the little lives inside of her. It may have been too late, by the time it came to her attention and struck her as necessary to consult a healer. “That was you… with Atli. And you… knew? But how… no, nevermind. None of that matters. Hadwin Kavanagh,” Vega nodded in greeting. “While we’ve evidently met before, it is good to formally make your acquaintance. And…” She turned her attention to the young summoner inquisitively, wondering if her memory continued to fail her, and they, too, had met in the recent past.
“We have not met before, your Highness.” The girl explained, clasping her hands in front of her. “My name is Teselin Kristeva. Alster and Elespeth Rigas are mutual friends of ours.”
“...Kristeva.” The girl might not have been familiar, but that surname certainly was. Vega simultaneously went pale and flushed in the cheeks. “I know that name. The last encounter I had with a Kristeva…” She trailed off, a tremor of fear and anger lining the undertone of her otherwise calm voice. This young girl should not be the target of her undying resentment of a certain necromancer who happened to bear the same surname… but the similarity in name and appearance could not be a coincidence, and there had been stirrings of gossip throughout the city of infamous Vitali’s equally powerful sister.
At least the young summoner did not appear ignorant to her brother’s reputation. Teselin cast her gaze to the ground and pressed a sigh from her lungs. “I know what he did to you; I learned from your husband, and others who happened to be familiar with the story. It was wrong of him, and for what happened, I… I’m sorry. I wish I could fix it…”
There was genuine remorse in Teselin Kristeva’s countenance, and that was not lost on Vega. The princess found herself wholly unable to resent this girl the same way she resented her brother; after all, they were not the same person, no more than she and her tyrannical father were the same. All the same… “I believe your apology, although I take it you do not share in the general populace’s opinion of your necromancer brother,” she observed cooly, searching the young summoner’s face with curiosity.
“It is more complicated than a picture painted in black and white.” Teselin scratched the back of her head, looking uncomfortable. Vitali’s actions were never justifiable, which always made her disposition all the more difficult to explain. “I would never ask you to try and forgive him… but with all respect, your Highness, I believe we have far greater threats on the horizon than my brother.”
“‘Vega’ is just fine; I’ve been advised to keep my relation to Eyraillian monarchy in the dark.” Vega reassured her with a gentle shake of her head. “And you are entirely right. Which… brings me to answer your question.” Her blue eyes averted to Hadwin, who looked on with collected curiosity. But… how did he know what was on her mind? It wouldn’t have been the strangest thing she’d encountered from her run-ins with people, since Messino’s war, but it still put her on edge. “The Rigas seer, Tivia, provided me with some insight, recently. With regard to myself and… my husband. She assured me that our children would be born…” The princess folded both hands over her stomach, now, “but she also warned me that if Haraldur is to ‘kill the wolf’... he will be lost to Solveig’s control, forever. And… you are the first and only wolf that I have encountered, here.”
“Tivia…” Once again, that name. The young summoner looked look from her boots. “That is the name of the Rigas woman who has been looking out for my brother.”
Vega had to refrain from rolling her eyes. “You aren’t the only one who can achieve the impossible and see… something in that wretched man,” she explained in a flat tone. “She’s kept to the outskirts of the kingdom to keep an eye on him; evidently, he is not able to veer too close to the Night Garden…” She trailed off suddenly, upon realizing that this may not be common knowledge to someone who had just recently arrived in the kingdom.
Fortunately, Teselin did not seem surprised. “I know. Alster informed me of… my brother’s unique situation. But that isn’t what is most concerning, right now.” The young summoner turned her attention to the faoladh, and placed a hand on his arm, her wide, dark eyes filling with concern. “If what the Rigas seer says is true… then with both Haraldur and your sister as threats, nevermind the sorceress, laying low might be your best option, for now.” Especially since there appeared to be more at risk than the wolf-man losing his life; now, the life of this broken family-to-be was also in jeopardy, if Haraldur lost himself to his compulsions. She could see the deep-seated sadness in the Eyraillian princess’s eyes, an indication that she could no longer see a light at the end of this ordeal--both her pregnancy, and overcoming Locque’s threat. It made her want so badly to be of help… and to have all of this power, yet to remain powerless all the same, was beyond frustrating.
“Speaking of… I guess I’ve been putting this off for too long. I should go see him; if for no other reason, than to thank Tivia for looking out for him.” The summoner said at last, nervously scratching the back of her neck. “You hi--Vega… I’m glad to have met you. I don’t know what sort of help I can be, but…”
“I’ll be fine, Miss Kristeva. Don’t worry yourself; I’m better received here than I am in my own kingdom. There’s been no shortage of help.” The Eyraillian princess quirked a half-smile; it wasn’t much, but it was still something. “If you want to help--keep your friend out of danger, and as far from my husband as possible. For all of our sakes.”
They parted ways with the princess, then, and after walking a few moments in silence, Hadwin called her on her sudden bout of skittishness. “I don’t… it’s just that…” Teselin clutched at her elbows, her fingernails digging into the fine fabric of the gown Queen Lilica had given her to replace her tattered tunic. “...come with me. Please? I don’t want to go alone. I haven’t seen my brother in years, and I do not know how he will receive me… will you please, Hadwin?”
She hadn’t anticipated that he would refuse her. On the contrary, she knew Hadwin would agree, which was why she had asked at all. There were times to be brave and to face what one feared the most, and times when it was alright to be vulnerable and to ask for help; and the faoladh knew the difference between these instances. After consulting with Queen Lilica as to the whereabouts of the necromancer, the two waited for the sun to set before borrowing a Night steed from the royal stables. Vitali Kristeva was located quite some distance from the Night Garden, a place that would rather harm him than hurt him as a result of his father’s interference, and to travel by ordinary standards would well take them a day.
Upon the steed, they found themselves surrounded by the fertile farmland of Galeyn’s outskirts, where houses were few and far between, and fields of crops and fruit-bearing trees could be see stretching over the horizon. There was one farming village in particular, Lilica had informed them, where Tivia and the necromancer had evidently been getting on with a farming family currently inhabiting the land. They would find them in a humble cottage, at the front of an orchard of apple trees… and in the tiny farming village, there was only one house that fit that description.
The sound of the Night steed’s heavy galloping was likely enough announce their presence before they came to a halt at the cottage. When Teselin dismounted, her legs were shaking, and it was not from the speedy ride. “This is it. He’s here…” She murmured, dark eyes fixed on the front door of the quaint house. They could hear stirrings beyond the threshold; their presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Of all the things to feel nervous about…”
The young summoner didn’t have time to finish her train of thought before the door opened, and a woman with blonde hair parted so that it covered half of her face. Teselin swallowed. “You’re… you must be Tivia.” When she spoke, her voice was so soft it sounded weak. “My name is Teselin… this is Hadwin. And you… I’ve been told that I have you, to thank. For looking out for my brother…”
“Teselin.”
Another voice; one that had never faded throughout the years of carrying that memory. The woman who had to be Tivia Rigas stepped aside, and there he stood, silhouetted by the dim glow of candlelight behind him. Alive and well, but with a blindfold shielding his eyes, and otherwise not looking a day older than he was in her distant memory. He took a step forward, and then another, until he was within arm’s reach of the young summoner, at which point he touched her shoulder, and then her cheek. Was that a hint of a smile she detected on his pale features? “Well,” he spoke casually, not at all reverberating the nervousness that practically emanated from his sister’s skin. “You’re certainly not the child I remember; but I suppose time does that to a person. And who,” he nodded in Hadwin’s direction--rather uncannily, as he shouldn’t have any means of knowing precisely where the faoladh stood, “is your friend?”
It was then that everything that had been holding Teselin together since the day she’d set out to find him finally gave out; and the summer fell apart, covering her face with her hands as she dissolved in tears.
Standing among the Night Garden, a place that allegedly fostered peace and a calm mindset, Hadwin had never seen two people more jittery. With Teselin, he could reason it out; the poor squirt didn’t understand the concept of stillness anymore. Calling her a squirrel would have been more suitable, but as he’d already doled out the nickname to Briery for her acrobatic prowess and her tendency to wear her hair in a long, fluffy tail, Teselin’s sobriquets became a hodgepodge of associated words, usually in reference to her diminutive size, or her age.
Vega, relatedly, was kicking about in a strong undertow, heading all the way down. No matter of aromatic herbs could quell the number of fears they collectively shared...and Hadwin was bundling himself into the mix. While diminished, and rendered to wordless gawking, the shadow in his periphery retained its form, an if not solid but wispy reminder that magic gardens did not eradicate faoladh madness on sight. It was for the best, anyway; like hell would he desire an indefinite tenure in Galeyn as the ‘garden pet,’ chained to a post.’ But he was not done digging, and prying, and pressing for answers. Partnering with Atli had taught him a thing or two about tinctures, tonics, and salves. Extractions required concentrated doses of the target plant, often requiring dozens just to squeeze out a few measly drops not even enough to fill a thumbnail-sized vial. For Hadwin’s acute condition, he’d have to rally the Gardeners to smash up some plants for him. But all in time; he was more concerned about a permanent solution for Briery--and for Teselin, beside him. He had hoped the Garden would rub off the edges of her constant state of worry, but it had remained constant for a reason.
“Yeah,” Hadwin said, trilling his lips in a vibration of noise. “Atli and me made a halfway cooperative team. Was the only decent Mollengardian I knew, back in my good ol ‘slave days’ with Solveig. He didn’t deserve to go the way he did, but if there happens to be an afterlife, he’s there with his daughter--who’s also dead, by the way. I found out. But,” he quirked a smile, a convincing cover-up to hide the wistfulness bouncing around his eyes at the memory of the deceased healer, “‘course I knew. I got a great nose. C’mon, I know your kingdom breeds giant birds who can’t smell for shit, but you can’t be that ignorant of a canine’s abilities. This isn’t a normal attribute, though.” He pointed to his eyes. “Sure, I smell it right off you, but I can also see your fears. It’s handy. Helps when you want to skip the small talk. Like this, for instance.” He stretched his arms high over his head, in an eruption of pops and clicks. “Well, not that,” he chuckled. “But the information I’m about to share with you, free of charge. Your husband is an open, gushing wound of fears, but there’s one in particular; it’s been on his mind awhile, and it influences his actions. He’s afraid only his fellow Forbanne will ever understand him. He’s buried himself so deep, his fear’s become a conviction. No one’ll understand, or care, about anything but the ‘best’ of him. Which he thinks is a lie. But oh is he ever desperate for someone to reach out and heal him. But the man’s too proud, too afraid to show weakness. And too firmly lodged inside his own head to notice hope, or love, or people reaching out to him. What he’s most terrified of, though, is never being able to hold his kids. That he’ll be ‘gone’ before then. And if that’s not a downer at all,” he shrugged, “then you’re out of luck; I’m fresh out of uppers. I shouldn’t even care, but...I’ve been surrounded by Forbanne for months in Stella D’Mare. I’ve seen their lifestyle firsthand, and let me tell you, it’s a thing of nightmares. Hell, maybe that’s why I worked so closely with Atli, before. He wanted to liberate them. Rehabilitate them. And I thought, ‘well, why not? They’re less of a threat, that way. Easier for me to dupe in a game of cards, too.’”
Hadwin stepped back as the roc princess and the summoner waxed poetic about the infamous necromancer, referencing his many exploits (of which he’d gathered some of the details in Vega’s fearscape). Since arriving at Braighdath, he’d asked Tivia about scheduling a trip to Galeyn by Night Steed, his curiosity for this most reviled Vitali growing with every murmured curse of his name or unflattering tale of his misdeeds--not to mention the comparisons in likeness to each other. The summoner had declined each and every offer to visit, painting some broad-brush excuse about not wanting to bother Alster, who was too overworked to make their arrangements. And of course, they were excuses. She was simply afraid. Afraid of rejection. Afraid he would cast her away. Afraid the encounter would leave her disillusioned and without any hope for a solution to her wayward magic. Afraid of disappointment, of everything twisting seven ways to wrongness. The list never ended. So he quit asking, and instead lapped up all that Braighdath offered him in terms of entertainment, almost content in her...accessibility to him. For all his curiosity in meeting Vitali, a transfer of hands meant, maybe…
She wouldn’t need him, anymore.
Just as he was willing to choose Rowen and death, she could choose to stay with Vitali. Live with him. Reconnect. And why the hell not!? Though estranged, they were family. After all, Hadwin was a replacement brother. A placeholder, until the real one came along. And he was a piss-poor one, at that!
But when she grabbed his arm for attention, and scoured him with her large, soulful eyes, how could he doubt or deny their closeness? They were in it, together. Till the end. He’d told her so. Promised her so. For the preservation of her frail, breakable soul, he’d be a fraud to let her down. True, he was a fraud, to many people, but Teselin deserved his honesty, integrity, and loyalty...for putting up with him.
“Ah, kid, you know I love a spectacle,” he whined at her good-naturedly, when she suggested he pull a disappearing act. “You know how much I wanna be in the next show. Oh hey, that’s right.” He turned to Vega and winked at her. “You know the Missing Links, yeah? I’m like the unofficial fifth member. But Al’s turning one-hundred in two days and that’s apparently a huge deal for Rigas-kind, so we’re rolling in the caravans. Haven’t cleared it with the boss yet, but you can look forward to it. And to me, in glittering red. If I’m supposed to be lying low, you can protect me from your husband if he decides to crash the party. He ain’t gonna knock down a pregnant lady stuffed with his kids to get to me.”
It gave him cause to wonder, though. Tivia’s prophecy did not seem to specify which wolf would destroy Haraldur’s sanity. While it sounded obvious that the wolf in question was him, Rowen, as Teselin so helpfully pointed out, still roamed around as a threat. Her next destination; Galeyn. It wouldn’t be unprecedented to find her caught at the end of the Forbanne Prince’s blade, were she so bold (or touched with the faoladh madness) to pursue a fight. If her goal was to eradicate darkness, then the Forbanne oozed it. And she had a vendetta against Mollengard, for the tortures inflicted on her.
Bidding a cheery farewell to the Eyraillian princess, he and Teselin walked the circumference of the Night Garden, the latter, again, reduced to a mess of shivers, visible beneath the more form-fitting gown that the Galeynian monarch had lent her. “Ah, chickadee.” He circled an arm around her shoulders, steadying her. “If you can’t relax in the Night Garden, there’s only one other thing we can do now, right?”
He prompted her, and she took the bait. Sure enough, she asked, no beseeched that he travel with her to see Vitali. “Are you kidding?” He broke into a grin. “You know I’ve been itching to meet this brother of yours. I wouldn’t reject this invitation for anything. We’re in this together, remember?” And with a good-natured slap on her shoulder, he sealed their deal.
Now, he mused to himself, what should I expect from that necromancer’s caretaker? Oh have I fucked her family over. And if she can see through people with her seer eyes just as easily as I can see fears...hah!
This’ll be interesting…
After meeting with Queen Lilica and Chara Rigas to hammer out some details for Alster’s party, and to send a messenger to the Missing Links’ caravan in his place, Hadwin and Teselin arranged for a Night Steed for that evening. To while away the long hours of a day in the peak of summer, Hadwin distracted the summoner by taking her around the Night Garden and helping him to rename all the flora they stumbled across. By dusk, the Garden was populated with Flooferolls, Spleen Drops, Ghost Crotch-Fur, Fairy-Vomit Blossoms, the Choking Bastard, Offal-on-a-Stick, and his personal favorite, Anal-Squirt Clusters. Proud of the development of his own taxonomy (which he mostly named), he shared the list with a passing Gardener, who politely noted he would take the suggestions into consideration before excusing himself in a huff.
“I think I offended him,” Hadwin said, as the departing Gardener muttered something about disrespect. “But hey, if the Night Garden’s supposed to spark the imagination, my imagination just happens to include piss, vomit, and assholes. We did well for ourselves, kid. I’m going to bring up the new names to Queen Lilica. She can make it a royal decree--if I ask nicely. Well,” he rose to his feet where they’d been lounging on the steps and pulled Teselin upright, “time for our appointment with the Steeds. Ever since I’ve heard about these little fuckers, I’ve been dying to ride astride one, and blur with the scenery. C’mon,” his eyes lit like a child seeing magic performed for the first time, “you can’t tell me you’re not a little excited to go barreling at high speeds, vaulting into the night air as the world rushes around you.” He slapped his hands together, and his enthusiasm transferred into the loud, sharp sound which leaped against the walls. “I can’t wait!! Let’s do this!”
Sure enough, the journey upon the Night Steed met Hadwin’s expectations. Accompanied by two expert riders, who instructed them to straddle their waists tight and secure, they galloped, no, flew on the darkness. An exhilarating rush of wind, the uneven up and down, side to side, a speed unlike anything he’d experienced...there was no keeping silent. In whoops and howls of delight, Hadwin even dared release one arm and to raise it in the air. But by then, the ride had come to a quick and abrupt end--and disappointment rumbled in his stomach. “Ah,” he exclaimed as his feet thunked heavily on the ground, “don’t you ever go on longer rides, just for the fun of it? If you ever do,” he landed a companionable hand on the steed’s mane, and leaned close to its rider with a flirtatious smile, “let me know. I’ll bring snacks.” Swerving towards Teselin, who’d dismounted next, he supported her upright with his arm at her side. “We don’t get to choose what makes us nervous, kid,” he said, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Only how we act. So let’s act. One step at a time, to start. The rest will figure itself out.”
Together, they advanced to the front door of the cottage, a slow and gradual crawl. Once they reached their destination, the door clicked open, and a distinctly Rigas woman scrutinized them with her one visible eye. “Teselin,” she uttered, almost in time to the male voice in the back. She stepped out of the way and invited the two strangers inside, shutting the door behind her. Her eye, however, trailed after them, never shifting or averting. Even when he presented his back to her, he felt that eye boring into his skull. ...She’d make a great faoladh.
The man known as Vitali joined their little circle. Though his eyes were covered (yet it didn’t stop Hadwin from reading his fears), he could determine their relations by the facial structure, the ink of hair dumped over their heads, and the distinct smell that permeated them both. They stank of magic, and the presence of them together burned his nostrils with their acidic potency. Naturally, for a necromancer, Vitali Kristeva carried the undertones of rot and dirt and earth as a steadfast answer to Teselin and her rainbow of possibilities. One day, she would smell brisk, like a cold autumn breeze. Others, like a storm in passing. A still pool. A towering inferno. The four humors. Or the lightest patter of rain.
Vitali also smelled like he’d been rolling in the nastiest of Night Garden plants for days. The Anal-Squirt Clusters. Undoubtedly.
“Well if it isn’t the infamous Vitali Kristeva,” he remarked, clicking his tongue in lieu of a grin. “I’ve heard the world of you from this one, here. I’ve also heard some glowing accounts where you feature as nothing better than the scum of the earth. Night Garden seems to agree, too. Blegh,” he made a face, “it really did a number on you. You reek of its dark, slimy underside. But I digress.” He jutted out his arm to see if the necromancer could make contact with it in one try. To his delight, he did. “Great spatial awareness. You’ve got this blind thing down pretty good for only a few months of it. Anyway,” he shook the man’s hand, “I’m Hadwin Kavanagh. Gambler. Pugilist. Spy. Performer. Fellow scumbag and occasional good-guy. Veritable jack-of-all-trades.”
As expected, moments later, Teselin crumbled into tears, bowling over in her attempts to suppress sobs, or the function of her legs. Hadwin held her close, circling her back with comforting pats. “It’s been a tumultuous few months,” he said, to Vitali. “The kid’s been through a lot. C’mere, Tes.” He led her to the nearest chair and urged her to sit down. Tivia, who had run off to the far corner of the hut, returned with a tin of water and a rag, which she’d presented to the summoner. Now that she and the faoladh shared in closer proximity, her scrying eye met with his scrying eyes. “You’re...the wolf.” Realization dawned, and the crystal ball on her face expanded into knowing clarity.
“Good eye,” he said, blanched exaggeratingly, and added, “in the non-literal sense, of course. You’re right. I’m a wolf. The wolf, though? I’m not the end all, be all of wolves, but--”
“--Yes, the wolf,” she interjected, and her eye narrowed. “I told Vega about you.”
“I met Vega, and she told me, too. That’s another thing we have in common,” he said, as an aside to Vitali. “That Haraldur fellow wants us both dead.”
“But that’s not all. You...The stars, they…” She clutched her head and backed away from the faoladh. “A wolf attacked my family. My father, he….my mother, she…”
Hadwin cracked his neck and sighed. “And it’s me you suspect?”
“Yes!” Her hands shook with unmitigated fury. “The beast has lain with my mother! The beast has tormented my father. They tell me this, they tell me. It was you!”
“Mmm.” He released his hand from Teselin’s back and side-stepped towards to the door. “So, you’re not wrong. Some context is also helpful here.”
“I don’t want to hear it!” A glowing gold disk of etherea appeared in her hand. “I’ll give you the grace of removing yourself from this cottage before I slice you to ribbons. At least then, Haraldur won’t have to worry about putting you down himself, you rotten cur!”
