It was difficult to say if Alster managed to assuage his wife’s worries and doubt with his unyielding sense of understanding, or if she had merely exhausted her tears and overwhelming emotion in her long period of sobbing against her husband’s shoulder. Regardless, the ex-knight did appear a shade lighter, as though a burden had been lifted from her chest, making it easier to breathe and to focus, and to take in the Rigas mage’s reassuring words. However inadvertently, Alster had forced her to face a truth that she had been avoiding for months; that being that she was not the Elespeth she had hoped to become. Not a hero or a valiant knight, not like her brother had been; just a broken warrior with no direction, and who had lost her ability to wield a sword due to her own folly. For better or worse, this was who she was, now, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like herself, didn’t like that she had to face herself in the mirror, and didn’t know how she would continue to do so, day after day.
But… Alster still liked that Elespeth, flawed as she was. He hadn’t stopped loving her when he’d learned about her addiction to the Mollengardian stimulant. Hadn’t stopped loving her or looking for her when she had disappeared from Haraldur’s party, determined to find Braighdath on her own after he’d completely shunned the company of her friends. He hadn’t stopped loving her even when she had been determined to stop loving him, as a result of her very shaky recovery from her near-death from exposure. Hadn’t stopped loving her when she had been accused (and was, in a sense, guilty) of murder. Hadn’t stopped loving her when her heart had begun to fail, day after day, until she had been reduced to an invalid in a wheelchair, who couldn’t even stand long enough to safely lower herself in and out of a tub to bathe independently.
Alster had never stopped loving her. What’s more, he had never stopped seeing what he loved about her, vices and all. And that… that was what mattered. Even more than the hate she harboured for herself, her husband’s love surpassed that. It always had; and she was only now coming to realize that nothing she could possibly do could change that.
“I want… to believe it isn’t too late. That what matters of my legacy is not all behind me, forever.” Elespeth confessed in a trembling whisper. “I want to believe. It is difficult to believe, but I want to. But I… I am going to need your help. Even if this plan works--even if the Master Alchemist is able to restore my heart to its proper function, and I can get back on my feet again and lift a sword, I am going to need your help to believe in myself, again. I am ashamed to admit that I am a product of my upbringing; our wolfish friend has since pointed this out. How he hates my steadfast sense of right and wrong, my black and white justice. And I hate to say it but… damnit all, the son of a bit is right.” It was her turn to laugh, then, quick and weak; but the smile was not forced or faulty. “Those values I used to hold… that used to make me, are flawed. They’re the very same values that justified Atvany in its desire to take my life. They are the same values that resulted in my brother’s death…”
Of course, this was where she trailed off, green eyes drifting toward the vine-addled wall of the sanctuary. Farran’s fate was a wound that she had come to accept would never really heal. It would always bleed, one drop of blood at a time; the only difference was, as time passed, the pain lessened in its intensity. “I have to believe this is what he would have wanted for me. He was subject to the same upbringing, the same indoctrination of such flawed values and moral code… but I saw change in him, the very last time we spoke. Change that suggested that he was doing--what Atvany wanted him to do was inherently wrong. I feel as though, if he were still alive, he and Lyriq would have left Atvany. Or, Farran would have, at the very least. My younger brother is beholden by the need to look out for my sister and mother. But Farran… I think, had things played out better in our favor… He would be here, with us. Fighting battles that matter. Pursing real honour, not Atvany’s twisted interpretation of it. I have not been a daughter of Atvany for quite some time, now, and I am well overdue to let go of it. So…”
As Alster helped her stand, and led her back to her chair, she took both of his hands in her own, and met his calming blue gaze. “I want a new beginning. I might be a failure right now; in the eyes of my family, and even in my own eyes. I will still be a failure when I am asleep, and you set off with the necromancer on this errand of hope. But when I open my eyes again--and I promise you, I am going to--I want to be someone else. Someone fresh, who can build their legacy from the ground up, all over again. Elespeth Tameris, sworn knight of Atvany, is gone, and has been gone for quite some time. But the story and legacy of Elespeth Rigas has yet to begin. Will you help me, Alster?” Elespeth’s lips parted in the sort of hopeful smile that no one had seen her wear in months. Not since the night of her naming ceremony, when nothing had felt impossible. “Will you help me be reborn and to build something better? Something with you, no matter the success of your venture?”
And that was the seal of their new promise: a new beginning for her, for them, regardless of what the future might bring. Whether she was on her feet and fighting like she used to, or still finding ways to cope with her detrimental condition. One way or another, it would be a new beginning for them, and one that would hold promise.
It was not difficult to track down the Missing Links’ sprightly ringleader, upon leaving the safety of the sanctuary. When Briery Frealy wasn’t stealing secret (or, at this point, not-so-secret) moments with the faoladh, she dedicated her time and effort to the maintenance and betterment of her art, which narrowed down her whereabouts to either the palace, or the open space where the two caravans had been parked for weeks. She was busy painting touch-ups to their ornate tent when the Rigas mage and his wife approached, appearing both nervous and hopeful. “Alster. Your company is always such a pleasure.” She greeted him with a genuine smile, which she then directed to Elespeth, who had since stood from her wheelchair. “And Elespeth Rigas. Are you up and about, today? I am so happy to see you must be faring far better than before!”
“It is but an illusion, I’m afraid.” Elespeth replied with a flat smile. “Not so unlike your magic tricks, I suppose. Except your illusions are far more convincing. I’m only on my feet--and barely so--because of Lilica’s helpful tea. Actually…” She scratched the back of her neck. “We’re hoping to find a more permanent solution to my problem. That’s why we’re here to see you.”
“Of course. You’re here to ask about the caravan--yes?”
Elespeth blinked, and exchanged a startled look with her husband. The ringleader merely offered an understanding smile and shrugged her shoulders. “Alster, you happened to have encountered Cwenha earlier, and I right? She mentioned in passing that you may come by to inquire about borrowing one of the caravans for an important errand.”
“And…” The ex-knight hesitated, looking sheepish. While she was not the one who sought usage of the Missing Links’ caravan, she was the reason her husband was forced to ask the favor. “Are you… is this an acceptable request? I realize the importance of these caravans to your business, Briery. If it is too much to ask…”
“Rest assured, it isn’t too much at all. The Missing Links have remained stationary in Galeyn for some time, now; I rather think the locals are liking our presence.” The acrobat grinned, her golden costume gleaming as she turned in the sunlight to face them. “When the caravans aren’t a means of travel, they’re a means of storage. But I am sure we can find somewhere else to temporarily shove our supplies and props.”
Alster was far more well acquainted with the acrobat than she was, Elespeth could only imagine that her readiness to be of help must have stemmed from what her husband had done for Briery Frealy and her debilitating disease. And even if that were the case, it took the both of them off guard that she didn’t seem surprised by the request at all. “I’ve already expressed that if there is any way I can possibly repay what your husband has done for me, then he need only ask. Galeyn has been more than kind to us with their contributions to our unique art; donating a caravan, if it helps to serve the purpose of hastening your recovery, Elespeth, seems like the very least we can do.”
“I… thank you, Briery.” The ex-knight would have teared up, were it not for the fact she had already shed all of her tears not even an hour before. “We will be in your debt.”
“Nonsense.” Briery brushed the suggestion aside with a flick of her hand. “I’ll start clearing out the women’s caravan right away. It should be clear and ready by this evening, if that suits you. Oh--and Cwenha mentioned, Alster, that you will be traveling with the necromancer.” The acrobat’s winning smile dimmed around the edges ever so slightly; if you weren’t looking for the microexpression, you would miss it. “His reputation has certainly made its way around this little kingdom, and if I understand correctly, it is not a favourable one. My only request--and I don’t doubt you will come good on it--is to keep that man in line. I don’t know what necromancy entails, or what he plans to do, but I’d prefer that no damage come to my caravan for his carelessness or notoriety. Not only that,” her face softened, and she took a step forward, resting a hand upon the Rigas mage’s shoulder, “but look out for yourself, Rigas. If you find yourself in danger… have a plan in place. Remember, you have a wife to return to.”
“I’m not sure that the Gardeners have a much more favourable opinion of me than they do of you; after all, I am the princess that chose to take flight on a roc just before her third trimester.” Vega smiled sheepishly at her husband and shrugged her shoulders. If he took leave of the sanctuary without the permission of a healer, then she really hadn’t a leg to stand on in terms of scolding him. “You look as though you’ve rested, at least. I’m… so happy to see you looking better.”
Warmth spread through her body when he took her hand, for what was the first time in what felt like so long. She had reached out, and finally, Haraldur--her husband--was reaching back. And perhaps for the first time since he had left her in Eyraille… then and there, she did not feel so alone. “Haraldur. You know I’d like more than anything for you to share a bed with me, again,” the Eyraillian princess reassured him, that warmth creeping from her body and into her voice. “I cannot guarantee that it will be comfortable, but you can take solace in knowing that I, too, haven’t been able to sleep comfortably in months. I do not need to ‘adjust’ to you again, Haraldur. I cannot speak for you to me, but… you are still the man I married, just months ago.”
For a little while, they walked in silence, hand in hand, and that was just fine with Vega. There was no awkwardness in that silence; it was merely the alternative to idle small talk, when neither of them quite knew what to talk about, but desired the presence of the other, regardless. That was until Haraldur finally spoke up, posing a question that was entirely out of character for the man she knew. “Speak? As in… with words?” She furrowed her brow curiously, not wanting to offend him by asking the wrong question. “Well, the Gardeners have told me that the Night Garden is, as far as anyone knows, a natural occurrence of the result of carefully intersecting ley lines. Everything stretched out and overlapped just so, and the flora grew just this way. I cannot say I know much about magic, but I do believe it must have a language of its own. And this Garden must speak to mortal bodies in such a way that it is able to alter them in favour of their health… of course, I am just blowing hot air. It is my best guess, but it is not a stupid thing to consider. I think your curiosity it well founded. We can ask the Gardeners for their opinion, if you like.”
But it turned out he wasn’t interested in talking to anyone else, just yet. When he asked after her wellness, Vega turned her face away, afraid that it would betray something she wasn’t willing to bring to light. She had already been honest with how his behaviour had affected her; she had no interest in digging a deeper hole for him to dwell in his guilt. “I was happy because I received a warm welcome, here. Eyraille’s own princess, and pregnant to boot, coming all this way to help transition Galeynians and D’Marians alike to a new age and a new town. They took to me, and I very selfishly absorbed it all like a sponge.” She wore her own guilt in her smile, then, and shook her head. “But what made me really happy, Haraldur, was knowing I would see you again. Knowing that we had a chance to start our family together. When you rejected that idea, because you were angry that I was here at all… it did break my heart. But I couldn’t blame you for it; I still can’t. Just as it has always been, I only have myself to blame for what troubles me. So please… don’t worry yourself.”
For a moment, it seemed as though that was all she was willing to say on the matter. But somehow, Haraldur persisted with his silence and his gaze on her, until she finally confided a small detail. “I haven’t slept well. That’s all. Not for a long time.” She confided, almost in passing, as if it didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t. “And when I do manage to sleep, I have troubling, vivid dreams… but I think it is all just a matter of you having been absent. I don’t have to feel alone, anymore. Especially not if you’ll spend the nights back in the palace, with me.” Vega smiled, and turned her cerulean gaze back to the Forbanne commander. “It all comes down to me being very pregnant, and as a result, very cranky. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me my mood swings until these two children are born.”
Something that Elespeth said had called to Alster’s attention. Something of note; something of interest. Something he was capable of doing, as Rigas Head of a once sovereign nation--however painfully brief their sovereignty status after breaking from Andalari. Although they were reduced to bands of refugees spread out across Andalari, Braighdath, and Galeyn, again beholden to the politics and policies of their respective new homes, Stella D’Mare never ceased to exist. So long as it was still a homeland to reclaim, the Rigas seat of power had not dissolved nor disbanded. And as long as several nations recognized their sovereignty--and he had no doubt that Galeyn or Eyraille would dispute the claim--edicts carried forth by the Rigas Head to his people still held weight. Perhaps not as much weight as an established, salient territory with its own standing armies like Mollengard or Atvany; Stella D’Mare was a wisp of a concept compared to them--but so long as the dream of their lost nation remained alive, they would rebuild. And they would need armies to maintain their position, once they returned for their city on the sea.
“You never stopped being a knight, Elespeth.” It was not a statement of reassurance; not some bolstering pep-talk about keeping the spirit of a lost title, or redefining it from its twisted and corrupted origins. He was not being abstract. It was a concrete statement, leading to a concrete proposition. “Atvany knows you’re alive now, Elespeth. In Braighdath…” he paused, not wanting to sound indecorous, “you were not discreet about your origins, or your status as a fugitive. It is no stretch to say you have made some powerful enemies, and they will sell this information to Atvany if it will foster a strong alliance with your honor-bound nation, and satisfy their vengeance in punishing both you and me. If Atvany should retaliate, they will try to claim ownership over you, but you belong to Stella D’Mare, now. Unfortunately, Stella D’Mare--the Rigases, specifically--have little means in defending ourselves in battle, should the time come to combat our detractors. We only have alliances; borrowed armies. And I am certain Mollengard will want their Forbanne back at some point. Anyway, I digress.” As he lowered Elespeth into her wheeled contraption, he placed his hands on the handlebars, but did not move her out of the sanctuary, deep as he was in thought.
“The point I’m trying to make is that we need to build an army. Pacifist that I am, it must be done. If we cannot protect ourselves, we’ll never achieve the peace and prosperity we’re so desperately craving. The Rigases cannot remain elitist in their discrimination of non-magic users. And if the Rigas Head and his council are the new leaders of Stella D’Mare, he--and they--are in charge of the allocation and development of their army. In other words--we need knights. And as the sovereign head, I can make knights. Elespeth,” he leaned over the handlebars, giving her an excitable squeeze on the shoulder, “I can knight you. You would be Sir Elespeth Rigas, First Knight of Stella D’Mare. You don’t have to surrender your former title, after all; it would only be repurposed in respects to a nation and a fight that you believe in. We’ll make our own rules. Found our own school. No outdated chivalric code. Think about it, El; it will be a continuation of your legacy, among people who need you. I don’t want to overwhelm you or anything,” a shy smile interrupted his onslaught of overwrought, overly-detailed plans for the future. “Whoever you choose to be, whatever you choose to do, I am beside you. This is but one of many possibilities for when you awaken--once you regain your strength. Of course,” he puffed out his cheeks and released the air in a dramatic way, “I realize I sound maudlin. Idealistic. Preposterous. But it’s not outside the realm of impossibility. Whatever legacy you choose, it’s achievable. And I’ll be there with you. I’d want for nothing less, than to have you standing as my shield and my equal, once again.”
They arrived at the large, ornamental tent that was erected somewhere in between the Forbanne camp and the main road, a location both safe from attack and relatively easy to reach, if one were a civilian who succeeded in passing through the Forbanne’s checkpoints en route to Galeyn’s innermost sanctum. Alster was thankful that the Missing Links had not relocated to the developing D’Marian village, a place that he no longer deemed safe. To maintain the illusion of safety, he withheld from his people the details of the near-death confrontation between Haraldur and a girl that Elespeth informed him was Rowen Kavanagh, Hadwin’s younger sister, who was also responsible for the string of D’Marian murders in Braighdath which culminated in the evisceration of the councilman. With everything that he needed to register, Alster had exhausted too much of his energy to analyze threats beyond his mission for Elespeth. It was selfish of him to be so one-sided, but if he did not partition this information to parse at a later date, he feared it would overwhelm him, and he’d be unable to act. Chara, for certain, and Lilica, would handle the news in his place. As for what they were to do with Hadwin, who deliberately hid the bodies in Braighdath and withheld the identity of his sister for months until finally confessing the truth...unfortunately, it was in Alster’s best interest to do nothing. If he wanted Briery’s cooperation, it would be a conflict of interest to open up an investigation on Hadwin Kavanagh and his questionable loyalties. Moreover...he didn’t think the wily wolf-shifter was truly at fault, if his only crime was in wanting to protect his sister. What was important was that they knew, now. Knew that Locque had a possible accomplice, knew her disdain for Mollengard, and knew of her handiness with a knife and her darkness projection abilities.
“Briery.” He collected the thoughts that he had intended to partition away for later dissection and did just that, shooing them into another room and closing the door. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.” He greeted her with the bow of his head, his good arm and half his weight occupied with anchoring Elespeth upright. “I haven’t seen you since my surprise birthday celebration. I know I don’t need to repeat my gratitude to you and your troupe for performing and for collecting money for the D’Marians, but thank you. And I apologize in advance, that this is not a purely friendly visit on my part.”
But Briery stopped him there, and correctly gauged his request before he even voiced it aloud. “Ah, yes. I suppose I did tell Cwenha what I needed when we encountered each other, earlier. I would not ask this favor of you if it weren’t important to the specific nature of this trip. But if you’re unable to lend out your caravan, no worries.” His lips pulled into a smile. “Galeyn has some supply wagons and I know that the D’Marians have a few in regular use. They’re not as comfortable, but they can be furnished to fit the comforts of a traveling home, I’m sure.”
Not surprisingly, the ringleader agreed to lend out her caravan without a hint of hesitation, despite not knowing the reasons behind his request. “Thank you, Briery. You and your troupe will be compensated, I assure you. I’ll bring you a supply wagon tonight, in fact. I am to travel with the necromancer in search for his brother, who is a Master Alchemist who may have the means to restore full functionality to Elespeth’s heart. He’s a bit of a recluse, and the coziness of your caravan will serve as a nice transition for him.” Hopefully, he wanted to add, but didn’t. “So yes, it means a lot to us that you’d willingly sacrifice your home for this impromptu venture of mine. I’ll take good care of it.”
At her well-meaning warning about the necromancer, his soon-to-be-acquired traveling companion, he smiled a smile that could cut ice. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve been on the road with Vitali Kristeva, before. He won’t do anything untoward on this journey--or to your caravan--if he wants to keep his residency and his favorable reputation in Galeyn. He knows not to trifle with my power, either. I do have it in me to be unpleasant.” A trickle of the Serpent’s ancient gaze flashed in his blue eyes, but he blew it all out of his system with a well-timed sigh. “I urge you to stay safe, too, Briery. What with the sorceress and Hadwin’s murderous sister on the loose--it’s important that you also take care. You and your troupe.”
“Hm--what’s this about bounding off on the road with that accursed necromancer, Alster?”
Alster recoiled, almost releasing Elespeth in reflex to whirl towards the unsatisfied voice that remarked behind him. Chara stood in his periphery, her painted lips pursing and stretching in supreme disapproval. “What are you plotting this time, oh scheming cousin of mine, and why have you not said anything to the interim Rigas Head about this?”
“...I was getting there,” he mumbled, losing some of his conviction before the vengeful sunburst who could blister skin with a look.
“Of course. Naturally, I am always the last to know.” With arms crossed, Chara invited herself into the loose circle surrounding Briery. Her hair, styled to conceal the chunks missing from her ears, bobbed just shy of her shoulders, which were mostly bared from the cream and white sun-dress she was wearing. It was not a typical fashion-choice for the sleek and bold woman, but it somehow transformed on her body into a fitting, complementary look. Despite Galeyn’s innocuous colors, she presented them as a status symbol. She gave them power. Slowly but surely, vestiges of the old, buried Chara were worming their way back to the surface. Alster, while thankful for the positive changes in his cousin, also acted with trepidation. How would she respond to his announcement? Would it be a repeat of Stella D’Mare, when she nearly cast him and Lilica aside in betrayal and resentment?
“I,” Alster swallowed, “you were next on my list. I promise you. The council doesn’t even know yet. This was not a premeditated decision, Chara. I found out only last night that--”
“--cease the circumlocution, Alster; I’ve no time for your half-baked apologies.” Chara rolled her eyes. “I overheard enough. You are going to borrow Briery’s caravan to embark on another fool’s errand, thereby removing yourself from your responsibilities to your people and your family for the second time this year alone. In addition, you are to team-up with a person you despise yet again to seek the aid of a hermit while we are currently under threat by an untraceable sorceress and her minion and in midst of rebuiling our lost community. Do I have the details correct?”
“Some of them, but--”
“--but you are risking your necessary presence here for the behest of another, as you did with Lilica and as you’ve already done multiple times for Elespeth. And nothing will change your mind.”
Alster shook his head, knowing better than to speak while Chara was sorting out the viability of his departure.
“And it is to save Elespeth’s life?”
He nodded.
“Well,” she snorted, “you’ve been all but useless with your borrowed heart condition, anyway. You could not perform a magic ritual in the Night Garden without succumbing to an attack.” Her gaze drifted meaningfully to Elespeth, then returned to Alster. “Do not be gone for long.”
Alster blinked in surprise and exchanged a look with Elespeth. “What?”
“Did I stutter?” She flicked a misplaced strand of hair from her forehead. “Do you really think I want to continue entertaining two weaklings at the palace, when I can have the both of you at your physical and magical peak, instead?” Her pretense deflated, along with her shoulders, “I want you two well,” her voice lowered to a sincere whisper. “If you must seek outside aid, which you will do no matter how much I seethe and rage and scream, then go do so, and I will withhold the seething rage--but only if you achieve results. You’ve had an enviable success rate thus far, so I will trust you and your good instincts, Alster. Go forth, and I will endeavor to hold this place upright with Lilica in the meantime. Just make sure to see me before you take your leave so we can talk Rigas-related business.”
Having spoken her peace, Chara Rigas did not linger for another minute. With a nod of acknowledgment to Briery, she withdrew from their company and sashayed towards the palace in a swish of white and cream. Alster stared after her, mouth slightly agape.
“That...was not a disastrous encounter?” he said with a dubious inflection. “I...frankly, I’m exhausted, now. I underestimated Chara--though she is still liable to change her mind so we should tread carefully with her patience if we see her again.”
Haraldur had rested well. In fact, it had come quite easily for him in the Night Garden’s sanctuary when it otherwise should have been impossible, considering what he had done to himself, and how badly his actions had affected his wife--and Sigrid. The guilt alone was enough to force his eyes open out of fear of plunging anywhere near darkness, even if it was the darkness of sleep. But sleep, regardless, crept behind his eyelids and pulled them down, and he did not resist. He let it happen. As a reward for his lack of resistance, he awoke refreshed, albeit antsy and ready to cast away from the sanctuary at the soonest opportunity.
The opportunity had arrived, and he was grateful for it. Grateful to reunite with Vega in the Night Garden. Grateful that she held his hand, that she wanted him near at all, that her patience with him was so infinite, she entertained his borderline nonsense comments about spirits and speaking flora without batting an eye. He could...trust himself with her. He sank into her touch, felt its welcome weight tethered to his own--and never wanted to release it.
“You do realize...I can sleep just about anywhere?” An unvocalized snicker perched on his lips. “And I mean anywhere. Comfort has nothing to do with the size of the bed, or lack thereof. Comfort means something different to me. You...you are comfort.”
His fingers tightened on her hand as he looked away bashfully. “No, that was horrible. I don’t know what I’m saying. I do need to readjust. All these months as a soldier, as Forbanne, has made me go daft.” In comparison, continuing the subject on nature spirits was significantly more desirable than his pathetic missteps in winning over his wife, when she’d been so adamant in expressing that he did not need to win who he already had.
“I was thinking about...my sister,” he began, faltering at first. Not knowing how much he wanted to reveal about his strange encounter with the Night Garden’s centerpiece tree. “Together, we used to go out into this grove a lot, near where we lived. It was the oddest place. A dense patch of evergreens, too thick for even a reindeer to pass through. And she would...talk to the trees. I thought nothing of it because my sister wasn’t...right. Not by normal standards. But she’d have conversations with them. She said she always enjoyed their company. They taught her things. A language.” He closed his eyes and muttered the word he heard at the base of the tree’s root. “Algiz.” A shiver rattled him so hard, it forced him to stop walking. “So it made me wonder if that grove in our homeland was in any way related to...this place. The leylines, as you say. And then,” he opened his eyes and lowered them to Vega’s protruding stomach. “Alster told me that he sensed...magic in our children. That they’ve inherited it from me. And I...did have magic, once. I remember I could keep plants alive. At least...I think so. Klara carried a snowdrop around with her that never died. I gave it to her. I did something to it. And,” his brow wrinkled so heavily, he looked to have aged ten years in five seconds. Shaking his head, he loosened the tension and moved his feet forward, tugging Vega gently along with him. “So that’s why I was inquiring about magic places. Sacred groves, miracle gardens. A tree was the first thing I saw when I...awakened...a few days ago, and...today...earlier, I...I’m sorry; none of my thoughts make sense. I’m thinking too much.”
He ceased walking yet again, but this time, it was to reach for Vega’s other hand and pull her in close, face-to-face with him. “I’m thinking too much, so I’ll stop thinking.” And, true to his word, he did, when he wrapped his arms around her waist and closed their lips together in a long, lingering kiss. When at last he deemed it appropriate to release her from his thrall, he did not unbound his arms. Her swollen belly, pressed up against him, whirred with faint heartbeats. Twin heartbeats. Imaginary or not, they were alive inside her womb. So close. So close to birth…
“Whatever those nightmares are, Vega,” he breathed into her ear, “whether they involve me, or our children, I can’t make them go away, but...maybe I can catch them before they reach you. It’s about time I make myself useful to you. But if you think there is anything to forgive--no. It’s me you’ll have to forgive; I have a lot to answer for. Crankiness on your part is a small price to pay. So by all means,” he smiled, and moved in for another kiss, “be cranky, princess.”
Chara’s appearance on the scene was unexpected, but not entirely unfounded, Elespeth quickly realized when the proud Rigas caster made her presence known. Were it a different place and a different time and under different circumstances, and were they different people (their former selves, to be exact), the ex-knight of Atvany might have had a word or two to spare for Alster’s cousin poking her nose into business that was not directly her own. But not only could she not deny that her husband’s decision did not leave his friends and allies unaffected, there was something in the way Chara carried herself that incited a spark of hope in her failing heart. Not so long ago, Chara had been just as broken as she had been, barely a ghost of the woman she used to be. She’d let her hair hang in lengths in front of her face, cared little for what clothed her body, and did not seek conversation or for the opportunity to express her opinions.
That was not the case, today, and it was the first time the Elespeth had seen Chara Rigas beginning to reclaim what she had lost. Once again, the woman with whom she used to be so at odds stood tall and proud, an authority figure, whether or not she actually had the authority. And if Chara Rigas could return to her roots, if she could gather up the pieces of herself and put them back together, one fragment at a time… then perhaps it would not be so impossible for her to do the same. To take Alster up on his offer, and to reclaim her status as a knight, in a new place, for new people, and under a new code that would not result in the same outcome as had her fate with her homeland, Atvany.
Elespeth had never thought she would be happy to be faced with Chara’s bullheaded attitude again, but then and there, she could not deny that she appreciated it. And in any case, it was… well, not different, per se, but refined. Because it appeared as though the proud woman had finally learned to not only pick her battles, but how to fight them. And the battle she currently chose to fight had nothing to do with making life unnecessarily difficult for Alster and his wife.
“Chara… if you must be angry with someone, please allow me to receive it in Alster’s place.” The former knight said at last, not in a way that suggested she meant to be combative, but rather, apologetic. “I understand how ludicrous this sounds; to be honest, we are having a difficult time investing any hope that it will yield a favourable outcome, to be very honest. But… it stands to reason that this could well be our last hope. My last hope, if we want specifics. I am the reason that Alster is determined to depart at all, and I realize it is far easier for you to look down on me than your own family, so if you must unleash your displeasure on someone…”
But Chara was quick to cut her off with an angle that Elespeth hadn’t anticipated: one of genuine acceptance, and maybe, just maybe, the vestiges of goodwill. Of course, that goodwill was decorated with all of the sharp edges that the Rigas woman was known for, but the message was not lost on the husband and wife. Who’d have thought that there would come a day when Chara Rigas would lend a care for the wellbeing of the woman who had essentially stolen her once fiance, and set her on course for an entirely different future? “Chara… thank you.” They were the only words the former Atvanian could find, and the only words that felt right, at that given moment. “If it’s all the same, I hope to see you once again as well, before Alster makes his departure for Nairit. Because,” the corner of her mouth turned upwards in a teasing half-grin, “I’m not sure how long it will be before the two of us will be able to bicker over trivial things, again. Alster will need to return the symptoms he has taken from me, before he proceeds on this venture, and there is a good chance I won’t be in any condition to be at odds with you when that happens.”
At the Rigas woman’s eventual departure, Elespeth let out a breath of air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in her lungs. However the Rigas woman might change for the better, there would likely never be a time when she did not put the former knight completely on edge. “That woman certainly has a presence about her,” Briery remarked, almost as if reading their minds. “She might well change her mind, but really, this is not her decision to make. She’s right: Alster, you seem to function at your best when you are not worrying about your wife. If this venture can find you the solution that you need, in the end, everyone benefits. But anyway,” she dismissed the topic of Chara’s approval with a flippant gesture of her hand, and patted the side of the caravan that served as her bedroom and Cwenha’s, when they were on the road. “Come see me this evening, and I should have this cozy little hubble on wheels prepared for you. Rest assured, any old shack to store our props and meager belongings will do in its stead,so don’t stress over finding something to replace it for the Missing Links in the meantime. We’re rather cozy, here, as it is.”
After endless thanks to Briery Frealy for her generous gesture, the husband and wife allowed her to return to her task, and Elespeth placed her hand on Alster’s arm. “We still have the day. If it isn’t too much trouble, I would rather like to see how the D’Marians village is coming along. You’ve been working so hard on establishing a safe place for your people to reclaim their identity… and I haven’t actually seen any of Galeyn, past the Night Garden and the palace. Unless you have any other suggestions as to how we might spend our time?” Her green eyes glimmered with the conflicting feelings of both happiness and heartbreak, knowing that this would be their last day together for potentially a very long time. “What matters is that we spend this time together, whatever the capacity… I was foolish and selfish to squander the time you spent in the sanctuary. I cannot get that potential time with you back, and I will not forgive myself for it. All that matters to me now, today, is to make these moments matter. To give you something to carry with you, when we must part again. Something to give you hope on the road, whatever our future might bring. And, if that future does happen to involve my returned strength and nobility...” She laced her fingers through his own flesh and blood hand, and met his eyes with a look of sincerity. "I would be honoured to become a knight of Stella D'Mare. It no longer interests me to reclaim the honour I lost in Atvany; I'll earn it anew, bearing the sigil of a far more worthy place and peoples. If fate should have me on my feet again..." With a gentle tug, Elespeth pulled him close, until he was half-kneeling over her seated form. "I will be your knight, Alster Rigas." And then she closed the inches-wide gap between them, and seized his lips in a soft kiss.
Vega could only shake her head at her husband’s self-doubt. On one hand, it bothered her; now was the time for him to reclaim himself, to reclaim his identity as a prince of Eyraille, and his right to that name; not to dwell on what he had lost in the time they were apart. But, on the other hand, she knew well enough to be patient with him, and that this--just being with her, near her, and trying so hard to be that husband she’d needed and desired--was taxing on him. He was essentially using muscles that had all but atrophied in his time spent not as a Prince of Eyraille and husband of its controversial princess, but as the cold and calculating commander of a small army of Forbanne soldiers. He was faltering, yes, but what mattered was he was trying. And that meant more to her than she could put into words.
All the same, she tried to assuage his insecurities with a smile and gentle tone. “Do and say whatever you need to readjust, but you’re not failing me as a husband, Haraldur.” Vega gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “You are here, with me, right now. Which means that for the first time since you left, I’m not in this alone. That you’re even offering to share a bed with someone pregnant with twins, who will toss and turn all night and undoubtedly keep you awake with my petty groaning, is everything I need to hear. Galeyn had been kind to me, yes; to an extent, I have been happy in their company. But I cannot fall apart around these vulnerable people. They don’t know how I’ve been at war with myself, because I don’t show them. They don’t see me when I am at my worst, fretting over my children and my future family. But… I don’t have to hide that from you, because you already know. You can see it, and there is no feasible way for me to hide it from you. I can be vulnerable, but most importantly, you can keep me safe in that vulnerability. So you are free to trip over your words all you want.” She flashed a cheeky smile, not intended to tease him, but to make light of whatever plagued him with worry over his performance as a husband. “I have rather missed your attempts to wax romantic. It’s refreshing.”
Her lighthearted encouragement must have worked, because Haraldur continued to open up to her on the topic of the Night Garden, and what about it piqued his curiosity. The Skyknight listened attentively as he recalled memories of his sister, and of the magic they’d experienced as children. Not a bit of it struck her as odd. “Alster said the same to me--about our children. The same time he informed me that they are, in fact, a boy and a girl…” She rested one of her hands on her swollen belly and smiled. “That they really are Klara and Kynnet. And if they have any magic at all… it would certainly have had to come from you. Eyraille banned magic for a long time, after all, so it stands to reason that the Sorde bloodline is completely devoid of it. But what you’re wondering… I think there is merit, to that. And, perhaps, the similarity this place bears to your childhood home.”
Vega paused next to one of the tall trees with it’s blueish-tinged bark, and brushed the tips of her fingers against it. “Maybe this contributes to why you were able to heal so rapidly. The similarity of the magic in this place speaks to you; subconsciously or otherwise, it sends you messages, and you understand them on some level. So no, I do not think it ridiculous that this place can ‘speak’. Though I imagine it is only a select few who are able to hear and understand, it. It seems you are one of those people; hey,” her smile broadened and she gently nudged him in the ribs. “If being a soldier or a prince doesn’t suit you, you may well have an aptitude to become a Gardener. In all seriousness, though, the Gardeners are surely able to answer your questions. Maybe, given when you can tell them of your past, then can explain how and why you are able to pick up on the minute vibrations of the Night Garden’s magic. So if you want my opinion--keep thinking. Keep exploring these new ideas. Who knows? You might be able to make sense of it all, and identify with a part of yourself you thought you’d lost.”
Embarrassed as he appeared to be, discussing the topic of a “speaking garden”, the pregnant Eyraillian princess was far more comfortable exploring that notion with her husband than dwelling upon her own troubles, namely those of the vivid dreams that kept her awake at night. But as Haraldur had opened up to her about his insecurities and his need to ‘readjust’ to the person he had been prior to leading the Forbanne, so too did he deserve to hear what had been weighing on her mind. And maybe… just maybe, by saying it out loud, it would sound ridiculous, and no longer wake her up in the middle of the night with her heart racing. “I have this dream that our children are there--born. Healthy and alive and smiling. And I love them so much… I want to hold them, so I reach out.” She extended her arm, mimicking the motion she made in that vivid dream, night after night. “But something stops me. I’m surrounded by water… I can’t reach them, and I can’t breathe. And then I wake up.”
Vega dropped her arm and shook her head. “It’s ridiculous, I know. Just a dream. Probably a result of thinking far too much and worrying about everything that can go wrong, despite the reassurances of several healers--even Alster, among them--that there is nothing wrong with the twins. They’re healthy and developing and… well, they’re soon ready to be born. I guess I just haven’t stopped feeling guilty.” She looked down at her belly, only now realizing that she couldn’t see her feet anymore over her pregnant mound. “About risking their lives--our lives--by leaving Eyraille. About abandoning my brother and my kingdom because I didn’t feel like it was the right place for me to be, at this moment in time… I suppose I’m just afraid that eventually, it is all going to catch up to me. That I’m going to pay for my decisions, sooner or later…”
If he was guilty of delving too deep into the rabbit hole of his own abyss of thoughts, then so was she; and they had spent enough time alone to drown in ‘maybes’ and ‘what-ifs’. She couldn’t have been more grateful when Haraldur, unprompted, took both of her hands and pivoted to face her, pulling her close. The closest they’d been since before he’d left, and without saying anything at all, he kissed her. Vega closed her eyes before they could well with up with tears; she refused to ruin the first tender moment between them with uncontrollable sobbing, no matter how volatile her emotions had felt, of late. “You’re wrong, you know. I think you are all I need to dispel them; the nightmares.” She smiled, and dared to open her eyes when she was sure she wouldn’t begin to weep. Her cerulean irises sparkled with the warmth and love she’d carefully reserved just for him, these months that he’d been away. “Believe it or not, I am not a particularly high maintenance princess, even with twins keeping me up at night before they’ve even been born. I need only you, Haraldur. All I’ve needed this entire time is you… and if you’ll have me, and my company, it’s not too late to make up for that time, together.”
“What are you on about, Elespeth? Do not make me say this aloud.” Chara turned the full brunt of her attention on the warrior, but her fierce stare was not a confrontational one. “You are family. A Rigas. I named you, myself. If you honestly think I am going to let all my progress on you to go waste, then I do not know what else to say to you.”
Alster brightened. “Chara. That is so--”
The interim Rigas Head stopped him with her outstretched hand. “Do not get maudlin with me, Alster. I haven’t a moment to go on exploring my emotions when I have advisory work to do, a displaced nation to run, and Forbanne to keep in line. In fact, I am between tasks. This is but a quick stop-over. We’ll have plenty of time to play catch-up when you recover, Elespeth, so please do so. I look forward to the day when you stand on your own. Of course, I expect to see no changes in your physical upkeep, so I will have no choice but to enlist my services as your handmaiden in the future. The improvements to your complexion have been monumental and I would like to see this continue for you. Sleep while you can, Elespeth. When you return to your full strength, I will be collecting services that you owe to this family.”
She took her leave, trailing behind a cloud of bewilderment that lingered around the trio. Alster’s brow wrinkled and with it, his eyes. “Oh yes, she has a presence,” he agreed with Briery, “only this presence differs, somewhat. It’s fabricated. Not entirely, but--for Chara, even that was too grandiose an entrance. She’s trying to rebuild herself by acting as a caricature of her old self. It’s like slipping into a well-worn gown, for her. She knows the role and the routine.” He nodded over to the ringleader. “I’m sure you can relate, Briery. I hope it doesn’t overwhelm her too soon. She thrives under pressure, but...she’s scarcely out of recovery. Ah, sorry,” a bow of supplication emphasized the apology. “I shouldn’t be wasting anyone’s time standing here analyzing my cousin’s antics all day. I have faith she’ll do well while I’m gone. If you’ll excuse me, Briery,” he took her hand, giving it a thankful squeeze, “I promised Elespeth we’d have the day, together. I will see you this evening, with a storage wagon in tow.”
Once they traversed the grassy patch where Briery had situated camp, they returned to the palace road. Gathering her wheeled contraption from where they stored it on the path, having set it aside in case it got stuck in the mud and grass, Alster helped her into a comfortable seated position. But before he could step away and take up his position behind the handlebars, she halted him with a deliberate hand on his arm. “You want to go to the...D’Marian village?” Doubt faltered his speech and creased his mouth into a conflicted frown. “It is about an hour outside of the center of Galeyn, Elespeth. I know it’s not for long, but to leave the vicinity of the Night Garden is a huge risk to your health and--” he paused, watching as the hopefulness alight in her glimmering eyes began to fade and dull. “...For a few hours. We can go for a few hours. You couldn’t be in better company, anyhow. And,” he scratched his head, suddenly self-conscious, “I realize that sounds awfully conceited of me to say, surrounded as we are by healers far more capable than me, but I know you, El. I know your heart. I can feel it as it struggles and thrums alongside my own heart. You’ll be safe with me, out there. So we’ll go, El. We’ll go.”
At Elespeth’s insistent yank, Al took to one knee before her, lowering to her level. “It doesn’t matter where we go today, El. I’ll take hope with me on the road no matter what, because you’ve already given it to me.” His smile broadened at her willingness to take up his offer to be the First Knight of Stella D’Mare, and to dedicate herself wholly to the cause once she recovered. “Yes, be my knight, Elespeth. However, this is all wrong.” He gestured with his free hand to indicate their reversed positioning. “You should be the one who is kneeling, El. The honor is mine to bestow unto you. We’ll have to remedy this when I return. When you regain your strength, it will be the first thing I do. It’s not official, but it may as well be--Sir Elespeth Rigas.” And he returned her kiss with all the passion and verve reserved for the privacy of one’s chambers.
It didn’t take Alster long to arrange transport to the D’Marian village. A Galeynian carriage pulled up at the palace’s front entrance, its compact space allowing for two people, but with no storage available for Elespeth’s wheeled contraption. “The roads leading to the apex of the village should be paved by now,” he assured her as he helped her climb into the tight-fitting cab. “We’ll take this carriage straight to the top. Lean on me all you’d like; I don’t mind in the slightest.” He moved so near to her in their shared seat, he threatened to squish her against the window. “I want to be close to you as much as possible, before I lose my opportunity. We’re in here for an hour. Let’s make the most of it.”
Stealing precious moments inside a bumpy, jostling carriage was not the pinnacle of comfort or ease, but they made do with the limited space--and limited time--afforded to them in the twilight of their love-story, where uncertainty dictated their upcoming chapters. Their shared heart conditions would not abide by intimacy beyond kissing and cuddling next to each other, but it was enough to generate literal sparks from Alster’s body, and the ensuing discharge lingered in the air, popping and fizzling on the skin and overstimulating the couple to the point of physical discomfort. After numerous apologies, Alster severed their intimate connection, casting as wide a berth as the tiny carriage could afford. It was a tease, a cruel, agonizing tease, to initiate something that endangered them too much to finish, and their collective frustrations hung heavy like a thundercloud about to clap.
Fortunately, they had arrived at their destination. After escaping their confines, the fresh air from outside dispelled the residual electricity that had remained trapped with them for the duration of the ride. As Alster had correctly posited, the road between the main thoroughfare and the village had been connected, and it was a direct, albeit bumpy, ride to the highest point. An inviting breeze brushed against his flushed skin, a small comfort betwixt their renewed physical connection--his arm wound tightly around her waist--as they walked about the construction site.
“There’s still much work to be done,” he guided her to the in-progress structure that dominated the landscape. It boasted palatial walls and symmetrical pillars aligned to form a terrace-like platform, which overlooked the lake and the village below. “But as you can see, this building is heavily modeled after Main House, on the Rigas estate. The difference is, this is not property exclusive to the Rigases. This building is meant to be a community hall, welcome to anyone, be it D’Marian or Galeynian. Everyone should enjoy the view; not only the privileged. What,” he chanced a smile in her direction, “what do you think? Too gaudy? Too ambitious? Too much of a money-sink? This is my brainchild, but I won’t be offended if you tell me what you think, honestly. It does, after all, represent what an idealistic fool I am. A wasteful expenditure bordering on permanence. This building seems to scream, ‘this is your home now. Stella D’Mare is gone.’ But I haven’t given up on reclaiming the homeland.” He tested the structural integrity of a pillar with the flat of his steel hand. “In all my idealism, however, I have to plan out a realistic future for my people. We need a home. We need stability. Stella D’Mare...isn’t an imminent thing I can promise. But this much...this much I can do. And,” he gripped Elespeth’s waist as though he needed the support, and not the other way around, “I hope it’s enough for them. For now.”
What had been bothering Vega was invariably bothering Haraldur, as well. Ever since speaking with Sigrid and learning of her fated self-annihilation by cursed sword, which she accepted, of all things, he was determined to change his mindset. It was borne from necessity; simply dwelling on what he did, on what happened, would not serve him or his family, going into the future. Postulating on the ‘what-if,’ on the ‘what-have-I-done,’ did not carry with it a thread of productivity. Those were the thoughts of a defeatist, of a man who did not believe he deserved another chance because he squandered too many opportunities and had none left to spare. But he did have another opportunity. Vega never indicated that he had relinquished it even after his short death and subsequent revival. She did not abandon him; she reminded him that he was too important to sink into the mires of his guilt. For her unshakeable faith in him, he knew he could not surrender. He hadn’t the luxury to surrender; not when Sigrid availed herself of her choices, neglecting free will for the mere chance of saving her loved ones in a battle that had yet to occur. She cast aside her future to protect his future. And though he wouldn’t allow her to use Gaolithe if he could at all help it, the least he could do, for now, was live for his future, for his family. To dash his umpteenth chance would be a grave insult to the desperate people like Sigrid who had no path on which to tread. Nothing appeared before them but the void, and none who saw it on the horizon line were spared from the unavoidable pull into its orbit.
Promising to change his ways, however, would not be easy. He needed to break decades of bad habits. Forbanne indoctrination proved nigh difficult to peel and scrape off; pieces of it clung to the unconsciousness like stubborn paint-chips, impacting one’s sense of self-worth beyond that of a living weapon. Even outside its circle of influence, Haraldur still behaved as a rogue Forbanne, making decisions that kept in line with a collective mindset. As a mercenary, he may have believed he selected his battles, but he, for the most part, did not. He sought cohesiveness as a soldier, not because he enjoyed, preferred, respected, or coveted the job for its monetary promises, but because he was programmed to make himself useful in a unit. To serve. To follow orders. Though he resisted, he never truly succeeded in dispelling the thought process that he, as an individual, did not matter. His future did not matter, because he would be dead. Forbanne were not expected to grow old and retire from their military ‘service’. As slaves, they died on the battlefield, always. A dead Forbanne was one who had exhausted his usefulness. Therefore, it never benefitted him to dream of a future. Yes, he had wishes and desires, but now that those desires had inexplicably come true, he didn’t know how to anticipate his next steps--because there never was a next step. No, it was not his first time as a married man, but back then, he struggled the same and ultimately, failed to alter his pessimistic reasoning. After Arina died, the innocent and hopefully inquiry of ‘What comes next?’ warped into the answer, ‘Death comes next,’ a morbid sentiment he wore for years on the tip of his sword--until Vega flew into his life, fierce and ablaze atop her golden mount, and forced him to change. But change for Haraldur was gradual and fraught with regressions and crippling doubt. Even after his voiced assertion, his proclamation to stand for his future, he didn’t know the best method to proceed.
A little honesty and openness, however, was a start in the right direction. Vega had confirmed as much, with her support and ongoing encouragements.
“Well, far be it for me to disagree with you. I don’t want to argue with a pregnant woman. The consequences could be catastrophic for me.” He shared in her teasing tone, but it did not persist for long. “You hide your vulnerability from the public, but I hide my vulnerabilities from everyone. From you. From Sigrid. From anyone who cares. I didn’t want to worry anyone, but I made them worry for me more. I thought people didn’t want to see someone who is supposed to be strong and sturdy fall apart. And I was right; they didn’t. It didn’t work for me to fall apart, but hiding didn’t work, either. At least, I can be assured of one thing.” His fingers brushed against her wedding ring, exploring the metalwork of the sculpted roc wings. “You accept my vulnerabilities. You let me be vulnerable. And maybe I knew that all too well, so I kept my distance from you--because I defined vulnerability as weakness. You were my weakness. In actuality, though, it was weakness to ignore you. If I had faced what was troubling me, if I had confided in you, maybe then I…No.” He shook his head. Shut it down, he commanded himself. No ‘what ifs.’ No what ifs.’
“I’ll do it now. Prove it to you now. Try not to hide. So…” he stopped in conjunction with Vega, observing the tree with the bluish bark and the deliberateness by which his wife stroked its paper-thin shavings, “I’ll tell you. What just happened.” He pointed to the overlarge tree, the entity from which all other flora stemmed. “That tree...said something. It said my name. It chanted a word. I’ve heard it before. I know its symbol. I used to wear it. I know what it means. But even if I’m not losing my mind, even if this is a deliberate connection, I don’t understand how it’s possible.” In midst of his confession, he slid the chain of his necklace from beneath his shirt, exposing his own wedding band, the bare tree with the outstretched branches, to the sun. “I don’t have magic. Mollengard made sure of it when they took it from me. I don’t have it, so how can I hear what that tree is saying? How are Klara and Kynnet able to inherit what’s been bled out of me? I know what you’ll say,” he nodded in the direction of the Gardener’s quarters. “I should ask a Gardener. But if I do,” he chanced a smile, “they’ll see that I’ve escaped the sanctuary, will try to wrangle me inside and then refuse to listen to my madman’s ramblings until I convalesce to full health. The timing couldn’t be worse, really. Who would find credence in what I have to say after I--” He bit his tongue and lowered his eyes in shame. A self-conscious hand concealed the nearly-healed scar on his throat.
He was losing his advantage. Promises to reclaim the present and his future were slipping through his fingers like ice. Although he agreed not to hide anymore, he couldn’t let Vega see the defeat in his eyes. The momentary weakness. The doubts, the questioning, the self-pity, the need for punishment as well as understanding. It would take time, he told himself. Vega did understand. To demonstrate it was only a lapse, he kissed her, and as soon as their lips touched, surety flooded back into his mind. This was right. This was complete. He closed his eyes and invited the sensations; the skipping of his heart, the warmth that spread through his body, the trembling of her skin as he enfolded her close. It was all the physical confirmation he needed. Together, with a family on the way--they would make it.
And then she shared her dream. A recurring nightmare. Despite himself, the stirrings of excitement that bounded in his heart twisted into apprehension. They were mere dreams, she said, but he knew better than to disregard them outright. Alster had arrived in one to request he protect Elespeth in his absence. And most recently, that girl, the girl he thought he killed...she found purchase in his dreams, foremost. Calling. Crying. Cursing his name aloud…
If the children were to be born, he had no choice but to place his faith in people like Tivia, Alster, the Gardeners, and the healers, who all spoke in favor of the children and their health. But no one said a word about the condition of the mother, after birth.
They’re not the ones who are drowning in the dream. You are.
“There’s nothing you can do about it right now.” He straightened his posture, focusing on a physical gesture to overwhelm the emotional tic within him that pulsed and flustered with worry. “You’re here, in Galeyn, and you have a month left to go before these babies are born. They are our main concern. We’ll deal with what comes after, but for now, we have each other. We’re both a little worse for wear,” he elected a chuckle, “and swimming in guilt that’s too big for us. I’ve heard it said that misery loves company. So,” he offered her a stout bow, “I am honored to be the miserable creature you’ve chosen, Vega.”
And he sealed his words with another kiss, one laced with a desperation that his mannerisms had expertly hidden. You won’t die here, he reassured himself. The Night Garden won’t let you die. I came back to life here.
Algiz….
Protection.
No more death. I’ll make certain of it.
“Alster, I’ll be fine.” Elesepeth didn’t hesitate to brush aside her husband’s concerns, clearly more confident in the endurance of her faulty heart than him. “I’m not proposing we leave Galeyn entirely. Besides, according to the Gardeners, the benefits of the Night Garden only begin to wane as far as the D’Marian village; just to a weaker extent. It isn’t until you reach the farmlands in the outskirts, where our associate necromancer is located, that you find yourself beyond reach of the Garden’s protective aura. And I am not proposing we spend the night there. Only a few hours. Okay?”
She could see the conflict in his blue eyes, the shadows that fought with vestiges of hope that made his irises sparkle. He wanted to to refuse her, for fear of what leaving the vicinity of Galeyn’s heart would have on her health. But even more than that, he wanted to find a reason not to refuse her, so that this final day of their togetherness, before he made his questionable journey to Nairit in even more questionable company, could be something he would carry with him in the days to come. In the days that she would likely remain asleep, and unresponsive, patiently awaiting his return. Ultimately, he found that very caveat in his doubt. “Exactly.” Elespeth beamed, her smile stretching from ear to ear. “I couldn’t be in better company. You have always kept me safe, Alster. Right now… despite the circumstances, this is no exception. You’re not being conceited at all; you just know that you happen to be the best person to look out for me. No one can argue that.”
So arrangements were made, and in next to no time; a favour on Lilica’s part, no doubt. Galeyn’s Queen, who had once been so at odds with Elespeth in the early days of their relationship, had been nothing but helpful and supportive of the Rigas couple. For all the overwhelming amount of attention this still shaky kingdom required in order to get it back on its feet, Queen Lilica had not forgotten who her comrades were, or who had helped her find her rightful home in the first place. That said, neither the ex knight nor Alster had it in them to complain about the fact that the carriage Lilica had managed to prepare for them in such a short amount of time was relatively small, intended only for a single person if they wanted some leg room, and two if they didn’t mind getting cozy. Unfortunately, there was no room for Elespeth’s heavy and cumbersome wheeled chair, so mobility would have to be had on foot. For that, she made sure to consume another cup of the Galeynian queen’s tea, prior to stuffing herself into the close quarters with her husband.
“I don’t think I will have much of a choice but to lean on you,” Elespeth chuckled, when the doors shut, and they were pushed together, hip to hip. “I suppose they couldn’t spare a larger carriage for our inconsequential venture… but,” a hint of a frisky grin touched her lips, “I’ll take any excuse to be this close to you.”
In the privacy of the curtained carriage, despite the relatively bumpy ride, the Rigas couple stole those precious moments together and used them to their fullest. Sadly, the extent of their intimacy was confined to kisses and caresses and tight embraces, if not for the condition that both of their hearts shared and the restrictions it put on them, then for the restrictions of the limited space the carriage offered. Almost as if to spite her own limitations, Elespeth managed to practically find her way into her husband’s lap, which… literally incited an ‘electric’ response. The air in the sealed carriage quickly became charged with passion that was fighting to get out, a desirable sort of discomfort that tickled memories in the back of Elespeth’s mind. Memories of her beloved’s own creative use of electricity, behind the meager privacy of a tent’s curtains, back in Stella D’Mare…
She hadn’t meant to take it too far--not beyond innocent kissing, caresses, and the desperate proximity of their heated bodies. But there was no inhibiting the magnetism of their bond, and soon, the air began to crackle and pop, shocking the both of them with tiny sparks, which at first were small and titillating, but steadily grew until they were a touch painful. It wasn’t enough to entice Elespeth to pull away, but Alster, overcome with guilt for being the source of the buzzing charge in the air, finally put distance between the two of them (as much as the tiny carriage allowed, which wasn’t really more than inches), much to her disappointment. No matter how much she assured him she was fine, that there was so little risk to a bit of harmless intimacy, nothing could change his perception of her as things stood: something fragile, like cracked porcelain, just waiting to break at the right amount of pressure.
“Alster,” she said, as the ride came to a halt, and he helped her out of the carriage and into the daylight. “Alster, promise me that when you return--when we figure this out, and find a solution… that you’ll never look at me like this again. Like,” she smiled sadly and touched his face. “Like I am something too fragile to be loved. I don’t ever want to feel so weak, again.”
The landscape that opened up to her struck her with a warm sense of familiarity, upon stepping out of the carriage. Stella D’Mare was most definitely making its mark in the newly budding kingdom of Galeyn, solidifying its presence with its signature architecture. Gazing upon the building which, indeed, resembled the Rigas estate, Elespeth found herself brought back to Stella D’Mare, a place she’d never thought she would call home. A place that had provided her solace after she’d fled Atvany with Alster, and needed a safe place to mourn the untimely passing of her older brother. Nostalgia tugged on her already stressed heartstrings, and her fingers sought Alster’s flesh and blood hand, weaving themselves between his own. “No. Not gaudy. It is… exactly as it should be. A shadow of what Stella D’Mare once was, yes, but a reminder that it still is. That it is not lost. Alster, you’ve done exactly what your people need, right now.” Her eyes were bright with the threat of tears when she found his gaze. In all the time they’d been together, the former knight had never found the opportunity to properly express to her husband just how much Stella D’Mare meant to her, giving her a home when she had been on the run and without one for so long. Hadn’t had the opportunity to express to him just how it falling into the hands of Mollengard affected her. He deserved to know that she shared in his peoples’ despair over the loss of their home; after all, it had also been hers. “This is a reminder that Stella D’Mare is not lost. It is still standing, so long as it is carried in the hearts of its people. This is a promise that it will be theirs again, one day. It will be ours again…”
Elespeth leaned into his shoulder and smiled, not caring that the distance between herself and the Night Garden was making her feel unrealistically tired. This venture had been worth it, just to see the hope beyond the confines of the Night Garden. Hope was everywhere, if you only looked for it. “Let me help. When I am well again, let me help make this place a home for your people, Alster. Chara said she will be calling on me to repay my debts to your family, anyway; and if I am to be a Knight of Stella D’Mare, the first and foremost of a knight is to act on behalf of his sovereign and his people. So… let me give back to the Rigases. To Chara; to you. Let me help you with this project.” She smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek. “This need not be another temporary encampment for your people. Let this be a real home; not a replacement of Stella D’Mare, but an extension of it. And let’s make it possible… together.”
In his endeavour to turn around his attitude--to be not just partially, but entirely open with his wife--Haraldur began to elaborate on his thoughts pertaining to the Night Garden, and the so-called ‘voices’ he’d heard there within. Realizing that this was far from an easy endeavor for someone who had been conditioned to shut down and hide his thoughts and feelings away from the world, Vega knew best to facilitate this bold step of his by actively listening. It didn’t even cross her mind once that his ideas were ludicrous, or the ramblings of a madman, because the Eyraillian princess had been exposed to enough magic throughout and following the war with Andalari that nothing seemed impossible anymore. The fact alone that the both of them had died and come back to one another was evidence enough that whatever nuances to which Haraldur was suddenly attuned were not to be ignored.
“No. Haraldur… you’re thinking in the past-tense.” Vega spoke slowly, her mind turning over possibility after possibility, while that very process could be seen in her cerulean eyes. “You didn’t have magic. And for a period of time, if I understand correctly, neither did Chara Rigas. Because Mollengard took it from her, too, but it was restored. Yes, it took an almost cataclysmic event, with the state in which it left Alster, but her magic was restored. And you… you came as close to death as a person can without actually dying. And when you recovered, it was through the uncanny healing magic of the Night Garden. Maybe… just maybe, it healed more than your body. Maybe it reconnected whatever pathway Mollengard severed to your magic, and now, those capabilities you once had are returning.”
Vega wandered over to the tree and question, and pressed her fingers curiously to its trunk, from which all variety of flora stemmed. Of course, she couldn’t feel anything unusual; but she was among the minority in this kingdom who were not adept in magic, and therefore, not receptive to its signature. But that did not plant any such doubt in her mind that what Haraldur was telling her was true. “Alster of all people would know if our children possessed magic, and he would have no reason to lie about it. Like I’ve said, there is no magic in the Sorde bloodline as far as I know, and the twins had to have gotten it from one of us. Even if you have not been able to access your magic for the majority of your life does not mean it isn’t written into your very being… and part of your being is what was passed on to the babies. Why else would they be so resilient? Conceived when I should not have been at all able to conceive…” The Skyknight princess turned to her husband and smiled. “For now, I am in agreement with the Gardeners. You should rest, but… a walk through this magic-infused place certainly cannot do you any harm, for a little while. Rest assured, I will not turn you in for misbehaviour.”
Whether because he refused to believe in harbingers of doom, or because he placed no credence in the predictive quality of dreams, Haraldur dismissed the concerns of her nightmares after she elucidated them, though not unkindly. And, frankly, it came as a relief that he did not appear to believe they were anything but just that: dreams, free-floating thoughts that manifest in her subconscious mind. That was what she wanted to hear, and in any case, he was right: there was nothing she could do, now. There was no changing the past, and the babies were healthy, and she was healthy, so her anxieties were entirely misplaced. “You’re right. What’s done is done, and all we can do is move forward and prepare for the children. Anyway… I don’t think I’ll need to worry about any more nightmares, if I am no longer sleeping alone. You’ve done well to protect me against them in the past. Now needn’t be any different.”
Returning his kiss with a palpable mixture of fervor and relief, Vega took the Forbanne commander by the hand again. “But I am through with being miserable; and so too should you be. We have two little lives to plan for, and I refuse to bring them into a world of misery and doubt. So… help me prepare something hopeful and bright for them. There is still so much to be done: build cradles, prepare infant clothes… things that I should already have accomplished by myself, but the truth is, I wasn’t exactly feeling myself. If you could help me to catch up on those tasks, Haraldur, that would certainly be a load off of my shoulders. In return for your assistance,” she quirked a cheeky grin and winked at him. “I may have my ways to convince the Gardeners to officially release you from the sanctuary sooner than later. Something I have come to find in my time, here, is that no one likes to refuse the requests of an emotionally unpredictable pregnant woman.”
As promised, Alster gave Elespeth the day she’d desired, spent entirely in his company as they explored the Night Garden. But just as he had anticipated, as the hours wore on, her strength began to wear down, until at last they had no choice but to return to the carriage and make their way back toward the palace, just before sundown. On the ride back, the ex-knight struggled to maintain consciousness and not slip into the hands of sleep, determined to spend every last waking minute with her husband as possible. And she managed that, however tenuously, though their private time in the carriage together was not nearly as “electric” as it had been on the ride down. They opted to learn into one another, to hold one another, and watch the kingdom pass them by through the windows as they made small talk. Neither of them dared to mention the fact that this final, blissful day was drawing to an end, but they both knew it, and that fact hung heavy in the air around them, the closer they got to the Night Garden.
At last, upon their arrival at the palace, Elespeth resumed her seat in her wheeled contraption, her legs too weak to carry her all the way back to the Night Garden. Yet in spite of it all, she remained cheerful, hopeful, even going so far as to lighten Alster’s mood with terrible jokes. But as the minutes ticked by, she could practically feel her husband’s resolve dissipate, bit by bit. And by the time they arrived at the sanctuary, the Rigas mage could not even pretend to not be fighting back tears. “Don’t you remember our promise? This is not the end, Alster. Regardless of your success on this mission, I fully intend to wake up, again. Just think of this as a reprieve from crippling boredom, on my part.” Even as he helped her back into one of the beds, she wore a confident, albeit tired, grin on her lips. “This will all be worth it. It will be worth it to become your knight, one day. Believe me when I say this is only temporary… there is a solution out there for me. For us. Whether or not this alchemist happens to be that solution remains to be seen… but that is what I need you to find out. Do this for me, Alster.” She clutched his flesh and blood hand in both of her own, heedless that his palm had grown clammy as a result of growing nervousness and reluctance to approach the task at hand. “Do this for our future. I know you can; I’ve never stopped believing in you.”
His compliance was not immediate, but Elespeth hadn’t expected it to be. The former knight then spent the better part of an hour reassuring her husband, letting him cry, validating his emotions, yet all the while holding him fast to his promise. A promise that she knew he would not break, no matter how difficult this was, for him. She did not rush him; she gave him the time that he needed, and held tight to his hand, until she couldn’t hold it anymore. Until her grip went slack, with the gradual return of the symptoms he had taken from her, and her eyes closed, and she slipped away to a place where he could not follow. It was not instantaneous, but neither did it appear painful, on her part, which may have come as a mild relief to her husband--but only mild. There was no easy way to watch the person you loved slip away somewhere beyond reaching; and it was for that reason that both Chara, Lilica, Sigrid and Teselin were waiting outside of the sanctuary for him after Elespeth’s eyes closed, and he at last found the strength to remove himself from her now unconscious presence.
“Don’t think to despair, Alster.” The Dawn warrior placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, and wouldn’t lift it until he met her eyes. “Feel despondent, if you must, but do not despair. Because if you truly insist there is hope for me, with my impossibly dreary fate, then surely you must realize there is hope for you and your wife. Because I--we, all of us, refuse to believe otherwise.”
“She won’t be alone,” Teselin added softly, as if imparting any more kindness could possibly soften the blow Alster suffered. “We’ll make sure someone is always with her, to keep her company. I certainly don’t mind; Elespeth has looked out for my well-being enough, in the past. It is high time I return the favour.”
At Vega’s explanation, which theorized his newfound connection to the Night Garden’s energies, Haraldur shuffled his feet, looking patently uncomfortable. The effects of Mollengard’s magic erasure were, as far as he believed, irreversible. But he also needed to admit that the concept of ‘impossible’ did not exist among his circle of friends; they frequently defied death, defeat, disease, and demons both real and conceptual. The recent case of Chara Rigas was one such success story. The discomfort, however, lingered behind his eyes--where Mollengard jabbed the needle. It happened so long ago, but the wounds were fresh. At every injection, his magic burned and melted, his bloodstream acting as a channel where the lava-hot viscous discharge flowed languorously through his veins, and hardened into bubbled, callused structures of rock. To his understanding, magic resistance was created through the petrifaction of extant magic borne within the subject. To trigger the resistance process was to distress magical energy to such an unstable point that it would break down, bleed out of the host body, and build resilient scar tissue out of what remained--forging a literal shell of its former self. With most of Haraldur’s magic gone, the little that still resided in him was what comprised the structure and makeup of his shield against most magical interferences, be they harmful or beneficial. To reverse the process was to “melt” the shield, the hardened hunk of callused tissue--thereby “undoing” his magical resistance. But if the Night Garden had something to do with reintroducing or restoring the petrified remnants of his magic, it made no sense as to why his children inherited it, or how he came to impregnate Vega in the first place. These events predated his exposure to the Night Garden. So how did an “extinct volcano” still spurt lava?
“Are you saying you think my...seed, was strong enough to penetrate the death energies that surrounded your womb at the time? That's what you're implying, isn't it?" He couldn't help it. Amidst the trauma of the past week, the mysterious revelations imparted to him by a tree, his near-death by his own hand and the facilitation of his revival by the necromancer who he despised, he laughed. Mere steps away from the base of the Night Garden’s whispering font of arcane knowledge, he laughed so hard, he coughed, which agitated the red, healing welt on his throat. “That is...the funniest, most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in a while. Thank you for that, Vega. For saying I have a magic penis. I used to keep plants alive and what are our children but germinated plants that are spouting from now-fertile soil? Oh gods,” he covered his face with his hand, trying and failing to keep a level voice; he was on the verge of a second laughing-spurt. “I don’t know what to do with this information, Vega. Fate is fucking with me. It always has. This is the best explanation for everything. But if something good can come out of...whatever I am--then I see no need for thinking the worst, or for cursing what’s happened.”
Removing his hand from his face--which had reddened from a mix of embarrassment and hilarity in its most absurd manifestation--he folded his fingers over the mound where, inside, the most beautiful flowers were getting ready to bloom. “Because this is not a curse. However these twins came to be--whether through a miracle or brought about by some...lingering essence that Mollengard couldn’t destroy, they’re proof that I can help foster life. I might have been bred to take life, but originally, I was born to preserve it. Or, well,” another uncomfortable shifting of his feet, “that’s what I’m going to tell myself. That’s what I should believe. That’s what this tree,” he raised a hand to greet the tree, but hesitated in making contact with the bark, “is whispering. Algiz. Rune of protection. My necklace. This ring,” he nodded to the wedding band hanging from its chain over his chest, “...all symbols and interpretations of this rune. So I’ll protect you from your nightmares. I’ll plan for our future--whatever needs to be done. I...had meant for this to be a surprise, but…” both hands withered to his sides, a wilting plant in the sun, “on the night of my...on that night, I was outside of the D’Marian village. Not far, but I was...working on something. A project. For us. To keep hope alive, even when I was so convinced of failure, of falling forever to Solveig’s will and returning to my Forbanne nature, I started to build us a cabin. But,” he raised his head, glancing towards the direction where the frame of his ill-fated cabin still stood, forgotten, “I no longer view that place as safe. It wasn’t necessary for us, anyway. With so many abandoned houses in Galeyn, we’re not hurting for options, but I...needed to build it. To feel the promise of our future with my own hands, and to see it form. Four walls and a home--a surrogate in your absence. But,” his green gaze refocused on Vega, “we’re not absent from each other anymore. There’s no reason for me to stay away from you. So,” he pressed on a, “little projects, it is. I can do them here, at the palace. A cradle...leave it to me, Vega. I’ll make them one. Kynnet and Klara have waited long enough...for their father’s return.”
“No, El--that’s not it at all,” Alster scooped his wife into a stabilizing hug after freeing her from the tight-squeeze of the carriage’s threshold. Contrary to its initial purpose, the hug served more as an apology for his earlier withdrawal than as a crutch. “I had to stop for me, not for you. My magic, as you, ah, felt,” he bashfully looked away, “was losing control. What was happening in the carriage--that was not purposeful. I didn’t mean to do it, but since it’s been so long and...months of built-up, of not being intimate--it...sputtered out of me. I had to stop before I, before we...well,” his cheeks heated. “...It would have been too much for both of our hearts if we continued. I was too excited...and it showed. I lost myself. I’m sorry, El. We’re too weak--both of us. And for pleasure, I would have selfishly put us at risk. I promise you,” he pressed his forehead against hers, “when you awaken, when we’re both healthy again, we’ll make up for lost time. After all,” a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes, “there’s plenty more, ah...material, that I’ve discovered in the dark corners of the library, that I’d like to show you.”
Leaving his suggestive comment at that, Alster led Elespeth around the seashell white building, an impressively scaled facade, given its expedited construction over the last few weeks. The majority of the exterior nearly complete, all that remained to be added was the roof. Pieces of the red-clay tiles lay stacked like miniature pyramids along the perimeter of the Great Hall-to-be, ready to crown the building in the rosy-vermillion of sunrise. Potted plants extracted from the Night Garden awaited reintegration with the soil; hanging vines and flowers resembling bougainvilleas littered the terrace where the Rigas couple stood, a small garden in the making. “We discovered that one of the roots of the Night Garden’s live-giving tree stretches all the way to this point,” he nodded at the bulbs of bioluminescent buds lighting up in the shadows of the grandiose white hall. “So this area is capable of supporting plants direct from the Night Garden. We’re on an off-shoot of the leyline--a tributary of the greater river, if you will--so the D’Marian village will benefit from some of Galeyn’s unique flavor. Here, there is a little familiar in the unfamiliar. While these plants are far from native specimens to Stella D’Mare, our city by the sea is--was,” he sighed, “a place of gardens. And many of the magically adept loved to cultivate strains embedded with a little something extra. Flowers that twinkled like stars, pinwheel-shaped blossoms that would whir in the breeze in all the colors of the rainbow--nothing surprising,” he rolled his eyes playfully. “Stella D’Mare is obsessed with beauty and excess. I’m certain they’ll enjoy and appreciate this little gift from the Night Garden and its Gardeners. If not, then,” he tried, and failed, to convey an offhanded swat of the hand, “I don’t know if I can do much more for the D’Marians, short of retaking the homeland, restoring all the damage caused by the Serpent, and teleporting everyone, en masse, to their former residences. And, well,” a rueful chuckle gurgled from his throat, “I can’t do it all...much as I want to. Much as I wish to. But to do so, I daresay, is to sacrifice my humanity. I may possess enough magic to go beyond what I originally thought myself incapable of doing, but...it’s written in our histories, what becomes of magic-users who surrender to their power.” He raised his steel arm in the saturated afternoon sun, regarding it with the same cold detachment as its own appearance defined.
“They transcend. Break free of the limiting mindset perpetuated by the painfully mortal minds of men. Morals are the first to go. They are too transient, ever-changing, capricious and unreliable. Why shackle oneself to a so-called system of faulty law and order when there is no universal agreement? The creators of laws don’t adhere; the followers of the laws don’t adhere. People eventually realize everything is futile in the end. Order is a fable; there is no control. We are all spinning without cease, clinging to illusory ideals in a pitiful attempt to stay grounded, and ignorant of the greater truth. The greater freedom is out there, but can only be found through release.”
Alster clutched the steel hunk of a hand to his head, shaking away the possessive trance into which he stumbled. All nuances of the Serpent’s influence drained from his colorless eyes, revealing their original sea-green; mellow, gentle, and placid. “I,” he hesitated, “have it in me to transcend. The Serpent is within me; It has shown me these truths, but my mind has protected me from the vastness of this truth, as a preventative measure from going mad. It wants us to assimilate because I can make It more powerful, more relevant and influential in a universe infinitely more attractive to It than Its homeworld. In return, I would be in a better position to heal this world. Be everything to everyone. Together...we would be gods. And...El,” he looked guiltily to his feet, “sometimes, it sounds attractive. To cast aside this inadequate vessel which is so frustratingly weak and fragile, and...be more. I could be so much more.”
“But then I realize,” he dropped his steel hand and flexed the grip of his flesh and blood hand around Elespeth’s, “I wouldn’t be me. I’d be an amalgam of the Serpent and of my magic. No longer an ‘I.’ An entity. Nothing of my personality, of my humanness, would remain. And if that is gone, would my desires really transfer to my new, ascended form? Would my love for you mean anything, after all meaning is stripped from my consciousness” He lifted his gaze to meet her green eyes, “I...do not know. But I do know that, if I had to lose you in order to become great--a savior--then...the answer is no. Never. Because to reject you is to surrender everything great about myself. I’d never have been any kind of savior without you. We’re together for a reason; because we make each other better. Our unity is what will heal what’s been broken--not my magic. It may not be as large-scale as the world, but we can provide for Stella D’Mare--our people. Our friends. And ourselves. El…” he trapped her tight into his needful arms, “I can’t do this without you--so I’ll make sure you’re with me every step of the way, as my knight, my wife...and my savior.”
Upon their return to the heart of Galeyn, Alster began to--understandably--lose his resolve. As the sun sequestered, inviting the darkness of evening to fill out the sky, hope sequestered, as well. He second-guessed himself and his next course of action. All sounded fruitful when planned out loud and idealized, illuminated in sunlight--but in the gloaming, one had to squint to see the bright side. And it was quickly fading. Dying.
Elespeth, for her part, offered comfort and humor, endearing attempts that he appreciated, but could not reciprocate beyond a halfhearted smile or the affectionate squeeze of her shoulder. At their arrival to the palace gates, they filed out of the cramped carriage and conveyed Elespeth to another carriage, of the sort. Her wheeled contraption welcomed her weight with a slight creak and a wiggle of the wheels. Clamping the handlebars, Alster wheeled his wife to the sanctuary in silence, so deep in thought, he nearly forgot to adjust for the uneven threshold as they entered the Night Garden proper from the palace hallways. The chair about upended in protest, and Alster, righting the unwieldy contraption in time, sputtered nothing but panicked apologies until they reached the sanctuary.
Helping her to her feet, and to the bed in which she would spend the next month or so in projected slumber, was one of the most difficult ventures he had to face, and he had faced plenty of hardship in the last year alone. He could not stave off the innumerable images comparing the deed to murder. Sending her to the gallows, to a premature casket in the ground, preserved but gone in mind and spirit.
“El.” His weakened knees collapsed on the bed where he had secured her, turning away as his eyes streamed with tears. “Give me a moment. Give me...time. More time. I need...I need…”
She did abide his request for a full hour, soothing him, reassuring him, reminding him of the future that shone so crisp and solid, like something tangible one could reach out and touch. It helped, marginally. And stalling for a moment longer would be enough to crumble his determination for good.
“I...I’m ready,” he said, at last--a bold-faced lie. “I won’t let you down, El. I can’t. I’ll be the first thing you see when you wake. It’ll be like I never left.” Wiping away his tears with the back of his knuckles and drying the residue on his trousers, he took her hand and weaved its warmth through his trembling fingers. “Breathe with me, El.” Certain it happened the other way around--he was the one breathing with her in a ritual he was supposed to conduct and facilitate--he closed his eyes and struggled to concentrate.
Her heart imprinted itself in the fuzzy darkness behind his eyes, a projection of what pulsed and seized in tandem with his own troubled heartbeat. They were synchronized, gasping as one in pain. But in comparison, Elespeth’s organ was stunted, shrunken, a firefly in the grass, signaling its final beacon. I know your heart, El, he repeated to himself in a desperate attempt not to lose his will and composure. We are linked. This is far from the end. I will see you soon. You’ll awaken...and we’ll resume our future together. Wait for me…
Wait for me…
Summoning the last of his inner strength, he siphoned the energies from his heart, a heavy pall of chthonic death-miasma, and he directed the shroud to Elespeth. It enveloped the image of her heart like a swarm of locusts, and snuffed the flickering firefly bulb of her light.
When he opened his eyes to dreary consciousness, her hand, so steady, so encouraging, had stiffened, and the unresponsive weight fought to slip free from the iron-grip of his non-steel hand. “Sleep well, Elespeth. I love you,” he whispered, resting the arm over her chest--over the faint pitter-patter of her comatose heart. “I love you…”
She did not move. She did not respond. But the smallest etch of a smile had tugged on her face--a parting gift to him. A final promise. I’ll be waiting…
“I know,” he said aloud, tears springing anew in his swollen eyes. “I know. I know. But without you, it’ll be...it’ll be…”
The words drowned into unintelligible sound as he wept. He couldn’t even register the lightness of his chest, the healthful pulse ringing in his ears, the ease with which he could breathe without wincing. He was pain-free, his strength returning, the physical burden lifted--and he hated himself for it. Hated the circumstances. Hated his creeping thoughts of failure, of self-blame, which cursed him for allowing events to unravel so far out of his ability to control.
Order is a fable. There is no control…
And he wept even harder.
Only when he exhausted his tears did he manage to lift his head from Elespeth’s tear-soaked pillow and gather the remains of himself into some semblance of a halfway functioning person. He rose to his feet, scrubbed the redness out of his eyes in the wash basin, finger-brushed his bed-head of disheveled hair, and gave his cheeks a reinvigorating slap of energy. It would have to be enough. There was much to be done before his departure, and he wasted valuable time in a self-piteous state of inactivity. He couldn’t dally. He couldn’t idle. She’s counting on me. She’s believing in me. I have to keep moving. Keep moving…
With one last, lingering look at the peaceful repose of his wife, he aimed his attention to the door leading outside the sanctuary. One step forward. One step. One step. One step…
When he opened the door, he lost his footing and stumbled into the night air, face registering with shock at what he saw.
Chara, Lilica, Teselin, Sigrid--even Haraldur and Vega--had congregated around the sanctuary, ready to offer him support and assistance. Their presence alone nearly moved him into a second wave of tears, and he about lost it at the steady clamp of Sigrid’s anchoring hand on his shoulder. “No...I won’t despair,” he glanced up at Sigrid with an even look, despite all the effort it took to showcase any iota of strength at all. “I don’t have the right, as you say. Because it’s not hopeless. It’s difficult...but not hopeless. And that goes for you, too, Sigrid. Thank you,” he projected his voice, addressing the group. “Thank you...for showing up, here. It means more than I can properly express, right now, to see...to see everyone.”
“The Gardeners want me to stay in the sanctuary for a few more days.” Haraldur stepped forward, closing in between Alster and Sigrid. “So I’ll look after Elespeth until then.”
“We’ve all agreed to take turns; whoever is available,” Chara added, with a touch of sympathy. “When are you planning on departing?”
“There is still plenty I have to do to prepare. It won’t be tonight.”
“Good,” Chara said. “You require rest, Alster. You must be at your peak if you are to deal with that cretin of a necromancer for the next few weeks. Come.” She placed a hand on his good arm. “We shall help you close some of your affairs, tonight.”
“Thank you,” he reiterated, and this time, he didn’t force away the emotion that bubbled out of his throat and trickled down his cheeks. There was no reason to be strong, tonight. Everyone realized that--and carried it for him, in his place.
No one had been expecting Alster Rigas to leave that sanctuary that evening with dry eyes, and it was for that reason that everyone appeared to have the same idea: to be there when he stepped away from his wife, who was currently cursed to sleep for an indeterminate amount of time. Contrary to what he might have assumed--that either Lilica, or Chara (or both) had quietly wrangled everyone to come out this evening to support the poor, stricken man, they hadn’t said a word to the supportive entourage that ensued as a result of this difficult turn of events. While the Galeyninan Queen and her new, trusted advisor had determined to be there to pick up the pieces if Alster fell apart, so too had young Teselin (whose presence was perhaps not much of a surprise at all, to all who knew her). Even more surprising, Sigrid--who had been curiously careful about the company she kept, since word of her potential fate had begun to spread--chose to make an appearance, in lieu of retiring for the day with Naimah, with whom she spent most of her time, these days. Event the Eyraillian princess and her husband chose not to keep a distance at this difficult moment for their longtime comrade. While obviously tired, uncomfortably pregnant, and with swollen feet for keeping on them for too long in her current condition, Vega insisted she not miss this crucial opportunity to reassure Alster that he was not alone.
For all the Rigas mage felt that he was not enough to everyone in his life, this gathering directly challenged those insecurities. After all, what was the probability that nearly everyone whose life Alster had touched even in the slightest way would think to extend that same kindness to him, at a moment when he needed it most?
“You misunderstand, Alster.” Sigrid’s tone took a softer note, mimicking the sympathy in her blue eyes, which were brought out in the most uncanny of ways by the Night Garden’s bioluminescent flora. “It is not that you do not have the right. Everyone has the right to hurt and to react to that pain. I am telling you not to despair because--and take it from someone who has been there… The moment you give in to that despair is the moment you let go of hope. And that woman, fast asleep in there,” she nodded toward the quaint and quiet sanctuary, “she is in need of your hope, right now. Grieve if you have to, acknowledge your pain and your sadness, but do not despair. It is far too early to give up in such a way.”
“I’ve also taken it upon myself to speak with Daphni and Elias,” Vega added, and reached out to touch Alster’s arm in a gesture of support, and offered a harmless cheeky grin. “Because they haven’t heard enough from possibly the most defiant pregnant woman they’ve ever had to deal with. But they’ve agreed to frequently check in on Elespeth several times daily to ensure she remains stable. And I have a feeling they did not agree to merely get me off their back.”
A communal wave of relief seemed to wash over the small group as Alster declared he would not be leaving for Nairit that evening. He looked beyond tired, drained on a level that only someone who had recently said goodbye to a loved one (however temporary) could understand. Even if everything was well in place to set off, there was no way he could begin such a long journey in his current state and expect to be successful. “How soon do you anticipate your departure?” Teselin asked curiously, albeit passively, and not in such a way that would make Alster feel compelled to make a decision so quickly. “I will speak with my brother to advise him of your plans when you have them set so he can prepare himself adequately. Don’t worry; if I can help it, you won’t find any resistance from him.”
“I wish I could speak to that,” Lilica muttered and shook her head. “But if anyone can talk him into acting like a decent mortal being deserving of respect, it is either you, or perhaps Tivia. It might be in your best interests for the both of you to put the pressure on him now so that Alster doesn’t have to put up with his nonsense later.”
“He has already agreed to make the trip,” the young summoner declared, glancing down at her boots as if struggling to determine whether or not to defend her blood brother. “He need only know when he must prepare. Either way, I’ll let him know what remains, and he can be ready on his end for when you set out to make your journey, Alster. And any other way that I might be of help… well,” she hazarded a smile. “You need only ask.”
Teselin trailed not too far behind as Lilica and Chara accompanied Alster back to the palace, where he would spend the night all alone, while his wife, in her indefinite slumber, rested in the sanctuary. Not dead, but not quite living… balancing on a tenuous platform, somewhere in-between. The lot of them knew well there was nothing anyone could do to lessen the blow the Rigas head had suffered: no words, no gestures, nothing that would diminish the pain of relinquishing Elespeth to the dark void that now held her in its clutches. It was for that reason, that realization, that Sigrid chose not to offer any further words of comfort that evening, for fear they would come across as contrite. Just like the others, she had been there for him at a moment when he needed company the most, and that was the full extent of support and comfort that he could accept in his current, miserable state.
So with the extent of her duty as a friend complete, the Dawn warrior began to make for the garden’s exit with the intention of returning to Naimah. She did not get very far before a commandeering voice stayed her step. “Sigrid Sorenson. I believe we are long overdue for a conversation.”
Vega Sorde, no less a presence of hard authority despite her heavily pregnant state, stood with her arms folded across the top of her belly. The reflection of the bioluminescent flora of the Night Garden in her fierce cerulean irises gave her eyes an almost uncanny sheen. “Well. I am glad to see you are feeling more like yourself, again.” Sigrid couldn’t help but smile at the reunited couple. Both of them appeared stronger, sturdier, more able to take on the world now that they were together again. “I was beginning to worry that you were becoming too passive as an expecting mother. Whatever would Eyraille do if their fierce Skyknight princess went soft on them?”
“I am not interested in talking about me, Dawn Warrior.”
“...alright, then.” Sigrid shifted uneasily and furrowed her brow, her gaze flicking from Vega to Haraldur, and back again. When she had insisted her cousin reach out to his wife and reunite with her as a unit, she had not intended to become the target of their collective scrutiny. “What is it you wish to discuss, Your Highness?”
“I’ve been piecing a few things together. Some of what Alster has alluded to, paired with your uncharacteristic behaviour of late. Finally, Haraldur filled me in today on what lies in wait for you, thanks to that sword that you keep so well-hidden. So, I want to know,” the Eyraillian princess narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “When, exactly, did you plan on telling me that you plan to vanish from all of our lives, out of some misplaced sense of what you consider honour, Dawn Warrior? Does the Dawn Guard even know any of this, or did you intend to blindside them, as well?”
Sigrid felt her posture stiffen involuntarily, and her face simultaneously drained of colour and then heated at her cheeks, like a wine stain that spread down her neck. Whatever humour flickered in her eyes was gone, and replaced with icy defensiveness. If she could have built a wall of snow between them, then and there, she would have. “I spoke to you in confidence.” When she opened her mouth again, it was to address Haraldur. Her words dripped with accusation, and a shade of what sounded like betrayal. “I said what I did to make you understand, and as an apology for my behaviour… it did not cross my mind that I might need to tell you that my affairs are not meant to be spread around like disease.”
“Do not get short with Haraldur. This isn’t his fault, and it isn’t about him.” Vega chimed in, before her husband could open his mouth in his defense. “Like I already said, Sigrid, I’d been trying to piece things together since you arrived in Galeyn. You are no thespian, and do a poor job of maintaining a casual countenance when there is something on your mind. You busy yourself day and night as a go-between for Galeyn and Braighdath. When you do have a moment to spare, you spend every second of it with your lady love, as if every moment together could be your last. And when people do manage to corner you for a word or two, you’re on edge with your defenses up--just like you are right now. Haraldur might have filled in the blanks, but you gave yourself away, Sorenson.”
“And what the hell does it matter?” She didn’t mean to snap; didn’t mean to break, but confronting her fate over and over again did not make it any easier. And each and every time she revealed her secret to someone new, it tore open that bleeding wound which, frankly, hadn’t had time to heal. “Have some perspective, Vega. You are going to have a family in a very short period of time. Your focus should be on you, and your children. Your family. Not on me and my decisions.”
“What does it matter? It matters because, like it or not, Sigrid, you are my family. Our family.” To emphasize the connection, the Skyknight commander reached for her husband’s hand. “And I care about what happens to you. Haraldur cares about what happens to you. So many people care, and yet you’re determined to see this fate run its course. You’re not even looking for a way around it, or else you would be talking about it more, seeking help, looking for solutions. Moments ago, you just told Alster Rigas, whose wife has fallen into a coma, not to despair. But what of you, Sigrid?” Her fierce eyes softened around the edges. “When, and why, exactly, did you give up?”
But Sigrid was done. She had been done with this conversation long before it had started, and it showed in the way her face hardened, and she shifted her body away from the couple. “You are not my sovereign, Vega Sorde. I owe you no answers, and you do not get to determine that I have ‘given up’. Let me deal with my own life as I see fit, and I shall leave you to yours. And I do suggest you put your energy into preparing for your children, and not worrying about what is occurring in the lives of those around you. Whatever happens to me--I will have no regrets, knowing the people I love are safe.”
It was the first time Sigrid had stood up to the intimidating Eyraillian princess, and deciding to stop while she was ahead, the Dawn Warrior quickly took her leave of the garden and the couple before they could pry further into her private affairs. On one hand, Vega regretted her approach to the rather delicate issue that was Sigrid’s future, but she also realized that there was no right approach that would make the stubborn Dawn Warrior see reason. That was a trait she shared with her cousin; and when she was determined nothing could change her mind, then nothing and no one could. “That sword… you said that sword, Gaolithe, is to be her demise? That is what she told you?” She began thinking out loud, the cogs in her mind turning behind her azure eyes, staring in the direction Sigrid had departed. “So my next question is… how do we remove that accursed object from her possession? I am thinking she cannot act on a prophecy surrounding a cursed sword if she does not have access to it.”
After escorting him from the Night Garden, Lilica and Chara did not see fit to leave Alster alone to retire for the night right away. There were loose ends to tie up with regards to the D’Marian village that would need to be deal with in his absence, for one, but largely the Galeynian Queen and her advisor were concerned that the Rigas Head was liable to cry himself to sleep as soon as he stopped being busy. Unfortunately, as the night drew on, he at last excused himself from their company and took his leave to the chamber he and Elespeth had shared.
At that point, it was out of their hands, and there was nothing left to do themselves but retire for the evening. “I don’t know that this journey will prove fruitful for him,” the Galeynian Queen admitted quietly, when at last they found themselves in the privacy of their chamber. “But we can at least rest assured that Vitali will not bring him harm. When I made him take a blood oath, binding him to myself and to Tivia, it was on the condition that he not lay a harmful hand upon my comrades. That oath still stands, and Alster is still a comrade. Magic may not have been enough to restore Elespeth to full health, but at least it will keep her husband safe and alive long enough to find another solution.”
And on the topic of magic…
Lilica, quickly running a brush through her dark locks, spared a glance over her shoulder as Chara finished changing into something suitable to sleep in. Neither of them had spoken of what had become of Chara’s magic since the night Alster reconnected her to it. There was, of course, a change in the Rigas woman: she was getting her confidence back, acting like her old self again, exuding that Rigas pride as she came to acclimatize to the name, now that she felt she deserved it again. But that was where it began and ended, and not since she’d received the magic had Chara appeared to have attempted to use it. At this point, the question no longer seemed premature.
“Chara…” Extending a hand, Lilica tentatively touched the blonde woman’s shoulder. “I hope this does not come across as too forward, but… what of your magic? Alster deemed the transfer was successful, but it has been some time since then, and I haven’t seen you make any attempt to use it. If…” She hesitated on her choice of words, and removed her hand. “If it isn’t something you want to discuss, then forgive me for asking. I only wondered since you haven’t made mention of it at all. I guess what I am trying to say is… I just want to know you’re alright. Because it’s hard to tell with you.” The Galeynian Queen hazarded a half-smile. “You have the infuriating talent of hiding behind your pride. I’ve come to learn, in the time that I’ve known you, that the best way to learn something about you is to be direct. You have no trouble giving hard truths as they are, in any case.”
“I understand what you mean, Sigrid.” Alster, his cheeks glistening with the tears he long thought had expired, rubbed away the evidence with his sleeve. While he was not ashamed to shed tears for his wife, it made him a little self-conscious for his friends to bear witness to one of his low points, when it was he who always resolved to be the one others relied on for support. “I’m not misunderstanding you. I don’t have the right to despair because she is still alive. To despair is to consider her life forfeit, and that is far from the case, here.” He gave her a pointed look, one that seemed to say, ‘please heed your own advice,’ but that was the extent to which he could extend his empathetic nature to a kindred spirit. The selfishness of his pain overtook his promises to those in need. Numbness as a defense mechanism prevailed before long, drying his tears and closing off his two-way receptiveness to the sensitive energies that surrounded him. It was for the best. The onslaught of helpful people and their infinite kindness towards his and Elespeth’s plight would have destroyed him anew.
“You saved me a trip, Vega,” he turned his attention to the pregnant princess, cordial in nature but so very very tired. “I was going to pay a visit to Daphni and Elias to recruit their services, but you’ve done the work for me. Thank you.”
“Speaking of work,” Chara straightened the collar of her dress, “Lilica and I took it upon ourselves to deliver Briery and the Missing Links the storage wagon you promised her in exchange for use of her caravan. The caravan in question has been transferred to the stables. It is ready to use at your discretion, along with however many Night steeds you will need for the journey. As we speak, we have attendants loading the caravan with provisions for your trip.”
Alster’s resolve wavered, but he pinched his lips and held firm and steadfast. He tried to replicate the effortless, tree-like stance of Haraldur beside him, a man who had taken his life, and was consigned to bed rest for blood-loss and trauma, only to stand with the poise of a soldier ready for battle. Alster stiffened his shoulders and straightened his spine in an unconvincing mimicry of the much taller figure. It fooled no one--and his steel arm ached from the unnatural positioning.
“I plan to leave as soon as possible,” he told Teselin. “Inform your brother that our projected time of departure will be in two evenings hence. That should give him--and me--more than enough time to prepare. I’m not worried about his cooperation. There’s little he can do to faze me. And now that I’m at full power--he won’t want to grate on my nerves.”
“Spoken like a true Rigas,” Chara flashed a smile of approval.
“Don’t worry,” his tone lightened upon viewing Teselin’s worried expression. “I’m not going to do anything unnecessary. I’d rather we reconcile so we can focus on a trouble-free journey.”
“...spoken like Alster Rigas,” Chara withdrew her smile and rolled her eyes.
“Not that it will happen, but I’m willing to try. Thank you, Teselin. It was through you that we gained Vitali’s cooperation in the first place. There is nothing more I’ll ask of you--other than looking after Elespeth, whenever you’re able. But for now,” he peered over his shoulder at the sanctuary, “I’ll stay with her. After we settle what needs to be settled, Chara, I’ll--”
“--Alster,” she interjected softly, “you need to focus on your upcoming journey, and you need rest. You will not rest if you remain in the sanctuary with her. Knowing you, you will second-guess what you have done to her and undo the pain transfer so that she will reawaken. This is not an admonition, but a strong caution that I urge you to heed. Do not look back at what’s been done. You must move forward.”
All strands of his threadbare composure snapped in an instant. “No, Chara.” His eyes widened in alarm and distress. “How could I rest on my own knowing that we’ve not yet parted? How can I leave her alone, when--”
“--She won’t be alone!” The interim Rigas Head grabbed Alster’s shoulders and steadied him upright, lest he slumped and collapsed into a puddle of his own undoing. “Haven’t you heard? We are all here to monitor her progress. But this is not about her, is it? It is about you. What you think you need. You need her. You do not wish to let go. I understand, Alster. The two of you have been through plenty of hardship over these past few months alone, and it has challenged your faith in a happy outcome. But this is not the first time you’ve been separated. You should know, by now, that you will always find a way back to each other.” She growled the last word. “Always. So if you are going to renege on your word, and betray her trust in you by crumbling from weakness before you have even tried, then you have already failed. So,” he nodded for Lilica to approach Alster on his other side, “we are intervening, for your own sake, and removing you from this place.”
“The beginning of her downfall happened on my watch, Alster.” Haraldur, who remained near, contributed an encouraging push to veer the Rigas caster away from the sanctuary. There was no resisting the Forbanne commander’s strength. “When she took off with the Mollengardian stimulant and let it poison her heart. I will do things right, this time; my watch is my word.”
It took a few more minutes of convincing, volleyed between Chara, Haraldur, and whoever else decided to join, but Alster, bowing from surrender and exhaustion, finally heeded everyone’s sensible advice, which was a mirror of what he--and Sigrid--spouted earlier. Now, he listened; he had no choice but to listen when physical force was applied. With a mute nod, he allowed Chara, Lilica, and Teselin to lead him to the palace, back turned in retreat, distancing himself from his comatose wife.
Three remained behind in the sorrowful aftermath of Alster’s forcible withdrawal; one out of obligation, one out of companionship, and one out of the need to intervene. The latter stayed, not just for Alster and Elespeth’s case, no--but for the Dawn Warrior, who wordlessly tried to slip by Vega and Haraldur on her way out of the Night Garden.
Go easy on her, Haraldur’s wordless gaze had warned his wife, but it was a futile suggestion. Pregnant or not, Vega’s tendency was to plunge forward, hard, hot, and direct. It was, after all, how she was able to pierce his armor--and Sigrid was guilty of wearing a set crafted by the same blacksmith. Whether it was a family trait, or a Northern mentality, people like Sigrid Sorenson, or Haraldur Sorde, did not budge for a storm at sea, let alone another person--no matter how headstrong. Vega may have defeated him in battle and took him as the spoils of war, but it was a battle of attrition, a plodding progress of months, even years, in the making. But she did not know Sigrid for that long; did not cast a lasting imprint in her callused skin. And Haraldur…
Haraldur feared he never made an imprint at all.
As part of his own knee-jerk defense system, he bristled at his cousin’s condemnation and built his own fortification; shields with spikes, ready to puncture if necessary. “It’s no secret, Sigrid. Alster knows--and I’m sure he told Elespeth. Who else knows? You may have fooled me, because you knew exactly where to aim the knife when you gutted me, but Vega isn’t stupid; she’s suspected you for a while, now.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why are you even affronted, Sigrid? You were there when I declared that I wouldn’t let this stand. That I’d fight alongside you, and we’d win without the cursed help of the gods and their double-edged swords. My intentions were clear; I don’t accept your path. If someone like Naimah was saddled with this fate, in place of you, would you carry the opinion that she is destined to fade out of existence? Would you stand aside and allow it to happen? So why did you for a moment expect that anyone would support your self-annihilation?” Despite his earlier warnings to go ‘easy’ on Sigrid Sorenson, nothing about the circumstances allowed for quiet conversation or reasonable discussion. Because there was nothing reasonable about sacrifice without cause. How could both parties speak diplomatically if both parties had no intention of reaching a consensus, or a compromise? Although her mind had closed the topic long ago and nothing said would turn her around, he was not at a deficit of words--even if he was shouting into the void, at this point.
“Do you want to throw your life away for nothing, Sigrid? Because I already did that. You condemned me for it. Yet, you are so keen on killing yourself because you believe your sacrifice alone will save everyone. Because you think it’s destiny. You are the one person to save us, Sigrid? And you’d undermine the strengths, power, and self-sufficient will of your comrades, who have proved their competence in battle after battle?” He pestled his jaw so hard, his teeth made an audible scraping sound. “How insulting. Yes, go spit in the faces of your Dawn Warriors. Go spit at my feet. My strength means nothing. You’d rather entrust everything to an untrustworthy, alien weapon than in the abilities of your friends. Yes, I’ve heard enough.” Whatever tongues of flame that he’d borrowed from proximity to Vega Sorde was doused in smoke and dying sparks. He uncrossed his arms, breaching his defenses. His voice lowered, softened. A whisper so fragile it could crumble like a deadened leaf sailed into the night air, swirling at Sigrid’s retreating feet.
“Are you attracted to it, Sigrid? The unmaking? ...There have been many times I wished to cease existing, leaving not a trace of my memory behind. The things I’ve done--I wished I’d never been born. Maybe if I had the ability to save the people who mattered most to me, I’d cling to it, too. And delight in the fact that no one would ever remember me. The good or the bad. I’d equal out, having nullified my mistake; for not killing myself before Mollengard could taint me. Is that what you want? To correct your existence? Do you find worth in your own nothingness?”
If she heard his comments, she did not acknowledge them. In a huff of self-righteous ire, she absconded into the night, leaving the concerned couple to adjust to the waves sent off by her tempestuous wake. He stood there, stewing in the uneasy silence, his body throbbing from the aftereffect like a giant welt after a whipping.
He stirred back to reality. More of a stumble, really, as Vega broke the pall that had at least settled between them. The waves had calmed, but the ripples never ceased dimpling the water’s surface with the inevitability of Sigrid’s demise. “Your question,” his voice had remained at its breeze-like whisper, “is something I’ve been asking myself since she told me about the sword. I’ve thought about how to get my hands on it. Thought about what kind of tool I can use to pluck it from her chambers without making skin-to-skin contact. A clamp, or something of its like. I’ve thought of where I could hide it--in a place where she’d never think to look. But then I wonder--if the sword wished to be found by her, it may be able to send out a location beacon. An energy signal, impossible to ignore. We’d have to disrupt its signal. Bury it under something that could jam its unique and specific call. Or enlist the aid of a caster who is familiar with energy signatures.” He nodded in the direction where the four magic-users had departed. “Alster will be gone, but what of the summoner? And while we’re at it--let’s speak to Naimah. I know she’ll want to help us. Sigrid doesn’t let that damn sword out of her sight. But if anyone knows when and where she’ll drop her guard...it’s her.” Stubborn green fire settled in his eyes, whether from the bioluminescent glow of the surrounding flora, or from something innate that flared from within. “I hate prophecies. Let’s kill this one.”
Chara was liable not to let the distraught Alster out of her sight for the remainder of the evening, worried for his shaken state of mind. It hearkened her back to the days at Messino’s camp where he, a hollowed out shell of his potential, hadn’t achieved his enviable growth as a caster (and a person), or his formidable power until Elespeth had wandered into his life. Severed from her consciousness, albeit temporarily, the newest addition to the Rigas family was adrift in a stasis where even her husband couldn’t reach her. And it had reduced him to an insufferable wreck, insofar as he tried to be useful by adopting an unbothered, professional mien--and failing miserably. In his bid to illustrate his improving wellbeing, he announced that he would retire to his bedchambers, and, aware that Chara was watching his every move, had entered through the doors, showing no signs of changing course to the Night Garden’s sanctuary. Suspicious all the same, Chara asked Teselin to keep watch over the Rigas Head, in case he relapsed during the night.
“Ah, isn’t this a moment of deja vu?” Chara remarked once she and Lilica had themselves retired to their shared quarters, not an hour after Alster’s bid of a good evening. “Alster is a mess and we have, again, reprised our role as his minders. Elespeth is in a spot of trouble and we are running damage control, so that he will not act recklessly in her absence. Yes, deja vu, indeed. It shows how far we’ve all come from our time at Messino’s happy retreat. How far we’ve come and yet...how little we’ve actually moved. Ah, this is the type of conversation that requires wine, Lilica.” She tapped her knuckle against her bottom lip, staring rather forlornly at the empty bottle that graced their small dining table. “Oh why do we let the mongrel raid your dwindling wine stores? He is not the only one in this kingdom in dire need of something to drink.”
After changing into her silken night robes, Chara pulled the chair aside and sat, letting her fingers tap against the wicker basket that secured the empty vessel in place. “Well, be that as it may, I will reserve judgment on Alster’s sojourns until his return. When there is something that he sets out to do--especially when it is related to his darling wife--he does not fail. So I will have faith in him...as I should have, all along, when he departed with you, and your group found this, our refuge. I have learned not to sour my mouth as much when results, as of late, have been benefitting me. So,” she lifted an empty wine glass, a holdover from her morning’s ‘pick-me-up,’ “I will drink to the acquisition of your success in the unlikeliest of nooks. And I will drink to my cousin. May he summon the courage to eviscerate your brother who so deserves it, and may his embarrassing defeat become public knowledge.”
She touched the glass to her painted lips and lifted her head to mimic guzzling the contents of her phantom wine. But her fantastical adult tea-party was short-lived, when Lilica’s subject change brought all whimsy to a full-stop. “Ah, yes, my magic.” Appearing unruffled, despite the Galeynian Queen’s observation of “hiding” behind her pride, she returned the wine glass to the table and twisted in her seat to face her. “Thank you, by the way, for acknowledging my ‘infuriating talent.’ I shall take that as a compliment of the highest order. This also means you obviously have not noticed that, since attaining my Rigas magic, I have tried to use it. But,” the slightest hint of hesitation faltered her dialogue, “to no avail. It does not...respond to me. I know that it is there, but I am unsure of how to summon it to my fingertips, nor do I recognize its nature. It is peculiar. It feels foreign. Invasive. Not quite...celestial. Not as I have experienced it, before. Perhaps I have to re-educate myself on the basics. Unfortunately,” she cricked her neck from side to side, “with a country to help you run, a Forbanne army to oversee, and my own people to lead in Alster’s absence, I haven’t the time to,” her hand waved around vaguely, “to, understand it. And....and,” something cracked between the fine porcelain of her elegant features. “It...infuriates me, Lilica. Do I have to contend with yet another inheritance of inferior magic? Am I so broken that all I am able to receive are remnants that spark and die at the slightest invocation? What did the Night Garden even heal!? The scars are still there!”
Along with her mounting voice, she had risen from the chair, her fingers twisting into fists that yearned to summon flame and light, mainstays of her original magic. But emptiness pervaded. A whistle of air, and nothing in between but crushing disappointment and frustration. “What was it all for? I am forever a dud. A bad year. Not even the Night Garden can cure my supreme lack of talent. Is that what you wish to hear, Lilica!?”
With a growl of a sigh, Chara’s tirade ended before it began. Lowering to her chair in defeat, she cradled her head into her hands, heaving with sharp breaths. “It is not important,” she dismissed, trying to invite calm without succumbing to petty tears. “I should be grateful for this second chance. Yes. Grateful. Not everyone wins, and I won. So why does it feel like I failed anew?”
“Good. So we’re thinking the same thing, then.” Vega hadn’t taken her eyes off of Sigrid’s retreat, her thoughts turning behind her azure eyes like the inner workings of a machine that never rested. It was clear by her direct confrontation with the stubborn Dawn Warrior that this plan had been churning and grasping at possibility at the back (and occasionally, forefront) of her mind for quite some time, possibly since before Haraldur had confirmed the details of his cousin’s ill-fated destiny. Ever since learning of the enchanted sword, Gaolithe, it had occurred to her that nothing good could come of a weapon imbued with ancient magic, regardless of how it was revered by the Dawn Guard. There was always a price when it came to that extent of power, and more often than not, it was not a price worth paying.
“So… what do we know about this abominable weapon? No one but your cousin is able to touch it, at risk of death, otherwise… That small fact does complicate things. Are we really certain that a degree of separation from it, like a clamp, as you said, will be enough?” At last, she averted her gaze to her husband, and her blue eyes softened. “For all I don’t want us to lose Sigrid to some unnecessary prophecy, I also won’t put you at risk. Not when we haven’t even begun to establish our family. Whatever we do, we must tread with caution. But… you may be on to something. Neither of us is well-versed enough in magic or cursed objects to know how to safely interact with that weapon and come out unscathed, or to know how it will react if taken from Sigrid’s possession. Fortunately,” a small, conspiratorial smile curled the corner of her mouth, “we have plenty of friends well versed in magic, all of whom I imagine would be more than happy to help. No one here is going to sit back and let the Dawn Warrior throw her life away… especially not the woman she loves.”
Turning toward her husband, she seized one of his hands in her own stubborn grip. “I know we have a lot to do in preparation for the birth of these children, but… tomorrow, I will if I can track down either the summoner or Sigrid’s lady love--preferably both, if I am lucky. And I’ll see if I can convince the Gardeners to allow you to take a temporary leave from the sanctuary. Your cousin shares your stubborn streak, but you are as obstinate as she, and I am a Sorde--as are you now, really. Her hard-headed resolve does not stand a chance against our united effort to force her to see reason. That’s my promise to you, Haraldur.” Standing on her toes, the Eyraillian princess stole a quick kiss from her husband’s lips. “I meant what I said. However much that woman manages to get on my nerves, intentionally or otherwise… she is your family. So that also makes her mine. And Sordes do not turn their back on family, no matter the consequences.”
“Of course, you would take that as a compliment.” Lilica gently shook her head and looked away, hoping her smile was not too obvious. It was only of late that she’d begun to feel she was at last getting Chara back--her Chara, not the shell of what remained of her following he trauma. And it was her fear that by drawing too much attention to how it pleased her to witness that familiar Rigas bravado, the blonde woman might think to diminish it again. “Regardless, whatever allows you to stand tall again, pride or otherwise, is just fine with me. Although… I did not mean to imply that you haven’t been trying to make use of your magic, Chara. I merely wondered why you haven’t spoken of it to anyone. You are not a silent person by mature; it gives me cause for concern when you stop talking.”
It was the wrong question to have asked; no, more than that, it was entirely the wrong topic to have breached in the first place. Lilica had miscalculated the timing of it all, having thought that at the end of a long day, with her Rigas companion ready to retire, she would be too weary to become riled up or easily upset. But while she had noticed marked change in Chara’s temperament--that being that she was was no longer quite so dangerously flammable. None of that correlated, however, to just how strongly she continued to experience her own feelings.
The Galeynian Queen noticed the crack in the blonde woman’s composed facade before she began to fall apart. Putting down the brush in her opposite hand, she reached across the table for one of Chara’s hands, which she squeezed in her own. “Chara--take a breath. You are getting ahead of yourself.” Her words were steady and direct, but not unkind. The Rigas woman had had enough of being coddled, in the days that had followed her self-mutilation, it seemed. Lilica wouldn’t coddle her. But neither would she allow her thoughts to take a dive back to that dark place where her inferiority complex resided. “How can you call yourself a failure when you’ve admitted that you simply don’t understand your magic? It hasn’t been that long; it hasn’t even been a month. And you said yourself, it is foreign. It is not the Rigas magic that you are used to. Did you really think you’d be able to figure it out on your own, without soliciting the help of someone who might be more?” She heaved a sigh, as the realization dawned on her: “...because you’d have felt weak. That’s why you didn’t say anything, isn’t it? Because admitting it meant you’d be admitting you aren’t in control. And you miss that control. But, Chara… that is not how life works. We cannot do everything on our own, and we do not have all the answers. Do you honestly think that without the help of Alster and Tivia, without the protection Sigrid offered… damnit all, even without my brother’s niche intuition when it comes to sniffing out what he wants to find, do you really think I’d have found Galeyn? And do you honestly think you’re the only second-guessing themself over a change they did not expect?”
Lilica released her hands and took a seat in the chair across from the table, and turned her empty palms up. She stared at them as though they were supposed to hold answers that they just didn’t have. “My magic isn’t the same, either. Not since the night I damaged this palace and determined to attack the Night Garden. I haven’t told you the whole story.” She couldn’t help but glance to the side at the pale marble floor, and the streak that remained charred from her toxic fire. “It… did something to me, that night. I collapsed and suffered a high fever for days; I couldn’t get out of bed without assistance. Alster will attest to that; he was there. But in the end… when the fever finally broke, I began to notice the change. Small things, at first. I didn’t feel so perpetually cold, anymore. I’d started to actually put on weight. It wasn’t until a while after that I realized… I don’t feel that heaviness, anymore. That dark pit in me from which I was quite literally able to spew hellfire. The very reason Messino blackmailed me into joining his army--it is gone, Chara. What I did in the past, what I did that night,” she gestured wide to the burned floor. “I can’t do it, anymore. The fire is gone. My magic is still there, but like yours, it is not the same. I do feel the pull of the Night Garden, and its energies respond to me, but beyond that… I am just as lost as you are. But I haven’t failed, yet. I haven’t failed because I haven’t even begun--and neither have you. So…”
A smile touched her lips, and she extended her hand to the distraught Rigas woman. “If we are both failing, then let us fail together, until we discover how to succeed. Help me, and I’ll help you. Because I don’t think we can do this on our own. But, together…” That soft smile stretched, a her dark eyes glinted with what could have been mischief. “I have a feeling, together, we can be unstoppable, regardless of the forms our magic takes. This kingdom, this world hasn’t seen us reach our potential, yet. But just imagine when it does.”
When Vega Sorde made a promise, it was more than just lip-service or free-floating ideals. And when she made a promise to Haraldur that night, she’d also made one to Sigrid; one that she was not about to let flounder, while time was of the essence, and there was no telling when this accursed sword would enact its prophecy. The next morning, following the supportive gathering on Alster’s behalf after his hard decision to render his wife temporarily comatose, the Eyraillian princess left the palace and set out to find a certain someone who would be a crucial asset to the newly established plan to remove Gaolithe from Sigrid Sorenson’s possession. Haraldur had been right: the Dawn Warrior kept an eye on that weapon like a hawk, and Vega hadn’t missed how she triple-checked the lock on her chamber door when she left, every morning. There weren’t many snags in the armor Sigrid wore, nor were there many holes in her own personal sense of security; but everyone let their guard down at one point. And who better to consult than the one person who ever managed to see the Dawn Warrior completely defenseless?
What was stranger than seeing a heavily pregnant woman make her way past the Forbanne encampment was to see one in her third trimester access the encampment not far from it; that of the women (and men) who partook in Naimah’s occupation. Since the Forbanne’s gradual reintegration through intimacy had not only proven safe, but beneficial for the soldiers who were only beginning to pick up the pieces of their lost identities, it was in the whores’ (their chosen term) best interest to remain situated near their most popular clientele. And of course among them, when she was not in Sigrid’s company, was Naimah.
Knowing better than to blindly look about when the escorts were either preparing for their day, or finishing up after a long night, the Skyknight took the liberty to ask one of the women in passing if she knew of Naimah’s whereabouts. Of course, given her pregnant belly, it went without saying that she was most certainly not looking to become a client, which earned her a confused look from the escort who told her to wait while she checked in with the woman in question. A few moments later, the beautiful Kariji woman greeted her with a mixture of warmth and curiosity.
“Naimah. I hope I’m not intruding; I wondered if I might have a moment of your time?” When Sigrid’s lover agreed, Vega gestured for her to walk with her, away from ears that might hear all too much. “It’s about Sigrid. She’s recently confided in my husband something… well, rather terrifying. Tell me, how much has she told you about that sword, in her possession?”
So Naimah was evidently in the know--insofar as she’d already learned about the fate that awaited the Dawn Warrior, should things be left as they were, without intervention. Except, the Kariji woman appeared to still be under the impression that Sigrid was, in fact, searching for an alternative. As much as Vega hated to be the one to tell her otherwise… it was unfortunately necessary. “I wish I could say it is none of my business, but given that she is family to my husband--and therefore, family to me--it is. And I regret to tell you that, after a very brief and heated conversation with your Dawn Warrior just last night… I am not sure exactly how honest she has continued to be with you, with regard to finding a way to circumvent her fate with that sword.”
Vega and Haraldur evidently weren’t alone in their anger and disappointment. While it was evident Naimah had suspected her lover had been slowly but surely giving up on a solution, and instead investing energy into coming to terms with her fate, it wasn’t confirmed for her until just now. And she was far from impressed. “We have a plan, Naimah. At least, we are in the process of forming one. Since our favourite Dawn Warrior cannot see past her own bull-headedness, regardless of what that means for the people who care about her, we’ve decided she no longer has the sense to be in possession of such a sword. So… we plan to take it from her. Temporarily, at least, until she can see reason, or until one of us finds a way to nullify the sword’s sick prophecy. And I was hoping you could help.”
They were yards away from the busy tents, at this point, but Vega lowered her voice all the same. The slightest slip up to the wrong person could completely unravel the plot before it was ever put into motion. “We haven’t figured out how to get our hands on that damned sword, yet; but there are enough magically adept people here who might know a thing or two about handling a weapon that means certain death to anyone but its wielder. Leave that part to us. All we need on your part is a little bit of insight: where Sigrid keeps that blade, how often she checks on its location. Most importantly… when it will be safest to do a little breaking and entering. At the worst,” she flashed a cheeky smile, “we may just need you to ensure she’s distracted, for a while. I may not know Sigrid Sorenson as well as you, but if there is anyone who she cannot walk away from, or to whom she doesn’t have the gall to say no, it is most certainly the person right in front of me.”
In the past, before Mollengard’s invasion of her homeland and of her magic, before they stripped her identify and forced her to face the rest of her days welcoming obscurity, too shamed from their violation to entertain another outcome, Chara would have stewed in the injustice of her magical inheritance. Outrage would fuel her into a tirade worthy of her firebrand nature. Why suffer through such loss only to gain a power she did not understand, nor particularly want? The Night Garden made a mistake; in bridging permanent sutures over the scar tissue that blocked the channels of her magic, it had replenished those channels with the wrong attribute. Chara was an offensive caster, specialized in fire, bursts of concentrated, volatile air, and blisters of searing light. Though unimpressive in quantity, and scrutinized as “weak” by her Rigas peers, she made the most of its quality, however sparse its usages. But this “new” acquisition, facilitated by the Night Garden, did not feel right to her. For one, it possessed not one offensive strand in its entire structure; she would have innately picked up on it, otherwise. Conversely, there was nothing defensive about it, either. The magic merely...existed. A friendly river, flowing its swift current, unhindered, to the sea; serene upon approach, but ultimately unnavigable. The waters were too shallow, its route, too curvaceous to utilize without redirecting its course into a straight canal.
“Remember, Chara, we are in a healing garden.” Upon one of her visits with Alster in the sanctuary, he, bedridden from the ritual he risked his heart to perform, gently reminded her that the source of her magic, while celestial, differed from what the average Rigas would expect to receive, had the ritual occurred on the leylines of Stella D’Mare. “Don’t take affront if your magic reflects the properties specific to a healing garden. It may not be ideal for someone of your offensive caliber, but it’s not useless, either. No magic is useless, if one takes the time to learn and cultivate it from a seed. And you’ve been given the rare opportunity to start from the beginning. This is not a reset for you; this is a new venture. Treat it well, Chara, and it will treat you well. I already feel...something warm radiating from you. It reminds me of the sun. Bright. Yours is an energy people will flock to, competing for an opportunity to bask in your enriching light; it is fitting, Chara. Compatible--for one equipped to lead.”
And that conversation was one of the reasons why Chara could not rage about injustice for more than a blink. There was no point in bemoaning her dashed expectations. She was now a different person from the brash, upright Chara Rigas of Stella D’Mare; therefore, why had she anticipated the resurgence of her old magic? It suited her, yes, but she had outgrown its surface-level, destructive designation. No longer did she feel the indiscriminate need to burn and level whatever displeased her, at the slightest provocation. Showing any upset at all, for a successful transference of magic, disrespected Alster’s sacrifice, and the Night Garden’s benevolence. While her unending frustrations stemming from her fear of inheriting “useless” magic could not be ignored, it was petty to continue on--and to rant about it to Lilica, of all people, the unfortunate recipient of poisonous magic.
“No, no--you speak sense.” She slid her fingers from her face and resolved to sit up straight. What an embarrassment! To rail off about something so inconsequential...had she resolved nothing of her lost months swimming in the fog of her self-pity? “I did not solicit help other than the little that Alster offered me of his own accord. It is my sole responsibility, now. If I cannot determine the specifics of my magic or how to wield it independently, after all that has been done to ensure that I receive this gift, then I am not deserving of my second chance. Seeking Alster’s guidance is out of the question. Outside of my father, asking other Rigases for advice will reflect poorly on someone whose rule has come into question before, due to my status as a bad year. Rigases prefer their Heads of Household to possess power; that is why they have eventually accepted Alster, despite his notorious past. So,” she pretended to sweep loose strands of blonde hair over her forehead as she brushed away some lingering moisture on her eyelids, “I am alone in this, Lilica. It is a different matter for me than for you, who started with nothing and ended up with an entire kingdom. You had so little to lose.” Aside from me, a bitter part of her whispered from the back of her mind. She mentally swatted away the contrary voice.
“I have always been born with the burden of privilege. Even at my birth rank, a low-tier Rigas still faces public scrutiny. While I’ve managed to keep the loss of my initial magic a secret from my council, suspicion will only mount if my advisors find I have not demonstrated a single use of my power since Stella D’Mare. You may think it is nothing but self-sufficient pride, Lilica, but pride has dictated my life since I rose to relevancy in my family. We Rigases are not yet at a point where we have made a clear transition away from our magical elitist policies. I cannot show them weakness beyond what they have seen of me, already. Alster can, because no one will dispute his magical claim. But I do not have his excuse. I must show my skill and my competence in equal measure, or I will not have acceptance at all. So you may be right, Lilica--I miss having control--but I require control, lest no one will respect me.”
As Lilica quietened, in preparation for an admittance she had not shared aloud, Chara followed her eyes to the floor, to the scorch-trail of violet hellfire that created the prominent mark. Her foot scuffed against its outer-edge, idly tracing the patterns of warped marble. “I have long wondered about the state of your magic, since you told me of its literal transformation by the Night Garden. I see how well it has favored you and I am not disappointed in your transition from waifish corpse to a living, breathing person.” A sideways smirk tugged on her face, tilting her head upward, to the ‘living person’ in question. “Have you used any magic since that evening? Are you aware of its new properties or attributes?” Rising from her chair, she skirted the shallow depression made by Lilica’s hellfire and took the present iteration of the woman, all pliant, radiating, warm-hued skin, by her hands. “If that is the case, Lilica, then it is as you say. We are equally without guidance. And as current leaders of our respective tribes, this is a secret the two of us may be required to keep. Behind these closed doors, however, and in each other’s company...I daresay we can find the potential for success we desire. For victory and dominance over our enemies...I like where your mind is headed. Let us finalize this pact of ours, Lilica.” And she did--with a kiss.
Following her successful “infiltration” of the Forbanne encampment from as far back as Braighdath, Naimah had enjoyed ample employment from her eager clientele. The service extended to any soldier, be they male or female, castrated or whole. Interest from eunuch soldiers numbered in the dozens, a rate that did not strike Naimah as uncommon or odd. While she was labeled as a “whore,” she fulfilled many roles outside of her defined vocation; a companion, a confidante, a secret-keeper, a shoulder to cry on, a body to cradle, or a sympathetic ear. For indoctrinated soldiers who, since their abduction, knew nothing of gentleness, be it in touch or in voice, or physical encounters outside the rough and violent, Naimah and her whores covered every situation, acting as intermediaries for their eventual integration into society.
Their service had achieved great results, with some soldiers attempting conversation with local Galeynians, or realizing the horrors they’d suffered under an unforgiving rule, or expressing their opinions as they recognized that they, as individuals, had a perspective unique to them. Some chose names. Others questioned their purpose as tools for war, or questioned war in itself. Of course, there were many who resisted change. Who didn’t understand. Who didn’t view their numerous abuses, their destruction of humanity, as inherently wrong. They wanted nor had any need of “enlightenment,” and kept to themselves. On the opposite end of the spectrum, certain Forbanne, who’d broken “free” of their compulsion to obey, wandered, lost, purposeless, heavy with guilt and rife with hatred over themselves. The worst mornings, the mornings when Naimah second-guessed her services and nearly ceased all operations out of despair, were the ones where she found soldiers in their tents, dead from self-inflicted wounds.
The situation only spiked and worsened on the night of Commander Sorde’s “death.” Every soldier had felt the severance between master and slave, (a comparison their commander abhorred, but which the soldiers never considered problematic). With the mind-link compulsion forcibly cut, all Forbanne experienced some level of existential obsolescence. It struck particularly hard with those loyal to Commander Sorde, and with those who had resisted change since the day Naimah’s brainchild was executed. Having to work double shifts to ensure the Forbanne’s cohesion, and to prevent any rebellion or copycat suicides, the Kariji woman hadn’t enough time to spare for leisurely endeavors, or in visiting her Dawn Warrior lover at the palace.
Nearly a week after Commander Sorde’s incident and recovery, events started to settle and stabilize. Intervention appeared in the form of Chara Rigas, who delivered the soldiers the latest news on their commander’s condition and organized the troops, allocating tasks to keep them busy. Ongoing construction of the D’Marian village. Guard-duty at the palace and its associated checkpoints. ‘No idling,’ was Chara’s motto, and her fierce presence was enough to inspire the disorganized Forbanne to accept her as their temporary commander. It was a fix, a bandage over an open pustule, but the bandage would not hold for long. Between the appeal to follow orders and the appeal to explore their freedoms via Naimah and her whores, the Forbanne’s rupture, Naimah feared, was inevitable.
She had just finished a quick, light breakfast of grapes and cheese when one of the whores under training had arrived at the flaps of her tent. “Naimah, miss, there is a pregnant woman who is requesting your company. An unorthodox request, I’d say!” The young woman tittered. “She’s about to pop! I hope you’re ready to deliver a baby or two when you take her for company.”
“That will not be necessary, Patrice.” Naimah patted her mouth with a handkerchief, pushed away from her makeshift table, and swayed out of the tent with the swish of her long gown. “She is the wife of Commander Sorde. I doubt she is looking for our companionship.”
Taking Patrice’s lead, Naimah weaved through the camp, recognizing the princess immediately, by the distinct bulge of her stomach and the sheen of copper hair that the sun illuminated from overhead. “Vega Sorde.” The Kariji woman curtsied. “How have you been? We have all heard the news about your husband and I am gladdened by his recovery. It would benefit the Forbanne to see his return, I daresay.”
But the princess was, as Naimah had soon discovered, not there to talk Forbanne-related business in her husband’s absence. No, what passed over her lips was something far more personal to her, and it pertained to a certain blonde-haired warrior and a sword that should be renamed ‘Bane,’ for what it meant to said warrior’s existence.
“Yes,” a forlorn nod shook some curls loose from her bun. “I know about Gaolithe. If you would come with me? This conversation requires discretion.” Together, they relocated to her tent, an on-the-go bordello furnished with all the trimmings of a pleasure palace in miniature; silken pillows, scented candles, and privacy curtains of crushed, red velvet. They sat, face to face, upon two cushions while Naimah offered her guest some leftover herbal tea from the kettle.
“She is a failure at speaking falsehoods. I could tell she has not been sincere, or forthright, despite all my and Alster’s collective efforts to research solutions in dismantling that sword’s power.” A knot formed between her two manicured eyebrows, one of obvious upset and distress. “It is disheartening to see her so closeminded and unwilling to explore her options, as though any attempt we make will be entirely futile. Why is it she can believe in miracles for other people, but not for herself? Some evenings,” her shoulders tensed, “I want to slap her so hard, she loses consciousness, in retaliation for all the pain she is causing me. It has been too much, as of late...I, it shames me to say, but I have been avoiding her company out of some...need to punish her for being so unreasonable. If you and your husband have a plan, consider me your accomplice. Whatever is necessary to remove her from that toxic sword’s influence.”
As it turned out, they did have a plan; the stirrings of one, anyhow. While Haraldur was seeking out a means for handling Gaolithe without making skin-to-skin contact, Vega was gathering intelligence--by approaching the person who knew her most intimately. “Sigrid keeps Gaolithe in an iron chest behind a false wall in her quarters. She carries the keys, both to the chest and to her quarters on her person at all times--hidden from prying eyes. But I know where they are, and if you allow me,” a mischievous glint sparkled in her dark eyes, “I am confident I can remove them without her noticing their disappearance.”
True to his word, Haraldur kept vigil over Elespeth in the sanctuary, risking the Gardeners’ ire by forgoing rest. But he had rested enough in the days since his consignment to the tiny healing cottage. Sleep eluded him, and it would continue to elude him, so long as Sigrid’s terrible fate, among other concerns, plagued the forefront of his mind. It was a welcome departure to focus, instead, on Elespeth’s breathing; her vitals, the reflexive twitches of her otherwise unresponsive body, and the life that she exuded, even when in suspension. However much she thrummed and whirred with the irregular syncopations of her fighting energy, she was still removed from the vicissitudes of life and all its bothersome consequences.
Not realizing he had dipped his head and closed his eyes, he jostled awake at the sound of a door scraping open. Straightening upright (for he had fallen asleep standing up), he quickly wiped away the drool dribbling from the side of his mouth to regard the visitor to the sanctuary; a slight, waifish girl, no older looking than twelve…
Barring their brief encounter during last night’s solidarity gathering for Alster Rigas, Haraldur had not seen Teselin since she barged into the sanctuary last time, to provide much-needed clarity over the “incident” involving him and the little girl who’d been revealed as Hadwin’s sister. The summoner’s appearance had filled him with discomfort and malaise then, and now...nothing had changed. Teselin, like Rowen Kavanagh, was not a child--but also like Rowen Kavanagh, Teselin presented with the naivete and wide-eyed innocence of youth. Haunted by horrors, tortured by demons of the mind and of mankind, but innocent, nonetheless. And...it disturbed him, knowing that he had come so close to the symbolic act of murdering a child, only to have another “symbolic” child arrive at the moment of his awakening, the height of his vulnerability. Nevermind her sudden arrival; if she had not opened the door to him, surely, he would have sought her out--as per his predetermined arrangement with Vega. While she was enlisting Naimah’s help and cooperation, he was tasked to extend the same request to the summoner. But reluctance to request any favors from the eager-to-please Teselin hardened in his throat like a lump which was impossible to swallow. He’d heard what happened to her in Stella D’Mare. Mollengard’s capture. Days of unending torture. An odds-defying escape orchestrated by the wolf-shifter that Solveig had ordered him to kill. She survived. She survived, but with lasting damage. And he, by his associations with the blood-hungry Mollengard and the horrors he inflicted in its name, was partly responsible for her abuse.
But if she could help Sigrid by helping them remove the sword from her possession, he needed to ask.
“Teselin.” He pushed away from the wall on which he leaned, filtering his apprehension with a casual nod of greeting. “Are you here, by any chance, to watch over Elespeth?” At her affirmation, Haraldur glanced at the sleeping woman and her untroubled, albeit shallow-breathing, slumber. “She’s been stable all night. Elias is going to set up some kind of tube system that will feed her nutrients and through the blood. I can’t say how it works, but apparently, the hardy, fibrous materials of some Night Garden flora makes for flexible, sturdy tubing.”
Unbeknownst to him, he began picking at the scabbing over the rune which marked him as the necromancer’s ‘property.’ “This is a sudden subject change, but...are you aware of Sigrid’s sword, Gaolithe? She insists that her relation to it is a secret, and I ‘broke’ her trust by telling Vega, but Alster knows of it, and he can’t be the only one. I have a feeling that you know, too. We--Vega and me, and with Naimah’s cooperation--are going to hide it from her so she can’t use it. But if we ever hope to handle this weapon without dying instantly, we need a reliable barrier of protection. I’ve suggested a clamp, but it may not be enough to shield the handler from the blade’s fatal influences. I intend to take that sword, but as a precautionary measure, in case a clamp and my magic resistance alone aren’t enough to circumvent its death-seeking energies, it would behoove me to have extra protection.” He chose his next words carefully. “If you are able, Teselin, we could use your magic, and your assistance, in transferring the sword to a safe location. And if there is a way to muddy whatever signal beacon it might send to Sigrid in distress...we’d like to silence it. You won’t have to handle the sword, yourself. I won’t ask to endanger your life. Leave that part to me. You need only provide an extra barrier between me and the sword.” A stubborn wrinkle creased across his forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive it.”
“If this isn’t something you feel comfortable in doing,” he added, his softening eyes loosening the tenseness of his countenance, “don’t hesitate to tell me. I’ll ask someone else. I’d prefer it if no harm came to you, Teselin. ...I’ve spilled too much young blood already.”
Teselin hadn’t been merely mollifying a distraught Alster Rigas when she’d told him that Elespeth, no matter what, would not be left alone in his absence. Through orchestrating shifts with the Rigas caster’s friends and allies, she determined that not only would the comatose woman’s vitality be continuously monitored, but she would be kept company. Some believed that those who succumbed to such a deep sleep as a coma could still hear the stirrings of the living world that surrounded them, familiar voices of those close to their heart. Right now, Alster needed friends more than anything--but so too did Elespeth, who would be long awaiting her husband’s return. For that, she’d resolved to station more than a “guard” to watch over the sleeping woman. And if so many of the others--Chara, Lilica, Haraldur and Vega, Sigrid, Tivia--found themselves preoccupied with too many other dire situations that required their attention, be it the impending birth of children, or the impending arrival of a terrifying sorceress, then she was happy to take it upon herself to be the former knight’s primary company.
Her decision wasn’t selfless in its entirety, however, in that the task gave the young summoner purpose that did not require the use of her magic which, since her capture by Mollengard, was so much more volatile than before. It was Teselin’s inherent nature to be of help; to not be deadweight to those who had helped her, but to return the favor in any way she could. In the past, unfortunately, her primary use to anyone was through her magical capabilities, however successful or unsuccessful she’d been. But that had been before her Mollengard had gotten her hands on her. Before her aura had begun to feel eternally and perpetually charged to ‘strike’, if just the right shift in energy upset its balance. Before she had become too afraid of the potential consequences of her magic to even try to channel it toward something useful--or, more importantly, something within her control.
Hadwin’s companionship reminded her constantly that she could not remain afraid of herself and her magic forever. While she never brought up the topic of her unwieldy power, that could lose control at any moment, her faoladh could read her fear in the vibrations emanating from her anxious aura; no doubt, it probably caused him a great deal of discomfort just being in her presence. But that did not stop him from spending time in her company, when he wasn’t busying himself with other affairs, questionable or otherwise. Occasionally he would throw a reassuring word her way, remind her gently that ignoring the problem would not make it go away, and that she would need to face the changes in her immense power someday, and likely soon. All the same, he never pressured her to face her new demons if she wasn’t ready, having learned his lesson long ago, the last time he’d showed her the extent of her fearscape.
And she would do it, eventually--face those demons, that is. Eventually. But for now, if there were ways she could make herself useful without the necessity of facing the most volatile part of her existence, she wouldn’t hesitate to jump on that opportunity. As much as she hated to admit it, having Elespeth slip into a coma was akin to a godsent for her. She could watch over Alster’s wife, talk to her, keep her company in her deep slumber for the time that the Rigas head spent away. A simple, albeit important task that would keep her occupied and take her mind off of that fact that not even the calming energies of the Night Garden could tame the fire blazing in her aura.
Haraldur had decreed he would take the first shift looking after Elespeth, a task which he no doubt also appreciated, given how he must have felt with relation to the former knight’s use of the Mollengaridan stimulant that was responsible for the condition she was in now. She knew he wanted to make amends in any way that he could, and this also happened to be the perfect opportunity for him. Nonetheless--he would have to share this opportunity.
The next morning, following Elespeth’s descent into a deep sleep, and Alster’s ensuing grief, the young summoner made her way back to the Night Garden and the sanctuary, where she was not surprised to find the Forbanne captain awake and alert and watching over the sleeping form of the Rigas head’s wife. “Hello, Haraldur.” She greeted him with a bright smile, exuding a far more cheerful temperament than she really felt. “I thought you might want a reprieve from watching over Elespeth for a while. I don’t exactly have anything better to do, to be honest.” Her eyes drifted to the sleeping former knight, who appeared serene and entirely undisturbed in her unconscious state. Teselin knew without a doubt that everyone worrying about her health as they walked the land of the living was more than likely far worse off than the unconscious warrior from Atvany, trapped as she was in a dream somewhere far off and unreachable.
Haraldur explained that she was stable, that thanks to the concentrated energy of the Night Garden within the sanctuary, her life would not be at risk. Making sure she had the strength to actually awaken, however, was another issue in and of itself, one that Elias had taken upon himself to remedy. Surrounded by no shortage of healers, and many of their own respected professions, Elespeth truly couldn’t have been in a better place. “Alster wasn’t able to sleep much, last night. I kept him company and tried to assure him that she is in good hands--which she is. But it doesn’t matter the extent of the care she is receiving, I’m afraid. He’s devastated at the state she is in. All the same…” Her eyes drifted over the immobile form of the Rigas caster’s wife, who despite the state of her health, did not look entirely sickly. Really, she looked as though she was simply, peacefully asleep. “I am glad that she is in as good a state as can be expected. And, thank you for agreeing to take part in keeping her company. No one deserves to be alone, even if they can’t say anything to the people around them.”
Taking a bag from her shoulder, the young summoner took a seat on stool next to Elespeth’s bed as she removed a book from the small load she was carrying. “Is it silly that I thought of reading to her?” She asked with a small smile. “I found this while browsing the library. Just an anthology of Galeynian folktales, but what I find interesting is that they all have happy or hopeful endings. And Elespeth needs no shortage of hope, right now.”
She wasn’t even sure that the Forbanne commander had heard her, or taken notice of the tome in her lap, when he very abruptly took their verbal exchanges on an entirely different course. Teselin felt her muscles stiffen at the mention of Gaolithe, the cursed sword that sought to doom Sigrid to a tragic fate. “...I was the one who told her about the sword’s true intentions.” She confirmed, closing the book in her lap almost as soon as she had opened it. “It opened up to me, even though it didn’t want to. That’s been the case with everything even slightly magically inclined, since… since Mollengard. It all reaches for me, and digs its fingers in…” Teselin swallowed and took a breath. He wasn’t here to talk about her, or what had happened to her, or what it meant for her now. This, evidently, was about Sigrid. “But I thought… weren’t Alster and Naimah in the process of finding a way to render it helpless? No more than another weapon? I thought Sigrid had agreed not to resign to her fate…”
That was apparently not the case. Teselin did not spend any significant amount of time around the blonde Dawn Warrior, not since their brief altercation in Braighdath. She knew Sigrid regretted the aggression she had displayed in trying to make the summoner promise not to tell anyone what she had learned, but neither of them had really formally reconciled, to any extent. The same went for Chara, although the Rigas woman had at least made a small attempt to breach the gap between them. Teselin just wasn’t sure what an apology or reconciliation was worth, if, as Chara had said, there had never been any “real” camaraderie between them to begin with. Perhaps the same went for Sigrid. “She is still determined to use Gaolithe, even after everything we have promised to do for her…” She blew air from between her lips and frowned. “I get it. There is too much going on, between Elespeth’s health and Galeyn’s fate, if Locque has managed to infiltrate. She doesn’t want to be a burden on anyone and doesn’t see her cause as one worth dwelling on… but that doesn’t change how the people who care about her feel. Or the people who care if they were to lose her…”
She will hate me if she learns I was involved in this, a critical voice at the back of Teselin’s mind chimed in. That ever-present voice that just craved acceptance, even from those who would have nothing to do with her. An old habit that died hard, but one to which she was no longer quite as attached. Not since Mollengard. Not since she realized the ties she had to the people she’d held dear were suddenly so much weaker than she’d expected; Hadwin, she felt, was possibly the only exception. “...I’ll help. Sigrid might not care much for me, but I care for the people who care about her. But only on a few conditions.”
Placing the Galeynian tome on the ground, Teselin stood from the stool and dusted off her skirts. “Having you handle a sword like Gaolithe has to be a last resort. That weapon is old, divine magic, and there is no telling what it can do if we interfere with it. But… there may be a chance that I can move it without the need to touch it. I know I’m capable of that; it’s just a matter of channeling it… and keeping it in control.” It was ludicrous, how her heart began to race at the very thought of levitating a sword, or casting a protective shield around Haraldur’s aura to fend off Gaolithe’s potential wrath. But that was her relationship with her magic: tumultuous. That likely wasn’t going to change in time to save Sigrid Sorenson. “And… one more thing.”
She turned to Haraldur, who looked far less fierce without his armor and weapons strapped to his back. In fact, he appeared just as lost and helpless as she often felt; the only difference was, he happened to be a hell of a lot bigger. “I understand that you’ve taken issue with both my brother, Vitali, as well as Hadwin Kavanagh in the past, either for reasons within or beyond your control. I’ll help you, and I want to help you, because Sigrid does not deserve the fate in store for her… but in return for my help, I want you to let go of your grudges. Toward Vitali and Hadwin.” It was hard to stand tall on a good day, but in comparison to Haraldur’s enormous height, it felt especially difficult for the young summoner. Nonetheless, she did not back down. “Tell me in your own words that you’ve made peace with what they’ve done in the past to earn your ire. I am not asking you to forgive them; I am not excusing them, either. I only ask that you let go of your grudges, so that I have one less threat to their lives to worry about…”
Vega felt a twinge of remorse for dropping the truth on Naimah so abruptly; a truth that she had suspected, but an unpleasant one to have confirmed, all the same. There was no question that this woman return the fierce affection that Sigrid Sorenson felt for her; the same fierce affection that she felt for Haraldur. Fortunately, Vega was no stranger to the feeling that accompanied the possibility one’s significant other would rather die than to hope for an alternate solution to a very dangerous problem… “Sigrid Sorenson is my husband’s cousin. Both are stubborn to a fault, even in the face of reason; it could well be a northerner trait.” She tried to make light of the Dawn Warrior’s obstinacy, but Naimah was past making light of something that was a direct threat to the life of the woman she cared for.
“To be honest, I cannot speak to her reasoning, if she has any. But I know her type, and I am familiar with the nature of the Dawn Guard and how devoted they are to their cause. That said,” she rested a hand upon Naimah’s arm. “I know that what she is doing is not intended to hurt you. Something tells me she would be devastated to know she is causing you pain… but, perhaps that is what it will take to put her resistance to a stop. But if you fear that interference on your part will negatively impact your relationship with the Dawn Warrior…”
Although the Eyraillian princess offered her an out, a reason and chance to decline involvement, the Kariji woman was on board before she could finish making the offer. She couldn’t help but mirror her conspiratorial smile. “If you could get us the keys and provide an adequate distraction for our Dawn Warrior while we remove the sword from her possession, that would be beyond helpful, Naimah. We plan to solicit the help for some magic users to extract the weapon without suffering any imminent death from its shields. Deal with Sigrid, and leave the rest to us. Agreed?” She held out her hand for Naimah to shake. “It’s about time we all stopped living in fear over what that damned piece of steel means for Sigrid or the rest of us. There is always more than one path to victory. We will find one that does not involve Gaolithe.”
With her cooperation obtained, Vega left Naimah to continue preparing for her day, and made her way back to the sanctuary to deliver the hopeful news to her husband--only to find she wasn’t the only one who had found an accomplice for their ‘mission’. “Teselin.” She greeted the young summoner kindly, blue eyes shifting from Haraldur to the girl in question. “I don’t suppose Haraldur has mentioned…”
“I’m in. I’m going to find a way to extract the sword without the need to touch it.” The girl told her, with the same resolution in her eyes that she had previously seen in Naimah’s. “I just need a little bit of time. Haraldur shouldn’t have to put himself at risk of touching Gaolithe. If you can give me a little time, at least a few days to work something out… then I am happy to be of help.”
“And here I thought we’d have a hard time finding people willing to conspire against our favourite Dawn Warrior.” The Skyknight princess beamed and let out a sigh, obviously relieved that this was all coming together so quickly. Soon, Gaolithe would be one less variable to worry about. “Naimah has agreed to provide a distraction and the keys to Sigrid’s chamber, and the chest where she is apparently keeping that blasted thing. Do what you need to prepare, Teselin, and keep us informed.”
“In that case… I may need to bother you to watch Elespeth for a little while longer,” the summoner said to Haraldur, as she made for the doorway, leaving her bag behind. “Time has always been a variable. Let me see what I can do in the next couple of days. Regardless of how successful I am--we will remove that sword. That is my promise.”
Haraldur did not have the heart to reject Teselin’s cheerful conversation outright, in favor of a darker topic that neither would be comfortable in discussing, so he reciprocated her greeting with a smile of his own, and indulged her in some conversation. As previously mentioned to Vega, his months of commanding the Forbanne had damaged his ability to speak to another person with casual, nonconsequential flair. Among his soldiers, every word carried weight and meaning. He couldn’t afford to sprinkle wasteful asides and greetings when command of his army took precedence over idle companionship. For that, he was glad for Naimah and her whores; women (and men) well-versed not only in the movements of their body, but in the movements of their tongue, and the shapes they gave to each carefully-selected syllable.
Similar to the Forbanne, Haraldur could only take the lead of others, accepting their desire to speak to him and offering what he hoped were compelling enough responses. “Reprieve or not, I’m under orders to stay in this sanctuary until the Gardeners deem me ‘cured.’ It’s not an imposition for me to watch over her when I have nowhere else I’m able to go. But,” he rubbed at the healed scar on his throat, “it’s not like I’m the best company for Elespeth, here. I’m sure she’ll welcome someone who’s a little more talkative. Me? I’m standing around like I’m guarding a precious trove of treasure. It’s not far from the truth, but Elespeth deserves better than to be compared to an object.”
He cocked his head at the book she pulled from her bag; scribbles of words embossed with gold-leaf on a picturesque idyll. Images of Night Garden flora propagated around the borders of the illuminated cover, themselves appearing painted with ink crushed and created by bioluminescent flowers.
“She’d like that,” he agreed. Might be what I need to hear, too, he thought, to himself. “Oh, the hours I could save in boredom if only I knew how to read. Think I’m too old to learn? I don’t know many fairytales by heart--none of them have happy endings--but I’ll need some stories to tell my children, once they’re born.”
However, his conversational lilt curled around the edges, strained from focusing on everything but the topic he’d intended to discuss with the summoner. Though it pained him to kill the lighthearted exchange with someone whose eagerness to escape into the sanctuary wrote its relief all over her face, he could not shirk the opportunity to ask for her help, or, failing that, her advice on how best to proceed with handling Sigrid’s cursed blade.
“So you were the one to learn the truth.” Not to mention, it was a truth that arose as a result of Mollengard’s invasive tinkering with her magic. They’d resolved to siphon her magic by way of the special crystals they mined in the quarries out in West Mollengard, but instead, they’d inadvertently swelled her magical potential to twice its normal size, a feverish, inflammatory growth that engorged itself on disparate energies as it continuously expanded. Her troubling, albeit vague comment about her rogue magic was enough to second-guess involving her at all. “I’m sorry,” he bowed his head, contrite. “About what Mollengard did to you. I’ve had a hand in those operations… in the past. I know what they tried--and failed--to scrape out of you. The side-effects following a botched procedure...I’ve seen them, too. There have been other magic-users too powerful to accept the crystallization of their magic. I’ve killed a few of them, Teselin.” He curled his killing hand and hid it behind his back, out of her view. “These rare magic-users become greater liabilities if allowed to survive with swelled and overflowing channels. Mollengard insists we’re doing them, and the rest of the world a favor by ending their lives before their power inevitably self-destructs. I always thought it was a convenient excuse; justification for murder. Mollengard always finds reasons for the lives they end; culling the herd, setting examples through punishment, executing ‘poisoned’ magic-users that they themselves poisoned…” He shook his head; why was he revealing the horrifying details of Mollengard’s sadistic practices to an impressionable girl and one of its latest victims?
“...Excuses,” he concluded. “Mollengard likes excuses. Nothing more. All the same...I was mistaken. I shouldn’t involve you in this, Teselin. If two great containers of magical energy interfere or interact with each other…” He trailed off. The tendon on his wrist ached. “You’re at risk, too. It’s possible the risk for you is even greater than it is for me. Your magic is attracted to energy, and Gaolithe is a repository of ancient magic. What will happen if the two of you meet again, and your magic should…” he gestured vaguely with his left hand, but did not fill in the blanks. “Gaolithe may be ancient magic, but I have resistance to most forms of magic. And,” he glanced uneasily out the window, towards the sentinel tree that whispered his name. “And somehow...I have additional protection. It’s not mere speculation, either. I’ve always been protected.” He placed a hand over his chest, over the wedding band where the pendant of his necklace once rested. “It’s only a matter of transferring the sword, via clamp or some similar tool, from one chest to another, placing that chest on a cart, and wheeling the cart to its burial site. The easiest solution is often the best one. Dawn Warriors of the past have needed to handle Gaolithe somehow, after its previous wielder…” Died? Ceased existing? Fell into oblivion? Whatever the correct terminology, his silence implied the unanimous answer; it doomed the wielder, to the very core of her soul.
“Control...it’s tenuous for you, isn’t it?” It wasn’t a condemnation or an accusation, but a question steeped in concern. “Capability means nothing. We all have the potential and the capability to perform certain feats. I may be capable of learning how to read for example, but it doesn’t mean I’ll be successful. If you haven’t used levitation before, there’s no guarantee it’ll work in your favor. Not right away. Not without practice--and we don’t have the time. We’ll want to act quickly, before Sigrid becomes suspicious of our motives and retaliates. If you want to help, Teselin...we need to reverse the order. Your magic is a last resort. I only thought to ask you because,” his eyes drew to one corner, where a hunk of wood and a carving knife sat, half-sculpted, on a bedside table, “Alster is in midst of preparing for his trip, for one, and for another...I’m asking because of Vega. She wants additional insurance that I’ll be safe, and her caution, of course, is warranted. But,” the requisitive fierceness that Teselin thought departed had roosted in his gaze, forming rigid lines around his mouth, “the only hand made to kill me is my own. Death doesn’t want me. Forbanne are forged in the boiling waters of a volcano. Their purpose is to withstand, endure, and survive. Fatal wounds don’t kill us. Magic doesn’t kill us. I’m going to make use of what Mollengard created. I am their monster, but I fight to end enslavement with the power my masters have shackled around my hands and feet Gaolithe is enslavement; I will wrangle with it to free what it has enslaved. This plan is my responsibility; taking the sword is my responsibility. I will be the one to shoulder Sigrid’s ire and remove her burden. I won’t let the victimization of my family spin in perpetuity. I’ve had enough. I’m doing this with my hands so I can build something, protect something, for once. I need to do this.”
“So this is my concession to you.” He straightened his formidable height, not with the intention to lord it over Teselin and intimidate her into compliance; nonetheless, it happened by default. The Forbanne commander in Haraldur had not atrophied during his convalescence period. “I asked for your help, but only to step in if you sense danger. If you agree--then I’ll let go of my grudges, as you say. But I can’t guarantee I’ll cooperate with the necromancer or with the wolf-shifter without your agreement. The last time you used magic for a cause above yourself, Mollengard captured you. I’m not withholding to make peace to bully you into cooperation, Teselin. Vitali prolonged my, well, vitality, and Hadwin was never my chosen target. I’ll speak the words you want to hear--I’ll exonerate them--but I won’t do it if it’ll cost you your safety.”
He never heard her response, because Vega swept into the sanctuary, interrupting their stand-off borne from obstinate ideals and desires. Both wanted to prove themselves. Both needed to prove themselves. To do so, neither would allow for unnecessary interference. Unfortunately, when Vega inquired about the nature of their gathering, Teselin spoke up before he did, staked her claim in the operation, and jolted out of the sanctuary before Haraldur could outwardly voice his opposition.
“No.” He glared at the hastily closed door. “Vega, I can’t condone this. She’s a--” She’s a child, his thoughts echoed. In so many ways, she’s still a child. “I was wrong to involve her. There are other casters I can ask. Ones who have better control of their magic.” Ones who aren’t children. “Let’s do this before Teselin has the time to act. We can’t wait around while she figures out how to use her own wayward magic to do something other people have more experience in doing. The consequences could be disastrous.” With long strides, he vaulted to the door. “I made a bad decision out of short-sightedness, out of eagerness to remove Sigrid from that cursed blade, and I’m going to correct it. Stay here with Elespeth. I won’t be gone long.”
He didn’t wait around for Vega to dissuade him from his decision before launching out of the tiny sanctuary, his footfalls strident and purposeful. Alster hadn’t yet left for Nairit. The Rigas Head was sick with grief, and likely busy in settling his affairs with the Rigas council, but, according to Teselin, he had spearheaded the research for a solution alongside Naimah. He would help, even if it was to direct him to someone who could help in his place.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” a voice clucked somewhere from behind the bushes, close to the garden footpath. Haraldur stomped to a stop and whirled to face the aggressor, scrambling for a weapon on his person--but the Gardeners had confiscated his blades. Hadwin Kavanagh emerged from the brush, dusted with deadfall and pipe ashes. The pipe in question curled like a question mark from the corner of the shifter’s indulgent mouth, in a testament to his curiosity. Why? Why would the fool dare to approach Haraldur, knowing the danger he’d posed to his life in the past?
Why? The answer was clear. Haraldur sported no weapons, nor any desire to reach forward and strangle the man with his bare hands. Solveig’s compulsion had retreated. His connection to the Forbanne, severed. And his orders to kill Hadwin--obsolete. Apparently, the shifty man had been banking on this possibility, or else his intrigue regarding the status between them was too great to ignore. There was a third option to consider, as well; he was acting as a diversion so Teselin could retreat safely, without opposition biting at her heels.
“If you’re looking for Alster,” he puffed serenely on his pipe, his eyes flashing knowingly, “he left this morning with the Links’ caravan, heading over to the necromancer’s place. Don’t suspect he’s coming back here.” He brushed away the detritus that collected on his shoulders, which smeared the pipe ash into black streaks of soot on his jerkin. “Glad to see you up and about, Commander Sorde. My sister’s handiwork wasn’t permanent, I see. Neither was yours--well, on both counts. Consider yourself damn lucky she survived your fatal stabbing.”
The thinly-veiled threat wasn’t lost to Haraldur. “What do you want?”
“What I want?” A peel of laughter erupted from the madman’s mouth. “No, you’ve got it wrong, Harry.” Haraldur’s mouth twitched. “Don’t assume I don’t know shit about what’s going on, just cuz I’ve been a good-for-nothing layabout these past few days. It’s written there in your head, for me to read. Got her involved in something you regret, hmm?”
Hadwin approached, stalking like a wolf on the prowl, hostility fueling his creeping proximity. Haraldur didn’t move, but his fingers danced, yearning for the grip of a blade, a ward against the wolf and his penchant for destroying personal boundaries. “Relax,” the wolf whispered in Haraldur’s ear. “I ain’t here to fuck shit up. My sister’s already done that in spades. I know about Gaolithe. Hell, I was the one to encourage the scamp to do something about it, back in Braighdath. We’ve known for a damn while.”
Some secret, Sigrid, Haraldur thought, reserving no amount of annoyance for his cousin. “So you want this, then? You want Teselin to pit herself against a powerful weapon with nothing but volatile magic at her disposal?”
“How else is she gonna learn not to let fear destroy her? The magic’s a part of her. Hell, it is her. It’s not gonna vanish or make itself scarce just ‘cuz we don’t like what it’s capable of doing. Besides,” he planted a hand on Haraldur’s back, in faux chumminess, “she used a fucking tidal wave to destroy a Mollengardian fleet. On purpose. Relocating a sword--pah, child’s play.”
“This isn’t a learning experience,” Haraldur sighed under his breath, eager to escape Hadwin’s grasp but knowing the importance of discretion. Voices carried. ...As did whispers and secrets. “She succeeded in the tidal wave because she trained with Alster for weeks in preparation. It didn’t matter. Mollengard captured her, and their experiments made her magic sick. And we want her to tread near an ancient weapon of boundless magical energy? I neutralize magical energy. I was built for this sort of task.”
“Let me put it to you this way, Harry.”
“Don’t call me Harry.”
“Whatever. So,” he blew smoke in the Eyraillian prince’s face, “if we wanna keep suppressing the scamp’s magic, it’s sure to blow up in everyone’s faces at a really inconvenient moment. You know what it’s like to get treated like a damn weapon. You’re some inhuman tool of war, and it’s all so fucking tragic, and you keep backsliding into the belief that nothing’s gonna change what you are. Put the weapon on the battlefield, away from civilians. No unneeded casualties, no collateral damage, right? Well,” he clicked his tongue, “you’re doing the same thing to her. Dehumanizing her. She’s a liability and you know a liability when you see one, Forbanne Prince. The more you implant the belief that she’s nothing but a weapon that can’t be trusted with nuanced tasks, it’s gonna fester in her head, paralyzing her with more fear, forcing her to suppress and suppress because people can’t accept the monster in her--and one day she’ll explode. It won’t be pretty, let me tell you.”
“I’m not dehumanizing her.” Unable to withstand the lack of breathing room, Haraldur broke free from the handsy faoladh, shrugging away all physical contact. “I’m trying to keep her safe from--”
“--Hah!” Hadwin threw his head back and howled. “No such thing as safe! It’s a fucking illusion. We’re never safe. But we love the delusion so much, we build walls to protect it. You can’t smother a person with safety measures and expect them to breathe. Die in the enclosure or die outside the enclosure, it’s all the same; dead is dead. Look,” he held out his hands in surrender, “it’s done now, your Highness. You roped her into the plan. You’re stuck with her. Make it work. She needs the little victories in preparation for the bitter losses.”
“However you word it, Hadwin, you’re protecting her, too,” Haraldur shot back, widening his stance as though to retreat. “And I get it, I do. You want what’s best for her. But the difference between her and me is that I’ve been at war for most of my life. I’m a specialized soldier, and I’ve trained against magical warfare. She’s young, and she’s inexperienced. She needs a teacher and proper training before playing around with an ancient, magically-dense weapon.”
“Fuck, Harry---life is the experience. You think she’s been ‘playing around’ all these years? What a fucking condescending thing to say. Really exercising that latent fatherhood muscle, hmm?” His golden eyes dissected the taller man. “The only magically-dense weapon I see here is you. I’m wasting my breath on a hunk of steel. But before I write you off as a lost cause, I’m gonna give you a chance.” He jerked his head in the direction of the closest palace entrance. “We’re working it out with Tes. This ain’t my kinda game because no one comes out a winner, but neither of you is budging and I can’t beat you senseless for a number of reasons, so you’re following me unless you want a repeat of what my sister did to you.”
Though hesitant, Haraldur complied with the faoladh’s demands, and accompanied him to the palace. Down the hallway, in the guest wing, they arrived at a closed door which belonged to Teselin. With his astute senses, even in human skin, Hadwin could determine if the summoner was in midst of actively manipulating the energies around her. Knowing he wasn’t able to disturb a delicate procedure, he knocked and blathered his presence before striding through the open door.
“Heya, chickadee. Whatcha up to?” He greeted her with a wide, toothy grin and a playful punch on the shoulder. “Look what I plucked out of the Night Garden.” Haraldur entered the room, nodding in acknowledgment but remaining silent. “It’s great, innit? He didn’t kill me at first sight so I know we’re on to becoming the best of friends. I thought we’d all talk.” He kicked the door shut with his foot. “Looks like the two of you have your hearts set on coming through for the ol’ grouch, Siggy and her smite sword. And I’m here to make sure everyone gets a piece of the smite pie cuz you’re so desperate for this chance to prove yourselves like it’s the only damn chance that’s ever gonna exist. So yeah, let’s talk honor and worthiness, and argue over who’s more prepared and who’s more deserving and who’s got the skills or the better reason--all that bullshit. And no one leaves ‘til I’m satisfied with the results, got it? Cuz if I’m not satisfied...then I’ll snatch that sword in my jowls and drag it to wherever, myself.”
“You don’t need to be sorry.” Teselin shook her head, causing her tresses of pin-straight, inky hair to fall into her eyes as a result. She tucked them behind her ear in an absent gesture, only for them to fall right back into place when she looked up to turn her attention to the window, her dark gaze appearing far-off. “When I… when we escaped, I’d have welcomed that pity. Because when you’re that out of sorts, you want to believe that anyone feeling sorry for you might have it in them to find a way to make your pain and your panic go away. But that isn’t how it works… at least, not how it works for me. Feeling sorry for me didn’t help me before Mollengard had a hand in tampering with my magic. Part of me wonders if what they did changed my magic at all, or of it is just that I happen to be more aware of it now, and I’ve built it to have become something colossal in my head.”
Whether or not she really believed that, or if the young summoner was merely placating herself with excuses that no one else could offer in a desperate means to find comfort with her “condition”. When you were more afraid than ever of losing control, it was inevitable that you would desperately search for other reasons why the worst was not yet to come. Teselin always had been one who strived to find the bright side of things, and to invest in hope when there was none. “There was a time when I might have agreed with them, though. Some days have felt… I don’t really know how to describe it. Darker than others, I suppose, since we escaped Mollengard. Just as I was beginning to find my footing when it comes to channeling my magic to my own will, thanks to Alster’s help, I fear that I really don’t have the means to a grip on it, anymore. But I cannot tell if it is a result of what they’ve done, or a result of my own lack of confidence, after the fact. There is no telling, because with the nature of my magic, there is no way to measure or compare it to similar scales. It has always been big and wild, and it has always reached for more than I want it to. But…” She looked away from the window at last. Determination had replaced that lost look in her onyx eyes as they settled on the Forbanne commander.
“But that does not mean that I don’t, or that I cannot have control, Haraldur. I’ve had control when it mattered, once before. I might not have been successful with the tidal wave, because Mollengard got to me before it could serve its purpose the way I’d intended, but with some practice, I managed to find my footing. So who is to say I cannot do so again?” And there was also the matter of the Mollengardians who had stopped their caravan as Hadwin had attempted to smuggle them to safety. What she had done to those men… that had not only been purposeful. It had been a gruesome success.
In her fleeting interactions with Haraldur, however, Teselin had not come to understand that when stubbornness set in, the Eyraillian prince was not one to budge from whatever stance he had taken. But she was not used to this treatment; not used to being dissuaded from proving herself to herself, and to everyone else. Back in Stella D’Mare, Chara had invested faith in her, and were it not for Mollengard’s interference, she had almost come through. Alster had also invested faith in her enough that he’d seen fit to train her for a time before she’d swelled that tidal wave against the ocean’s wishes. Hell, the entire plan to evacuate Stella D’Mare and disarm Mollengard had depended on her to be successful. And contrary to the feelings she’d harboured while incarcerated by Mollengard--that she was a failure, and it was all her fault that she and Chara had ended up as they did--she knew now that it wasn’t a matter of what she had done or not done. Somehow, Mollengard had anticipated their interference, and had prepared to step in when they took action. Teselin Kristeva might have been young, and inexperienced in a multitude of ways, but she was not a failure. And she would not fail Sigrid.
“So you really don’t think I stand a chance, learning as simple a trick as manipulating an object without touching it.” The young summoner did not raise her voice, but her shoulders went stiff and she pressed her lips together. “You know, it might have been one thing to assume I wouldn’t have been capable to summon a tidal wave. That was a big job, and I am a small person. But you know what? Not a single person doubted me when the time came, and moreover, I did it. I managed to do what was necessary, and if it had not been for Mollengard’s foresight that we meant to interfere with their plans, I’d have been successful. So,” her dark eyes flashed something fierce and defiant, and despite how the Forbanne commander towered over it, nothing about Teselin’s posture suggested she felt at all small. “I’m not buying your reasoning. I am sure you mean well, Haraldur, but you’ve already asked for my help, and I am not going to diminish myself because you’ve suddenly decided you have no faith in me. I’m used to people doubting me; for the longest time, I’ve doubted myself, and part of me still wants to. But that you are suddenly so willing to throw away your life for the possibility that your resistance to magic will make you immune to that sword’s wrath...” One of her small hands curled into a fist, and her brow furrowed with contempt. “Do I have to remind you that you are going to be a father, very soon? Is your faith in me so non-existent that you’d rather risk forfeiting your life with the family you’ve created than to let me, someone with so fewer ties to this word, even attempt to help?”
It was then that Vega sidled into the sanctuary, interrupted their conversation with excited news that Naimah was on board to participate in this “intervention” that would force Sigrid Sorenson to have faith in an alternate path to victory. Teselin immediately saw an opportunity in the arrival of the Forbanne commander’s wife, and turned her attention to the Skyknight. “Not only am I in complete agreement to help, Your Highness, but you might want to consider talking your husband out of risking his life by handling that sword.” Once again, the young summoner never raised her voice, but there was an undeniable edge to her words. “For all he asked for my help, it seems he was quick to change his mind, and would rather put his own safety at risk in lieu of having faith that I can make enough of a difference to spare everyone the danger.”
Vega was speechless as the young girl hurried out of the sanctuary with her own iron-clad resolve, and looked to Haraldur with confusion. “I… I’m not sure I understand. I thought we discussed beseeching her help, Haraldur. At least insofar as figuring out a way to handle the sword without putting you at risk…” Her brows knitted together in confusion. “Why are we changing our mind now, when one of the most powerful casters available to us is ready and willing to help? It is because…”
It was. It was because Teselin, a girl who was certainly no older than sixteen or seventeen years, was a child, in Haraldur’s eyes. And her husband did not have it in himself to put a child at risk. Before the Eyraillian princess could open her mouth to seek confirmation, however, her husband as up and out the door, in pursuit of the young summoner who was obviously slighted by Haraldur’s sudden change of heart.
Teselin was beyond slighted, however. As someone who did not so easily take offense to people’s doubts in her skills or usefulness, her hasty and stubborn flight from the sanctuary had little to do with Haraldur suddenly losing faith in her. It had everything to do with the fact that he was adamant in refusing to so much as give her a chance.
With nowhere else to go to calm the anger that heated her skin, the young summoner returned to her quarters at the palace to cool her heels--and to find the means to prove the Eyraillian prince wrong. I won’t be useless. All but slamming the door behind her, Teselin expelled a breath heavy with resentment and paced her room. I won’t be a liability. I am going to take what Mollengard did to me, and I am going to make it into something that will benefit me--that will benefit everyone. I am going to make you believe that I am your best and safest option…
It was just levitation--of an object no heavier than an ordinary sword, at that. Sure, it had taken weeks of training and focus and practice to bend the ocean to her will in summoning the tidal wave, but the task at hand was nothing compared to that feat. How hard could it be, manipulating the air around an object to change its position for but a few moments? If they coordinated just right, it would not need to be a matter of moving it all the way out of the palace using her magic alone. All that needed to be done was to reposition it into a safe container, of sorts. A light chest, upon which she could first cast a protective spell, before handing it over to Haraldur--someone already safe against magic, to an extent--who could take it somewhere where Sigrid would not be able to access it. It was such a simple solution, if only he could see that by working together, they could have it all figured out…
In a desperate attempt to grasp at hope, to reassure herself that her magic had not completely swelled beyond her control, the young summoner turned to a pitcher of water sitting on a bedside table. But she was not tempered--far from it, in the wake of Haraldur’s adamant refusal at her involvement--and no sooner did she throw the energy of her will at the object that it upset and went crashing against the wall, water flying over the marbled floor and dampening the wood of the end table with its contents. That alone should have been a cue for her to take a breath and reel her energies in, but the result only served to upset her further. “No… I’m not going to let you do this to me.” She said to no one in particular, as if her magic were an entity separate from herself. “I’m not going to let you make a failure out of me. This isn’t a difficult feat. I’m not going to let people down, anymore.”
So she tried again. And again, and again, and again, but with each attempt to exert her will on the innocent pitcher, her anger and frustration bloomed, with caused her control to slip ever further. Tears began to gather in her eyes; the room suddenly felt hot from the wild energies emanating from her body, and she wanted to scream. Haraldur was wrong; he was wrong, wrong, wrong, because she just needed to concentrate and find her center, to find the right way to direct her magic to perform to her bidding. The Eyraillian prince had gotten under her skin, riled her up, and made a self-fulfilling prophecy out of her: a liability, someone with magic too untamed to be useful…
Just as she began to feel the urge to purposely upend her bed in some violent feat to prove to herself that at least her destructive tendencies could be intentional, there was a knock on her door in a pattern she recognized. Hadwin’s reassuring presence intruded on the electric frustration in the room, and for a handful of seconds, she almost forgot about her frustrations--until she saw Haraldur trail closely behind him. “This isn’t just about Sigrid. Not for me, or for him.” She informed the faoladh, her dark eyes locked on Haraldur. “I have a chance to actually use the magic I’m cursed with for good. A chance that poses very low risks for me, might I add. At worst, I’ll end up having the sword fly against the wall. I’m more concerned for the people in the room with me. So it makes absolutely no sense,” she narrowed her eyes at the Eyraillian prince, “that you’d put your life at risk when there might be a better way. Do you honestly think your wife will let me live with myself if you go and touch that sword, and die before your children are born? I think I’d rather find death at the hands of Gaolithe than the princess of Eyraille. It sounds far more merciful.”
Crossing the room, the summoner picked up the ill-fated tin pitcher that hadn’t deserved the brunt of her anger, and placed it delicately back upon the table, as if in apology to the inanimate object. “Haraldur, don’t think for a moment that I don’t understand. You wanted to take your own life when you thought you’d killed Hadwin’s sister. But this would be a different story if I were older, wouldn’t it? If I were a ‘woman’, and not a girl. But here’s the truth.” Teselin turned back to the pair, one who as far more prepared to listen to her than the other. “I might be young, but I’m not a child. I don’t say that in defiance of my age, either. The fact is, I’ve never really had the luxury of being a child. Neither did my brother. We were both born with magic that we didn’t understand, that made us suffer, and I am still learning to contend with it. I had to grow up a long time ago, and here I am, now. Still growing, and still learning, but that doesn’t make me a child. So you need to stop seeing me as one, and accept that there is a good chance I can help all of us, Sigrid included, get through this unscathed. And I think I know how.”
Her brow smoothed ever so slightly, when it appeared that the Forbanne commander was willing to at least let her finish. “All I need to do is use my will to move that sword to a container of sorts, one that I can enchant with energies that will deflect its magical tendencies. A container which I would then only trust you to handle, with the added benefit of your magical resistance. This doesn’t need to be hard or dangerous. Gaolithe reached out to me; something tells me that my magical signature confuses it. Maybe it doesn’t know that I’m even human, but just another powerful object, like itself. We may never know, and I don’t particularly want to find out. But I do know that if you let me help--if you just give me a little bit of time to concentrate on the task required of me, I can do this, Haraldur. Let me make something of my burden, at last.”
As per Vitali Kristeva’s new nocturnal tendencies, since Galeyn was uncovered months ago, the necromancer had laid down to rest just before dawn, the morning after Elespeth Rigas had willingly slipped into a coma. Of course, he realized it was only a matter of time before her faithful husband would come banging down his door, demanding that he take him to Nairit to find the last potential hope for Alster’s dear marriage, which happened to be his own reclusive alchemist brother. There was no point in trying to talk him out of it now, not since Teselin had already volunteered to take up the mantle if he refused to be of service. One way or another, Isidor Kristeva was going to be bothered for his services, and what was worse, Vitali had his doubts that he would actually take any form of the alchemist’s rejection as an answer
So he was prepared to face the Rigas lord’s demands, and depart Galeyn whenever Alster saw fit to leave, but he’d have thought the caster would at least have the decency to take a day to flesh things out--and not barge in first thing in the morning, when the necromancer sought to close his eyes for a handful of hours.
It felt as though he had just reclined on the small bed in the room he and Tivia shared moments ago. In truth, though, he’d been dozing merely a couple of hours when his housemate gently shook his shoulder. “Tivia. Is something on fire?” He murmured, a small frown turning down the corners of his mouth as he roused from light slumber. Even the wicked could be cranky without their beauty sleep. “Because I should hope that would be the only reason you’re waking me in the daylight hours…”
Tivia apologized profusely, but was quick to amend that it was Alster who sought his audience at this hour (which was only a godforsaken hour if you prowled the night, like he did). And he was willing to sit and wait for the necromancer to wake up, however long it took, so he could get down to business. “Of course. I doubt he got a good night’s sleep, if the traveling word is true that one Elespeth Rigas succumbed to a coma, last night. Why should anyone else rest if he cannot?”
Agitated, albeit compliant, the necromancer stood and stretched his limbs, before departing the bedroom. Sure enough, Alster Rigas was awake and ready to discuss business. “Thank you for giving me the courtesy of two hours worth of sleep before you decide you want to talk. How kind of you.” With little to no facade to hide his displease, Vitali pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and folded his arms, crossing one leg over the other as he leveled what would have been his gaze on the Rigas caster. “I assume you are here to talk about our little trip, since you currently no longer have your loving wife to keep you company. I apologize in advance if you find I am a poor substitute for her doting in the days to come.”
During the walk to Teselin’s quarters, Haraldur let Hadwin’s words percolate. People, including himself, may have crowned him with the moniker of ‘stubborn,’ but despite this title, he made it a point to listen, even if he disagreed. Especially if he disagreed. Hadwin, by his nature, foisted his opinion through belligerence and cutthroat tactics, wielding his unique insights to wound his quarry into submission. His sister did the same, and succeeded. But the conversation at the Night Garden differed from his previous encounters with the faoladh, and it differed from his encounter with Rowen Kavanagh. Hadwin had not only pulled his punches, but fostered an environment for a productive dialogue, as though he, too, realized the importance of cooperation over dissension. It was strange for a man who thrived in name-calling and sharp-tongued put-downs to adopt a pacifistic approach, but perhaps not as strange as first surmised. He had created the environment with Teselin in mind, because it was necessary for someone with volatile magic to feel wanted and understood--and he was trusting, no, entrusting Haraldur to minimize the damage. In entering Teselin’s quarters, Hadwin’s hard stare said it all. Hurt her again and I’ll snap your neck.
Perhaps Hadwin did not mean to act as a mediator, after all, but rather, to lead Haraldur into a trap, laden with his own misgivings.
It didn’t matter to him. The faoladh’s words were already bouncing in his head, little reminders of his flawed reasoning.
I’m trying to keep her safe…
We’re never safe! He’d retorted. Die in the enclosure or die outside the enclosure...dead is dead.
Inhuman tool of war. You know what it’s like…
To be treated like a damn weapon.
He did know what it was like. One of his first lessons as a Forbanne in-training was to let go of restraint. Exceed limitations, despite broken bones, blood loss, or excruciating pain. The body did not dictate one’s course. It was a mere vessel. As long as the mind wielded it like an unbreakable blade, the body would never break. You can’t afford to break. Break and you’re dead. If you can’t fight, you’re useless. You were always made to fight.
His masters--slavers with whips--drilled the concept into the heads of many a soldier. They were a herd of wild bulls, unleashed on against their enemies, against unsuspecting civilians. When they did not charge and gore with their horns, they were corralled into a pen, consigned far away from the civilization they destroyed. Weapons did not mingle in polite society. Weapons did not pleasure themselves with drink, hearty food, with women, or with men. They were not to be trusted with tasks outside of warfare, or of massacres deemed as ‘population control. Forbanne obeyed their masters, but their masters feared the monsters they created. If they were to rampage against the chain-holders, the whip-carriers, and free themselves from compulsion, society would not survive the inevitable onslaught. Forbanne killed. Forbanne did not build. They could never control their temperament to destroy instead of preserve. Allowing them near society would ensure its downfall. Even today, Haraldur had to make a conscious effort to cull his urges not to slay his enemies, unable to differentiate between an enemy and an ally wearing enemy-skin. It was easy to paint anyone an enemy in his skewed vision--when the instinct was always to kill.
And yet...he decided to categorize Teselin as the same dangerous creature who should not interact with society, afraid that she, too, would destroy everything she touched. But fearing its truth gave the prophecy power, as he well knew from his experiences with negative self-talk; it often manifested as reality. Hadwin recognized the fear in Haraldur and sought to address it, for it was doubt that made monsters out of mankind. And Haraldur...he doubted her. Doubted her control, as he had, and continued to doubt, his own. So what made him a more viable candidate for the task at hand? Because his enemy did not possess flesh or bone or breath and hence, no one was in danger of his compulsion to kill? Teselin manipulated energies, and energies proliferated every crevice of the world, be it peopled or unpeopled. Haraldur might be able to destroy a civilization, but Teselin could sear the entire earth, if her magic ran amuck. Was it justified of him to fear her power as a result of fearing himself, despite his resolve to move forward and accept his right to a family--to his children?
Yes, and no. But to perpetuate the ‘yes’ would do a disservice not only to Teselin, but to himself, and the people who believed in his kindness and restraint.
Algiz, Algiz...the tree had whispered.
You are a protector, his mother had proclaimed, in a dream.
What was true? In what way was he able to protect, when he was the one constantly victimized by the past? When young women with sickly magic wanted to risk their ‘apocryphal’ safety for a weapon that did not concern them?
And that was when it hit him. It was not her youthful countenance and wide-eyed innocence that fueled him to disagree with her involvement. Not in full, anyway. It represented half of the story.
The other half was about him. Forbanne fight. I need to fight that weapon. I need to be the one. If I don’t fight, I’m useless. But I fight not for a master. Not anymore. Solveig doesn’t control me. I fight for my family, and I need to neutralize the threat. I can’t face my children, I can’t face Vega, if I don’t make up for my past mistakes. They need to know that Haraldur Sorde won’t stop fighting--and this is where I make my first stand. I’m a protector...because I don’t die.
Having organized the convoluted threadwork of his thoughts into neater, untangled lines, he listened to Teselin’s perspective and validated it with a nod, with a stance that did not close off her experiences regarding her short but eventful life.
“I’m aware of my hypocrisy, Teselin.” He strode into the room, removing himself from the entryway where Hadwin leaned against the latch, teeth bared like a short-fused guard dog. “Are you sixteen--seventeen? I had my childhood taken from me. Even before Mollengard’s intrusion on my homeland, my life wasn’t easy. And then, at your age, no one would have dared to look at me and see a child. I never was one. Not as a full-blown Forbanne, the weapon of Mollengard, and kinderslayer. I’m not so naive to think I could protect children who’ve already seen the brunt of this world’s evils--or to protect them at all. To blind them from hardship, or to ignore what they’ve suffered simply because they’re too young to understand true darkness. It’s not like that. Age doesn't invalidate the darkness. Believe me, I’m not discounting what you’ve been through, Teselin, or rejecting your help because you’re young. I just don’t want to be responsible for losing another young life. But,” he pressed against the puffy scar along his wrist, which ached in conjunction with the new scar on his throat, “I’m wrong, on multiple levels. You look young. It’s not the same thing as being young, but it’s made no difference to me in the past. That’s how your sister got to me, Hadwin,” he acknowledged the wolfish man by the door, who grunted, but surprisingly, didn’t input a retort or interrupt. “She wasn’t a child, either, but she wore the aesthetic well, and preyed on my vulnerability, and easily fooled me with her guise. Would I have cared as much if I saw her as a woman, and killed her as a woman? I don’t know, but she got to me.”
Finally, Hadwin stepped in. Not physically, but his flippant tone contributed his long-distance opinion on the exchange between the two parties. “Yeah, you’re remorseful and shit; I can see that, and hell, I appreciate it cuz if you meant to kill her, oh expert killer, I suspect she’d be dead. But you’re an open sore, Harry, and it’s your fault you’re letting people poke around in it; the thing’s infected. Drain the fucking thing already.” A preternatural glow glinted in his predatory eyes, a threat, no, a promise, that if he ‘drain the sore’ himself, the faoladh would do it for him.
So that was why he was cornered and boxed in the room. To address his vulnerabilities. His fears. What he submerged for so long and what had ultimately killed him. Declaring a forthright mindset for positive growth and change meant nothing, was impossible to implement, if he did not release his old beliefs, which doomed him to repeat the same cycles.
“She got to me...because I can’t ever stop seeing the innocent faces of everyone I’ve killed. Not just children, but...innocence itself. Purity. I can’t see past it. I can’t separate myself from what I did a long time ago. But that’s not...that’s not fair to you, Teselin,” he squeezed out, with difficulty. “You’re your own person, not a victim, or the face that represents the people I’ve killed. Mollengard has put their hands on you, too. That made it worse, for me, initially...to involve you. But like Mollengard, I’ve made too many excuses for myself, and it’s not doing me any favors. Teselin,” he raised his head, his eyes like gangrenous holes--open sores made literal, “I’ll shut off the source of this old, rusty rationale, because I can’t be afraid of my own children when they’re born. I can’t do that to them. But I have to start somewhere, so...I would appreciate your help, and to work alongside you. Your magic has a purpose, has a place, and I need it to oppose Gaolithe. I have a caveat, however,” he held out a hand before she opened her mouth to protest. “Please hear me out; I know it sounds nonsensical, but give me a moment to explain.”
“I don’t doubt that you have the right skillset for interacting with Gaolithe.” He eyed the pitcher Teselin retrieved from the floor, and it occurred to him that she was practicing her levitation ability prior to his entrance. “But I don’t doubt my skillset, either. You’re right; this goes beyond Sigrid, for us. We both...have something we want to prove. You want to prove you have control over your magic, and I also want to prove that I have control over my fate, in this second life. But I don’t think I can move on unless I face another challenge head-on, and win. I failed gravely before, and,” he hesitated, “if not for your brother, I may not be alive. But I’ve also learned that...I won’t die. Because I don’t die. I can’t rightly explain it, but I have protection. Death doesn’t stick. It took almost dying, and waking at the Night Garden, to realize that. And to know for sure, I must face it again--and not die. There is a rune,” he traced its pattern in the air; three prongs, pointed skywards. “It’s been with me since my mother died. I thought it was nothing but a lucky charm. Something to grab on to, and keep me sane. But I heard its name spoken in the Night Garden. And I know, somehow, I know, I’m safe here. I’m not throwing away my life. It’s a bold claim but, Gaolithe can’t kill me here. It has to be me.” He bowed his head in supplication. “Teselin, Sigrid is my only connection to my homeland. I have to do this for her. I have to physically remove this threat from my cousin. I want to share some of her burden, even if it’s for a minute. To stand in opposition to that cursed blade. To be in midst of its energies, and to say, ‘no, you can’t have me. And you can’t have her.’”
“That is one helluva gamble if I ever heard of one,” Hadwin weighed in with a low, impressed whistle.
“It’s not a gamble,” Haraldur raised his head to meet Teselin’s gaze anew. “This sword is the bane of my family’s existence. Let me be the one to strike it down. I’m not doing this bare-handed; I will need your magic for additional protection. I will need your magic to ward the chest. I will need your magic to bury its energies so it can’t be found. I will need your magic to cast a shroud so no witnesses can trace our whereabouts when we stick the damned thing into the earth. Every step requires your magic. Especially the step when I lift it. You’ll be doing plenty with your magic. But that nightmare sword is mine.”
“Ah, Tes, he’s an idiot, but he may be on to something.” Hadwin, pushing off from the door, relit his pipe and joined the discussion, closing his proximity to the two headstrong personalities. “The bastard’s got family on the brain. He won’t budge. I’d break his kneecaps for you, but he’d break me, first. It’s a family matter, so let ‘im settle his family matter, even if that family member wants nothin’ to do with him and just wants to mack on her pretty li’l roisin dubh until oblivion collects her soul. Who cares if Harry dies and leaves his wife and kids fatherless, right? You gotta fight for what’s important, children be damned. As long as he challenges a supernatural sword with his inhuman might--that’s top priority. Even if he loses, at least he roared at it for a while and flexed his unkillable muscles in a bid to pump blood in his limp dick. It ain’t your responsibility, Tes. He’s gotta do it for his ego. Nah,” he threw a dismissive hand in the air as the Forbanne Prince’s eyes narrowed dangerously, “I get it. I do shit for the thrill of it, too. Hell, I’m attracted to the prospect of touching Gaolithe, myself. Feel what it feels when the life blinks out of me. Must be a rush of energy incomparable to any other death out there. But what I meant when I said you might be on to something,” he pulled the pipe free from his mouth and positioned it away from his overly sensitive nose. “Are we assuming Gaolithe can’t smite things that it doesn’t view as human? That’s your reasoning, isn’t it, scamp? So if you think about it, we’re the three best candidates for the job; I ain’t human, and neither is Haraldur.”
Haraldur’s body stiffened. “...What do you mean, I’m not human?”
“Well,” the faoladh pointed to his nose, “you sure as fuck don’t smell like you’re human. Not fully, anyway. I always wondered why you carried the aroma of something I’d like to lift my leg and piss on. But in the Night Garden, you reek of it. And since my animal intuition is never wrong, I’m not mistaken.”
A cold breeze seemed to stir around the Eyraillian prince, as though suddenly encased in ice. “Is this your idea of a fucking joke? Because if it is--”
“--A tree is talking to you, Harry, and you’re spooked outta your mind about it. I couldn’t make that a better joke if I tried.” Taking advantage of the uncomfortable silence that washed over the man (though it did not quite thaw him), Hadwin shifted back to the main topic in an effortless sweep. “So Harry’s giving you free rein with your magic, Tes. Let him have his existential moment with the sword, and we’ll call it a compromise. He’s a meat-head, and he’s made of wood, to boot, so he’ll be fine. You put some magic screen in front of himself and the sword--and call it golden. Give the big strong boy his way so he doesn’t shake his leaves and throw a tantrum. That’s a surefire way to lord your maturity over him.”
Alster Rigas, ever patient, understanding, and accommodating, found that he had precious little left of his endearing traits when he set off that morning with Briery’s caravan. He chalked it up to lack of sleep. While he appreciated Teselin’s company, her sympathetic presence, and her willingness to always be helpful (not dissimilar to a certain Rigas Lord), it was not enough to stave off the emptiness, the draining numbness of losing interest in the world he professed to heal. However, he made a promise to the summoner that he would endeavor to extend companionship, or at the very least, mutual understanding, towards the necromancer during their travels, and to do so, he needed to make an effort, however hollow in its execution.
So he hitched the Night steeds to the caravan, which Chara had loaded up with plenty of provisions the night before, and he headed to the outskirts of Galeyn first thing in the morning. There was no reason to stay at the palace, no reason to fight the temptation to visit Elespeth in the sanctuary, a battle he’d inevitably lose the longer he stayed. With faith that his wife was among the best healers of their respective crafts (and among a host of people who cared for her wellbeing), Alster, eyes red and bleary from lack of sleep, departed for the farmhouse shared by Tivia and his soon-to-be traveling partner.
By late morning, he arrived. Tivia, who was tending garden outside, approached him with that deliberate shine to her eye that hinted at her clairvoyance. “You’re early,” she said, as she directed Alster and the horses to the stables beside the farmhouse. “There is no reason to be.”
“Yes, there is.” Alster brushed the sweat-soaked clumps of sandy hair from his forehead, revealing the greater brunt of his exhaustion; the hollow eyes, the dark, puffy bags beneath them, the sallow cheeks and the flush that spread its sun damage across his peeling face. “I couldn’t stay at the palace, Tivia. But as you may have gathered,” he lowered from the seat in coach, planting his wobbly feet on the fertile, dew-sprinkled grass beneath, “I’m not looking to leave in daylight--so Vitali can rest assured on that front. But if you could let him know I’ve arrived...I realize it’s an inconvenient time, but I’ll wait. What I have to tell him won’t take much of his time.”
Alster didn’t have to wait long. As he sat at the small table, sipping on some water that Tivia provided from the well, Vitali stumbled out of the bedroom, groggy from his interrupted slumber.
“Good morning, Vitali,” said Alster, cordially, but lacking entirely in warmth. “I apologize for the disruption. Sleep is important; I received none, last night, so my deprivation was setting its sights on some similarly deprived company. Indulge me for a few minutes, and the rest of the day is yours.” He sat back in his chair to fish out something small and folded from his pouch. “Here is our status. We’ll be leaving tonight. I have Briery’s caravan and enough provisions to last the three of us a month. There isn’t much else to discuss; this information is straight-forward enough. Prepare what you need to prepare. We’ll travel by night when we can, but it may not be possible in certain areas. So,” he stood from his seat and placed a silken black cloth in Vitali’s hands, “this is for you.”
The fabric was of a fine, densely knitted weave. No light passed through its stygian fibers and yet, its material was of a breathable, stretchable make, and soft to the touch. “I’ve made mention of retrieving this fabric for you in Stella D’Mare. I did, but in the shuffle of organizing refugees from place to place, I’ve forgotten to give it to you. Consider my oversight remedied. It’s a fabric that the desert-folk south of Stella D’Mare use to protect their bodies from the sun. It’s thought to be weaved from strands of the shadows themselves, stitched into a braiding so tight, no light can penetrate its surface. This blindfold should provide you ample protection during any of our daylight ventures.”
Completing his physical exchange, Alster returned to his seat to finish the rest of the water in his tin. “I have a request, as well. A few requests. They’re not unreasonable; they’re to ensure we have an efficient and painless journey to Nairit. For one, we each pull our own weight. No one person is to be saddled with the responsibility of carrying the burden for two. I don’t see this as a problem; you’ve proven that you’re reliable--where Tivia is concerned, anyhow. My second request, however, is the most important.” A measure of pain flitted across his brow, twisting it, threatening to twist his mouth, and his voice, and his speech patterns. He swallowed it down, and it scraped against his esophagus like shards of glass. “Don’t mention her, Vitali. Not unless I do, first. Even if it’s in passing, even if it’s in jest, don’t say her name. I don’t need the reminder of her absence. Do this for me...and I’ll show you the same courtesy, starting today. Your rude awakening notwithstanding, I don’t want to cause trouble, and in turn, I don’t want any trouble. ...Do we have a deal?”
“Why is it that you cannot stand the possibility of risking my life--which is not much at risk at all, might I add--but you’re not considering what you are risking in the lives of your children when they are born? And the possibility that they might grow up without a father because… because what, Haraldur? Because you have something to prove to yourself?”
Teselin did not feel like a child. She did not even feel small, in the presence of the behemoth Forbanne commander before her. At that moment, she in fact felt like a very old, looming shadow. Because Haraldur only saw her on the outside: a seventeen-year-old girl (who looked even younger than that, she was often told) who had suffered terribly at the hands of a tyrannical nation. He knew she was not a victim, but emotionally, he could not bring himself to believe it. “Here is my truth, Haraldur. The truth about my magic. Yes, my control over it is tenuous, but that is not what is to be feared. It is that at those times when I have exerted control--when I have forced all of my will into a task that concerns another living soul, however unconsciously, it ends very poorly. People have burned. People have broken. People have bled… crushed from the inside out.” Her dark eyes, haunted since that very day, flicked to Hadwin, who was the only person other than Chara who knew exactly to what she was referring. “Intentional or not, I can bend things to my will. Weather, people, objects… it’s possible, and with practice, I know I can improve. But protection… that is another thing entirely. And I do not know exactly how confident I am that whatever protection I can wrap around you or that sword will make much of a difference. Whether or not you truly “cannot” die remains to be seen, and having you handle that weapon is still a far greater risk than it would be for me to manipulate the air around it and have it find its way into something that stifles its magic. A container or a cloth of some sort, some other layer of deterrent for it to take another life, so that it can be transported somewhere safely. You cannot deny that that is the most logical option, Haraldur. But you choose to hold it with your hands to prove that you have power over it. And I don’t know who can save you from that. Certainly not me; probably not anyone. Maybe not even your rune.”
Hadwin was evidently in agreement, and weighed in as he saw fit, adding one small detail toward the very end that took both Haraldur and the young summoner aback. “...Hadwin, how? How… do you know he is not human? How can he not be? What else would he be?” And did that have anything to do with his constant evasion of death? Teselin looked him over with her onyx eyes, not quite seeing (or smelling) whatever it was that the faoladh was suggesting. He looked human, to her. Certainly, there was a lot of mass to a man with muscles like his and his upbringing (if you could call it that), but he was no less human than the giant Lautim of the Missing Links. So what had changed between the time of his near death, and now, that could have shifted the very fabric of his existence?
Whatever the reason, it did not matter. He had made up his mind, devoid of sound logic and safer possibilities. “Did you know, I’ve only ever been sick once in my life?” It seemed like an odd change of subject, but that did not deter her from going on with her point in a roundabout way. He had made her listen; now, it was his turn. “Only once. It was shortly after I sought refuge in Stella D’Mare. Chara did not know me from a threat, so while she permitted me sanctuary, I spent the first night in a cell that dampened and stifled my magical energies. I came down with pneumonia very quickly; and when they took me to a healer’s tent for my fever, I recovered completely in a handful of hours. Somehow, stifling my magic appears to be my only real weakness, and death hasn’t come for me, either. Not even at Mollengard’s hands. That is because magical energies, whether or not they are my own, they don’t seek to hurt me, Haraldur. I am a summoner, and those energies want my attention; they want to become a part of me. And for that, handling Gaolithe is far less of a risk in my case than in yours. But it doesn’t matter what I say or what reason I use. If you’re determined to risk your life, risk never seeing your wife give birth, risk never meeting your children, then fine. I’ll agree to your ridiculous terms--but only on one condition.” Teselin pressed her lips together, and her gaze hardened. “You tell Vega what you told me. That you want to handle it. Tell your wife that you’d rather not take precautions, and that you need to wrestle the sword with your bare hands, and that all of that matters more to you than being there when your children are born. Tell her this, and if the Princess of Eyraille also agrees, then so will I. And if not,”
The young summoner shrugged and folded her arms. “You can find someone else to be your magical buffer. But you are going to be hard-pressed to find another summoner in this kingdom, let alone one with the power and the vested interest to help.”
In his mussed and agitated just-awoken state, Vitali should have known that Alster’s sudden appearance at what--to him--was an ungodly hour was not a gesture that bore malice. Before the Rigas mage took a moment to explain the real reason for his arrival, the necromancer’s heightened sense of hearing picked up on the soft sweep of a fine fabric being pulled from the coarser, sturdier threads of the caster’s attire. His fingers reached for the band of silk when Alster placed it on the table and pushed it in his direction. Unlike the thick, layered blindfold currently tied across his eyes, this fabric was lighter than silk. Unable as he was to visually perceive it and confirm that it was, in fact, dark and dense enough to cancel all light that might reach his eyes, he might have believed it to be too good to be true, had it not been in Alster’s best interests that he remain pain-free so as to ensure his capabilities as a traveling partner.
“Well, isn’t that typical. You of all people coming through on a promise to someone you can hardly stand. Of course, I realize that the fact you need me in fully functioning form might have something to do with this random act of kindness.” The necromancer flashed a half smile and pocketed the strip of black fabric. “How suiting, that someone condemned to darkness should be protected by the very essence of shadows, if that really is the nature of this fabric. All the same, I suppose I should give you my thanks. It’s almost enough to make me forgive you for dragging me out of bed.”
Of course, the Rigas mage’s altruism didn’t quite extend to the necromancer without strings attached. Vitali had anticipated that there might be “requests” with regard to their partnership in traveling; compromises that would need to be made, and most importantly, certain lines that could not be crossed. One which Alster Rigas made abundantly clear almost right away. “Believe me, Rigas, I am going to need you to be as useful as you’ll need me. There won’t be any space for wallowing and despairing. So yes, I will indulge you. Consider this the last time I’ll ever mention Elespeth’s name, until you have her awake and alive and well again.” On one hand, it could have been interpreted as a thinly-veiled jab at the vulnerable caster, this single, last mention of the one name that could pierce him like a lance to the gut. But on the other hand, the necromancer did appear to be sincere.After all, what use would this man be if he was nothing but an oozing mass of raw emotion for the weeks to come?
“As for your other requests, you should know I can and will pull my own weight when needed. Although something else we should establish right now, since I am already up and we are talking, is our differing circadian rhythms. With or without your magic blindfold,” he tapped his pocket, where he had stashed the Rigas head’s appropriate idea of a peace offering, “it is still safer for me to be alert and active when the sun goes down. So if it is all the same to you, I will continue to get my rest during the daylight hours. Frankly, this may well work out the best for the both of us. It means I will see less if you, you will see less of me, and we can decide to coordinate at times when it suits us best. Oh, and if you want to get the very best out of our reluctant partnership,” the corners of his mouth, which sported his infuriating grin, drooped ever so slightly, “do not wake me up in the middle of the day unless absolutely necessary. Certainly, I am capable of being a fully-functioning person on very little sleep; I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. But I would much rather not, if I can help it.”
Standing from his seat, he stretched his arms and stifled a yawn. “Speaking of--I think it is high time I returned to the land of slumber If you care for me to be in the most agreeable of moods when we depart, this evening. So I shall leave you to your preparations, you will leave me to my rest, and we will reconvene when the sun sets. Fair enough?”
Upon that mutual agreement, the necromancer sauntered back into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. It did not open again until much later that evening, when the moon replaced the sun as a centerpiece in the sky. Having long since finished the chores that kept her occupied for the day, it surprised Vitali to see the Rigas woman still awake by the time he decided he’d rested sufficiently, and rose to greet the night. The look on her face did no surpass him; tired, defeated, and undeniably sad. This day--well, this night--had been a long time coming, and the both of them had anticipated leaving the days of their quiet companionship behind, in favor of moving forward. But that did not make it any easier on Tivia Rigas, who had, for whatever reason, taken a surprising liking to the necromancer. Something that he was not sure he would ever understand, but the least he could do was acknowledge her feelings, and how all of this affected her.
“You know it isn’t forever, of course? A month, I am guessing. Two weeks in, and two weeks back--not including the time it will take to convince my dear brother to return with us. I have a feeling Alster will be adamant about not leaving until Isidor agrees.” Vitali placed a hand on the young woman’s shoulder and offered a smile, for whatever it might have been worth. “But the bottom line is, you don’t have to stay here all alone. In fact, it would put my mind and my conscience at ease if you didn’t. Return to the palace, tonight. Take a well-deserved vacation from all of the gardening and the upkeep of this farmland that you’ve been doing for months. Spend time in the company of your fellow Rigases. I have a feeling Alster would be overjoyed if you helped to oversee the construction of his quaint little village, in his absence. Regardless of what you choose to do…” He removed his hand from her arm, and picked up a few folded articles of clothing from the table that Tivia had lovingly put aside for his travels. A few new sets of trousers and tunics, since a month in one outfit would be far from comfortable. “Don’t keep to yourself. I am a creature of solitude, as is my brother; some people are, and Tivia Rigas, you are not one of them. So do take care, and find company in others. I feel as though your family would be more than happy to see more of you, since in their eyes it is I who has been keeping you confined to this secluded part of the kingdom.”
He wasn’t sure that she would heed his advice. While old in years, Tivia Rigas was still very much a youth in temperament, and with that came an obstinacy that many a Rigas was not shy to put on display. Regardless that the time they actually spent in one another’s company had been fleeting in the past months, with their incompatible circadian rhythms, he had a feeling that just knowing he was nearby was all the comfort and security Tivia required. And he was not certain that she would find a satisfactory substitute for the sort of company she found in him.
No sooner did their conversation end that the sound of rapid hoofbeats and heavy wagon wheels announced the arrival of what was to be the necromancer’s new home for the coming month or so. Stepping out into the heavy night air, Vitali, wearing Alster’s gift of the black, silken blindfold to ensure protection from all sources of light, strode toward the caravan and placed a hand on its siding. “So this is to be home and transportation,” he mused aloud, as he circled the perimeter, his hand not once leaving the treated wood siding. Reaching the back, where he opened the caravan doors, the necromancer immediately wrinkled his nose in displeasure. “Smells like the bloody circus in here. Though I suppose no amount of cleaning can get that smell out. Am I right to think that this is the woman’s caravan we’ve been so kindly lent?”
He didn’t wait for Alster’s response before stepping inside to continue his tactile exploration of his new surroundings. It was imperative he knew what he was getting into (figuratively and literally) before making the journey with a man who most certainly did not appreciate his company the way Tivia did. With his hands alone, he found the bunks, the chests built into benches, the cupboards that lined the ceiling, and the fold-out table for dining. “Cozy” wasn’t quite the word he would use to describe the mobile home; “stifling” was more fitting. There would be little to no privacy between the two of them, save for the curtains draped in front of the bunks.
“While I realize this may be as good as we are going to get,” he said to Alster upon hopping out the back of the caravan, “I should warn you right now that my brother is absolutely going to hate it. The size, the space, everything, because there will be no escape from the presence of other people.” He rolled his shoulders back and folded his arms. “Nothing either of us can do about that, and I’ve already given you a forewarning that convincing him to come with us won’t be easy, no matter comforts we provide him. That said, I hope you’re prepared to be the one to volunteer to sleep on one of the benches if or when he joins us. He’s going to want the privacy of a bunk, and I’m currently allergic to sunlight and need all of the darkness I can get.” He tapped the side of the blindfold at his temple. “Otherwise--I suppose this will have to do. It’s got ample storage for whatever supplies the alchemist sees fit to bring. If you can appeal to his sense of pity enough for your plight, we might well be successful. But anyway,” he tapped the side of the sturdy caravan. “The night isn’t getting any younger, Rigas. Shall we be on with this fool’s errand?”
“Why, you ask?” In Haraldur’s stunned silence, Hadwin elected to speak for him. “Cuz he’s afraid he’ll be a shit father and wants to ‘prove’ himself in mettle against Fate. Fate is the sword, y’see, and if he positions his body as a shield against the sword, it’s some kind of symbolic ‘fuck you’ to Fate. He wants to be the shield. If he can be the shield, if he can protect something on a cosmic level, he’ll feel deserving of his children. But it doesn’t work that way.” Having puffed the herb in his pipe to ashes, Hadwin groaned and overturned the bowl, dumping the detritus into a chamberpot. “Life ain’t some kind of checklist. You can’t go out proving you deserve love; all you’re proving is that you don’t deserve it at all. But that’s his prerogative, Tes. We can’t stop the tree-man once he’s firmly rooted his beliefs into the ground.”
“Nothing will hurt me,” a whisper as delicate as frosted glass touched on the statue-still man’s lips. “Nothing will take me without permission. I won’t let it. Never again. Whatever I am--it doesn’t matter. If being less than human will help me accomplish my goals, then...I’ve come to terms with that. The monster in me will work for me, not against me. Starting now.”
“Case in point. I love it when I'm right.”
Haraldur ignored the faoladh. It was better than punching him in the teeth, even when the desire for such satisfying violence hummed in his hands. “I will get your permission, Teselin. In the meantime...if you can’t protect me with shielding magic, you said yourself you can use your magic to create wards on objects. I’ll get you a pair of gauntlets that cover the hands. If you can enchant them, and the clamp I’ll use--is there any risk to me at all?”
“Yes--but that’s the fun part. Standing before your convictions, waiting to see if you’re treading firm ground, or falling into a sinkhole. Well,” Hadwin waddled his fingers as Haraldur nodded his leave and headed for the door, “run along now, Termite Dick. Make sure you get some sun today!” After his swift departure, the faoladh leaned against the wall, balancing the bowl of his pipe on his knuckles. “Ah, that was great. Well, we know for a fact he’s got the restraint not to kill me--for now. I meant what I said, scamp. He’s not all human.” And neither are you--but he withheld the observation from Teselin’s ears. He had declared enough hidden truths for one session. “Faoladh like me--we’ve got connections to nature. I can’t hear ‘em but I know they’re there--the spirits of the forest. He smells like one. Woodsy, leafy--like fertile dirt. It was always a subtle scent before but the Night Garden must’ve brought out the dormant tree in him. I don’t think that’s what’s triggered his invincibility complex, though. You die once and come back, you think you can’t be felled; weird how that works.”
With a prideful, almost princely, stance, Haraldur exited Teselin’s quarters. But the further away he strode from the source that had thrummed his heart into double-time, in forcing him to confront a host of uncomfortable confessions and revelations, his regal steps slowed, and the blood stopped rushing to his head. No longer hunted for the extraction of his reasons and motivations, the fight or flight response retreated from his long legs and stilled his movements into languorous, halting walk. Heaviness spread through his body, hardening the flesh like bark, like stout, immovable limbs, and hindering his stride.
Not human...
Why should he believe the words of a scoundrel notorious for preying on people and their vulnerabilities? Why had he agreed to follow him to Teselin’s room, bullied into voicing aloud his greatest fears, the incongruous mysteries of his own illogical mind, played out to be picked apart and ridiculed? Why did it matter if no one understood him? No one ever did. And now, he learned something worse; that he didn’t know himself. No one understood him, including Haraldur.
Who am I? What am I?
His unfocused meanderings inevitably led him outside, to the Night Garden. To the base of the tree that questioned his sanity. Weakened by the violations suffered in the sanctums of his guarded mental fortress, he collapsed his burdensome body against a protruding root, and slid to the ground, bowing his head in surrender.
“What, now?” He spoke aloud, cradling his head in his hands. “What the hell do I do, now?”
The tree didn’t answer.
“What now!?” He seethed between his teeth. “You were the one who spoke to me, first! Why are you silent? Why won’t you say…”
A playful breeze settled on his bare skin, but it carried no tune. No chants for him to mimic--poorly.
“My sister...she spoke to you. And you spoke back! So talk to me. Dammit, I need…”
What did he need? What the hell did he need?!
“I don’t know what I need. I just...want to save them all. Sigrid is family, too. I have to be enough. I can’t fall again. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t…”
With choked cadence, and, desperate to fill in the gulfs of his growing despair, he shivered the name of the rune on his lips.
“Algiz.”
As he remembered it, he chanted the drone-like tune, over and over, until he fell into a meditative, trance-like slumber--a world of nothingness behind closed eyes, but a world of peace, deep and rooted...and strong.
It wasn’t until dusk when Haraldur stumbled inside the sanctuary where he’d left Vega with promises to return shortly. That had been hours ago. He entered, his trousers streaked with mud and his hair a mess, tangled with bits of bramble and leaves. To the layperson, he looked like a half-mad hermit of the wilderness, a title not far from the truth, considering his early days after defecting from the Forbanne and where he lived in isolation for years.
“I said I wouldn’t be long, but,” before closing the door, he glanced outside, at the darkening sky, “...here I am. It wasn’t a lie at the time, Vega. I just didn’t think I’d be gut-punched when I set off, today.”
He wandered to the wash basin in the corner, where he splashed water on his dust-covered face and ran wet hands through his hair. “How’s Elespeth?” With a clean towel, he scrubbed his now-damp hair, and watched as a twig tumbled to the floor. Listening as his wife explained how Elias had arrived before, to implant the system of tubes and wires for ease of feeding his comatose patient the proper nutrients she required to remain stable, Haraldur raised his head to admire the healer’s handiwork. Indeed, the sleeping Elespeth had been inserted through the abdomen with a green-tinted tube, which was attached in place to a now-empty medical tray. The feeding would take place three times a day; in fact, the Clematis healer would be arriving shortly to administer another feeding.
“I see. That’s good to hear.” Although he meant what he said, his tone fumbled and flattened as he spoke, too distracted by other thoughts to monitor how he sounded. A depressive energy, like the dust he’d rubbed off his face, prevailed; there was no use hiding the truth--the numerous truths--from his wife.
“Sit with me.” Taking her hand, Haraldur gently pulled her down to an empty bed beside him, but did not release her from his firm, yet needful grasp. “Before, I was trying to find Alster, as a replacement for Teselin’s involvement. I don’t know what I would have accomplished with him, when he is ready to depart for his trip to Nairit, but I was informed that he already left for Tivia and the necromancer’s farmhouse. So...seeking his help was out of the question. The one to tell me this news--was Hadwin. And I wish I could say that was the extent of our conversation, together, but..” he elected for a humorless laugh; it choked and died at his feet, “no such luck. He took me to see Teselin so I could work things out with her. In a way, we did. Under threat, but...it’s preferable, if I’m the one to give voice to my fears. In the past, it would have taken that bastard’s nightmare projections to get me to admit anything out loud, but,” he concealed the scar on his throat with his shirt collar, “his sister loosened me up, first. I said what he wanted to hear. Got shit for it, but...it was my choice. And now that I heard myself, I realize how fucked up I really am, Vega. I’m fucked up--because I want to touch the sword...and I won’t let Teselin do it--not because she’s young or incapable, but because I want to be the one. I want to use my power to make a difference. I want to stomp on Fate; I want to tell it not to fuck with my family. I want to face it; to show it that it has no power over me--over us.”
He planted his feet against the wood planking, drawing energy from the dirt beneath the floorboards. “I’m not bound. I’ll never be bound again. This is how I take back my life. This is how I destroy my shackles and ensure I’m never chained to any Master. Nothing will stop me and I won’t die. And there...has to be something wrong with me, because I can’t convince myself not to do this. I can’t stand back and do nothing, no matter how illogical, how crazy, how suicidal this all sounds to everyone. But it’s something I have to do. Like you, Vega.” He tightened the grip on his wife’s hand, but the physical response was in no way a punishing or accusatory one. Not anymore. Not after what he did to hurt his wife and unborn children--what he continued to do. “You left Eyraille, risking yourself and the lives of our children, because something inside yourself told you to come to Galeyn, despite reason or good sense. And now...there’s something telling me to be the one to wrangle Gaolithe into its tomb. As next of kin...it’s my responsibility. And I won’t let anyone else take on that responsibility in my place. I won’t die. I can’t die, because,” he took in a long, mollifying breath, “because I’m not human.”
“I don’t mean this figuratively,” he blurted, seeing the doubt tick between Vega’s raised eyebrows. “That I’m an inhuman monster, a Forbanne who revoked the right to his soul upon killing his first child--none of that. I mean that...I’m not human. Not all the way. It was Hadwin who...sniffed me out, for lack of a better phrase. But I’m inclined to believe him, because...it’s better than believing I’m mad. A madman wouldn’t be fit to hold his kids. He wouldn’t make a good father. No, I believe him, because that tree...my sister...the mystery surrounding my mother, it connects to a broader picture. It would explain why I feel so...connected here. Like nothing can kill me. You...can laugh.” He released his hand and draped it, dejectedly, on his lap. “It’s all so ridiculous. Bearing relations to a tree--I don’t even know what that means! All I do know...is that I must face Gaolithe. Let me do this, Vega, and I promise you, I’ll prove to you...that I have protection. Death won’t have this family again. I’ll make sure of it.”
“When have I reneged on my promises to you, before? Despite our...differences, Vitali, I’ve given you my attention as a healer. And should there come a day when it is viable to heal your eyes, I wouldn’t deny you service. I’m not saying to stroke my own ego, or to elate my charitable nature. I am saying this so that you understand; there is no reason for me to exact revenge on you for grievances done in the past, regardless of my opinions. It’s not worth the energy. So let’s keep it this way.” Rising to his feet, Alster set aside his empty tin cup and pushed his chair aside to make room for Vitali’s approach. “We’ll reconvene in the evening. I don’t make it a habit to wake people from their slumber, but I wanted to give you advance warning of our departure--and to give you the blindfold so you can test its efficacy in the daylight.” So stop fixating on it so damn much. I interrupted your sleep for ten minutes; you’ll live-- a desirous, incensed part of him wanted to bubble up and snap at the necromancer, but he swallowed his petty annoyances as he turned toward the door. He chose his words carefully as he said, “Sleep well for the both of us. We have a long way ahead.”
When evening fell, Tivia, accustomed to climbing into bed after dinner, forewent sleep. Though yawning from the effort not to nod off mid-task, she refused to retire before seeing Vitali (and Alster, she supposed), on their way. In packing some fresh fruits and vegetables from the garden, as well as the necromancer’s personal effects, Tivia refused to think about anything but the present moment. Task by task, she allocated her time. She’d known her little farmer’s idyll wouldn’t last, and now, the night of its severance was finally upon her--but she needn’t dwell on the details. Not until their caravan disappeared over the black horizon and faded from her view. Only then, would she allow herself to mourn.
“I know it’s not forever.” Tivia’s response elicited little emotion as she lifted the burlap sacks full of the garden’s bounty towards the open door. “But will you want to return to this farmhouse? It has only been a waypoint for the both of us. Never… permanent. But,” she stopped at the door’s threshold, “this is where you are wrong, Vitali. I don’t belong in the company of others. I don’t like it at the palace. I have no companions; none that are particularly happy to see me. My father is a convicted criminal and my mother is out fucking wolves. The garden is ample company; the tomatoes don’t scream at me, and the strawberries are discreet about their relationships. I will remain here. But rest assured; I am choosing my solitude. Were it up to my parents, or other Rigases, they would lock me away for my maddening seer ability. It’s better, I daresay, for my sanity,” her smile was a bitter one, “that I stay far from the crowd. Even if I am--I’m never far from help. So...I will fare just fine on my own, Vitali.” As a parting gift, she elected for a bit of levity. “Don’t hassle Alster too much. He’s holding it together by threads, as it is.”
The clopping of hooves and the distinct squeak of an unoiled wheel signaled the arrival of the caravan; it rolled in front of the farmhouse, missed its mark by a few feet, and jerked to a complete stop. Despite Tivia’s advice not to hassle Alster, she met him by the coach, leaning upwards to jeer at him with her one eye. “It’s dead obvious you’ve never steered a wagon before, Alster.”
The Rigas Lord hopped off the side of the coach and summoned a ball of etherea in his hand. “It’s dark, Tivia.”
“You’re better off letting the blind man drive.”
Ignoring her comments, he bade her follow to the back end of the caravan, where she set down the sacks of fruits and vegetables in the storage unit alongside the dry provisions Chara had loaded the day before. By then, Vitali was already exploring the interior, mouth full to brimming with commentary decrying the suitability of their borrowed house on wheels. “Yes, this is the women's’ caravan, and no, we’re not to alter it to our own specifications; I made a promise to Briery to maintain its integrity. It is through her kindness that we’ve been given access to this caravan. It’s still preferable to a storage wagon. Your brother may not see it that way, but I’ve anticipated his needs.” He kicked at something rolled up in canvas. “I’ve packed us several tents. When Isidor joins our party--and he will join our party, Vitali--I’m prepared to offer him the caravan in its entirety, if possible. When we rest, you and I will be sleeping in tents. We can’t push the horses day and night, and they fare better in darkness, anyway, so I’m adopting your schedule. We travel at night--and Isidor, whichever schedule he chooses for himself, will have the caravan. I’ll do what I can to daylight-proof your tent. If we’re both in agreement for our upcoming schedule...let’s go.”
As Vitali settled inside and Alster reprised his spot at the coach, they spoke their final farewells to Tivia before the wheels budged forward and the caravan disappeared down the hill. True to her word, Tivia did not leave until she could see nor hear any evidence of the caravan’s presence. Alone at last, she returned to the farmhouse, prepared for bed, and, once tucked beneath her sheets, cried herself to sleep.
Not long. Haraldur had told her he would not be gone for long, and she had believed him, forgetting that his and her ideas of what it meant to not be gone for long had the tendency to differ. With nowhere else that required her attention, and so as to maintain her promise to Alster that Elespeth would never be left completely alone, the Eyraillian princess remained at the sanctuary, in relative silence for the most part. That was, until hours upon hours of polite conversation with the occasional Gardener or healer who would come to check up on the comatose knight started to get to her, and she finally chose to speak to Elespeth direction, whether or not the wife of Alster Rigas could actually hear her.
“I hope, that when you wake up, Elespeth, you can manage to finally find a way to forgive yourself.” She found herself telling the ex-knight as the sun was beginning to set. Vega had taken to pacing the small, cottage-like infirmary after hours of sitting, putting too much pressure on her hips and adding to whatever discomfort she already felt. “I hope you’re able to see that you’re not alone in your regret. Look at me; look at all of the reckless things I’ve done. Fleeing my own home and putting my children and myself at risk is only one of many…”
The paused her pacing at the head of Elespeth’s bed, and a blanket of melancholy moistened her eyes. “I should have been there for you, Elespeth. I should have reached out, more. We should have spoken more, and I have no excuse for not doing so when I still have my mobility. I’m pregnant, not incapacitated. And I was never as busy as I tried to convince myself I was… we could’ve talked. We could’ve been the ear to listen that we both needed; most of all, what you needed. And I… I let you down. And because of that, you suffered alone. I am so sorry I was not the friend you needed and deserved…”
Taking a seat on the stool next to the former knight’s bed, she placed a hand on her arm, relieved to find it was warm and still pulsed with life. While she knew well that the woman on the bed before he was still very much alive, it was unsettling to see a woman who had once held such fiery conviction of her own trapped in a fugue. Trapped in her body, when all she’d wanted was to put armor back on her body and to pick up a sword… “When you come out of this--well, by then, I might be a mother. But regardless, when you are awake--and you will awaken, Elespeth--I will be there for you, this time. I’ll be the friend that you deserve.”
When the door of the sanctuary opened for the umpteenth time that day, the person who set foot inside was finally the person she’d wanted to see. Vega hastily wiped her eyes on her sleeve upon her husband’s arrival and pressed a sigh from her chest. “I should be angry with you, but I’ve been angry for too long, and I’ve missed you too much to bother with emotions such as that.” The Skyknight commander rose from her stool, pressing a hand to the small of her back, which grew more and more tender every day from the weight she carried in her abdomen. “That, and I also realize I should have known better than to believe you when you went after that summoner. And Elespeth is fine, as you should already know. So why don’t we forego beating around the bush and talk about what is really on your mind, for once. What exactly did you accomplish? And why decide to throw out our plan after we have her cooperation?”
To Vega’s relief, her husband appeared to have already decided to be open and honest with her. She took a seat on one of the empty beds, and despite the questions churning in her mind with regard to his prolonged absence and hasty change of mind, for once relied on him to provide him with those answers. And several moments later, to both her great relief and chagrin, she had her answers.
The Skyknight let go of her husband’s hand and shifted her body to face him.
“Are you really asking me to agree to all of this? Because you need to prove something to yourself, Haraldur? Is the imminent arrival of our children?” She did not need to explain her opposition to his determination to lay hands upon the demon sword that plagued his cousin’s life and future. Vega wore her feelings on her face like words on a page, and even if she didn’t, Haraldur had anticipated this would be her response. Her eyes blazed with it, two pale sapphires made of fire. “Listen to me. I care about Sigrid because she is family--and beyond family, she is important to you. But what is the point of saving one family member at the expense of another, Haraldur? To save Sigrid’s life, only to risk yours, because somehow you suddenly believe you are invincible?”
The fire in her eyes spread through her body, past the discomfort of her late-term pregnancy, down her core and into her limbs. “Call me terrible. Call me crass and selfish and a traitor, if you must, but Haraldur… between you, and your cousin, and the summoner, you know whose life I would choose to save. You know why I cannot tell you that I understand, and that I sympathize and think you are in the right. So the shapeshifter--the one who admitted he’d have killed you--says you are not human, and you are so quick to believe him? Haraldur…” Once again, the anxious princess resumed pacing the room, which seemed to grow ever smaller as the hours had passed. “Just because you have magic, just because something has awakened in you does not mean you are not human. Many humans possess magic… I don’t doubt that you have heard the messages from the tree. I don’t doubt that it has nothing to do with madness, and everything to do with something awakened inside of you. But how can any of this justify you putting yourself at risk?”
As soon as those last words left her parted lips, however, their meaning sunk in, and she paused in her step. How can any of this justify you putting yourself at risk? She was not the first to express this sentiment. Not so long ago, that feeling, if not those words, had belonged to Haraldur. The moment he’d opened her chamber door and verified for himself that she was, in fact, in Galeyn, and no longer in the safety of her own kingdom, those had been her husband’s very thoughts--and none of them had been unfounded. I had a dream… I had a feeling. That had been her excuse, and to this day, remained the reason that she had come to Galeyn, however ludicrous it sounded. Vega Sorde had sought permission or guidance from no one, prior to making her decision.
So what gave her the right to assume Haraldur needed her permission at all.
Feeling light-headed, the princess sat down, again. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t need my permission. You don’t even need my understanding, because you have already made up your mind, Haraldur.” She looked down at her lap, suddenly too ashamed to meet her husband’s eyes. “Just like I did, when I left Eyraille. I put myself at risk; I put our children at risk. And if you want to put yourself at risk… then there is nothing I can do to stop you. If you really, truly believe that that gastly weapon cannot harm you, then that is for you to decide. All I can do is ask that you bear in my what… who you are leaving behind. How many you are leaving behind, if you die in his endeavour.” Vega rested a hand atop her stomach. “I promised my children a father, Haraldur. And so did you… so did you.”
He didn’t believe her, to say the least. It wasn’t that Tivia did not speak reason; he had witnessed the way her own family had treated her, when at last she’d reunited with them again. While any other parents would have been ecstatic with relief to see that their daughter had returned safely from an outrageous war that left her scarred, it was those very scars and what they’d incited that had turned her mother and father away from her. For that reason alone, he could almost understand why she’d taken to him: not only borne of some desperate need to have a single ally, but he’d personally stood up to her father and called the man on his foolishness and hypocrisy. But contrary to what Tivia claimed, she had needed that support then--and she needed it now, with or without him. Few in this world could actually deny the social nature of their very species. The only exception to that rule happened to be the very brother he planned on visiting, completely unannounced.
Unfortunately, it was neither his decision nor his call to make. And even if he had the capacity to care the way she wished he could, the caravan had arrived, and there was no time left to change her mind. Despite the accumulation of her years, Tivia Rigas was still very much a particularly young woman. And some things were in and of themselves only learned from experience.
Turning away from Alster, who seemed to be reaching for every thread of patience not to bite his head off, the necromancer smiled at Tivia and offered a shallow bow. “Far be it from me to argue what is best for a young woman such as yourself. I am neither young, nor a woman, nor a Rigas nor a star seer, for that matter. If the solitude of this lovely plot of farmland is what you feel suits you best, then I trust these gardens and orchards will remain in good hands.” Reaching out, he patted her shoulder, wearing that ever infuriating grin that only she didn't seem to mind. “You never know: maybe after this little excursion, I'll be happy for a little reprieve back at this farmhouse for some time. I can't promise you what the future might hold, or what decisions I might be spurred to make. But, if here is where you wish to stay,” he leaned in ever so slightly. “Don't keep that second bed empty for my benefit. I don't think I need to explain I'm not good at coming through for people; not even for people who matter. Regardless, I promise you this won't be the last time you see me.”
The necromancer gave the star seer a final squeeze, before putting distance between them and returning to Alter, who stood rigid next to the caravan. He didn't have to see to feel the tension in the air surrounding the Rigs mage; Tivia was right. The man was holding himself together by threads, and not doing a particularly good job of it. Sleep deprivation, which he's insinuated, more than likely wasn't helping. “Listen to your cousin: let the blind man drive.” Vitali sauntered up to one of the two massive equine beasts and stroked its neck. “Only one of us has had a lick of sleep in the past twenty-four hours, and it certainly wasn't you. You are going to have to invest a lot of trust in me these coming weeks, like it or not. Might as well start now. Go settle yourself in one of those bunks, and we'll deal with resetting your sleep cycle later. It won't benefit either of us if I have to deal with a cranky Rigas.”
Whether or not Alster complied out of agreement, or out of sheer will not to have to interact with the necromancer for a period of time, he wordlessly made his way to the back of the caravan and disappeared inside without another word. Vitali climbed upon the coach and took the reins. “Nairit is just west of here… but we will have to take a slightly longer route around the kingdom, to avoid coming too close to the Night Garden.” He spoke aloud to himself, and furrowed his brow in thought. “Well, here’s hoping these horses know how to keep west.”
“The shapeshifter--the one I’ve tried to kill, the one whose sister I almost killed in her attempt to kill me--yes Vega. I believe him. Because it would explain all the incongruous things that have happened to me, growing up.” At Vega’s severance of their touch, Haraldur, unable to sit still after losing her support, stood, and like her, paced the room. “It’s stupid of me to believe him. I believed his sister, and look where I ended up. And now, I can’t even tell if I’m sane, anymore. I’ve always been cautious, and here I am, making reckless decisions, throwing myself on magical swords to prove I can’t be felled, listening to shifty wolves in disguise--it makes no sense. I make no sense. The Gardeners are right; maybe I do belong in this sanctuary.” He stopped when his frenzied walk nearly collided him with an empty bed. Trapped and with nowhere else to go, he returned to a seated position, but his legs, unable to relax, danced and pounded in place.
“I couldn’t tell you why I believe him outside of some...misplaced instinct I have. I also couldn’t tell you to understand my reasoning--or lack thereof--for wanting to address Gaolithe on my own terms. Even I don’t understand...why I want to risk it all. Why I think that by risking myself, instead of playing it safe, will bring me some clarity with regards to my circumstances. Caution chains me, and I suppose,” he raised his head to his wife, “there’s a part of me who wants to be more like you. I could peel back my restraint, charge forward, and seize the destiny we all deserve, Vega. It may be a risk, but I’m not ready to die. And I won’t. I made a promise I intend to keep, and Fate isn’t going to write my story anymore. It won’t choose when I get to die. The sword won’t choose when I get to die. I do this, not just for Sigrid, but for me--and for us.”
A few days ago, Haraldur Sorde had died. Perhaps not in full, but he’d seen the terminus. The torches leading down to a punishing afterlife, steeped in regrets caused not only by the orders that directed his killing hand, but also by his inability to allow good fortunes to reach him. He’d resisted love, happiness, a chance for a family--because happiness itself was a risk. Better to stay rigid in misery and alive, than happy and unsafe. For, happiness was fleeting, and when it was done blessing the recipient, it took more than it gave, as recompense. Now that Haraldur awoke to his second life, arisen from one he’d ended prematurely, all in the name of ‘caution,’ he doubted that his new path would be as straightforward as before. The old ways didn’t serve him; they’d only condemned him. If he wanted to change, if he wanted to embrace his happiness instead of fearing its vanishment, he would step forward and claim the right on a sword of smiting. If caution had killed him, then recklessness would revitalize him, his purpose, and dissolve the fears that assailed him with the leaden weight of Doubt.
There is no such thing as ‘safe,’ Hadwin had told him. And if that were true, then he could afford a little more boldness in his approach to life. This sudden stirring of derring-do didn’t erupt out of nothingness, either; the Night Garden...empowered him. Whether full human or some...spirit of the forest, the tree that spoke his name also spoke the name of his shield: Algiz. And so long as he chanted its protective spell along the leylines surrounding the Night Garden, he could ward the Divine--for Earth stood firm against the will of Heaven.
That was what he saw when he stared into the eye of Algiz.
“Vega.” He crossed the room and knelt before her, taking her hands into his own. “I have the strength, and I’ll prove it. Our children will know their father. It’s been determined, already.” He closed his eyes and planted a kiss on her swollen stomach within which thrived life. “Isn’t that the Eyraillian method? So please, let this disappointment of a husband do something to prove that he’s grown from that seedling of a man, who let himself be crushed. Even if he’s not all man...From here, I...come what may, I’ll be ready to start our life with a clearer head. I know it’s a lot to ask, but…” he moved from her stomach to plant a kiss on her forehead, “have faith in this idiot. I’m going to take the power back.”
In preparation for departure, Alster, in mid-climb to the coach, was waylaid by the blind necromancer, who’d insisted he drive, instead. Not one to ridicule, or even doubt, the compensation lent by the other senses when one sense dulled or ceased functioning, Alster said nothing in relation to Vitali’s confident declaration of his spatial orientation. But he did not remain silent on the subject of driving. “If it were not our first evening together, Vitali, I’d happily let you drive. But this caravan is my responsibility. I’m sorry, but trust builds over time. We’re not there yet.”
In the time he took to explain his dissent, however, Vitali had already settled on the driver’s side and made no indication of budging from the seat. So it’s going to be one of those trips, huh? He sighed to himself, too tired to argue, let alone clobber Vitali off the seat with his steel arm. “Yes, Vitali, I’m aware not to choose the route closest to the Night Garden,” he said, as he hopped into the passenger side. “I’m conscientious of your condition and I’ve mapped out our route appropriately. A gentle reminder--I’m the son of a diplomat; I’m no stranger to long journies. I helped Lilica plan hers. So if you are insistent on driving, you’ll let me navigate. Rest or no rest, I’m resolved to stay cranky as long as you hold the reins. Besides,” a scrap of emotion filtered through his cold, detached demeanor, “I won’t be able to rest. Not for a while.”
He cleared his throat, smoothing out the bumps and returning to his sheet of refined ice. “You’ll have to deal with my company tonight, I’m afraid. And I, you. It’s not ideal, but nothing ever is. Least of all, our reluctant partnership. By dawn,” he paused, calculating numbers and distance in his head, “I project we’ll be by Emerald Lake, just shy of Galeyn’s western outskirts. The headwaters of the Swayl River begin there, too. We’ll be following the river for a good portion of our venture--not only for the constant supply of fresh water, but to keep a barrier between ourselves and the wilds of West Mollengard. The river designates the border, but West Mollengard isn’t aware of borders. The majority of the territory consists of nomadic tribes and barrens of open prairie. There’s no real Mollengardian presence for us to worry about, but the nomads are warriors and opportunists. Our rogue caravan may look mighty tempting for them to pillage--especially the horses. I’ve chosen the safest path, even if it’s a bit longer, and the river is wide enough to protect us from any brigands who know how to swim.”
Alster did not care if the necromancer listened to his rambling monologue on geography. It was more for his own ears, to hear the distracting drone of his voice, shielding his other senses from what he was leaving behind. Vitali was the unfortunate recipient of Alster’s informative dialogue, but it did not last. As the caravan lurched forward and the steeds turned on the main road, the sounds of hooves clopping, wheels grinding, and wood creaking filled in the spaces of the two reluctant travelers with blessed white noise. There was no need to speak over the dull roar. Between the inky night and the clamorous ride, the sensory deprivation lulled him. Before he knew it, he was asleep.
If one good thing could be said about the kingdom of Galeyn, it was the lack of people all concentrated together in small, unsanitary spaces. Cows awaiting slaughter in a pen did not appeal to Rowen Kavanagh’s predatory nature. She preferred the chase. Stalking her prey. Weakening them over time. And then--going for the jugular.
Such was her method of attack for the man the Forbanne called Commander Haraldur Sorde. Since joining the sorceress Locque on her take-down of Galeyn, piece by piece, Rowen promised to demonstrate her skills by eliminating a high-profile target. Of course, focusing her attention on the Forbanne commander was a personal choice, having reserved nothing for Mollengard and its puppets but the annals of her hatred. Her own revenge notwithstanding, erasing the commander from the chessboard was a strategic move, one that would ensure chaos among the Forbanne who followed his every order. What would happen if the slaves lost their master, she wondered?
The night of Haraldur Sorde’s annihilation unfurled as planned, which was...disappointing; Rowen was great at improvising, and wanted to stretch out muscles she hadn’t exercised for a while. At least, she was able to showcase her acting prowess; pain did not hinder her, let alone an expert stab through her abdomen. What amounted to a fatal wound for a human did not register the same for a faoladh with a quick healing ability. And really, the brush with not-quite-fatal near-death was worth it, to watch as the man who represented the evils of Mollengardian rule sliced his throat and crumbled to the ground, dead by his own hand. Such beautiful, poetic justice, well-worth the weeks of set-up required to generate the proper stage for her final act. Despite her injuries, the spitting up of blood and the dizzying nausea, (whilst Locque dragged her across one of Galeyn’s many leylines for ease of recovery), she considered the result victorious.
“Now you can invade Galeyn!” she’d crooned to Locque, when she recovered enough of her strength to sit up and speak. “The Forbanne are confused and directionless without their leader. They can’t stop you from walking up to the palace. Security is weak. We’ll have the upper hand!”
But Locque denied herself the opportunity to seize control, citing the existence of one Sigrid Sorenson and her blade of disturbing power--Gaolithe.
“She’s no threat,” Rowen gurgled, the closest thing approaching laughter. “Her weaknesses are obvious. I don’t need my brother’s Fearsight to know that she’d be devastated to lose her whore! I’ll do it for you; nothing would be easier, or more satisfying to kill whores like my mother.”
People were so predictable. Take away their toy, and they crumbled. Remove their sense of goodness, and they killed themselves. Sigrid Sorenson would go the way of her ill-fated cousin; spiraling down into existential horror, too lost to function, or to defend themselves from their own darkness.
Only, Rowen was to discover that Haraldur Sorde of Eyraille did not die. A necromancer and a Rigas caster had “stumbled” upon his corpse shortly after Locque removed her from the scene. Several days later, when she was well enough to walk without tilting over from shortness of breath or anemia, she understood, from her eavesdropping of the Forbanne camps, that the commander had made a miraculous recovery, and was alive.
Alive. Alive! What an insult to her carefully constructed plans! The build-up, the pay-off--and for what!? The man lived. The Forbanne had reorganized. Darkness rose from the grave, implemented by a notorious grave-robber! It sputtered her with a rage she thought no longer burned infernos beneath her glaciated veins.
“I’ll kill them! I’ll kill him--I’ll kill his pregnant wife, I’ll kill Sigrid Sorenson, the whore, the necromancer and his accomplice. They’ll all die!”
She did not pride herself in her moment of raw, incensed passion, a weakness that would not serve her calculations in destroying her enemies. While she had her impulses, Locque’s influence served to curb some of those impulses. She was taught to think methodically, long-term. While she tried to marry the two ideas--planning ahead and ‘winging it’--her tendency always swerved back to listening to her hunter’s instinct.
And her hunter’s instinct told her to kill her quarry before they had the chance to kill her.
The day after discovering the dreadful news of the Forbanne commander’s beating heart, Rowen revisited the scene of her attack, at the outskirts of the D’Marian village--silently reworking a foolproof plan of retaliation. She had done wrong to act at night, considering the swiftness of the night steeds and the efficacy of the Night Garden they served. To miss such a huge detail--what was she thinking!? No. She resolved to do it right. Broad daylight. Surprise attack. No toying with the enemy. True, Haraldur Sorde needed to be toyed with, in order to break down his carefully constructed barriers. But there were other, juicier targets. Defenseless targets. Vulnerable targets. She would learn from her mistakes, and once she perfected her new daytime technique, she would come for Sigrid’s whore. But first...she needed to improve it. To do so required practicing on someone insignificant, yet...important, to a certain group of people.
Hadwin’s circus freaks! So few would care about the death of a performer. They were akin to whores, riding on a profession of deceit and garish colors. Galeyn would not mourn over a person so frivilous. And yet...it would impact Hadwin. To kill a person from his adoptive family was too tantalizing not to implement.
This is what you get, Hadwin...for abandoning me. For choosing glitz and glamour over your own blood.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a presence emerged from behind her. Rowen didn’t react or even move to face the figure who no doubt wore the face of another, as was her wont. However much she changed her appearance, she could never mask her distinct scent of rot and decay. Oddly, these scents comforted her. It proved that all things must die. Nothing was meant to last. The world was ephemeral and flawed and oh so beautiful in its imminent demise.
“I know your plan is to sit and wait,” Rowen spoke into the darkness. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t open the path for you, Locque. If you need to reach Sigrid Sorensen, I can make that a possibility. I’m willing to wait for the chance to kill that woman’s whore. What I can’t wait for is erasing another life. I have to kill again, and I need it to be permanent. It shouldn’t be a damper on your plans...if I crush with my jaws the delicate neck of a key member of the Missing Links?” She ran a foot over the patch of old, crusted blood where she’d “died” from the Forbanne commander’s stabbing. “My brother’s been so enamored with them. He’s always valued beautiful distractions over the hurtful reality of this world. It’s time I show him reality. Maybe then he’ll realize he’s meant to die.”
Locque had not been born an opportunist. That had been a skill learned the hard way, for a wide variety of reasons, only some which were related to Galeyn and her missed opportunity to seize it over a century ago. That last time, acting too soon had cost her over a hundred years of what could have been progress and success had been her primary and most detrimental mistake. Had she waited just a little while longer to spring the crux of her overwhelming power on the kingdom’s current king, just long enough to see clearly how the board and its players were laid out before her, she might not have been in the position she was today: back to square one, with no upper hand save for what she knew of the game’s current players through careful observation.
She was not about to make that mistake again. If time had taught her anything, it was that patience was not only a virtue, but an advantage.
Inciting chaos in Braighdath had only been the first step, and contrary to what many might think, she had calculated the risk of outing her presence. Following her infiltration of the mind of that she-warrior, the now wife of a very influential and powerful leader from the far-away city of Stella D’Mare, it hadn’t taken long for the people of Braighdath to deduce the possibility that the terrible sorceress that had scared Galeyn into disappearing had once again decided to tread familiar ground. They suspected her involvement, but frankly, that was more to her advantage than it was to her detriment. After all, her very name incited fear, and it had been fear that caused Braighdath to unravel from the core outward. Keeping an ear to the wall, she had gleaned that that council had hilariously maintained such denial of her presence that they had made it their sworn duty to vilify this Elespeth Rigas, and paint her as the picture of carnage that the sorceress had so carefully orchestrated.
Except, she was not the only one responsible for the carnage and panic, and could therefore not take credit for everything that had led up to the proud and strong city of Braighdath unraveling like a well-worn rag. Someone else had taken part and pleasure in causing a stir, however much her attempts had been foiled by her meddling older brother. The sorceress had kept a close eye on this small and unlikely assassin for quite some time before approaching her in an attempt to suss out her motive. It soon became clear that the girl’s only motive appeared to be successfully making her kills, whether it was out of impulse, boredom, or the unquenchable need for thrill or to feel powerful. Whatever her reason, Locque had eventually seen fit to suss out the potential that this young killer might cooperate with her. For one, it was never a bad idea to have a stealthy killer on your side; and for another, it would also give her a means of encouraging the girl not to be quite so reckless and cavalier in her deadly dealings. Not insofar as it would sabotage her own careful plotting.
Frankly, she was surprised that this girl--Rowen was her name--had taken to her at all, considering how openly untrusting she was. Ultimately, it came down to the small assassin realizing that it was more beneficial to have a looming threat such as Locque as an ally than as another opposing force. She did not fear her, per se, but just as Locque preferred not to encounter obstacles after waiting so long for another opportunity to reclaim what had once been hers, so too did Rowen prefer not to tread a more difficult path while contending with someone whose interests might or might not work in her favour if she continued to work alone.
And thus began their impromptu, albeit steady alliance, where they saw fit to coordinate their interests and desires as opposed to looking over their shoulder to ascertain that one’s intentions would not hinder the other’s. Ultimately, the sorceress and the young killer departed Braighdath together, and in the mayhem that ensued with organizing the D’Marian refugees, they had managed rather easily to slip into Galeyn’s outskirts undetected. No one spared a second thought for what looked to be a peasant woman, and a girl who could’ve been her meek younger sister. Not only did the both of them appear plainly unremarkable, but so as to not stand out to any individual eyes, the sorceress occasionally bent the light around them to alter their appearance. Herself, she seldom wore the same face for more than a few days, but Rowen’s wide-eyed, youthful visage was one easily remembered. To curb familiarity, Locque made it so that the young assassin’s skin appeared lighter or darker, her form slightly shorter or slightly taller, slightly wider or slightly narrower. Not a particularly difficult glamour, and Rowen never opposed. It kept them discreet, and hidden snugly within the crowd.
It hadn’t been long after setting up in an abandoned household, not far from where the Rigases had begun to erect their village, that the two of them had begun to glimpse at opportunities. Galeyn was a relatively small kingdom in comparison to most, and gossip traveled more quickly than disease. The sorceress was all ears, and nothing surpassed her attention. Not the arrival of the very pregnant Eyraillian princess, who was wed to none other than the hulking commander of the Forbanne. Not the arrival of that pitiful Rigas woman, the once-proud warrior, now unable to stand on her own two feet without support, due to abusing a Mollengardian substance prior to arriving in Braighdath. Not the arrival of the Forbanne commander himself, a man so desperately in search of his own identity that he sought it vicariously through the liberation of the soldiers beneath him, who wouldn’t know free will if it slapped them in the face. Not the reluctance of the inexperienced new Galeynian Queen--Theomyr’s own daughter, but some means--to rule a nation she had never wished to inherit, while her gaze was predominantly set on the blonde-haired Rigas woman who appeared to be the pinnacle of her affections. Not the Rigas head, who, similar to Galeyn’s new Queen, did not have the emotional or mental stamina for the task when his own wife was withering before his eyes. Not the blonde-haired Dawn warrior--evidently the new bearer of the infamous sword Gaolithe--who appeared to be suffering her own demons, although she kept them close to her heart, it seemed. Not the young summoner who bore an uncanny appearance to Rowen, who was more afraid of herself than the possibility that an ancient sorceress threatened the safety of this kingdom.
Locque heard it all; and no detail was too minute, because the more she knew, the more she was able to fine-tune her plans to eventually take this kingdom back. Truth be told, so many opportunities had laid themselves right down at her feet that she hardly knew where to begin. Ultimately, she decided on one that was most readily available in terms of her ability to interfere--and that happened to surround the Forbanne commander.
It was no secret that the man was avoiding his pregnant wife, for a variety of reasons. In part, he had not been in agreement with her traveling all the way from Eyraille at such a progressed state of her pregnancy, but above all, he seemed afraid. Afraid of being a father; afraid of being a terrible father, of letting down his own children. At his worst, he even feared harming them. That was what Rowen had reported, anyway. The girl--a faoladh, and not without her own gifts, if you could call them that--evidently had the uncanny ability to see the absolute worst in a person, the most terrible deeds they’d ever committed. It was no wonder she took joy and solace in killing when everything she laid eyes upon was so dark. Somehow, the sorceress herself was the exception, but that really did not come as any surprise: Locque couldn’t remember who she had been centuries ago, and everything she strived for now, every measure she took, was ultimately a means to maintain and prolong her own survival, however direct or indirect it might be. After all, how could it be considered a misdeed if it had been a series of misdeeds on Galeyn’s part that had driven her to be who, what, and where she was today?
That aside, it turned out this Haraldur Sorde was rife with demons that haunted him from his past. The ghosts of children he had killed in cold blood, forever whispering in his ears, haunting his dreams, and attacking his hope for the future. The man was practically an open wound--and open wounds were easy to infect. And the best part was, Rowen was not only willing, but eager to play a part in making their first move. After all, what would the terrifying, magic-resistant Forbanne army be without the man leading them? It was only one line of defense on Gaelyn’s part, but it was a start, nonetheless. The quickest way to kill a chicken was to cut off the head: and Rowen Kavanagh was just the right knife for the job.
It had all gone according to plan, too, which is what made this eventual failure all the more aggravating. Rowen had done her job and done it well, digging into the most painful of Haraldur Sorde’s wounds, such that he so desperately craved release from the pain that he put a blade to his own throat. It would have worked so well, too; just a few more moments of bleeding out, and he, along with his Forbanne army, would have been eradicated as a threat. It was simply poor luck on their part that that reclusive Rigas seer, and a necromancer--a bloody necromancer, what were the odds?!--of all people had come across the Sorde prince’s dying body just in the nick of time.
In the end, they had nothing to show for it but Rowen’s own critical condition, as well as the fact they’d effectively blown their cover. What had seemed liked a golden opportunity had once again turned into a matter of acting too soon--and it was imperative that they tread all the more carefully from that point on.
“There will be no invading, Rowen. It does not always work out as planned, and I do not have an army to back me--only you.” The sorceress said from where she stood in one of the single, uncovered windows in their cottage, looking out thoughtfully at the countryside beyond. Despite the faoladh girl’s rapid healing, she had come far closer to death that night than they had planned, and her recovery had not been as quick as she’d claimed. Locque had begun to worry, with the amount of blood she’d continually expelled from her stomach, even after having been taken directly to one of Galeyn’s strongest ley lines apart from those directly within the soil of the Night Garden. The reality hit her that she had almost lost her single useful ally; and she did not want to make that mistake again. “Besides, even if the Forbanne commander did die, there is still the issue of his infuriating cousin who wields a sword that is capable of dispelling even the likes of me. We must stop thinking ahead of ourselves; for now, it is best for both you and me to lay low. Especially considering you’ve far to go in your recovery.”
That being said, Locque was not surprised to learn that Rowen did not have it in her to sit still for long. When the slight girl was finally on her feet again, her hand was already itching to hold a blade, her legs yearning to run at an enemy with uncanny stealth and agility. She wanted action, she wanted change, and she wanted it now--but that was not possible. Bless the girl, she tried. She tried so hard to adapt that long-term thinking that was guaranteed to lead them to success. She wanted to kill, she wanted blood… but she held off. As to how long the stealthy young killer could continue to curb those impulses, though, was not a chance that Locque was willing to take.
“It is more than mere sitting and waiting, Rowen. It is listening; knowing. Gathering what we need so that when we do move, every step we take is purposeful and brings us directly closer to success.” Today, the sorceress had donned reddish hair that fell just past her shoulders, not so different from the girl’s; they could have been sisters, at a glance. She set a light hand upon her young protege’s shoulder and smiled knowingly. “This is not your preferred tactic, I know; and I am beyond grateful that you’ve chosen to adhere to my method. You’ve waited, you’ve healed, you’ve kept quiet and you’ve laid low. And now, just as I’d anticipated, some brand new wounds and weaknesses have opened up for us to exploit.”
Dropping her hand to her side, the sorceress moved to pull the curtains across one of the windows, as daylight was waning and it would be easier to see inside. The fewer who caught them conspiring, the better, and ever since the near death of the Forbanne commander, Galeyn had become far more alert. “The wife of the Rigas head has slipped into a coma, and he and the necromancer are evidently preparing to leave the kingdom, in search of some potential cure for her aliment. That means three fewer obstacles to throw hurdles in our path… and it might just be the chance we have been waiting for to make another bold move. About the Dawn Warrior,”
Locque turned back to the small assassin, taking a seat at what served as a kitchen table and folding her hands delicately in her lap. “She cannot be overlooked, because of her direct link with that sword. Should we kill her, Gaolithe will choose another; I have been around long enough to become acquainted with its lore. And in any case… she is far more valuable alive, and easily manipulated, than she is dead. So my answer to your suggestion, Rowen, is yes. I do need you to kill the object of her desire.” The sorceress’s eyes flashed with meaning and intent. “And with the necromancer out of the way, so long as it takes place far enough from the Night Garden, those who you bring to death should well remain dead. Frankly, what you do with that traveling circus to hurt your brother is your own business, and I cannot advise you either way. I only ask this.” Reaching out, she took one of the faoladh’s hands in her own. “This time, I implore you do not get yourself caught. I came far too close to losing you over something as trivial as the Forbanne commander. However eager you are to taste blood, neither the whore nor that traveling circus is worth an ounce of your life.”
At first, Rowen had argued with Locque over her unwillingness to take advantage of the gap in security she’d created by offing the Forbanne commander. With Haraldur Sorde dead, his cause of death would be ruled as suicide, and would not trace back to Locque or Rowen--unless her traitor of a brother followed her scent and ratted her out to his new family. All arguments died, however, when she and Locque both discovered Haraldur Sorde’s miraculous recovery. Not dead, not dead...she keened at the injustice! What evil was buried so deep in the man’s heart that even death could not expunge the smudge that he imprinted on the world? She thought Locque would show upset by the news, even disappointment in her partner’s inability to deliver on her promises. Nothing of the sort! Instead, she expressed….concern?
Rowen had gawked at the time. Locque did not care for the failure of their carefully constructed plan, but for the potential loss of her life? What a ridiculous sentiment! Rowen was never in danger of death, and to see Locque expend energy on her partner’s wellness, and not on their entire reason for partnering in the first place, sat oddly on Rowen’s chest. What was the woman’s ulterior motive? Did she believe that treating the faoladh like something precious to be lost would warm her, when what they had amounted to nothing but a simple business arrangement? She did not appreciate the halfhearted attempts at emotional manipulation; they were better served for their common enemies, and not each other. On second thought--Rowen had to be misreading Locque’s energies. She did not carry concern, but pity. Not even pity; worthlessness. Rowen had recovered in full days ago, but the sorceress still consigned her to the bed, to the bloody cottage they shared, before allowing her the freedom to leave. Such treatment of one’s partner demonstrated a lack of trust, a lack of faith in her skill and ability. While it was warranted, considering her failure to keep Haraldur Sorde dead, Rowen disliked the coddling. It smelled of nothing but condescension.
The day she’d been deemed well enough to explore on her own elicited mixed news, both good and bad. While Locque’s penchant for disguising appearances contributed to blending within society’s limits, Rowen, as always, preferred to run reconnaissance in wolf skin. Even as a nondescript woman with all her distinct features rubbed off and homogenized to blend with the Galeyn aesthetic, dwelling near the fringes of Forbanne camps and the palace was not conducive to a clandestine affair. People stood out among the cautious soldiers. Amidst the chaos of their leaderless unit, soldiers were trained to suss out suspicious--or non-suspicious--stragglers that wandered too close to the palace gates without clearing several checkpoints, first. While possible to achieve with Locque’s assistance of dressing her face differently every day, Rowen preferred the tried and true method of changing her appearance to her original, reliable form. There were no wolves in Galeyn, and the dog population numbered in the dozens. Were she caught by the perceptive Forbanne, news of the conspicuous creature would no doubt trickle past the palace gates, and settle upon her traitorous brother’s ears. No loyalty remained in him; his discretion, therefore, was no longer a sure thing.
But that hypothetical scenario would only spin if she were discovered. Rowen would not be discovered--and she didn’t need Locque’s help to sustain her shroud of stealth.
Through her intelligence-gathering sessions near the palace walls, she discovered a few interesting tidbits--aside from Haraldur Sorde’s revival. The current head of the Rigas family was setting off in one of the circus troupe’s caravans in search of healing his wife’s damaged heart--the same wife who Locque manipulated to kill an innocent woman. The Rigas Head, prone to cause difficulties due to his circle of influence and powerful magic, was not only departing Galeyn, but taking the necromancer with him. This was...perfect. Their roster of opposition was growing ever smaller. While the Forbanne commander was not dead, he was certainly detained for a while. His shoulders, though resilient, were scattered and disorganized. Alster Rigas and the necromancer were leaving, and everyone else--sans Sigrid Sorenson and her formidable sword--were pushovers.
With the obvious weak point of the Dawn Warrior out in the open and exposed, Sigrid would soon be a pushover, as well.
Two wildcards remained, however. Two very annoying wildcards with the potential to undo their strategies for a complete Galeyn takeover.
“Isolating that whore won’t be as difficult as the Forbanne commander; he took some time to chisel down. If not for his interest in the D’Marian village and his sentiments for building a little retreat for his family, I’d have had more issues targeting him without detection.” Rowen, not one for sitting and relaxing, kept to her feet, despite the fact that the small cottage did not accommodate the space to stand. Her small stature mitigated the issue, and for once, she felt grateful to be lithe and tiny, in opposition to her giantess of a sister, who practically matched their brother’s gangling height and would easily bump her head on the low ceiling. “No, she’s not anything to worry about. Leave her to me; I’ll account for the time of day. It’s possible to be stealthy in broad daylight. I’m warier of Hadwin and that summoner.” She spat out the name. “Teselin. His surrogate sister. I can smell the magic on her. It’s like she bathed in the blood of dead mages. It’s unmatched; unpredictable. It has the potential to hit this earth like a meteor. And Hadwin--he’d be her trigger. If something happened to him...there may not be a Galeyn anymore. What a shield to cower behind, dead-weight,” she muttered, mostly to herself.
“I can’t kill him...not yet. I can’t, but I can make him rue the very moment he disowned me. I don’t have to kill him--but I can drive him out. Render him irrelevant. He alone is the person most suitable to track my whereabouts and predict my movements. Hmm…” she slid her hand over the rough-hewn workmanship of the wooden chair she passed. “It’s unusual for him to choose a long-time lover; she’d be the ideal mark, but she seldom roams far from the heart of Galeyn. But the silver one with the anger problems...she’s erratic. She likes to fly far from her roost, sometimes. ...She’s killable.”
Her momentum of sketching out the steps to her next kill-scheme was not given long to incubate, however, when Locque interrupted the flow of her thoughts to spout some other condescending drivel about avoiding capture.
“I’ll be fine,” she muttered defensively. “Mollengard captured me only because they took me by surprise. I’ll make sure it never happens again.” She was about to pull her hand away and head outside the cottage, but the sorceress’ last words stymied her to a stop. Worth an ounce of her life? No one was worth an ounce of her life? Somehow, Rowen believed those words didn’t reek of a manipulative intent. Not that her accursed Sight could elucidate the meaning behind her statement of disputed fact. Rowen did not use her Sight unless she was meeting a person for the first time, or spying on some fresh blood to kill. Unable to make eye contact unless she triggered her Sight, Rowen’s eyes remained trained to the floor. Supplementing her lack of clear eye contact by using her two strongest senses--sight and hearing--she determined to decode the message that spoke of her worth. While she did not smell deceit, Locque wrapped deceit around herself like an impenetrable blanket, and had no other tells that would perspire through her pores. The woman was self-assured, and so poker-faced that she’d give Hadwin a run for his money in a card game. Why, then, was she sensing a hole in the blanket? A...vulnerability.
Manipulation, Rowen, she chastised herself. She’s good at it. Like your brother. He manipulated you into believing he cared about you for years. But when the water got too hot for him, he ran into the loving arms of the circus! And that summoner...the summoner. Stole him. She stole him. I want her dead, too. Dead dead but how but how? I shouldn’t have let her go before. I should have killed her even if it killed me. I can do it--even if it kills me.
But...but…
She glanced at Locque’s hand on her own, the closest she could exhibit to eye contact. “What do you mean? They’re not worth an ounce of my life...what are you saying, Locque?” She narrowed her red-brown eyes in concentration. “How do you calculate my worth? What am I to you? Because you sound like you’re suggesting more than what we agreed upon in this partnership.”
The week that had followed Commander Sorde’s death and subsequent revival presented its host of challenges to the Forbanne camp on the hill outside Galeyn’s palace. Forbanne did not speak to each other unless ordered to cooperate and communicate on a mission or battle, and so no soldiers reached out to discuss what had happened to their link with the commander--and by extension, their periphery link to Captain Solveig. But Kadri felt the disconnect, like a dam bursting, disrupting the shape of the river that served it.
The escorts that lingered near camp did what the Forbanne could not do, and provided a source of open communication from client to client. They tirelessly visited the approximately 600 men and women to inquire on their status--something called “wellbeing.” That was how Kadri discovered he was not the only Forbanne who had lost his connection to the Captain and the Commander. Everyone experienced the same loss, the same foreign idleness, the aimless purpose, and the widespread confusion. They knew they’d initially chosen Commander Sorde to lead them to freedom, but this was not how they anticipated freedom to appear. Freedom, to them, was following a commander separate from Mollengard and its affiliations. Others suffered a lapse in judgment, but in the end, ultimately stayed loyal to Captain Solveig and her wishes--and her wishes stated that they obey Commander Sorde. Obey--but watch. Should he defy Solveig’s directives, apprehend him. With such a difference in motivations, some of the Solveig loyalists branched off to their own corner of camp. Commander Sorde loyalists intermixed with the other soldiers uncertain of their fate, of their master--if Solveig would return to reclaim them, or if Mollengard would arrive to collect and reassign them to other masters. A handful of soldiers viewed the severance to the mind-link as an opportunity to integrate with society. A dozen more killed themselves--just as their master and commander had done. The majority, Kadri included, stayed neutral, holding out for the next step. Commander Sorde was alive, they’d been told, and he would return when he recovered. Until then, the Forbanne majority cooperated under the leadership of one Chara Rigas, interim Head and chief advisor to the Galeynian Queen. Her rule amounted to the same as when under Commander Sorde; guard the checkpoints, guard the entrances to the palace, contribute to the construction of the D’Marian village--and wait for further instructions. It was a tenuous standby, but most Forbanne were ready to plunge into purposeful work. Tools of war were not created for loitering.
In obeying Chara Rigas’ instruction for normalcy, Kadri returned to his semi-regular post guarding the east gate. Now that Vega Sorde was residing in the palace again, she had no more need for a personal guard. A few weeks had passed since he patrolled the pathways between the fountain and the outer edge of the Night Garden, but he, in another burst of independent thought (these were becoming more frequent, lately), found that the assignment was not a disagreeable one. The fountain was where, after all, he had discovered a friend. Cwenha. Thoughts that elaborated beyond his patrol duty spread between Commander Sorde, Vega Sorde, and Cwenha in particular. He thought about meeting Commander Sorde and asking after his “wellbeing.” That was the polite thing to do, he’d learned. He thought about asking after Vega Sorde’s unborn children. That was also a polite question to ask. But if he saw Cwenha, what would he ask her? Before he left for Galeyn’s countryside, the acrobat’s foot injury was healed. So he couldn’t ask about her foot.
As he turned the corner and strode down an empty hallway, halberd upright and at his side, he saw the object of his thoughts emerge from a side chamber. He ceased his military stroll and froze to attention.
“Cwenha.” He drove the bottom point of his halberd to a resting position on the marble floor. It made a hollow echo sound. “How is your wellbeing? Do we ask this question?” His dark eyes did not look at her; a soldier on duty did not seek eye contact. But did friends make eye contact? “I want to ask Commander Sorde that question. And Vega Sorde. Commander Sorde died but he’s alive, now. The escorts at camp told us he tried to kill himself, but then some Forbanne killed themselves, too. But a lot of Forbanne who are ‘weak’ kill themselves. That’s what the masters say. I don’t know if anyone asked about their wellbeing. Would that have stopped them from killing themselves, or made them less weak? Is Commander Sorde weak? Are these questions to ask a friend, Cwenha?” He tilted his head to one side, genuinely curious about what he was allowed to discuss. “What is it like to be free? Forbanne who follow Commander Sorde say they’re free. But we don’t have the mind-link to follow him. It died when he died. Can we follow him? Is it freedom to follow him? Is it freedom not to follow him? If you listen to orders, are you a slave? I don’t understand...what to do.”
