A flush crept across the Master Alchemist’s face the moment Alster made such a grandiose offer in so cavalier a fashion. He wasn’t sure what stirred uneasiness in him more: the potential for a prolonged life, which, while different from immortality, was leaps and bounds more than his wretched mentor had ever achieved in his pursuit, or the fact that he hadn’t even considered payment or compensation for his services. It was not as though everything he did for people (which was startlingly little, for someone with such an extensive skill set) was out of the kindness of his heart; after all, he made frequent transactions with Severin’s family, exchanging his tonics and services for the boy’s father in exchange for supplies. But to receive hundreds upon hundreds of years of life, in exchange for saving a single life… was that considered a fair trade? And even if he was successful, would that make him worthy of extended years?
“No. That is not necessary.” Isidor needn’t ponder for long. The words slipped out before he’d fully formed them in his mind, and half-turned his body away from Alster. “Immortality--or at the very least, extended longevity, was his life’s goal. The only pursuit that mattered to him, to the point that he took me on as an apprentice just to make it possible--was to spite death completely. No matter the cost to anyone else.” Shadows crept into his voice and across his dark eyes at those last words. Isidor did not paint his former mentor in a favourable light; insofar as it certainly corroborated Vitali’s appraisal of the late Master Alchemist of this tower. “I vowed long ago that I would not become that man or any semblance of him. On one hand, it would certainly taste like poetic justice to attain precisely what Master Zenech never managed to reach. To be... served longevity, when he worked so hard for it his entire miserable life, only to end up failing. I suppose I just don’t have the taste for it that he did. Even if it meant unlocking alchemical secrets that the world might never know…”
Pushing his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose, the Master Alchemist turned back to his unexpected guest and offered an apologetic nod. “Not that I… do not appreciate your offer. I realize it is not one to be taken lightly. Probably an offer that I will never see again. But understand that… that it is just not one I am comfortable accepting, given my circumstances. If you insist on some sort of repayment for my services, that is something we can work out in due time. After all, we have weeks on the road before we return to your home, don’t we? Although… I recall that the Rigases ruled the city of Stella D’Mare. But that is not where we are bound. Apparently, a lot changes beyond your awareness when you are safe within the walls of a tower.” He scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Anyway… longevity aside, let’s see how the success of this unfolds before you shower me with gratitude. While your wife’s condition is not nearly as complicated as a congenital disease, even medical alchemy practiced by someone who specializes in that sect is not without risks. I cannot guarantee success… I can’t say that enough. But of course, I will try. In fact--I would be much obliged if you could tell me more about this ‘blood bond’, you speak of. I am aware of blood magic and that it can form strong links between individuals, but as someone who himself is not a mage, I lack knowledge of those individual details.”
Alster had his full attention when he ventured to explain the nature of his blood bond with his wife, Elespeth; how it linked them on all levels, physical, mental, and emotional, by means that were far over the Master Alchemist’s head. “Well, if what you say is accurate--and I can only imagine it is, for you know yourself and your wife better than anyone--then it would stand to reason that you may be the best candidate for helping to treat your wife’s heart. Of course, there are tests that I must run before I can even think to proceed, but I see no reason why we cannot proceed with the idea that it will be your heart to heal hers. Especially if, as you say, for someone who cannot well tolerate magical interference, she was able to tolerate yours.”
For someone ill-attuned to the sentiments of others, the young Alchemist was no less sensitive to the sudden change in the room’s atmosphere. A crease formed between Isidor’s brows when the Rigas mage’s hopeful expression suddenly dampened with the idea that he was to blame for his wife’s current condition. He did not know enough about the situation to cast judgment either way; hells, he did not know Alster or his wife enough to be able to confirm or deny who (if anyone) was really at fault for Elespeth’s damaged heart. What, then, was he supposed to do, in this case? Console? Reassure him? How was he even supposed to go about doing that if he neither knew whether Alster’s concerns held merit, or if there was any hope that there was a bright future for him and his wife? All too suddenly, he was reminded of exactly why he preferred the solitude of his lonely little tower in the middle of Nairit’s least-traveled forests. “When approaching a problem to uncover its solution… it is always--at least, in my practice, it is imperative that you know the source of what caused it, and what causes it to endure. Which, in this case, you do: the stimulant herb that caused her heart to deteriorate,” he ticked the items off on his fingers, “and her body’s lack of willingness to receive magical intervention. Which, in her case, would be most ideal, considering that it does not sound as though she would survive invasive surgery. However… it is not at all conducive to the solution to spend our time contemplating blame. Regardless of whether she is to blame for consuming the stimulant in the first place, or you are for putting stress on her body with magic… none of these considerations will help lead to her recovery, Alster. That said,” he tried to smile. Encouraging smiles were indeed difficult when you really had no idea how a situation would pan out, in the end, “I would advise you to keep your attention on the present, and occasionally look to the future. We’ve considered enough of the past to devise what needs to be done, and how to go about it. Blame has no place in your wife’s recovery, in my humble opinion.”
He could not relate on an emotional level. Isidor Kristeva had never cared enough about anyone to despair the way Alster did for his life’s future. However, one thing the two of them appeared to share was that of a level head--and a well-informed one. So whether or not the Rigas mage was sufficiently placated (and, wait--hadn’t he previously alluded to being the new Rigas Head?!), the Master Alchemist’s appeal to focus not what on what was done, but what can be done, appeared to be enough to at least lift the heavy fog that had descended upon the room. When the topic shifted to Alster’s prosthetic arm (heavily influenced by his curiosity), Isidor could hardly stifle a flinch when he took note of the angry, inflamed skin surrounding the point of contact that joined the arm to his body. “The materials your smith and surgeons used to configure this arm are high-quality indeed. It is sturdy and resilient to the elements, that much I can tell. And it seems to function well in place of your biological arm, insofar as you can use it the same way. But I cannot imagine… you will be living centuries with this prosthetic. That is a long time to be in agonizing pain, isn’t it? These metals… composed as they are, they are not compatible with human flesh or organic matter.” He ran his fingertips along the forearm of the appendage. “Your body is not rejecting it, because the magic behind it ensures that it will not do so. So instead, it responds in pain. Pain is actually a very necessary blessing in our mortal existence; it reminds us not only that we are alive, but alerts us to problems and imbalances. The ‘agonizing pain’, as you’ve described it, is your body’s way of telling you it never agreed to this change, and it wants to reject it. Again, another example of magic’s force of will.”
He creased his brow again, contemplating whatever his sensitive fingertips could tell him about the composition of Alster’s arm, down to particle level. “While I will, of course, put my all into refamiliarizing myself with what I know of medical alchemy, what I am able to do for your wife remains to be seen. But if you so desire--and of course, only after consulting the Rigas who smithed this to begin with, I may be able to make some changes to your arm. At the very least, I can certainly make it lighter, so that it isn’t as great a burden on your living muscles and flesh. Perhaps even equip it with a sense of touch; to give you a better idea of your grip and what it is you are touching, if you have to grab something in the dark. This does happen to be my area of expertise,” he managed a self-conscious smile and drew his hands away from Alster’s arm, afraid he’d perhaps lingered on it for too long, and clasped his hands behind his back. “So… it’s a success I can almost guarantee. To ensure your trip here was not a waste of time.”
What had begun to feel like an almost comfortable conversation (for someone not used to having conversations, at all) was rudely interrupted by the necromancer, which set the poor Alchemist off kilter again. Despite that Vitali’s arrival was stealthy and only brief, the man never ceased to ruffle Isidor’s feathers and leave a bad taste in his mouth. Shoulders that had begun to relax regained all of the tension they’d previously been holding, when Isidor turned back to the stove to dish the now overcooked oats into two bowls. He didn’t need to ask to know Vitali would not be returning to partake. “No, he’s right. My culinary prowess is sorely limited.” The Master Alchemist confessed, handing Alster a bowl and spoon with an apologetic crease to his brow. It was a wonder that crease had not become a permanent fixture on his pale face. “Master Zenech had someone cook for him when he was alive. When he passed, I told the chef he was better off leaving and finding better work in one of the nearby villages. The idea of having the tower to myself was a far more attractive option to eating flavourful meals. Needless to say… I think you’ll find it obvious that I cook to survive. But, to answer your previous question,” he glanced at the mug Vitali had tossed in his direction, then spooned some of the oats for himself. “Knowing the percentage and composition of metals and ores by touch comes very quickly to me, because I work with them the most. Plant matter and all things of the earthen kingdom also don’t require much concentration. But, I am capable of breaking down any matter, if I concentrate enough. Animal organic matter takes me the longest, but fortunately, I’ve never found my appraisal of it to be any less accurate. It just tends to take me longer to understand the details. Master Zenech… he specialized in animal matter. Changing the very composition of living things… but to no one’s benefit than his own.” He almost seemed to suppress a shudder at an unwanted memory. “Perhaps it is for that reason that I have largely avoided medical alchemy. Because I refuse to emulate that man in any way, for better or for worse…”
Taking his bland breakfast to the table, the Alchemist’s thin frame came as no surprise, considering the way he ate. While Alster sat and very politely partook, as if it wasn’t the most tasteless thing he’d ever eaten, Isidor chose to stand, and thumb through the books in front of him. More often than not, when he brought a spoon full of oats to his lips, it only made it in his mouth about one out of every four times. By the time Alster had finished, Isidor’s breakfast was only about a third down, and by then, too cold to finish. “You are in fact correct, Alster Rigas: I use quartz to amplify what little light this tower affords to grow a small selection of edible plants. Quartz in and of itself is perfect for storing all sorts of energies; I combined it with the reflective properties of hematite. Now, all of the light that comes through that little window is multiplied exponentially. Quite an easy fix, actually.” Putting down his barely touched meal, Isidor adjusted his spectacles and gestured for the Rigas mage to follow. “By all means, it will probably make more sense if you see it for yourself.”
Obliging Alster, he led him out from the kitchen, and through the curved hallway that led to the spiraling, stone staircase at the heart of the tower. They climbed up to the second floor, and made an immediate left, to a room that did appear to resonate with far more light than any of the others. Fortunately, Vitali must have already had his fill of the solarium, for the room was mercifully vacant. “It just made more sense for me to cultivate a few fruits and vegetables in a controlled environment than to deal with the ebb and flow of seasons,” Isidor explained to Alster as he led him inside the small bit thriving room. Every inch of the wall and ceiling had been imbued with quartz, smooth along the walls and raw on the ceiling, hanging like tiny stalactites. Each and every one of them almost seemed to glow from the inside with the warmth of trapped light; a thousand candles couldn’t compare. “These can grow all year round,” he went on, touching the bud of a small strawberry plant which, instead of growing upward from soil, hung from a vine like grapes. “Of course, their composition did need a little bit of tweaking to make the most of this space… but I can assure you, all of them taste just as good as they would, had they been farmed in a more conventional way.”
Allowing Alster to take his fill of the room, for he understood the needs of a curious mind, Isidor lapsed into a temporary silence. When he spoke again, the lightness in his voice sounded strained. “This Tivia Rigas… whom you mentioned my brother respects--as if he could possibly understand the meaning of such a word.” He frowned, finding it understandably hard to believe. “Do you happen to know why he treats her differently, to the point where he has been cohabitating with her? Considering she is a Rigas, I imagine she must possess some very powerful magic… Are you sure it is not possible that he is hoping to ensnare her into doing his bidding of some sort? For all he is wretched, he can be very persuasive, and does not need people to like him to exercise that skill. Before you know it, you suddenly end up owing him a favour. Regardless of these ‘selfless’ acts and that he might not appear to have an ulterior motive, I’d really have to see it for myself before I could tell you Tivia is safe with him. But I suppose I will have the opportunity to find out when we reach… what is the place? Galeyn?”
The name did not feel familiar on his tongue any more than it sounded familiar to his ears, and he scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully, trying to recall if he’d ever come across such a place in one of his books. “I know it does not say much for someone confined to a tower to confess that I have never heard of it, or understand its significance. But from what little you’ve mentioned of this… kingdom, is it? I must say it sounds rather remarkable. Almost too good to be true.”
The way Isidor spoke of his mentor--Master Zenech--filled Alster with a great deal of concern. Despite his acquaintance with the elusive alchemist not lasting a full twenty-four hours, it was no secret that he found himself relating to Isidor, perhaps a little too acutely. Without knowing of his history with the former occupant of the tower, Alster could infer that Master Zenech’s treatment of his pupil was less than stellar, and likely abusive--a feeling with which he had become all too familiar. It took many years, decades even, to come to terms with his mother’s “teachings,” a term she had coined to differentiate between parenting and training. But there was no difference. She had no interest in parenting during the formative years of his youth. No interest in regarding him as a son worthy of love. Any dismissal of her stringent regimen would disrupt her “foolproof” patterns which would ensure his success as a magical Rigas elite. While he understood that elating his position and bolstering his rank was, in a sense, her own twisted way of showing her love, it wasn’t until much later that he realized this form of “love” was toxic. Unnecessary. Stifling. And unhealthy. For the majority of his life, he came to learn that he was only worth loving insofar as he remained useful. Even now, it was a faulty methodology that he had difficulty shaking. After all, would he have maintained alliances with influential people, if not for his willingness to offer his services without expecting anything in return--but their love and respect? Would people rally behind Alster Rigas if he were more preoccupied with his own self-interests, ignoring the cries of others who needed help? Would he have won Elespeth’s loyalty and admiration, otherwise?
The answer was no.
I am worthy because I am useful. I am deserving of love only if I am helpful. Knowing my upbringing, knowing what’s twisted me into this untwistable way of thinking...it is possible that Isidor shares my opinions. We’re so desperate to break free from the people who broke us--to rise above them--that we’ll throw ourselves at others for the chance to be more. Either that, or we’ll willingly sink into obscurity. We can’t hurt people, and they can’t hurt us. That was me, once. Too shy of my own suffering to present myself to others as this faulty, vulnerable creature. Needy and insecure. A blight on humanity, as Mother once said. And now--that’s all I am. I wonder if you feel that way, too, Isidor. Perhaps not needy, not yet, but like you’re too damaged for this world.
Shaking away his morose thoughts, which had lapsed him into a silence longer than he realized, he plastered on a smile as a response to Isidor’s decision. “That’s fair, Isidor. Longevity isn’t for everyone. But in case you change your mind, my offer still stands. Your acceptance of a longer lifespan does not put you in league with your master or his teachings. Your pursuits are your own; they may align with your Master’s, true, but this does not mean you have become your Master. It’s important to understand the difference. But I digress. My offer of an elongated lifespan is not some grandiose exploitation of my power and influence. It’s to illustrate the depths of my gratitude to you, should you succeed in curing my wife of her ailment. It may appear disproportionate to you; one life in exchange for several lifetimes. At first glance, this is far from an equivalent exchange, but I assure you; it’s not. It’s been said that love is the death of reason, and I, indeed, am that fool. She’s worth more than I can properly express in words, Isidor. That said, consider me beholden to you in any way you deem fit--but I won’t get ahead of myself. We have the entire ride to Galeyn to work out the details of our arrangement, or until the deed is done, of course.”
As he detailed the intricacies of his and Elespeth’s blood bond, Alster ended up slipping, speaking aloud an insecurity almost guaranteed to cause a bit of discomfort between himself and the socially awkward Master Alchemist. He’d been careful not to alarm Isidor with bursts of emotionally complex conversation, taking great pains to filter his speech and communicate in the language of facts, figures, and information. Owing in part to his surplus of female friendships, it did not come off as a shock to unload his worries on a receptive party, his complacency ignoring his diplomatic strategy to disarm--and not alarm--with his words. Was he that desperate for a sympathetic ear from the likes of a relative stranger? Bereft of a friendly face for so long, did he unload his feelings with purposeful intent?
“My apologies,” he quickly voiced. “I’m often guilty of thinking aloud--and it’s worsened over the course of these last few weeks, with Vitali as my only company. Don’t pay me any heed, Isidor. It’s a poor habit of mine, to cast aspersions on myself. I’m in full agreement with you. If I did not agree, I would not be here, beseeching your cooperation. I’ve done my share of bemoaning my actions of the past; decades of it. I’ve long-learned that proactiveness is the key to success. All I can do at present is look to the future. But thank you, Isidor. Sometimes it can be difficult to separate the past from what’s truly important, especially when you’re seeing it from such an insular perspective. It helps to have an unbiased third party to give me a bit of extra closure.” It spoke for itself, that Isidor’s unsolicited but welcome advice shone some light on his true character. If he had cared so little about humanity or the petty affairs of people, he would not have cared enough to impart any words of comfort. It further confirmed, to Alster, that Isidor secretly wanted a connection outside of his tower, to do good works with his unique skillset, and to matter. To live, and not just to exist. Vitali had used the correct call to action, in convincing Isidor to join their party and travel to Galeyn. Perhaps it wasn’t much, but what Alster could do to help was encourage Isidor, but never pressure him. And, naturally, to fend off Vitali’s troubling presence, lest he start chewing at his brother’s vulnerable body like a hungry shark out for blood.
“I’ve come to terms with it,” Alster carefully touched the area of inflammation on his arm, following the uneven bumps and ridges of his red, ravaged flesh. “Not that I’m resigned to live in near-constant pain, but there have been far more pressing matters for me to attend than to worry about whether I’m having a ‘bad arm day’ or not. You do pose an interesting analysis, however.” He lowered the sleeve of his tunic back in place, concealing the point of convergence between tissue and steel. “This arm, for lack of more delicate terms, was violently pinned and cauterized in place. In fact, the pins have been driven into my bones, and if I am not careful, they pull on my shoulder and on my spine. I’m forced to wear a back brace,” he alluded to the rather heavy belt that wound around his waist, “to maintain balance and homeostasis. While I attribute its installation and its ongoing side-effects to the majority of my discomfort, it certainly doesn’t help matters if the magical side of the procedure is forcing my body to accept the prosthesis, hence frustrating my already inflamed pain receptors. It would explain why the affected area refuses to heal. It’s a continuous open wound, one that is egged along by the disharmonious teamwork of the technical and magical configurations, which together, comprise my arm.” It intrigued Alster, to hear Isidor’s willingness to restructure his arm, which he offered entirely of his own volition. “I’d like that, Isidor. Any contribution from you at all will improve my quality of life with this arm, I’m sure.” What Alster chose to omit, was if this scenario would be a viable one, should they fail in restoring Elespeth’s heart. Would she die, or never reawaken? Would he care, then, about easing the pain in his arm, if it did nothing to still the turbulence in his heart? It was best not to think of the future in such bleak terms. After all, Elespeth promised him that they’d keep fighting for a cure. As long as the healing energies of the Night Garden provided for her, and so long as she continued to don the ring that he’d enchanted for her, she’d remain alive. There was absolutely no reason to drum up worst-case scenarios. If Isidor could not help Elespeth, then he would continue on with his search until it happened.
They sat down with their bowls of oats for a breakfast that Alster would never admit was...unpalatable, in places. Shoveling the food to the side of his mouth, away from his tongue, he managed to swallow and consume the majority of the bowl. “Cooking is chemistry; I enjoy it, though it’s not as common a pastime for me, anymore. I used to cook for my parents while we were on the road, and you better believe that my mother would have been the first to complain if I fed her subpar food.” Despite the fact that many memories associated with his mother were painful to recall, he laughed at this one. “Vitali can say what he wants about it, but I’m cooking traditional D’Marian cuisine. And besides, he’s used to Galeyn’s bountiful harvests; of course his palate is spoiled. The man finds reasons to complain, besides. I suspect he wouldn’t survive long without doling out a judicious dose of jabs and insults on the regular. But that’s neither here nor there.” After ensuring Isidor was finished with his meal, Alster collected the bowls and filled up the basin to wash them--not so simple a task to do one-handed. While his prosthesis was spelled not to rust in water, it didn’t do well in it, either. The spaces between his segmented joints would fill up and occasionally slow down the basic functions that operated and moved his hand. It made bathing a difficult endeavor, one he never looked forward to, anymore.
“Related to your appraisal of matter, both organic and inorganic, are you able to detect impurities or flaws in a composition? Or specimens of the most superior quality?” Completing his task with the bowls, he turned from the basin and wiped his hand dry with a wash-rag. “For example, being able to choose the best apple in a bushel based on its internal structure, or selecting a chunk of ore with the most ideal crystal pattern and density. That would make cultivating certain strains of plants, or mining for ore, significantly more rewarding. Is this how you went about creating your solarium? Through careful germination of the seeds to yield the sweetest, juiciest crops, and isolating the best quartz and hematite candidates for the building of your artificial sun? Better yet, I’ve wondered how you manage to conceal this tower without the use of magic. Is its ‘vanishing’ related to the reflective, mirror-like properties of certain crystal systems that you stitch and tailor to serve a specific function on a molecular level? Or is it something else entirely?”
They spoke on their way up to the second floor. Upon entering the solarium, Alster at first squinted, not quite adjusted to the sudden inculcation of light to his eyes. Once they blinked into focus, they bulged wide, determined to absorb as much of the scene as possible. He traveled around the small but well-utilized space, impressed by the reverse growth process of tomatoes, their roots hanging upside down on lattices and resembling a tree more than a series of vines. Above his head, each stalactite glistened like small slivers of the sun, radiating warmth upon Alster’s shoulders. It crossed his mind several times why Isidor didn’t spend more time in the solarium, a perfect haven for obtaining a little color and nutrition for the eggshell-white alchemist and his dusty complexion.
“This is very impressive, Isidor.” Alster returned to his host, at the front of the solarium, after he completed a round of exploration. “And I’ve been living in a miracle garden for the last few months. I thought I’d seen it all, but you’ve managed something special, here. Even the Gardeners of Galeyn would have something to say about this place. It’s nothing short of fascinating. May I?” Reaching out to pull a strawberry from the vine, he tore off the stem and popped it into his mouth, reveling in the plump, juicy insides, which exploded on his tongue with a satisfying flavor. “Yes, this is of quality to rival that of Galeyn’s famous fruits. I daresay the kingdom of Galeyn will be a most fitting place for you.”
“Speaking of,” he stepped away from the strawberry “tree” and realigned at Isidor’s side, “there’s a reason you’ve not heard of Galeyn. It has been lost to history for one hundred years. To prevent a powerful sorceress from gaining access to the Night Garden, the ruling monarch plunged his people and the entirety of the land into a pocket universe, of sorts, a stasis secreted away in a dreamscape from which only the monarch’s blood relatives could reawaken back into this realm. This man happened to be the father of Lilica, who is Vitali’s half-sister, and the new monarch of Galeyn. After her blood rekindled the Night Garden and its inhabitants, the kingdom of Galeyn has returned to our existence, the majority of its people and structures preserved from the 100-year sleep. There’s far more to explain, but that’s the short of Galeyn’s current history. Even prior to the kingdom’s mysterious disappearance, it has always been a hermit country, maintaining few ties and alliances with neighbors, preferring to live in peace. It currently houses refugees from Stella D’Mare; our city,” his face sagged, “has recently fallen to Mollengard. Myself and the acting Rigas Head have close ties with Queen Lilica Tenebris and she has allowed us to name Galeyn as our home for the time being. You’re not wrong; it does sound too good to be true, but you’ll be able to see for yourself if it’s the paradise you envision in your mind. And now, this brings me to Vitali.”
In case the necromancer was lurking in the shadows outside the solarium, Alster guided Isidor further inside, gathering beneath the lattice weaved with vines upon vines of tomatoes. “I was among the search party tasked to help Lilica find and reawaken Galeyn. This party also included Tivia Rigas and Vitali. He wanted to start a new life in a place that did not know his name or his past misdeeds; so he claimed. But when we eventually arrived at the dormant Night Garden, and once Lilica reawakened the kingdom with her blood, something happened to Vitali. A curse befell him. He vaguely referenced this to you yesterday, in fact. Indeed, his father, who exists as a wisp in dreams and unconscious minds, triggered the Night Garden to attack him, too distrustful of his motivations to allow him sanctuary inside of Galeyn. While his body suffered from gashes that magic was unable to heal, his mind drifted into a nightmare realm of continuous, unrelenting punishment. You may hate me for this, Isidor, but I, along with Lilica and Tivia, entered this nightmare-scape of his father’s creation, in order to save him. And we succeeded; we managed to pull him free from the Night Garden’s sleeping curse. What I can never forget from that venture, however, was his reaction to seeing Tivia in the nightmare garden. He told her to leave and save herself; he wanted her nowhere near the tangle of black thorny vines which had impaled him, in case she’d become a victim of his punishment. It was the first time I’d ever seen him make an unselfish decision. There was no motive behind it, no attempt to manipulate Tivia into sympathizing with his plight. His words were genuine. This was not the first time he’d shown her genuine care and understanding, either.” He readjusted the leaden belt around his waist.
“In Stella D’Mare, they’d saved each other’s lives. He defended her, and she defended him, both from death and from external threats that would inhibit their individual freedoms. He never raised a hand to harm her nor scarcely pointed a barbed tongue in her direction. She grew to love him, though he never accepted her love. When he awoke from his nightmare in Galeyn, rendered blind as a result of extreme light sensitivity--a holdover from the Night Garden’s curse--she stayed by his side and nursed him to health. Since then, they lived together in a farmhouse at Galeyn’s outskirts, and you’d never believe it, but they complement each other, existing in domestic harmony. This is why I can’t agree with your analysis of your brother. Once upon a time, this might have been true, but I would never leave my kin with questionable company if I thought she was in danger. He’s never once attempted to exploit her star-seer ability. Oddly, he’s been something of a comforting presence for her, someone who struggles reintegrating with society because of her isolating power. Strange as it may seem, he’s made her...happy. She and Teselin are good influences on him. They believe in him, and I’ve seen him do good under their instruction. If anything,” he chuckled, “they are manipulating him. And this is why I can’t hate Vitali. I dislike him, I can’t forgive him...but I don’t hate him.”
“By all means,” Isidor gestured his approval as Alster went to reach for a strawberry. He followed suit, doing the same. “They’ll only rot on the vines if they are not eaten before we take our leave of this place, anyway. Hell, maybe Vitali can exhibit some of his ‘unparalleled’ culinary prowess and make something to further put my cooking to shame.” The Master Alchemist plucked another strawberry, but this time, held it in the palm of his hand with a solid look of contemplation instead of popping it into his mouth. “To answer your previous question… It isn’t at all beyond my abilities to detect perfection or defect within the essence of certain materials, but you must also bear in mind that often times, especially with inorganic materials, it is largely subjective. I can tell you that this strawberry is at its peak ripeness and hasn’t even the faintest essence of rot, yet, but as to how it tastes depends completely on what you perceive as ‘perfection’. The same goes for the stones, in here; I chose and crafted them to what I perceived as perfect for their purpose. In terms of amplifying and emitting necessary light and heat for these crops to thrive, they are, in essence, perfect. However, a jeweler might argue aesthetically that they are not. But, in terms of living organic matter…”
He plucked another strawberry from the back of a vine, one that did not have adequate access to light, and as a result, had turned a sickly brown colour. “It’s possible to detect a failure for certain tissues to function as they should. It’s obvious to see that this piece of fruit is not adequate, compared to the fruit surrounding it, by its appearance alone. But what I can read in the tissues of this strawberry is a failure of nutrients to sufficiently allow it to thrive due to lack of sunlight. It throttled his ability to grow to the same size as the others, affected its pigment, and inevitably, the flavour. It might look rotten or sickly to the eye, but in fact, it’s only ‘malnourished’, and still perfectly safe to eat.” Putting the strawberry aside, he spared a look in the Rigas mage’s direction, and couldn’t help but feel the vaguest hint of flattery that the man took such an interest in what he largely considered mundane work. He hadn’t converted this room into a solarium to impress, but rather, to survive. “In case you are wondering… I will be able to diagnose potential success or failure of my procedure for your wife, through interpreting the overall condition of her body, currently. I would not proceed if there were a high chance that it would only further endanger her life. You have my word.”
As if what had begun as a relatively light topic hadn’t significantly darkened by bringing up the questionable condition of Alster’s wife, Isidor soon regretted ever making mention of the Rigas Mage’s home--or, what used to be his home, as it sounded. Mollengard… That was a name that had occasionally reached the Master Alchemist’s ears over the years, but only as passive news. No different that the snow that fell around the tower in the dead of winter, it was not something that directly affected his life, did not permeate through the safe, stone walls of his tower. As a result, he could only empathize in theory for what it must have meant or felt like to be completely uprooted by your home through force. Even though he had once inhabited the small caravan that his mother called a home, long, long ago, it was such a distant memory at this point that anything prior to his life at the tower seemed like little more than a dream. He couldn’t even really give credence to the accuracy of his memories, prior to being ‘taken in’ by Master Zenech. Time before his apprenticeship was, at this point, little more than a shadow that faded more and more as time passed. So while Isidor realized it was appropriate to pity the Rigas Head, and that his sadness was justified, he wasn’t sure that any sympathy on his part would really suffice. “That’s… I am so sorry to hear that, Alster. It was stupid of me to ask. I should have realized that nothing short of a tragedy would cause the Rigas Head, of all people, to be calling a place other than Stella D’Mare his current home…”
His shoulders slumped, and he clasped his hands behind his back. “At the very least… it sounds as though you have found a suitable foster home for your people that does not appear to be lacking. The history of this Galeyn--if it is as you say it is, and I see no reason for you to lie… It does sound quite akin to something of a paradise. Kind of like a fairytale, if you ask me, but magic is not my jurisdiction. So what I might find unbelievable may well be more than feasible for your kind--the magically adept, I mean. Not ‘your kind’ as if you are submortal...” A flush was the only colour that tinted his pale face. It wasn’t enough to never know what to say in a given situation, but the young Alchemist had the intellect to always realize his verbal faux-pas after the fact. He was fortunate in that Alster did not appear to be someone who easily took offense. “I am very well-learned in my art. However, I will admit that there is still much about this vast world that I do not know--that I never learned, for reasons both my own fault and beyond my control. I suppose I really had no excuse when Master Zenech passed; there was nothing and no one keeping me here. And yet…” He touched one of the smooth, warm quartz on the walls, a wistful look passing across his face as if he missed this tower already. “Somehow, I chose to stay. I chose to like it, here, regardless of what experiences it might have cost me. But… I digress.”
Isidor’s expression expectedly soured when, once again, the topic of conversation came full circle to address his wretched necromancer of a brother. Well… he had asked about this ‘Tivia’, who, the way Alster put it, seemed to be the one and only person capable of having turned that man toward a less miserable existence. He hadn’t, however, anticipated exactly what had brought those two together…
“Wait. So Vitali’s father--and you mentioned that his sister… not our sister, not this Teselin, but his sister by another mother is the rightful Queen of this fairytale kingdom? Well, there you have it, then. It makes perfect sense as to why he would put on the guise of cooperation.” The Master Alchemist scoffed and turned his back to the small window, folding his arms across his chest in indignation. “To find a lost kingdom from which his own blood hails is nothing less than what I would expect. This father of his had the right idea in mind; probably anticipated his future interference in… wait. Wait a moment.” Isidor’s brow furrowed and he turned his full attention on the Rigas head. “Just… how long was this kingdom trapped in a stasis? Despite that I have never heard tell of it, you’d think that more people, even as far as Nairit, would have gone in search of it if this had only occurred some decades ago. But for that to be possible, Vitali… he and his sister would have to be…”
No. No, this was far too much information--far too much strange information--to process, and the Master Alchemist was not in the right frame of mind to fully digest it. Isidor unfolded his arms and pressed his fingertips to one of his temples, and massaged it gently. To spare himself from pondering the fact that his older brother might be far older than he’d ever imagined, at the cost of what could develop into a migraine, he decided to focus on Alster’s steadfast point of view, however much he disagreed. That Vitali was not only capable of changing, but that he already had, to some degree. “So it sounds to me as though you and this Tivia--and Vitali’s other sister--might well be the only people who has ever seen him vulnerable. And you may well never see it again; not even being rendered blind, it seems, can stoop him to the humility he truly deserves to experience. This ‘domestic harmony’ with your Tivia Rigas, as you so put it, in and of itself is very… shocking, to say the least. ” He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his straight nose, his mouth puckering into a frown. “Which, I suppose, leads me to my next question: what is it, exactly, that Tivia sees in him? Does she feel beholden for the fact he saved her life? That perhaps her love is misguided from that single heroic feat of his? And if he has turned down her love--which does not come as a surprise, because there is nothing you can say to convince me that the man is at all capable of love--then is it not reasonable to assume he is simply continuing to lead her on? Having a sighted ally is still certainly an advantage on his part, no matter how capable he wants everyone to believe he is…”
Isidor shook his head slowly. It was becoming clear that regardless of the evidence Alster presented him with, even for a scholar who was no stranger to seeing reason, it would take more than a secondhand anecdote of the dreadful necromancer’s abrupt change of heart to make him believe that it could be genuine. “Well… I suppose this is something that I will eventually see for myself, anyway. I do appreciate your insight into… well, everything, Alster. My brother might be the one deprived of sight, but I haven’t traveled beyond the premises of this tower in years. I feel as though I am the one going in blind…”
Once again, the Master Alchemist turned toward the quartz-studded wall of his makeshift solarium. That nostalgia for a place that he hadn’t even yet left once again flickered in his dark eyes. “You asked me earlier about how I keep this place invisible. The truth is, I was never instrumental in implementing such a cloaking strategy, and to this day, I still don’t fully understand it. Master Zenech was the one who managed to implement it, just a year or so after I even came into his… ‘tutelage’. To be honest, though I’ve studied it, I still do not fully understand it. Something to do with the way he transmuted the stone this very tower is made of to refract light in such a way that it makes the whole edifice relatively unnoticeable… but the rest, I can only glean, has to do with magic. He was never a man magically adept, himself, but that did not stop him from mingling in crowds of people who were. My guess is he must have made a deal to enlist the help of a very crafty mage, once upon a time. To be honest, if there is anything you can tell me about the nature of this tower’s invisibility,” the very edge of his mouth quirked upward; a hint of a smile, “I’d be much obliged. Of course… I do not imagine you have much of an interest in remaining confined to these stone walls for much longer. Not when your wife is waiting for you, back in this Galeyn.”
It was obvious that the Master Alchemist did not want to leave; that despite realizing the experiences he was missing, being a hermit scholar who was loathe to depart the comforting walls of the only place he’d ever really called ‘home’, Isidor did harbour a fear of the unknown, much which stemmed from surviving outside of his niche. Never before--at least, not since gaining independence from his mentor, had he ever needed to explain himself to anyone. Never had to force himself to fit in, outside of his workshops, because his work had never affected anyone beyond his tower; well, save for the tonics he crafted for Severin’s father. But this was different. Not only was he being asked to save a life, but that of the wife of the very Rigas Head… the stakes were high. And depending on the results, he would either gain a fair amount of allies that he’d never asked for, or even more enemies…
“Well… if we can start packing this morning, we may be ready to depart by evening.” He couldn’t say as much without a subtle air of defeat. “Maybe even sooner, if we can enlist our friend the necromancer to stop poking around my workshops and lend a hand--I would be willing to bet my life on the fact he has no interest in respecting the boundaries I’ve declared in his tower.” Isidor pressed a sigh from his lungs and ran a hand through his hair as he and the Rigas Head took their leave of the solarium, closing the heavy door behind them to maintain the warmth. Not that it would really matter in a few weeks time; by the time they arrived in Galeyn, every crop in that room would surely have dried up or rotted. “If he is so secure in his culinary skills, then perhaps we can have him take what he needs from the solarium and cook us what he deems to be a palatable meal before we are on the road. Otherwise, we might be able to mitigate waste by dehydrating some of the fruits and vegetables to take with us along the way… I can arrange that with little time and effort. Oh--and, there is one thing I would like to request, if you will hear me out.”
The Master Alchemist stood at the railing of the spiraling staircase, a thoughtful expression befalling his face. “Severin… my errand boy, the one you intercepted. His father has a congenital illness that is causing his lungs to fail, little by little. I have been providing the family with tonics to slow the disease, but alas, I am afraid the damage is irreversible. The man is looking at maybe another decade, at the most, until…” He trailed off. There was no need to mention ‘death’ when it was already so heavily implied. “You mentioned that you are, yourself, a healer. Before we make for Galeyn, my only request is that we stop by the northernmost of Nairit’s village so that I can expedite enough doses to last the man several months, at the very least. But if there is anything more that you might be able to do for him--anything that my alchemy has not been able to touch… I’d be able to leave this place with a greater load off my conscience.”
It came as a great relief to hear Isidor’s proclamation concerning Elespeth’s diagnosis. His ability to detect his wife’s receptiveness to the operation beforehand was enough of a comfort to mellow the Rigas Lord into a more relaxed state. Not that he’d allow for the surgery if he sensed the possibility of abysmal failure--the type of failure that would cost her her life. Nonetheless, it was still encouraging to be able to verify the Master Alchemist’s moral code of ethics, relating to the delicate intricacies of his wife’s condition. There would be no forceful attempts at a cure, something that prideful sorts would strive for, damning the consequences; their reputation, pass or fail, meant more to them than the wellbeing of the patient. Isidor had enough humility--often absent from Masters of their respective crafts--to understand that he might not serve as the best fit for the job. And for that, Alster trusted him implicitly, because his heart was in the right place. He didn’t want the glory or the accolades, a success story to validate his misunderstood discipline. He wanted to do things right, foremost. If “right” meant he’d reject taking on the procedure, at risk of the patient’s life, then it was his call to make.
“I suppose my upbringing was quite the opposite, but very similar, in several regards.” He ran a questing hand over the quartz paneling that surrounded the four walls of the solarium. “Much like you, I was trapped. Stella D’Mare was my tower. Now, I can look back on the city with longing in my heart, as I’m sure will happen once we leave your tower. There’s something to be said about absence from familiar places--especially if circumstances prevent your return. But at the time, I despised my city. Despised my chains. So I broke free of them, in the worst possible way.” He curled the segmented digits of his steel fingers into a fist, ignoring the soft, slinking sound they made as their metallic scales glimmered.
“In the end, I achieved my wish to escape, and saw much of this world--but at a steep cost. To this day, I deeply regret my actions, but I also wonder--if I didn’t make that desperate, ill-informed decision to break free, would I still be trapped in my tower, begging for release? Where we differ is how we chose to interpret our chains. You stayed, and made the best out of a less-than-ideal situation. I rioted...and dealt with the repercussions. Neither choice is wrong on its own. The desires are pure, even if the execution is poor. I assure you that for your part, your execution is far better than mine. To leave your tower to answer a cry for help ...that is noble. It may not have been your choice, initially, but you now have an opportunity to see what lies beyond your tower. Whatever you decide after your request has been fulfilled, my offer still stands. I’ll personally escort you back to this tower if your wish is to return.”
Sensing that the information pertaining to the Alchemist’s extended family was becoming too overwhelming for him to process all at once, Alster tread a little more delicately on the subject. “I’ve thought about his reasons for cooperation; he’s made it no secret that he wants to reside in Galeyn, likely because it is a stable environment where he can live a relatively untroubled existence. The price to pay for living peacefully in a country that propagates peace is, of course, to adopt their policies of peace. Therefore, I have no problem with Vitali using his connections to carve himself a niche among people ignorant of his history, if it solidifies his cooperation. Selfish or not, if he’s not causing trouble or harm, I’m willing to give him what he wants. Once he causes a stir, then I will step forward and interfere--but he knows well what awaits him if he oversteps his boundaries. It’s a truce, and it’s a working relationship. No one benefits from disturbing what’s been established. Galeyn has already spoken against those who disrupt the peace. While it was the previous monarch acting in its stead, the Night Garden did dole out King Theomyr’s punishment. Vitali is still cursed and, as of yet, cannot travel to the center of Galeyn, where the famed Night Garden is located. The curse weakens, and may one day allow Vitali to travel to the center. Not like he can do much, even if he has access to the Garden. It is bonded to Queen Lilica by her blood. I saw the exchange of energies pass between her and the massive tree that crowns the Night Garden. It doesn’t appear capable of becoming undone, even by an upstart like your brother. But on the subject of Galeyn, itself,” he released his hands from the wall, adopting an even quieter tone to relay the more problematic aspects of the kingdom’s background in a calm candor, “it’s been one-hundred years, which means that, yes, both Queen Lilica and Vitali are over one hundred years old--definitely older than me. They have their reasons for defying age, but for magic-users, it’s not uncommon to obtain longevity beyond mortal means. Besides,” he quirked a smile, “is it any wonder that Vitali would find a way to cheat death?”
“As for what Tivia sees in him,” he rolled his shoulders into a shrug, “I suppose it has something to do with her feelings of isolation. When her star seer abilities awakened, he was a prominent fixture in an extremely tumultuous and vulnerable time for her. Much as we--Elespeth and I--supported her, she, for some reason, gravitated towards him. She can be impressionable; for a Rigas, she’s still young. And to her, he looked like an attractive, and dangerous, prospect. Their relationship only evolved from there.”
From there, they changed the subject towards far more neutral territory. Alster, nodding along to his request, turned again towards the quartz-lined walls, analyzing its structure with a casual glance. “If you say magic was involved in the construction of the tower’s cloaking device, then in my eagerness, I must have overlooked it. Then again, perhaps it was meant to be overlooked by any magically-adept passersby attuned to waves of energy manipulation. For such a massive structure not to emit magic like a signaling beacon means that the magical system employed here must have been a very sophisticated one, a marriage between itself and the alchemical discipline. If I had to venture an explanation, I’d say the refracting qualities of the tower’s stones have been enhanced through enchantment, and are linked to deactivate their cloaking properties via the small stones that a visitor is instructed to bury in the dirt. The stones act as the catalyst, a repulsing magnetic force that repels the illusion magic and reveals the tower, whole and unobstructed. That is my very simplistic take on the phenomenon surrounding your tower. It’s a marvel, really--a deterrent against the curious layperson and the magically gifted.”
As they exited the solarium, returning to the chill of the corridors and the draft that vortexed up and around the spiral staircase, Alster warmed his steel arm with the tendrils of his magic and pressed it against his chest. He seldom did well in the cold, a likely attribute of his southern heritage, wound in his blood. “Whatever assistance you need, I’m ready to provide it. If we start now, we should be able to pace ourselves without succumbing to exhaustion. Besides, it will give Vitali plenty of time to transform himself into a true culinary artist. Far be it from me to stand before him and his newfound calling in life.” Reaching the stairwell, they climbed up to the next floor, heading to where Vitali was purportedly lurking. “Of course, Isidor. I had planned to visit Severin and his father before our departure from Nairit. I made the boy a promise that I intend to keep. Whether my healing magic can cure him remains to be seen, but between the two of us, I’m sure we can do something to relieve his symptoms.”
They spent the remainder of the morning and of the afternoon transferring materials from several of Isidor’s workshops down the stairs and to the caravan, which they’d parked just shy of the steps leading to the outside entranceway. Having anticipated the number of components and materials the alchemist required, even Alster marveled at the inventory that Isidor deemed necessary for his work. From stacks of books, raw materials, vials filled with colored liquids, bricks of parchment, trays and specific instruments for the trade; to elixirs, drawers of crushed herbs and powdered minerals, scales of varying sizes, mathematical compasses, and calipers for measuring--it was a feat of engineering that they managed to fit everything inside at all, without sacrificing food or provisions. Of course, overloading a caravan did not come without some sacrifices; namely, space. The sleeping area was overrun with towers of books that, to keep from toppling in the slightest jostle, were lashed in place with twine (and a little bit of magic). To reach the bunk beds at all required fleet-footedness and the ability to squeeze through tight spaces. Luckily for the three of them, their physiques were thin enough to manage navigation of the narrow “corridors.” In short, the caravan looked like a claustrophobic’s nightmare, a precariously packed hoard of miscellany and residual circus glitter clinging to every surface like sparkling, multi-colored dust. The sight was quite comical, but Alster’s humor gave way to anxiety, upon predicting and projecting the course of the next two weeks on the road--sitting between a recluse plucked from his reclusive corner, and a necromancer prone to insults and sarcasm...and relentlessly teasing little brothers.
To help divert some of the tensions between the warring siblings, during dinner--the last meal Isidor would eat in his tower indefinitely--Alster promptly shut down any and all comments Vitali dared to lob in the alchemist’s direction. It was enough that Isidor was about to venture out into the unknown without his brother rubbing salt in the wounds. Speaking of salt--
“I see you’ve oversaturated the food once again, Vitali.” Alster, who was scooping a spoonful of the stewed vegetables into his mouth, remarked, diverting the attention from Isidor and shining it, bright as the sun, directly into his blindfolded eyes. “I think you need a lesson on how to cook rice. Too bad no one can teach you, since you’ve dismissed me as incapable of manning the pot. I am, after all, so very bland.”
Shortly after dinner, they made their departure from the tower, setting off into the night as per Vitali’s specialized accommodations to which Alster, despite his frequent hangups with the man, always respected. Having reverted to its invisible appearance, shielded by the illusion of the pink tree, the Night steeds whinnied into motion, broadening the distance between them and the tower--Isidor’s home for as long as he remembered. During the two-hour long trek from the forests of Nairit to Severin’s village, Alster, concerned over the alchemist’s current state of mind, kept watch over him, offering whatever supportive words he could without sounding too overly dismissive of the tower’s significance to Isidor--a place he called his own and chose for his own. Yes, it benefited Alster to have enlisted the alchemist’s help; his separation from the tower was an ideal situation made real. But that didn’t mean he could not exercise sympathy towards the man’s loss, or the fear that churned and flipped at his stomach. Leaving comfort and safety behind...it was an untethering, ultimately vulnerable experience. Unmoored and adrift in the sea, homeless, his independent nature forced to depend on a stranger an estranged brother, Isidor was understandably shaken. And if it were possible, Alster would ensure his trip and transition into Galeyn would be relatively painless.
As they’d planned, the caravan reached Severin’s residence just before the family retired for the evening. The candles burned from inside the windows of the modest but well-to-do dwelling, indicating the family’s receptiveness to guests. With Isidor at his side, they stepped out of the coach and to the front door. Moments later, Severin answered, surprised to see both the reclusive alchemist out of his tower, standing together with the stranger from yesterday. “Please excuse our intrusion at this hour, Severin,” Alster greeted the boy with a smile and a bow, “but I believe I gave you my word, and I’m here to honor what I’ve promised. Isidor here has brought your father an extra supply of tonic, to cover his ailments for the duration of his projected absence--and beyond. May we come in?”
The sandy-haired boy opened the door wide and bade them enter, calling out to his parents, who had just moved inside the bedroom in preparation for sleep. Fortunately, they did not get far in their post-evening rituals, and agreed to meet with their guests in the parlor. “Thank you for allowing us into your home at this late hour.” Alster, who sensed Isidor wouldn’t be as comfortable with speaking to the family, took the lead in the conversation. “But we wanted to ensure we reach you before we depart Nairit. As you may have heard from your son, Master Isidor will be accompanying me across territories, to perform an operation on my wife’s ailing heart. I realize how this may affect you, so Master Isidor has provided you with plenty of tonics to see you through for the next six months. As further gratitude for your understanding,” he gestured to the father, “I am more than happy to check on your lungs. I am a healer, and have used my magic to repair nerve damage and lesions residing from within; no need for invasive surgeries. As I am, you may not trust my credentials by word alone, so I hope that my name speaks for itself, for it--aside from my skill in magic--is all I have to offer. I am Alster Rigas,” he bowed his head, which exposed the prominent tips of his ears. “If you will permit me, I will have a look at your lungs, sir.”
At the go-ahead from Severin’s father, Alster pulled up a chair beside the mill’s owner. After voicing a warning, the Rigas Lord placed his hand over the man’s chest, closed his eyes, and concentrated. Through his mastery of electricity, he was able to map out a projection of the man’s lungs. In his mind’s eye, he laid a composite of his own healthy set of lungs over the image, and compared the two disparate images. A long, pregnant silence pervaded the room as Alster took the time to analyze the complexities of the man’s condition--until finally, he opened his eyes and broke free of his petrifaction. “You have fibrosis of the lungs. The lung tissue has become badly damaged and scarred. I daresay longterm exposure to the grains from your mill has exacerbated your condition. As for what can be done, or rather, what I can do--”
Magic is a force of will, Isidor’s words echoed in his head. Yes, it was, and its will, to a body on the defensive, could wreak havoc on the subject. But within the mill-owner was a readiness to accept the penetrating waves of magic. The door had opened, and it welcomed an ethereal healing touch.
“I can stimulate the damaged tissue and encourage it to heal on its own.” It was what he did for Vitali’s arm, with positive results. It presented the least amount of risk for both the patient and the healer--and while it was a far from comfortable procedure, it was due more to his alien presence, slithering along the nervous system, than of the simple pain response firing its signals to the brain. Of course, the latter would factor itself in, as well, but not to the extent that healing Briery’s lesions had caused to the patient. “It’s a quick process, not without some discomfort--shortness of breath, sharp stabbing sensations--but nothing you have not already experienced. I can go ahead and do this now, or we can wait until the morning. While we can’t stay in Nairit for too long, I won’t rush your decision.”
Alster had the Master Alchemist's attention, perhaps more than he realized, when the Rigas Mage began to delve into the details of his past. Vague though they were, there was something about the reminiscence in his blue eyes that Isidor unmistakably recognized. Because it was the same look he often saw in his own eyes in the morning and night--the only two times a day when he happened to glance in the mirror to wipe the remnants of sleep or the stresses of the day from his face. He'd only known him for a matter of hours, really, but at this point, the Alchemist was about willing to completely throw any suspicions about this man and his association with his brother. There was something… undeniably genuine about this man, far beyond his plea for his wife's life. At first, he'd suspected that the extent to which Alster was trying to relate to him had been a result of some coaching on Italy's part. Find his soft spots. Try to be relatable. That's how you'll snag his agreement. It certainly was a tactic within the necromancer's unholy arsenal, but time and again, the Rigas Mage reiterated his shaky truce with his brother, and assured him it was nothing that resembled a friendship involving implicit trust. So either the man was a far more masterful manipulator than even the necromancer, or… Or, he and Isidor were, in many ways, more similar than they were different.
"I suppose… I can only push my own complaints so far," he admitted, clearing his throat. "It is true that I never asked to become a part of this discipline, but in a sense, I also cannot deny that I was complicit in my own misery, in that I never had the spine to fight it. And somewhere down the line, I suppose I decided to find something redeeming about it all. The cost of it all notwithstanding…" Isidor raked a hand through his hair, a shadow of guilt creeping into the contours of his sharp face. "I do find it interesting. And I've built upon what I've learned of my own volition, following my master's death. I hope you do not think I am looking for pity or sympathy, because that certainly isn't the case, regardless of what picture my brother might faced And… whatever it is you've implied to have faced…" He averted his dark gaze from the single slit of a window in the solarium to refocus on the Rigas mage. "There's no need for you to detail specifics; that is strictly your business. But neither do you seem to be a man in search of sympathy for whatever it was you have faced. All the same… I do appreciate your effort to try and understand."
No, Isidor was certain at this point that Alster was not merely trying to appeal to him. And within their extended conversation (which was perhaps the longest that he could remember in the decades he'd been alive; his existence around his master had been relatively silent), without realizing it, the Rigas Head had gained his trust. Even in spite of his persistent opinion of his necromancer brother, which was completely contrary to his own. "You know… I will admit, it is possible that you may be more well-acquainted with my brother that I am, myself," he confessed, as they climbed the spiraling staircase to the top floor. "And I am not of the belief that people, no longer how despicable, cannot change. I am an Alchemist, after all; change is paramount to my knowledge and beliefs. But through my discipline, I also know that change cannot result but for a catalyst--something that must incite it. So it just leads me to wonder…" Isidor narrowed his eyes as they stepped off the landing and reached the top floor to the telltale sound of someone pacing through the leftmost workshop. Typical… "What, exactly, was my brother's catalyst?"
Surprisingly, the Master Alchemist and the Rigas head found it required relatively little convincing on their part to persuade Vitali to lend a hand loading the caravan. He mentioned something about being eager to leave a place that still stunk of wretched Master Zenech's death; something that struck both Isidor and Alter as strange. Since when had the essence of death ever bothered a necromancer? "The atmosphere of this place is uneasy," he explained, a touch of a frown turning down the edges of his mouth. "How did miserable Master Zenech die? I am not of the impression that he passed easily. Not at all…"
"I can only presume he passed in his sleep," Isidor replied, straining under the weight of about eight heavy books in his arms, while Alter did the same. Suffice it to say, none of them were particularly equipped to the task of lifting and lugging the amount of supplies that the Alchemist deemed necessary for the task requested of him. "I found him that way one morning… it will have been around ten years ago, by now."
"No--no, that doesn't feel like the case." The necromancer placed his hand on the stone wall and stood quietly, as if it could fill him in on the details that is brother could not. "People who pass peacefully in their sleep do not leave a signature such as this. Frankly, I am surprised this place is not inhabited by the man's spirit. These stone walls," he turned to face Isidor, as if he could see his brother through the blindfold protecting his eyes. "They hold a grudge."
"Well of course you can reason that he did not pass gracefully, Vitali. The man sought immortality." Isidor scoffed, straining to maintain his balance as he descended the stairs. "And in the end, he did not achieve it. So not only did he did, he failed in the one endeavour he'd pursued his entire wretched life. That was the reason he'd taken me on as an apprentice. It therefore stands to reason that, no, of course it was not an easy death, considering his aspirations fell to pieces."
"It was the reason he bought you, Isidor. Come now, no need to embellish your alchemical upbringing for our Rigas friend, here. I think you'll find him quite sympathetic to your history with your late Master considering his own roots. Yes, Rigas," a ghost of a smile reversed the necromancer's frown. "I've encountered the spirit of your mother back in the old city. She's a rather transient being, but has a lot to say."
"Alster's business is his own." Isidor snapped, finally having reached his limit of his brother's obnoxious nagging. "As mine is my own. Kindly resume being useful, and clear the rest of the books out of that room."
Alter would soon come to find that those words were the full extent of backbone Isidor had in him to use against his older brother. As the day progressed, and the three men managed to fill the once empty caravan almost to the brim with supplies, the necromancer never seemed to run out of fodder to lob at his little brother. Of course, they were primarily small jabs that amounted to very little, but Isidor did not possess the same offensive wit as his brother, and as a result seemed to quietly absorb the insults in hopes that a lack of reaction would cease Italy's onslaught. It didn't, however, and the rather one-sided back and forth between the brothers continued into the evening, when they partook in a meal of rice and vegetables that the necromancer insisted on cooking 'for the sake of everyone's palate', he'd claimed. By then, Alster must've come to sense the way the alchemist was continually withdrawing, no longer seeming present in the conversation, but instead looking far off at something that didn't exist. He hadn't even attempted to touch his food. It was around that point where the Rigas Mage stepped between them as a shield to the Master Alchemist, of sorts, by deflecting all of the blows that Isidor couldn't deflect.
"I don't need lessons in anything, Rigas." The necromancer argued when Alster finally diverted the topic away from Isidor. "You just don't have the palate to appreciate decent cooking because you are, as you say, very bland. What say you, Isidor? Judging by what you deemed to be food this morning, I would be surprised if you found my culinary efforts unpalatable."
But Isidor was hardly paying attention, let alone eating any of the meal before him. He only seemed to snap out of it when he heard his name, coming back from whatever world his attention had resided in for the past quarter of an hour. "Hm? Oh, I'm… sure it's just fine, Vitali."
"How would you know if you don't even do me the honour of trying it? Ah, little brother, you're not getting cold feet about leaving this four-story dungeon, are you? Believe me," he reached across the table and landed a hand on the alchemist's shoulder, causing him to jump. "This place isn't good for you. Bad aura and all. Growing pains aside, this will be good for you."
There might have been truth in Vitali's assessment, but what constituted as "good" varied in definition from person to person, and the Master Alchemist was not necessarily in agreement with his brother. Whatever the necromancer sensed in the aura was hardly enough to mollify the discomfort that was plain on Isidor's face when they made their final preparations to depart. Isidor hesitated before taking a seat among Vitali and Alster, who were sharing the driver's seat, eyes locked on the only home he had ever really known, for better or worse. "Any day now, brother," the necromancer called. Alster might have been infinitely patient, but he did not even pretend to boast the same virtue. "The night is not getting any younger, and Lord Rigas's wife isn't getting any healthier."
"Right. Of course--my apologies. My mind was elsewhere." Isidor was quick to apologize, and with a final sigh, removed the small stone from the tree root to watch his home vanish before his eyes. "Had we more time, I'd have been interested in hearing what you can discover about this tower's cloaking abilities," he said to Alster with a half-hearted smile. "Perhaps some other time, if the future favours it."
While there was still enough room for a single person to ride inside the caravan, and Alster had been quick to offer the space to the alchemist, Isidor assured them he was just fine sitting outside for the time being. Vitali made a snide remark about how the Master Alchemist needn't pretend to be comfortable existing outside a 'box' for their sake, but nothing came of the remark, and the three existed in silence for the duration of the two-hour ride into the village. Isidor only spoke up to offer directions to Severin's home, which did not look particularly lively upon their eventual arrival. "Not exactly an ideal arrival given the hour that we left, but… well, this cannot be helped." He sighed, as he and Alster jumped down from the driver's seat, the former looking more than a little window and shaky on his feet. "Just… what kind of horses did you say these are? I've never heard of a beast that can travel at such a speed…"
Whatever Alster said next was lost on the Master Alchemist as they approached the cottage located in front of a tall mill. There was no reason for the trepidation that sped up his heart, or the dampness accumulating at his palms. No reason to be nervous around the single family he chose to associate with; and yet, when young Severin answered the door, wide-eyed and worried, he could hardly find the words to ease the young man's obvious concern. "Master Krista…" He breathed, and bowed his head. "Please, forgive me for betraying your location… I know I have broken your trust, but these men seemed to have a noble request, and needed to find you…"
Alster spoke up before the Master Alchemist found the words to placate the Miller's son. When at last he found the words, he bowed his own head in apology. Had he really struck such a cord of authority in this boy that Severin thought the alchemist would turn his back on his family for such an infraction? "You needn't worry, Severin; you've done nothing wrong." He told him, but not without a nervous quaver in his voice. "It is as Alster said; I will be away from my tower for… I am not sure, for how long, exactly. But we are here because I wanted to ensure the best for your father's health--not to reprimand you. In fact, Lord Rigas may well be able to do more for your father than I can."
Relieved that he did not seem to be in any trouble, Severin invited the two inside and went to retrieve his parents. A weary-looking woman and man joined them in the parlor when the boy returned, but neither of them looked particularly upset that their sleep had been delayed. "Master Kristeva. I am honoured to finally meet the man to whom I owe my prolonged health." The Miller said with a smile, and offered his hand. Isidor looked at it as if he had no idea what to do, at first, before coming in and shaking it with a weak grip. "And… you, sir. I do not believe we have been acquainted, through my son or otherwise. What brings you here with Master Kristeva?"
The miller listened to what the stranger oddly-shaped ears had to say, and his eyes widened at the fortunate turn of prospects with regard to his health. His wife, who stood closeby, looked hopeful. "Can you… do you really think you can help my husband? He is no longer able to work the mill as often as he used to be; his decline halted when we enlisted Master Kristeva's help, but he is still far from remission…"
"I accept your offer for help, Alster Rigas." The miller said, hardly stopping for a moment to consider it. "But I am afraid that unless you are in need of freshly milled grains, we haven't the funds to pay you…"
"Alster is doing this as a favour to me; it was upon my request that we stop here to ensure your health, sir, before departing Nairit entirely." Isidor chimed in, holding up a hand. "In addition to supplying you with enough tonic to last you several months. But depending on what Lord Rigas may be able to do for you, you may not even be in need of the tonic any longer."
Giving Alster the go-ahead, Severin and his mother gave the blonde-haired stranger room to assess the Miller's condition. Everyone in the room appeared to hold their breath as Alster felt out his assessment of the man's condition; finally, a name to the demon that had plagued the family's livelihood for so long. "So the mill is to blame for lack of any kind of recovery…" The miller sighed and shook his head. "I cannot walk away from my work. It is my family's livelihood, and the mill has been in our family for generations. But if you think… there is a chance you can buy me a little more time… Whatever it is you can do, you have my full consent to go ahead with it."
The miller took a seat, upon Alster's suggestion, and the others in the room looked on with curiosity and a little bit of trepidation. When it looked as though the miller was experiencing discomfort, gripping the arms of the chair and appearing to have a little bit of difficulty breathing, Severin took a step forward, concern swimming in his eyes. "Is it hurting him…?"
"Don't interrupt," Isidor cautioned, lifting a hand. "You must trust that a healer knows what he is doing. He would not have offered to help if the risk far outweighed the reward." And it was just then, as he spoke aloud, that the Master Alchemist realized that he trusted the Rigas stranger who'd come so far to seek his services. He couldn't ever recall investing trust in any soul, apart from this boy and his family. It made him wonder just at which point he had come to determine Alster Rigas had earned such a favourable standing in the eyes of someone who would sooner avoid people altogether.
Several moments later, Alster stepped away and declared whatever procedure he'd performed to be finished. The miller, aside from looking weary, did not seem any worse for the wear, and stood from his chair with the help of his son. "Will he be well, now? Might he recover?" Asked Severin, casting a hopeful glance in Alster's direction, but the Rigas mage was not able to confirm. The Miller's illness had progressed to such a stage where remission on its own was unlikely, especially if he continued to carry on the work of his forefathers, but there was a chance that this procedure has bought him more time, on top of what Isidor's tonics offered.
"Thank you," the Miller said at last, his voice strained, but no less filled with gratitude. "My family and I are eternally grateful for your help… both of you, Lord Rigas and Master Kristeva."
"Whenever you return, Master Kristeva," Severin said, bowing his head, "I would be happy to continue to make your deliveries."
Isidor struggled with a smile. It felt unnatural, but he couldn't leave this family's gratitude unacknowledged. "Of course, Severin. I will be sure to be in touch with you when I return." When was, of course, for certain. This place, and his tower… it was the only place he'd ever known as home.
Shortly after ensuring the Miller's stability, the alchemist and the mage took their leave of the family's home to leave them to rest. "Thank you for helping those people," he said to Alster, as they made their way back towards the caravan, and the ever impatient necromancer. "What you are able to do… that is truly remarkable. Fortunate that the miller's body was readily accepting of your magic. With any luck, he'll have more time yet on his plane."
"Are the two of you through with your good Samaritan deeds?" Vitali called from the front of the caravan, ready and eager to get the horses moving again. "We're losing night, and these beasts are only worth their weight when they're able to move faster than the average horse."
Isidor shook his head slowly and scratched the back of his neck. His dark hair fell into his eyes, but they needn't be visible to see that this departure left the alchemist more than just despondent. "I think… I shall sit inside the caravan, for now, if it is all the same to the two of you." He said quietly, before taking his leave of their company to sit among the piles and piles of books--the only company he currently felt able to tolerate.
“Livelihood is important; I could not realistically ask you to step away from your mill--so I will do what I can to encourage your damaged cells to heal and regenerate.” Alster sank into his chair, drawing from the man for a temporary reprieve before he was to delve back inside the body for the upcoming treatment. “But I would suggest you wear a mask whenever you need to walk among the grist and powder generated by your mill. The fewer irritants you inhale, the longer you can preserve and maintain your lung’s health. Of course, I need not reiterate the importance of the tonics that Isidor has been preparing for you. They seem to be more than efficient in staying the disease, if they have been effectively keeping your symptoms at bay these past several years.” He shot a smile in the Master Alchemist’s direction. “Don’t worry about payment, either. It’s as Isidor has said; I’m here as a favor to him, and to fulfill a promise made to your son.”
After giving the family ample warning of his intentions, Alster, in preparation for the task, straightened in his seat and stretched both hands, steel and flesh, forward. “This will be a mite uncomfortable for you,” his words were apologetic as he addressed the miller, “and I don’t have any substances to numb the pain--but it will be a short procedure. If it becomes too unbearable, I’ll stop. I’m able to monitor your pain threshold while I’m inside, so rest assured--I’ll be gentle.”
Positioning his hands on either side of the miller’s chest, Alster closed his eyes and returned to the affected areas webbed across the man’s lungs. As he had done with Vitali, he took the damaged tissue into himself via the sieving effects of his death-seeking chthonic magic, allowed the pain to travel through his body like the open end of a circuit, and released it--not into the earth, as was its original course--but straight into the Serpent’s maw. As per their arrangement, the Serpent kept the degenerating effects of Mariana’s disease from attacking Alster’s body, and he, in turn, captured the stray tendrils of chthonic magic that reached and pulled to him like a magnet--as an offering to the beast. Since the “awakening” of his true dual potential in manipulating both celestial and chthonic magic at once, Alster opened a floodgate of power that never ceased spinning its water-wheel of generated energy. Unfortunately, magic of that potency required the stamina to control it, lest it demanded tribute through indiscriminately targeting the physical body--piece by dissolving piece. While he abhorred his forced connection with the Serpent, an entity who could access his thoughts, his consciousness, and assimilate with his mind were he not diligent and careful with his shielding techniques (or with curbing his phases of hopelessness, which threatened to give in, give up, and allow the Serpent free rein), he was grateful, nonetheless, for the opportunity to remain alive, and useful, and most importantly, available for Elespeth. However, one of his greatest fears seldom escaped his reach; that, in continuously feeding the Serpent chthonic energy, the beast would gorge on enough power to overtake his mind in full--for the Serpent desired Alster’s life, and made no qualms about taking it for Itself.
But for now, what mattered was right in front of him: removing the miller’s lung damage with his chthonic magic, and revitalizing the affected regions with the gentle, electric currents of his celestial magic. Diverting his concentration to concerns he could not eradicate would only delay the effects of his internal healing, or at worst, irrevocably injure his trusting patient. Throwing himself into the task, he sieved and healed, sieved and healed, like tides on the beach. And like water, the lapping motions of the ocean were gentle, and mindful of the seashells it scattered on the shoreline. Satisfied with his work, Alster disengaged from the miller’s inner universe and slowly blinked his eyes open, to the concerned stares of the man’s family.
“It was successful,” he announced, hiding the tired strain of his voice, or the lightheadedness that swayed and unsteadied him on the chair. “In the coming weeks, you should see an improvement in your lung health. Unfortunately, I cannot foresee a full recovery at this late stage. It’s my regret I could not do more for you, but,” he bowed his head as he slowly drew to his feet, “I’m optimistic about the trajectory of its healing potential. If all has gone well, the discomfort you experienced just now will be the worst of what you’ll endure for quite some time.”
Not wanting to overstay their welcome, even when the thankful family offered them tea and a clean bed to stay the night, Isidor and Alster soon departed, bidding their well wishes and their farewells. Returning to some semblance of stability on his feet, the Rigas Lord closed the door behind him and strode to the waiting caravan, and the blindfolded gargoyle perched upon its coach.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Alster shook his head at the alchemist’s gratitude. “It’s my duty to these people--to anyone who’s in need of help and assistance that my magic can provide. Frankly, I’m relieved that the miller’s body was so receptive to my magic. It’s no mystery for me to admit that I’ve been questioning the efficacy of my power for...a while, now. But,” he plastered on a smile, “that’s neither here nor there. Thank you, Isidor, for your confidence in me. I overheard what you said to Severin’s family while I was operating on his father. Your support doesn’t go unappreciated.”
The gargoyle, sick of remaining still and unresponsive, emerged from its cocoon of stone and blathered out to them in the darkness, thereby ruining the shared moment of camaraderie. “It won’t matter, anyway,” he grumbled to Vitali. “Nairit’s main roads are heavily policed at night. We’re consigned to the narrow forest roads until morning--and those roads are likely populated by ban--” he cut off his sound with his tongue, mindful of Isidor picking up on context clues from what he so obviously omitted. But the alchemist had since retreated into himself, as before, back when they shared in the final dinner at his tower. “Of course, Isidor,” Alster, returning his attention to far more preferable company, bowed his goodnight to the man. “Rest well.” When the man slumped into the caravan, removing himself from sight and sound, Alster wordlessly climbed into the coach beside Vitali and nodded at him to urge the Night steeds into a swift gait. It wasn’t until they’d cleared the miller’s village and were bouncing on one of the unmaintained side roads of Nairit that Alster turned his attention to the necromancer.
“I’d like it if you kept the merciless haranguing of your brother to a minimum,” he warned, his eyes glowing from the reflective light of etherea he held aloft in his hand, which illuminated their rocky path. “You may be making up for lost time, or think of it as goodnatured ribbing--however you want to justify it in your head--but you’re only contributing to his social withdrawal. How will he gain the confidence and competence to contribute and collaborate with people when you’re constantly putting him down? He’s just lost his home, Vitali. This situation is already stressful enough without your needless commentary. If you insist on being contrary, take your grievances up with me, but leave him out of this. Can you do that? The success of our errand here is contingent upon not only Isidor’s consent, but on his physical and mental wellbeing. He cannot work effectively if you cultivate a hostile environment for him. Heavens know he’s allegedly suffered such hostilities when his master was alive. Which reminds me…”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The steady clopping of hooves and the rumble of the caravan’s wheels both provided enough of a sound barrier between himself and Isidor, who was inside and unlikely to hear his and Vitali’s conversation. “Master Zenech, was it? You felt his energies ‘haunt’ the tower. I’m no necromancer, but I’m sensitive to energies all around--and I can confirm sensing a residual wisp of something expressing...resentment. At first, I attributed the feeling to the overall mood of the tower; it’s dank, gloomy, and the natural vortex created by the spiral stairwell traps all manner of energy signatures, both good and bad. I could have picked up some stray intense emotions when standing too close to the stairwell. But this energy did not spin, per sae. It...hung, and it lingered, like a shroud. Like...well, like a spirit, I suppose. You can confirm, then, that this ‘spirit’ is Master Zenech? And if so--were you suggesting, earlier, that his ‘death’ ...was a violent one?” His brow furrowed intensely. “It’s been said that when a person dies by violent means, their intense emotional energies imprint on the atmosphere, and remain behind, on this plane. That explains haunted places--battlefields, hanging trees, massacre-sites, or where natural disasters struck. But it sounds to me like this ‘haunting’ isn’t merely residual; not a pool of someone’s collected death knells. His ghost lingers...as,” his shoulders tightened and closed in on themselves, “as does my mother’s, right?”
Reflexively, he shivered. Releasing the ball of etherea to float above his head, he drew both arms together, generating heat through his steel arm for warmth. It was as if mentioning her summoned the spirit beside him, chilled fingers clutching at his throat. He remembered those condemning eyes when last he encountered her, in a dreamscape created by Daphni, where the spirits of his dead parents were summoned to stand before him. His father forgave him for flagrantly murdering them, but his mother…
...No. Why would she? All that he achieved in his relationship with his mother was proving her theories correct--right down to his final act and gesture as her son. Failure. Disappointment. Mistake mistake mistake…
You’ll be the death of me, she said to him, back when she was alive--and it was true. Little did she know, it would have happened so literally.
“What did she say?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but ever since the necromancer’s offhanded comment from hours ago, the implications still left him rattled, unable to move on, too fixated by her indefatigable spirit, which even death could not defeat. “Why won’t she rest? ...No...she can’t rest, can she? Not after what I…” he cut off his words, and sank deeper into regret. “You know…” he said, suddenly alert from the realization. “You know exactly what I did. How else would you know...if she didn’t tell you? What else did she tell you, Vitali?” A desperate hook pulled at his voice, undoing his vocal cords into dissonant knots. “Anything...I should know?”
Several weeks had elapsed since Haraldur, Vega, Teselin, and Naimah grouped together to remove Gaolithe from Sigrid’s possession, and it came as no surprise that he hadn’t seen or spoken to his cousin since then. Aside from the risks of handling the cursed sword, pulling off such a feat also risked his relationship with the Dawn Warrior, however strained and tentative it had become over the last few months. It was an unfortunate consequence of his behind-the-back scheming. He’d effectively shattered her trust--and he was doubtful he’d ever regain it in full. To save her from a fatal mistake, he had resolved to make a difficult call, and accepted his losses with as much grace as he could muster.
The emptiness of having to sever a genuine connection to his old ties, his old family, affected him for a while; it was an additional wound cut into his flesh, when already he bore so many, as of late. To staunch the bleeding, he’d taken to long walks around the Night Garden, alone, aside from the ever-prevalent company of the sentinel tree, silent but for the occasional whisper on the breeze; of the old language, a language he scarcely understood, with the exception of one word: Algiz.
Even at Teselin’s insistence, Haraldur did not seek the aid of the Gardeners for additional insights on his...strange kinship to the tree, or of his ability to communicate with it. There was too much to parse and organize in his racing mind: the aftermath of his suicide and how it had disrupted the lives of the Forbanne under his guidance, the ensuing fall-out with his cousin, the mysteries behind his true nature, and, of the highest import--Vega’s imminent birth. Nothing ranked higher on his list of concerns than that of his wife and her prenatal care, and he would not distract himself, or the Gardeners by saddling them with nonsense about his apparently non-human attributes, or what it meant for him in the long-run. They did not fancy him, either; Haraldur Sorde had an unfavorable reputation among the denizens of Galeyn; no man gained popularity after abandoning his pregnant wife and attempting suicide, nevermind the amends he’d determined to make for his biggest blunder to date. When he did not go for walks around the Night Garden or run the affairs of the Forbanne via his liaison, Kadri, he spent every moment at Vega’s side, ensuring that she wanted for nothing. He spoiled her, unconditionally, never denying a request. He acted as her personal attendant, running her errands, massaging her swollen feet, snuggling close to her every night, or sleeping on the floor when she demanded the bed to herself. He kissed her, always remembered to say ‘I love you’ at any available opportunity--anything to solidify himself as a permanent fixture in her life and her future. I have no other options, he thought, as he rounded the bend and returned to the main garden path. If I fail her one more time...it’s over.
Right before he was about to swing back inside and return to his shared bedchambers, where Vega was likely still asleep, something caught his attention--and caused him to freeze in place. A collective of Gardeners emerged from the palace, carrying with them a stretcher. Accompanying the Gardeners, two familiar faces crept up in the small procession. Daphni. Elias. That meant…
His eyes lowered to the figure in the stretcher. The bulge of a belly, the pained screams of a woman in labor, fresh blood spotted on the blanket they’d given her…
“Vega!” He ran to intercept the group, reaching them in moments. Even with his impressive height, the close-knit formation of the Gardeners prevented him from seeing much of his wife, or moving close to her at all. “Vega! Let me...let me through! She’s my wife. She’s in labor. I have to be here--Why are you taking her to the sanctuary?”
“Kindly move aside, Commander Sorde,” one of the Gardeners nearly barked. “This is a delicate procedure. There is no room for you inside the sanctuary.”
“Delicate? She's just in labor, right? What’s going on!?” His attention caught on the Clematis healer. Elias never minced his words. If asked, Haraldur was certain the man would answer honestly. “Elias--” he called. The healer’s hazel eyes flicked to him. “Tell me--is she going to be ok?”
“In any other situation, I would say no,” Elias supplied as he wheeled a cart brimming with medical instruments and medicines. “Placental abruption. Now step aside, Haraldur, so we can save your wife and children!”
Obligingly moving out of the way before he was forcibly shoved off the road, Haraldur watched, numb, as the procession hurried off to the small cottage with their ailing patient in tow. What do I do? What do I do!?
His screams were internal. Everything was internal. It had to be, lest he crumble and fall in front of everyone, and then they would have to deal with his dead weight yet again. Another useless body, subjected to yet another endless horror. Would he lose...everything? How many times? How many times would it continue to happen?
No. He shook his head and forced himself to breathe. No one dies in the Night Garden. She’ll be fine. Kynnet and Klara will be fine. Tivia said so...it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine.
Without realizing it, Haraldur had arrived at the sanctuary. Bereft of anything else to do but to wait and hope, he slumped against the front facade of the building--and he waited. And hoped.
“Aw, Rigas--look at you! Coming to the defense of my dear little brother. The two of you really have hit it off, haven’t you?” The necromancer chuckled, after the mage climbed next to him, and the Night Steeds set off at a brisk trot. It would not endure for long, as Alster had implied, for they would be forced to keep to the less traveled (and therefore, far less smooth) routes before they could retrace their steps all the way back to Galeyn. Perhaps not the best introduction to a wagon ride for someone with such a delicate homeostasis as Isidor, but the alchemist would just have to deal. “You know… it is no wonder you are able to get under my skin. Now that I think about it, you are more or less a better adapted version of my little brother. It all makes sense now!”
Vitali laughed and slapped his thigh. “Why am I only realizing this now? The both of you possess a power that you might not have chosen for yourself, had you the choice. You both choose to use that power to help others, as it seems. You both grew from a… less than healthy upbringing. The difference is, you never had the luxury of choosing to seal yourself away in a tower, completely absent from the world and the passage of time around you. Rigases in Stella D’Mare are expected to remain active in the community and an everlasting presence. Not to mention you were, so I’ve heard, once engaged to one Chara Rigas. I cannot imagine she would have let you hide away, even if you’d wanted it. By virtue of being in the public eye for so long, it makes perfect sense as to how you’ve become so socially competent. So of course you would get on with my brother. But, if my ‘haranguing’ is truly worrying you,” the necromancer lifted his shoulders, and they fell in tandem with a sigh. “I suppose I can try to keep my remarks to myself--for the most part. You wouldn’t understand, as an only child, but I’ve never really had the opportunity to play the role of a big brother. Or, well, an older brother. Isidor’s father must have been far taller than my own.”
The status of Master Zenech’s restless spirit was one that the necromancer had intended to keep to himself, at least until he’d managed shed more light on the subject. The obscurity surrounding the details of his Master’s death that Isidor had provided seemed quite odd. On one hand, the Master Alchemist had not been lying; to be an effective liar require social skills that the man just did not possess. But on the other hand, Zenech’s death had marked the beginning of Isidor’s complete liberation: a day that many people in his position would likely find difficult to forget. That same look of obscurity had passed through Isidor’s eyes when the necromancer had remarked upon the time that he, still a boy, had begged Vitali to take him away, to save him from Zenech’s brutal teachings. Isidor hadn’t appeared to have any idea as to what he was talking about… For someone as practiced and well-informed in his discipline as Isidor Kristeva, a lapse in memory did not seem likely. After all, his brother was not the only Kristeva child to have suffered trauma and brutality; and Vitali’s memory was still very much, very mercilessly, in tact with regard to those years long past…
“If you are asking whether Zenech’s ghost haunts that tower--the answer is both yes and no.” He replied after giving it some thought. “You are correct in your assessment of the result of violent deaths, Rigas. But a haunting does not always constitute a sentient spirit, flinging open cupboard doors and dragging the bedsheets right out from under you. That is entirely possible, and not at all uncommon, but the energies, as you say, can manifest in more passive ways. Zenech is not a man who has moved on, but neither is he really present. It is the remnants of his anger, his wrath, his disappointment, that remains. It chills that tower the same way that the sun warms us. To put it simply, his essence taints that tower. Of course, my brother is not a necromancer and not quite as attuned to changes in atmosphere, so I am not surprised his has not noticed. Although… I do feel that something does not quite add up.” Vitali furrowed his brow beneath his blindfold and adjusted his posture. “My dear brother insists that he passed in his sleep, but a peaceful death is not likely to result in such a lingering chill. It could be as he says--that the disappointment of dying before he obtained his precious immortality ultimately resulted in permanence of his essence in some form. But, in my own expert opinion… that doesn’t feel like the case. Though if you are asking whether my brother was lying in his appraisal,” he snorted and shook his head. “I think we both know that he isn’t really capable of lying. Nor would he really have a reason to. So I suppose we really have no choice but to believe our dear Master Alchemist. If you are really curious, then I am sure he would not protest to your company when he returns, should you desire to further investigate the spooky vibes of his precious tower.
“But, now, as for your mother…” Vitali blew air from between his teeth. “First, I should caution you not to ask questions to which you really don’t want the answer, Rigas. Yes, I have seen her; I have heard her speak. Her presence is a coherent one, unlike our Master Zenech. A fully formed spirit, not just essence clinging to stone walls. She is a transient thing, I should also add; not always present, only sometimes. I’ve sensed on more than one occasion another presence that silences her; perhaps it mollifies her. It hasn’t revealed itself to me in any tangible form, but would I be wrong to suspect it could be your father?” He didn’t have to see Alster’s face to know that whatever expression he wore, along with the silence, was confirmation enough. “But, anyway… yes, Alster, I know that you are responsible for your parents’ deaths. Your mother has mutter as much, time and again. I have not seen her frequently, during my stay in Stella D’Mare. Only on occasion; typically during storms or other such bad weather. She talks a lot; mostly to herself. Sometimes, I think she has realized that others are around, such as myself, but I do not think she realizes there are those of us who can hear and see her. From time to time… your name has passed her ever-flapping lips.”
The necromancer stopped talking, then, and for quite some time. The silence that lapsed was enough to suggest that he was through with discussing the subject, until, several moments later, and after a lot of thought, he continued. “She does blame you, Rigas. For her death and her father’s. She is resentful of you for it; but I imagine that none of that comes as any surprise to you.” Vitali shrugged his shoulders in perceived indifference. “But what might come as a surprise are the other things she mutters. That resentment isn’t entirely toward you, Alster Rigas. Your dear mother holds a fair bit of resentment toward herself. When she is not blaming you for you destructive forces, she is blaming herself. Knowing she ‘went wrong’ somewhere, wondering how, because she had been so convinced of her own beliefs in your upbringing. She doesn’t understand the outcome of her final moments. Doesn’t understand your outcome… doesn’t seem to understand a lot of things. Her end really took her off guard, Rigas. But if you are to take anything away from this… then you should know that her resentment isn’t all for you. And, within that resentment, there might be a little bit of relief for everything you have overcome.”
The caravan jolted as the wheels hit a tree route, but Vitali remained completely unfazed, his position in the driver’s seat hardly twitching. “It is not within my jurisdiction to perform exorcisms or to force spirits to move on. If ever you find yourself back in Stella D’Mare, take a priest with you. They may be able to liberate your mother and father from this plane. She might find peace in another world. Oh--and you’re welcome, by the way.” His lips curled into a rather flat grin. “For the disclosure. You’re lucky I’m finding this trip very dull, otherwise, so I won’t charge you for my services as a medium. But be warned, don’t get used to such charity. It leaves an uneasy taste in my mouth.”
She had the dream again--the same she’d been having on and off for months, since arriving in Galeyn. Her babies were right there, right in front of her. Real and healthy and alive, their eyes open and looking with familiarity at the woman who was their mother. She reached for them, as she always did, and their little hands reached right back… right before she felt herself falling backwards, deeper and deeper in some unknown body of water. She could still see Klara and Kynnet beyond the surface of the water, still reached for them, but no matter how hard she kicked and struggled, the water pulled her under, under, further and further and further, and she couldn’t breathe… couldn’t breathe…
More often than not, Vega would awaken from that dream with a start. If Haraldur had not yet risen for the day (he often let her sleep in, considering how close she was to her due date), she would reassure him that it was nothing more than a silly dream, and that she was just fine. Any other morning, that had been true… but not this morning. Something was different. Something felt… wrong.
Wrenching pains shot through the princess’s body, so intense that she nearly doubled over again as soon as she sat upright, and she noticed that the bed beneath her was wet. My water… it broke in my sleep, she reason, recognizing that this had to be it--this time, the labour pains were real. However, as soon as she flung the sheets off of her body, she realized the dampness couldn’t just be attributed to her water breaking. Not with the amount of blood that stained the sheets, the mattress, her gown, and her legs…
“No… no, no, nothing is wrong. Nothing should be wrong…” Against her better judgement, Vega began to panic, a feeling that was only exacerbated by the labour pains wracking her body. When she attempted to move in an effort to stand, the pain only intensified, causing her to cry out.
Fortunately, her cry caught the attention of a servant, who did not bother knocking before stepping inside. “Your High…” The Galeynian girl trailed off at the sight of the blood, eyes wide with understanding. “It’s alright. It will be alright, your Highness--I will retrieve the healers immediately.”
And she did. Mere moments later, both Daphni and Elias, accompanied by the Head Gardener, Senyiah, moved into her room to take account of what was going on. “Why is there so much blood? Is there supposed to be blood?” Vega demanded, through her hyperventilating. “Are my babies alright?”
“Vega, we’re going to take you to the sanctuary. Your babies need to be born now,” Daphni told her, both gentle and firm. “If we act fast, if we can deliver those babies quickly, everything will be fine. They are still alive and well. But your placenta appears to have ruptured; and you are losing a lot of blood. In order to ascertain your health and your children’s, we need you to cooperate with us. Can you do that? Senyiah--”
“Already taken care of,” the Head Gardener already knew what was going to be asked, and ushered two Gardeners into the room with a stretcher to transport the princess. “Your Highness, your best chances are in the sanctuary. We’ll get you there in no time, just try to remain calm.”
The healers found no rebuke from Vega, who allowed them to help her onto a stretcher as they rushed her out of the palace and into the Night Garden. At one point, through her cries of pain (which had not ceased, but rather, intensified), Vega thought she heard her husband calling over the din, but she couldn’t be sure. Before she knew it, she was inside the sanctuary, moved to a bed farthest from Elespeth, at which point Daphni took her hand and instructed her to push. Vega complied, with another cry of pain, and the Sybaian healer looked away just in time for her face to grow pale. So much blood… the princess was losing so much blood and so fast, with every push…
Word spread fast in a kingdom as small as Galeyn, especially when the news had to do with the beloved Eyraillian princess who had facilitated their adaptation to a new time, and to new people. As a result, it was bound to reach the ears of Sigrid, who had largely kept her distance from Haraldur, Vega and Teselin since their interference with Gaolithe. The stubborn Dawn Warrior had resolved to continue to hold a grudge against them out of sheer spite, but she changed her mind entirely when word of Vega going into labour, and the complications that were rumoured to be arising, reached her ears. She had been lying next to Naimah in her tent, fully clothed and simply enjoying the company of the woman for whom she was head over heels in love, when some of the other girls just outside murmured about the gossip. It caused Sigrid to sit upright, suddenly very concerned.
“If it’s true… If Vega is in labour, and if something is wrong, I… Haraldur is going to need someone. Forgive me, Naimah,” she sighed, and planted a kiss on the Kariji woman’s cheek. “I will be back.”
Moving from the tent, Sigrid sprinted out of the escorts’ encampment, all the way to the Night Garden and the Sanctuary. It was there that she found Haraldur, hunched over and withdrawn into himself, with his back to the closed door. She could hear Vega’s cries from within, those desperate sounds of a woman succumbing to the agonizing pains of labour. “Haraldur,” the Dawn Warrior leaned on her knees, out of breath. “Is she… what is going on? Is Vega alright?” But it was obvious that the Forbanne Commander did not have any of those answers. Finally, Sigrid opted to take a seat next to him. “There is no safer place in this world for a woman to give birth,” she offered, and in trying to reassure him, placed a had on his arm. “Both of you defy death. This is no different; and your children, it will be no different for them. You have all come too far and fought too hard to lose on this day. Have faith in the Garden and the healers. Have faith… in your family.”
“I’m...honored you’ve finally been able to justify the why behind your distaste of me as a person.” Frowning after the necromancer’s analysis, which compared him, rather accurately, to Isidor, Alster had to admit some bit of humor in the situation; that his mere presence inspired a similar reaction in Vitali, as it did with him. “My reasons for disliking you are a little less nuanced, as you already know. Your character is not chief among those reasons, but it certainly contributes to...well, you. If I had to make a comparison, you share a lot of traits with Hadwin. The two of you have managed to send me to hell via your own, personal touches. Though if I’m frank, yours had the more lasting impression. You should be so proud of your accomplishments. Be that as it may,” he held on to the side of the coach as the caravan dipped into a ditch and bounced back to a stable grade, “I only became ‘socially competent’ recently. Something about taking on the mantle of Rigas Head forces you to conform to more acceptable standards of presentation. I had the diplomatic background, and the noble upbringing, yes--those were definitely advantages, but,” he scratched his forehead, picking at an itch that did not exist, “I wasn’t too far removed from Isidor’s position. As a Rigas exile, my universe revolved around my parents. For those forty-odd years, constant travel shunted much of my...growth, and my ability to make lasting relationships with other people--women, especially,” he muttered the last bit. It wasn’t too long ago when he introduced himself to Elespeth at Messino’s war camp--a scatterbrained mess of a person, too flustered to string together a sentence or look his own battle partner in the eyes in fear of disintegrating on the spot. Never did he anticipate that in little over a year after their first meeting, the two of them would become so entwined in each other’s lives that imagining themselves apart was heresy at best.
“So yes, Vitali, you’re not wrong. Isidor reminds me of the person I once was. That person needed plenty of encouragement and support to climb out of his self-made doldrums and ascend into some semblance of a person. I want to help him along, too. It’s selfish on my part, because he’ll be more useful to Elespeth’s case if I’m able to build his confidence, but I’d like to think there’s more to it than that. At the very least, I know that you and I can both agree that we want to give him the opportunity to demonstrate his unique talents to a wider audience. That said, I appreciate your attempt at restraint, however much your ‘brotherly’ instincts are tingling from the temptation to annoy and rankle him for the remainder of this journey.”
When the subject shifted to Master Zenech, Alster listened carefully as Vitali confirmed what he’d already been suspecting. Something, indeed, did not add up; a lost memory that even Isidor could not supply, which left the two of them to sit and speculate on the truth. “No, he doesn’t seem capable of lying. Not well, anyway,” he nodded in agreement. “But...there might have been some kind of...altercation between master and apprentice, which led to Zenech’s death. Bad enough to block Isidor’s remembrance of those events, and anything else that might have been too traumatic to recall. This isn’t unheard of. It...happened, with me. With…”
He didn’t need to flesh out the rest of his sentence. Vitali was already privy to one of his darkest secrets, which only a select few knew: Lilica, who unveiled it in his subconsciousness, Elespeth and Chara, who heard his confession, Daphni, who helped to orchestrate the meeting with the spirits of his deceased parents, and now, Vitali...who likely knew, all along. “I didn’t remember what I did, how I did it, or why I did it. Some knee-jerk agitation that the Serpent’s mental interference nudged in me. That dreaded creature’s sudden appearance in my mind dredged up so many unwanted emotions, those very same emotions that inspired me to awaken the beast in the first place...to destroy the city, my family...everyone. It’s no excuse.” He stared straight ahead, the light of etherea blinking in its struggle to stay illuminated midst the tumult of turbulent emotions that spun without cease in its wielder’s head. “I carried out the action. It was my impulse. My magic. It was my choice to succumb...and I did. I destroyed them...and for years, I’d forgotten how they’d died. No,” he shook his head, rescinding the statement. “I didn’t forget. Rather, I chose not to carry those damaging thoughts, so I excised them. Partitioned them away, deep inside of myself. There’s a difference. It’s possible that Isidor...is reacting similarly, to his master’s untimely death. I’m not insinuating blame, or murder,” he hurried, in case his postulations came off as too accusatory. “Only that...Isidor must have seen, experienced, something truly horrible. I tell you this, Vitali...because I think you care. No, not about me.” He laughed, a tiny, guttering gurgle, which extinguished his light altogether. “About him. I may be an only child, but sibling relationships don’t pass my observations. You’re not incapable of it. Tivia and Teselin will vouch for you.”
But his reviews of the more golden aspects of Vitali’s hidden character retreated, temporarily, as he zeroed in on every detail of Debine Rigas and her active afterlife. It was no wonder her spirit couldn’t rest; not with how her son so violently removed her from her corporeal body. She was still clinging so desperately to any vestige of vitality, her determination fueled by the rage of missed opportunities and resentment. No, he was not surprised. Debine Rigas largely cast the blame on her rotten, wayward son. But what did surprise him was that she cast some of the blame on herself. She, who never admitted her wrongs aloud. She, so justified in her decisions, also doubted them, and, if Vitali were to be believed, regretted them. His mother was not infallible, so why would he ever think that she could not be felled by anyone or anything...even death itself?
Will we ever reconcile? The question was a wish on his lips, one carried by the tears that welled in his eyes. Is it too late? Will it always be too late? He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose to prevent any noise of his crying to reach Vitali’s sensitive ears, but to no avail. You’re too proud. I know this. I know it and yet…
Maybe this is it for me. The only closure I’ll ever get.
“I can never hate her...even after everything she did to me...because I did it back to her.” He realized he was ranting, that Vitali didn’t care about him, as he so previously stated. But the words needed uttering, and the necromancer was the unfortunate outlet to his mumbling. It was not so unlike his mother’s own mumblings. “I gave it all back. The hate. The resentment. The regret. The blame. And she accepted it all. It’s possible...she was never looking for my love at all, even when I so desperately wanted hers. She didn’t need it to survive. But never did she stop wanting me to live my best life. Dammit.” He hissed beneath his breath. “May this be a consolation to you, Vitali. Payment for your information. You have me where I’m vulnerable. A careless flick on my shoulder and I’ll bleed to death. Take advantage while you can. I’m easy prey. You can take your revenge on me, if it suits you.” He held back a sob, forcing it into a shaky breath. Slowly, he attempted to release his sorrows, one spurt at a time. “Even so...thank you. Let my tears be the salt you need to wash out the bland taste of charity in your mouth. No wonder why you like it so much; it tastes like the defeat of your enemies.”
The thin walls of the sanctuary did not muffle the screams of agony that pierced out of his wife’s mouth. Haraldur no longer kept track of time as he sat, eyes unblinking and unfocused on a flower by his feet. In the fade of his vision, it appeared as static, a blur of a shape, indistinguishable from any other plant in the Night Garden or outside of it. No color, no dimensionality. Yet, it was all he had. A singular flower, ignorant to the soul-rending pierce of pain that penetrated the sanctuary’s inner world.
He didn’t notice anything else. His universe revolved around the flower, and the pleas of mercy that stabbed his ears. They were familiar sounds. He was typically the one to induce them with his sword, with his torturous methods of execution. Nothing had changed. It was his sword that had done it, again. A different kind of sword, one which injected seed, but it tore its way through, deep and cutting and...fatal.
No no no. Not fatal. It wouldn’t be fatal. They were in the Night Garden. He reawakened in the Night Garden; death did not hold him. The sentinel tree presided, its enriching roots a protective healing circumference. It encircled all beings, all creatures. Vega could not die. Kynnet and Klara...could not die.
No one would die. But...his bad luck often broke the odds. Did he expend all his luck when handling Gaolithe? Would the cursed sword exact its revenge by striking down his wife and children, once more leaving him alone?
No no no no no! His eyes shuddered to a close, eliminating the serene, oblivious image of the floor bobbing serenely in the impossibly blue sky. Algiz algiz algiz, he chanted in his head. ...Help her. Help them. Please...don’t have history repeat itself…
Something warm grazed his arm. Something with a pulse. Something that did not scream in his ear, but whisper. He opened his eyes, readjusting his sight to the hallucination sitting beside him. “Sigrid.” He didn’t care if it was a hallucination. He accepted it, welcomed it, refused to reject it, as he would have done in the past, when he shirked all support, convinced it made him weak. It didn’t matter. He was already weak. He had been...for some time. Weak and powerless and desperate for a task in which he felt powerful, in control. Handling Gaolithe had done so...fleeting though its effects were. Now...he again felt enslaved to Fate, regardless of the reassuring environment, the reassuring whispers, the reassuring outcome. Could anything be certain until it happened?
No.
“I don’t know what’s going on. A ruptured placenta...plenty of blood. Prognosis is grim, it sounds...for anywhere but here. It will be...alright.” But he didn’t sound confident in the assertion. More, it was an unverified statement, a line he was taught to say--and he’d rather say it than face the tiniest opposition, which told a different story.
The door to the sanctuary rumbled at his back. In moments, he shot to his feet and swerved around to the entranceway. Elias stood at the threshold, his normally reserved face replaced by a sheen of urgency. “You want to help? Come--we need your blood.”
He exchanged a worried look with Sigrid before stepping forward. “Is, is--”
Exhausted of any patience, the Clematis healer grabbed Haraldur by the arm and dragged him inside the sanctuary. “She’s losing too much blood. A natural delivery is not possible anymore. We’re cutting into her. Now sit.” Dazed into obedience, he sat on an empty bed beside Vega, automatically stretching out his arm and rolling up its sleeve for the Gardeners to pierce his skin with a needle. A sudden sense of deja vu fogged up his periphery. This has been done before. When you died. When you were…
He gazed at his wife, sprawled out on the bed with her legs apart. Blood concealed her lower extremities, soaking layers of sheets placed under her shivering body. She was conscious, but her screams had lessened, her eyes rolling heavenward. A needle glinted in Elias’s hand as he pulled it out of her lower spine.
With his free arm, one not unburdened by needles and tubes that suctioned the blood out of his veins, he reached across his bed and wordlessly took her hand in his, squeezing it with the gentlest pressure.
He didn’t know for how long he sat there, their hands a bridge that held firm despite the chaos that flitted around him. At some point, they had transferred his blood into her own arm, a steady, uninterrupted flow which he hoped would never exhaust. Even if they had to drain him dry...Don’t stop. Save them. Save them all…
The mesmerizing sight of watching his blood travel through a tube was interrupted by the introduction of the scalpel, which Elias wielded with precision grace. Vega’s fingers tightened to a vice-grip around Haraldur as the Clematis healer made a deep, horizontal incision beneath her bulging belly. He felt himself pale and grow clammy, but as a result of the blood loss or the procedure, he couldn’t accurately say. He stiffened on the bed as Elias urged his gloved hands into the incision, and slowly, eventually pulled out a purple, red-faced, squealing baby.
Now, it was Haraldur’s turn to crush Vega’s hand. “Vega...Vega, it’s Klara! It’s her!” Then…
Another foot emerged from the mother’s wound. A knobbed leg, another leg--the body in its entirety, and the head. A second, red-faced, squealing baby, identical to the first one, but for one key difference. “Kynnet.” Breathlessly, he anchored himself to his wife, in case he toppled off the bed and fainted before he could see their faces, or hold them, or…
A Gardener, assisting Elias and his operation, cut the umbilical cords, and gently removed the placenta. The Clematis healer, accompanied by the Head Gardener, wasted no time on working to stop Vega’s bleeding before patching her back together.
Meanwhile…
Meanwhile…
Daphni, who had cleaned up the babes of their blood and gore in a basin of water, wrapped them both in swaddling blankets. She and some Gardeners muttered amongst each other, and Haraldur strained to hear. Healthy? Were they healthy? Did something happen? Were they ok? Were they…
Finally, one of the Gardeners broke the formation as he approached Vega and Haraldur. “Congratulations,” he said. “You have a healthy boy and a healthy girl. Would you like to hold them?”
The question was aimed towards the mother. The Gardener did not think to address the father with the same question. It’s better off, he thought. They know I’m a baby-killer. That I’m unstable. I’ll only hurt them…
It was a fear, a nightmare, that never dissipated. Rather, it grew in strength, in prominence, over the past few weeks alone. While Vega startled awake by her own disturbing dreams, he had not been spared, either. The thought of snapping their delicate necks, of casting them into a fire…
His children were better appreciated from afar. In more capable, loving hands. It was in their mother’s arms where they belonged. Their long-suffering mother, who struggled to stay conscious--whose condition was not yet declared stable. She could fade at any moment, succumb to the waves, drown…
Haraldur released his wife’s hand. She didn’t need an anchor, dragging her further into her watery doom. “They’ve wanted to know you for this long, Vega. You’ve been their one constant during this entire tumultuous pregnancy.” Tears overtook his eyes, blurring the faces of his children as they drew nearer, and nearer. This was a fantasy. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real... “They need you. They need their mother. You’ve never left them, not as I did. You couldn’t. Don’t do it now. Don’t leave now.” In an echo of her own words from the past, he said, “I can’t do this without you…”
“Oh, don’t take it quite so personally, Rigas. I harbour a good deal of dislike for a lot of people.” Vitali snickered. “And I didn’t mean to start a game of finding everyone’s spiritual twin, now. You resemble my brother far more than I resemble the wolf to whom my little sister has so lovingly taken. You liken us because Teselin happens to be fond of both of us. Although I do take a little bit of pride in knowing it was my impression that made the most meaningful impact. But, hell, if I had known that you’ve been looking for a ‘cause’, I’d have introduced you to my reclusive little brother long ago. And, much though it pains me to admit it… you are right.” The necromancer unleashed a heavy sigh from his lungs. “I’ve already dedicated over two weeks of my life to acquiring my brother’s unique expertise that I will never get back. It won’t do for him to withdraw into his cocoon out of utter lack of faith in himself. But… I’ve never been particularly good at bolstering peoples’ egos. So,” he nodded in Alster’s direction, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “I will leave that completely up to you. Since you’ve already decided to take it upon yourself, anyway.”
Although his expression might not have betrayed his interest, Vitali took a moment to sit on the Rigas mage’s assessment of what might have occurred between his brother and Master Zenech to result in the latter’s death. No, Isidor couldn’t lie, at least not convincingly. But… forgetting a traumatic event? Now that was something he hadn’t considered. “You suffered trauma, did you not? Your memory seems relatively intact, at least enough that at least you remember that you are responsible. And I…” He paused, for a moment considering whether he might try to bother relating, but evidently decided against it. Just because Alster had decided to bear himself to him, inside and out, did not mean he was obligated to reciprocate. “Are you suggesting… that perhaps my pitiful little brother had a hand in Zenech’s death? That he murdered the man? Because that…” He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “That would certainly be worth looking into.”
Of course, wouldn’t it just be his luck that he would hit a nerve with the man next to him? Enough that Alster Rigas apparently saw fit to completely spill his guts, relive the guilt of his own darkest hour that had resulted in the deaths of his parents. For lack of anything to say at all on the matter, aside from what he had already relayed, the necromancer simply let him talk it out. “Really, Rigas? You need to spill the blood on your hands all over me? You really are missing your wife. She’s typically the receptacle for your overburdened emotions, isn’t she? But right now, I am the only one around to soak it up.” He sighed heavily and rolled his shoulders back. “Don’t flatter yourself, Alster. You aren’t worth enough to me for me to take pleasure in your emotional bleeding. If pretending that I care is enough to mollify you, to help take whatever catharsis you can from this confession of your past misdeeds, then by all means, continue to do so. Teselin will say a lot of things, but I think the both of us know that she is keen on believing that everyone cares, to some extent. But if it will help you sleep at night, and will put a damn against any future emotional floodgates, then I will tell you this much.”
The necromancer straightened his posture and focused on the horizon, as if he really could see, in spite of the gathering darkness and his blindfold. “Consider it a second chance, that your parents’ spirits still walk among the living. They--one of them, at least, is stuck in her own self-perpetuating loop of regret. But it doesn’t need to remain that way. Catch me on a good day, if we ever return to Stella D’Mare, and if it means that we never have to have a conversation like this again, perhaps I might facilitate some communication. Tying up loose ends for the both of you. My innate gift is that of a medium, after all; necromancy was simply an affiliated path I chose. And--let me reiterate--I am not offering this because I care. I’d merely appreciate saving myself future headaches, in your presence.
“And as for my brother…” Vitali paused again, considering his words. Perhaps tapering them to ascertain that he not be mistaken for ‘caring’. “My job was to enlist his services, which I did. He is not my responsibility; so the rest, I will leave up to you. Whatever you suspect incited an event that could trigger his potential amnesia; well, let me know if you ever find out. For reasons purey related to what I felt back in that tower… it does leave me curious.”
There was so much happening around her, within her, that Vega at this point hardly knew what was going on, beyond the pains of her labour. The small sanctuary was filled with healers--beyond Daphni, Elias, and Senyiah, several Gardeners had taken up position among the roots that had squeezed between the floorboards, and the vines that climbed the walls, supposedly channeling and redirecting the Night Garden’s healing energies to this single event, this single person. For me. They’re all doing this for me… no. My children. My children, above all… they must take priority. They must…
“Save them. Whatever happens… you need to ensure my children are safe, are well,” the panicking princess grabbed the arm of her attending Sybaian healer, who had been exchanging sharp, short whispers with Elias. Even if she’d tried to listen, she wouldn’t have heard them over her own laboured breathing. “My babies, Daphni… they are priority…!”
“You and your babies are going to be fine, Vega.” The Sybaian healer attempted to reassure her, and clasped her hand. “We have a way around this. You need to listen carefully. At this point, you are losing too much blood to deliver naturally…” She trailed off as the belaboured princess let out another cry of agony, every muscle in her body contracting painfully. “Short breaths. Take short, deliberate breaths… good. Please listen. Vaginal birth isn’t possible. It isn’t safe at this point for you or your children. We need to approach this differently. This will be uncomfortable, but I need you to sit up--I’ll help you.”
With one hand on the princess’s back, Daphni helped her into a pained sitting position. It was already apparent, how the tumult of emotions was affecting the Sybaian healer; her face betrayed her own brand of pain, but she shouldered it, just as she had been trained to do. “What is that?” Vega demanded, her face pale and tear-streaked from exertion and bloodloss as Elias approached her with a long and foreign-looking needle. “What are you going to do?”
“Vega--we need you to trust us right now. We need you to cooperate; you said you would. Does that still hold? Will you cooperate so that we can save you and your children?” Daphni redirected the Skyknight’s attention back to her. “Trust that everything we are doing is for you and the babies. Just breathe; do it with me, alright?”
The princess complied. She breathed--or tried to, to the best of her ability. Something sharp and painful pierced her back, making her gasp, but the impact was largely lost on the intensity of her labour pains. As the seconds passed, those pains began to fade; as did any and all feeling in her lower body, bit by bit…
“I can’t…” Her voice trembled and her hands shook. “I can’t feel… I can’t move my legs...”
“Good. That means it’s working.” Daphni flashed a relieved smile. “A reprieve from the pain. It is temporary--you’ll regain feeling and motor function in just a few hours. Elias’s technique is very advanced; all we need is for you to hold out and pull through for just a little bit longer. And we have someone to help you do that.”
As soon as Daphni stood aside, another familiar face filled Vega’s tear-filled vision. Haraldur. Her husband, he was here, for the birth of his children, just as he should be. “Haraldur…” She breathed, and in a bout of sudden vertigo, closed her eyes. Falling. She felt like she was suddenly falling… but a pressure on her hand brought her back to the surface, kept her stable. Vega didn’t even notice when a needle was inserted into her arm, or when Elias, with Daphni and Senyiah readily available for whatever he might need, made an expert incision along her stomach. She felt no pain, but the pressure made her start, and she gripped her husband’s hand even tighter.
“...they’re going to be born. Tivia said… Tivia said they were going to be born.” Vega breathed, and whether she was talking to Haraldur or reassuring herself was not evident. She continued to take short, shallow breaths as she closed her eyes, none too eager to watch herself being cut into like a piece of meat. “They’ll be born, Klara and Kynnet… this is why I came here. This is why they needed to be born here. Our children… this is the chance they needed…”
A new sound pierced the air--raw, keening, desperate. The first sound of something emerging from the safety of its mother, to the world around it. Vega forced her eyes open, by the tiny thing that had come from her--that she and Haraldur had made--was already taken by Daphni, who gently and hastily cleaned the small, brand new being in a shallow tub of lukewarm water and with soft rags. Haraldur said something to her, gripping her hand not out of fear, but in awe, excitement. She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. And then he said something else, with just as much gusto. Something good. Something good was happening… which meant, Tivia was right. Everything was going to be alright…
Congratulations. Someone was congratulating… who? Her? Haraldur? Vega’s eyelids felt heavy, as though she were peering through the darkness at something that she was supposed to recognized, and yet couldn’t… She couldn’t make it out… Healthy boy… healthy girl. Boy. Girl. Her children… the twins. Klara and Kynnet… “They’re… alright? Our babies…”
Dreaming--of course, she was dreaming again. This was the recurring dream that had plagued her sleep for months. There they were, two perfect infants, wailing their little lungs out because it was all babies could do upon first responding to their new environment. For the first time since awakening that morning, Vega smiled, and she feebly lifted her hands to take them. Reached for them, to touch the precious things that she and Haraldur had made together… But her hands and arms were shaking under the strain of lifting them, and without realizing it, they began to fall, and she began to fall, away… somewhere soft and dark. Strange, because in her dreams before, it had always been underwater. She would fall underwater, deeper and deeper and deeper until she could not see them anymore. This time, there was no water. Just warmth and darkness and muffled voices…
“Vega--open your eyes. I need you to try to stay awake.” A voice, sharp and familiar in her ear, drew the Eyraillian princess back to the surface. Her eyelids might as well have been made of lead, for how difficult it was to keep them open.
The Sybaian healer, upon successfully bringing the new mother back to consciousness, turned to the Gardener and Haraldur. “She is fighting off shock. With patience and attention, I expect she will make a full recovery. Elias has performed this operation before and it has always been successful. She is already a strong and healthy woman to begin with, and the Night Garden will not allow her condition to deteriorate. But I need you to understand,” her full attention was on Haraldur now, and without permission or explanation, she placed one of the babies--Klara, the oldest by mere moments--in his arms, “the importance of connection at birth. These children are already connected with your wife; they will recognize her heartbeat. But they also need to know their father.”
Daphni helped him position his arms so as to best support the tiny new life, whose wailing had simmered to whimpers, her eyes still squeezed tightly shut. “Congratulations, Commander Sorde. You are a father.” She said, gently offering him what the Gardener wouldn’t: acknowledgement, and permission to be a part of these childrens’ lives. “And don’t you ever forget that--do you understand? First and foremost, you are a father. Not Forbanne, not a Commander, not a Prince. You are a father and a husband, and the wellbeing of your family heavily depends on your dedication to that role.”
With all of the tension occurring inside the crowded sanctuary, no one had been paying any heed to the commotion that was building outside. It wasn’t until the door opened and the Dawn Warrior, Sigrid Sorenson, forced her way inside, that the noise beyond drew the attention of the Gardeners and other healers. “Half of Galeyn is outside this door and refuses to move until they know the status of the mother and her children,” she said, her words trailing off when she caught sight of Vega--who appeared weak, but stable, and with her abdomen heavily bandaged--as well as two newcomers who had only just arrived, one whom was whimpering in Haraldur’s arms. For a moment, her jaw went slack, and she hardly knew what to say. It was the first time ever witnessing a baby, just moments after it was born…
“Galeyn long since took a liking to the princess of Eyraille.” Senyiah replied, carrying little Kynnet in her arms as she took Haraldur’s side. Elias had already finished suturing the purposely inflicted wound closed on the new mother, and no longer needed her assistance. “And these are the first babies to be born in Galeyn in a century. It is expected that they will want to know. Come,” she nodded at Haraldur, and stepped toward the door, nudging it open with her foot.
Sure enough, Sigrid had not been exaggerating. The Night Garden was oversaturated with people--men, women, and children alike. Their murmuring dropped to a lull when the Head Gardener and the Forbanne Commander stepped outside, with two brand new lives in their arms. “The Eyraillian Princess, mother of these children, is well and recovering,” Senyiah began, her voice carrying throughout the Garden. “And she has brought to this world the first new lives this kingdom has seen for a century. Twins: a girl and a boy, a princess and a prince of Eyraille, but also a son and daughter of the Night Garden, which helped herald their arrival. But these children are not mine to present. Commander Sorde.” She nodded to Haraldur. “That job is yours. Because these children are yours.” You are a father, her tone seemed to suggest, echoing Daphni’s words just moments before. Own it, and let this kingdom bear witness.
“Yes, I’ve since remembered my trauma,” Alster agreed with a nod. “I enlisted Lilica’s help, actually...and she guided me into my own shredded subconscious to find the missing clue. I wouldn’t recommend such a forceful approach, but I was desperate to uncover the truth. Something seemed off about how I remembered the events of my parents’ deaths, so I faced the aberration and recovered what I lost, for better or for worse. Whatever happened between Isidor and his Master is not for me to investigate. He needs to come to the realization on his own; that he may be mishandling or burying his memories of the circumstances behind his master’s death. Again,” he coughed politely, “I am not suggesting murder. I cannot assume the same trajectory of violence for Isidor despite his similarities to me--the deaths of our guardians, included.” He tried not to flinch from speaking such heady information aloud, and in a manner approaching casual. He wondered, not without a touch of malaise, if Vitali was rubbing off on him. “Only then, if he’s comfortable exploring the depths of his subconscious, will I offer my assistance. If he doesn’t wish to know, it’s his decision, and I’ll respect it. There’s no use pushing him if he’s not ready, and I’m glad you agree with me--at least when it comes to maintaining the status quo of his mental state. You know what it’s like, besides.”
Alster caught his tongue before it slipped out even more hints of information he should not have been privy to, in regards to the necromancer and his early childhood experiences. The wisps of memories that Teselin shared with him back in Stella D’Mare, of a tortured youth pleading for his mother to help, had, admittedly, skewed his rendering of Vitali from that point, onward. Perhaps he hadn’t cared to think of the necromancer as a desperate boy in search of love and guidance, because it meant that he shared more in common with Vitali, at least in terms of their upbringing, than he was comfortable admitting. But when Teselin had foisted on him the image of the sallow-faced child with the haunted eyes, he could no longer pretend that a man he abhorred was abhorrent since the day he was born. Circumstances shaped people, and Alster...Alster was no better. He awakened the Serpent, a premeditative plan that cost the lives of over a hundred innocent people and the decades-long scorn of his family. How easy would it have been for him to turn down the path of the necromancer? After all, he was nearly there--but cowardice had stopped him. Fear. Guilt. The throbbing of a conscience he’d tried so hard to eliminate, but to no avail. Vitali, however, did not need to know the saccharine details of their relatability, insofar as their relatability shared the same shelves in the archives of their childhood. Because that was where their similarities had abruptly ended.
“Rather, I’m assuming you do,” he corrected, leaning on whatever remained of his casual flippancy among all the messy evidence of his bleeding heart. “Someone as rotten as you had to have had it rough, early on. And yes,” he blew out his lips into a forced sigh, “I’m assuming, but I’m sure you don’t mind the assumption if it emphasizes your bad reputation more than it emphasizes anything in you that resembles common human decency--which you make a show of shrinking away from like you do with the sun. So you’ve been able to explain away Teselin’s fascination with your ‘goodness,’ but you’ve failed to say anything pertinent about Tivia. You’ve rejected her love and yet, she stays with you. There must be a reason; she wouldn’t willingly remain with someone she despises, or someone who treats her horribly. But whatever; I know you don’t want to hear it. An idiotic subject to broach--my observations haven’t been so keen, lately. Must be from all the darkness.”
Cracks appeared in his poorly-constructed facade, one that he’d erected half for himself and half for Vitali as a result of his...ungraceful reaction to the necromancer’s news of his mother. The latent embarrassment of unspooling himself before his unwitting traveling companion was akin to stipping down naked among a crowd of discerning strangers, and Vitali, of course, would not fail to mention, or criticize, his social faux pas. Despite his resolve to always act before the necromancer as a detached but polite example of an unruffled, emotionally sound leader, he knew that by now, he was borrowing from a pool of energy that he’d drained dry long ago. How else could he recover his blunder of breaking down in front of the wrong person? Was it possible to save face, or should he own his mistake, laugh it off, and shiver for the rest of the evening, stewing in the aftermath of his own awkwardness? It was very much alive, he realized, with an ironic-half smile. The social competence he exhibited before...was a lie. One consolation could be gleaned from the latest conversation, however, and that was...he’d made Vitali about as uncomfortable as he felt.
“It’s...a deal,” he said, with a near hysterical laugh. No use salvaging his mood, he thought, forlornly. “If you can do that for me...we’ll never speak of this again, and I’ll spare you from anything else of this nature.” He wiped away the stray tears that spilled from beneath his eyelids and instructed steady, healthful breaths--in and out, in and out--to equalize the wavering hitches in his throat. Perhaps he’d uncovered a method to reaching Vitali’s benevolent side, but he was damned if he was going to repeat the process. “Rest assured, Vitali, I need no concern or catharsis from you--the mere idea of it sends my thoughts down avenues I’d rather not explore.”
Vega was drifting, drifting, but it was not beyond the precipice, not where the undersea met a trench black as the abyss. She was fading, but not to the stillness of death. He clung to his assertion, and his assertion was made factual by Daphni’s words. They did not carry any deception meant to appease and ease his racing heart. It was truth she spoke--because the roots perched around the edges of the sanctuary sang as much. One such root poked through the floorboards by his feet, and its presence did not tell the story of despair, defeat, or death. A family. You have a family, Haraldur, it seemed to say; no, it pulsed, sharing its vibrations with his rooted, albeit swaying, figure. Don’t look back on what you did. Look ahead. Look here. Look at your children. Kynnet. Klara.
He didn’t have the time to prepare himself when Daphni returned with a squirming baby. Through the thin film of distortion coating over his eyes, he couldn’t tell from appearances which baby was nearing him, but he could sense, somehow, that it was Klara. His body stiffened. What did he do? How…
“Wait,” he breathed, but the Sybaian healer was not to be deterred, and placed the child in his arms--arms, which, unbeknownst to him, had reflexively positioned themselves in a cradle for his newborn daughter. The tingle of skin, still slick with water from her bath, writhed and fought against his hands, her cries whines of protest. What if she knew, innately, of her father’s history of violence, his wanton slaughter of innocents? What if she sensed his unsuitability for parenthood, his suicide that almost succeeded, his willingness to surrender without ever first laying eyes upon his children?
I thought I was done with ‘what ifs’...
But Klara, apparently acclimating to the new host of hands, had flailed for only a moment--and who could blame her, minutes out of the womb!?--and, to his surprise, settled her frenzy of arms and legs into the closest state approaching calm. Her wails had lessened, had stopped. She shifted towards his chest, to his heartbeat, which had, in the time he held her, slowed to accommodate her quest for a safe environment, a serene place outside of the womb. A haven for love--she found it with her father. And he found it in her, in those precious few seconds of contact.
“I’m...a father,” he repeated after Daphni, not quite registering the meaning, yet. He tested the word on his tongue. “I’m a father. A father. And this is my,” he swallowed, “my daughter. Klara. Klara,” he gently brought the shivering child into a hug. “I’m your father. Nice...nice to meet you.” The tears that collected in his eyes finally shot past his eyelids, down his cheeks. How did he ever envision hurting this child? Why did he believe he could crush this delicate creature which was so in need? In need of him? In need of her mother? “You’re safe, Klara,” he heard himself whispering. “Safe here...with me.”
Lifting his head, he met Daphni’s eyes, and nodded with conviction. “I never wanted to be Forbanne or a Commander. I never wanted to be a Prince. But a father...that’s always what I...what I wished for myself. I just...never thought I deserved it. I still don’t. I’m not worthy of it. But,” his eyes flicked from the babe in his arms, to Vega, barely conscious, but stable, “I am who they’ve got. And they need me. And I...need them. This is my family. I’m wrong to think I don’t belong. I’m their father.” It was a statement of fact. No more second-guessing or uncertainty. His children could not have someone who questioned his place in their lives. Someone with the “formal” title of father, but not with the connection, or the will to act as one. “Where is Kynnet? I’d like to see him, too.”
But before one of the healers could oblige his request, the door to the sanctuary swung open, enveloping the small room with raucous noise. Sigrid Sorenson, looking apologetic, closed the door behind her, dampening the sudden spiking of sound that seemed to originate from a large crowd gathering outside. “What? Are you serious?” He frowned, gazing over to Vega, who was in no condition for company. “Tell them that all is well. Vega is resting and the babies are healthy.”
“No. That will not do.” Elias, who had finished suturing and cleaning Vega’s abdomen, peeled off his gloves and doused his hands in a basin of fresh water, scrubbing away the toils of his operation. “Much as I would love to demand the Galeyns return during a more opportune time, I’ve learned that they are a visual people, and need physical confirmation delivered with their news. Otherwise, their dogged persistence will continue to threaten the sanctity of this healing space, and I will have no choice but to chase them away with a bonesaw just to clear enough space to walk from here to the palace unimpeded.”
“But the babies--”
“--They will manage under a little noise. Make it brief. You are their father now, Haraldur; you control what is best for them. By the way,” he lowered his voice, in case Vega was lucid enough to overhear him, “I will only say this once, so listen up. If this operation took place in Eyraille, as originally planned--I would not anticipate such a favorable outcome.”
“Daphni said you’ve done this operation before.”
“I have done caesarian sections, yes. But her bleeding was severe. Through the efforts of the Gardeners, we were able to slow and staunch the flow. Without the healing properties of this Night Garden and their channeling of its energy, we wouldn’t have seen this operation to a successful conclusion. I needn’t spell it out for you, Haraldur. If we performed this surgery in Eyraille, even with you on standby as our blood repository...even if we drained every drop of blood from your veins,” he paused, and shook his head, “there would have been no guarantee of your wife’s survival.”
“Then it was as she said.” Haraldur slowly rocked the babe in his arms. “They needed to be born here, in Galeyn.”
“Yes, go out there and tell Galeynians that story; I am sure it will tickle them pink with pride or some such,” he muttered, for once not dripping with sarcasm.
As the head Gardener, Senyiah, alighted beside him, squirming Kynnet in her hold, Haraldur, with Sigrid’s assistance, rose to his feet. While his arm was bandaged and no longer exsanguinating the contents of his veins to his wife, the amount of blood drained left him light-headed on his feet. But perhaps owing to the importance of the child in his grasp, he never faltered, and exhibited no signs of weakness. No, they would not take his baby from him on the grounds of instability, whether that instability be mental or physical. Before he took his leave to follow Senyiah out the door, he half turned to Sigrid and showed her the pink bundle, whose little fists closed and beat against the air, as if in annoyance over the sudden movement. “Sigrid--this is Klara. I want you to see her--to know her before anyone else out there knows her. Because…” he looked down at his feet, trying to drum up the words so they wouldn’t sound awkward, “...we haven’t had much luck, me and you. In our lives, or with each other in our lives. So I won’t be angry if your answer is negative. But since you’ve been such a great playmate to my late sister, and since she and my daughter share the same name, it would honor me, no, honor my sister’s memory, if you could be a guardian to little Klara. There’s no rush; I’ll let you think about it.”
Nodding his departure, he passed Sigrid on his way out the door, squinting at the sudden deluge of sunlight hitting his face. It was a godsend, in a sense, for the temporary blindness allowed him a moment to readjust to the light--and to the enormous crowd which filled the Night Garden to the brim with people. Sigrid wasn’t exaggerating; half of Galeyn, surely, had arrived for the auspicious occasion. His palms sweat underneath his daughter’s head and tiny body, and he gripped her tighter to compensate for his slick fingers (but never tightly). Was he expecting to address this crowd? He, pontificate to a majority of Galeynians who, in no uncertain terms, disliked him for how he treated his pregnant wife and for nearly exiting this plane of existence, effectively abandoning their beloved Vega and the children to whatever fate they faced?
It’s not about me, he thought, shielding the sun out of Klara’s eyes as she fussed in his arms. It’s about Vega. It’s about them.
It’s about you, too...That tree root of a voice seemed to nibble in his head. You’re the father. Be a father…
“Thank you,” he said, a little taken aback by how his voice boomed and carried among the crowd; how everyone’s silence implied a respect for his forthcoming words. “Thank you for your support. Vega can’t be here to tell you, herself, but it means a lot to her, that you’re with us to celebrate the birth of our children. I hear that it’s been over a hundred years since Galeyn has seen a birth. You’ve been gracious hosts to us...so it is our honor to present to you,” he held his squirming daughter into the light, “Klara Sorde. Our daughter.” He waited a few moments for the crowd to respond, to bask in the sight of a newborn, before removing her from the harsh glow of the sun and trading with Senyiah for the right to hold his son for the first time. The Head Gardener complied with his unspoken request, taking Klara from him and replacing his bare hands with the spirited Kynnet, who Haraldur secured carefully, amidst his wailing and thrashing arms. “Hello, Kynnet,” he whispered in the newborn boy’s ear, placing a soft kiss on his forehead. “I’m your father. I’ve been waiting for you. You and your sister.” Before he could allow a fresh set of tears to outrank his ability to communicate with the eager crowd, he brought the child into the light, and announced, “This is Kynnet Sorde. Our son. Born on this day...in the autumn.” Not in Eyraille, as we planned...but this will do. This will do just fine...
The necromancer snorted at Alster’s stubborn insistence that there might be something inherently likeable about him, for the fact that Tivia remained at his side. Certainly, it proved his point that he hid from any semblance of ‘goodness’ behind his wretchedness the same way he hid from the sun with his specially crafted blindfold, but where had it ever gotten anyone to show weakness? To bear their soft, squishy, vulnerable insides the way the emotional Rigas caster was doing right now? “And what makes you think I had it so bad?” He asked lightly, oblivious to the fact that Teselin had offered the man a glimpse at a past long forgotten--and a vulnerability that he had chosen to leave behind. “Certainly, I will not try to convince you that my upbring was at all… conventional. And my mother was not much of a mother, and now that I have come to glimpse at my father, I am rather relieved he never had the opportunity to play a part in my life. But not everyone with wretched parents chooses to suffer in their sorrow, void of love. In fact, I think I owe it to my biological makers for leaving me to my own devices, if I am being honest. You are right in a sense, though, I suppose, if you are implying that I wouldn’t be who I am today were it not for their careful negligence.”
It was perhaps the first time the necromancer had ever outright lied to his unlikely comrade. Certainly, he was a man with a penchant for twisting the truth, or delivering only partial truths if it suited him, but although it was more than capable of lying, it was not a tactic he ever really saw fit to employ all that often. Until now; because there was no way of spinning his experiences as a boy in a light that suited him. Rather, it was safest to outright deny it before it stirred any ideas in the nosey Rigas’s mind, and move on. “As for Tivia… I think it goes without saying that she is a young thing at heart that is desperate to cling to an ideal. I saved her life and had a few choice words for her failure of a father. Like it or not, that must have resonated with her. And while I am not in the habit of making and maintaining friends, I am not so needlessly cruel as to push her away now that she’s found herself comfortable. We’ve worked out quite the beneficial symbiotic relationship--which, she is already aware, may soon come to an end. She may even come to resent me for walking away from her, when that happens. But the point I am trying to make is, neither my dear little sister, nor your dear cousin, is a particularly reliable source to measure ‘goodness’ in a person. So let’s lay your misguided assumptions to rest before they land you in hot water, Rigas. And as far as your bleeding heart goes…”
Vitali shook his head slowly. Wasn’t it betraying exactly what he had just spend so much breath and time denying, to offer up his services to this man without a price attached? It didn’t sit well with him; Alster’s mere presence didn’t sit well with him, and the more time they spent in one another’s company, the more he understood why. Not unlike Teselin, the man, however unintentional, was determined to seek out and amplify what he perceived to be the ‘best’ in the people around him. And what he saw as the necromancer’s ‘best’ did not suit him, at all. “Whatever. This is if we ever find ourselves back in your city.” He clarified, trying his best not to look at the man next to him who appeared to be fighting off the urge to dissolve in his own tears. “And do not make a show of it. I am not offering as an act of ‘kindness’; rather, if I am to put up with you in the foreseeable future, then I am willing to make a promise that will ensure you are more tolerable. And to be honest, Rigas, I am not even sure that that is possible. But I’ve already admitted defeat if I did not try to find a way to spare myself your bleeding heart.”
This moment wasn’t for her, and given what had transpired over the weeks--the distance she had put between herself and Haraldur--Sigrid could not assume that her presence in this tense delivery, even while it had gone well in the end, was appreciated. Her concern for the wellness of the young family had dissipated the moment she saw that Vega and the children were alright, closely attended by a wide variety of healers and Gardeners, and with her worries assuaged, she had prepared to take her leave of the sanctuary after informing its occupants of the crowd gathering outside. But before she could turn away from the new family, Haraldur approached her, with his new baby girl in his arms.
“Klara…” The Dawn Warrior repeated that name, one that felt familiar on her lips, but otherwise kept her distance from the tiny creature fussing about in her cousin’s arms. It was… too small, too precious. She’d never held nor even touched a baby, as if afraid she somehow wouldn’t know her own strength, and that harm would come to it. “You mean… after your sister? You named her after your sister…” But of course he did. Even in the short time they had been acquainted, the Eyraillian Prince had divulged the love he’d had for his sister, who’d never been awarded the chance at life that she’d deserved. It only made sense that he would want to honour her memory through his daughter.
But, that aside, she was not at all prepared for what he was about to ask her. “You want… you want me to… be a guardian? I don’t understand…” And she really didn’t. Why would any child with two healthy living parents require a guardian, even symbolically? And why would he ask her? There wasn’t even any proof that they were family, beyond what Tivia’s clairvoyance suggested, and neither of them had spoken a single word to one another since he had successfully confiscated and hidden Gaolithe. For all he’d done it with his heart in the right place, and that Naimah had been in on it, it still felt like an affront that would not be easy to forgive. Though she had to admit, the anger and betrayal she’d initially felt had simmered down a good deal in the weeks that had passed. One could only remain so begrudgingly angry at family--if they were family--for so long.
Guardian… What did that even entail? And frankly, would she deserve the honour of accepting symbolic guardianship of a royal baby? “I… I don’t know, Haraldur…” was all that the Dawn Warrior could manage when at last she found her tongue, her head spinning from the abruptness of the request. “Surely there is a more suitable choice than myself… but if it seems to you that no one else will suffice…” Sigrid nervously scratched the back of her neck and dipped her head, looking completely lost. “...ask me again, later.” Without another word, she quietly slipped out the door, making for the only person she trusted to help her navigate such an absurd request--which was, of course, Naimah.
The moment the crowd outside the sanctuary laid eyes upon the two newborns, the entire garden seemed to come to a standstill, as if in reverence of the first new lives to grace the Night Garden and Galeyn in over a century. The citizens waited with patience to learn their names--Klara and Kynnet Sorde, and then murmurs of delight ensued. Of how small the twins were, yet how strong they seemed, with their tight little infant fists, as if ready to take on the world. Some of the women had tears in their eyes, and some of the children pushed through the crowd to get a closer look. There were few children as there were elderly, now gracing this kingdom. It was exciting to them to know they weren’t the only ones.
“How is the princess?” Someone spoke up, asking the question that remained on everyone’s mind. Of course they would be concerned about her absence…
“The Eyraillian princess is currently resting and recovering. Please allow the family time to adjust before assuming visitations are appropriate.” Senyiah announced, likely much to Haraldur’s relief. “It was a difficult delivery, and for the time being, there is no space for unnecessary bodies within the Sanctuary. I am sure their Highnesses will allow you to meet the children more personally. For now, let this herald a sign of new beginnings for our kingdom, which slept for so long. Haraldur Sorde of Eyraille,” the Head Gardener nodded in acknowledgement of the bewildered new father. “Know that your children will always have a home, here. They Galeyn will forever recognize them as the beginning of a new chapter in its time, and as the first son and daughter that the Night Garden helped to herald into this world.”
There was no clapping or cheering from the eager crowd, as if the Galeynians understood the need for quiet serenity in this long-anticipated moment, but the elation in the atmosphere was by no means veiled. They couldn’t be happier for what this meant for Galeyn, for the new parents, and whatever judgment the Gaelynians held against Haraldur seemed to melt into oblivion, now that the twins had arrived. Whatever might have awaited them upon their return to Eyraille, it was obvious Galeyn would always welcome them back with open arms.
Senyiah led the way back into the sanctuary, for the sake of the newborn babies whose eyes were not accustomed to sunlight (or any light, for that matter), and all of the other Gardeners had been dismissed in favour of allowing the new mother space to recover. Elias and Daphni remained, monitoring the princess’s still dangerously low blood pressure, but Vega seemed to have fought off the shock that threatened to send her into unconsciousness. Her eyes lit up with recognition when Haraldur and the Head Gardener stepped inside, with two tiny lifeforms in their arms.
“Tivia was right… she said they’d be born.” She smiled, her eyes still half-lidded from the stress of delivery and the drug that had caused her to lose feeling from the waist down, but despite appearing pale and tired, Vega did not look to be in danger of slipping from this world anytime soon. “And they’re beautiful… Haraldur, it’s real. These children, our family… all of this is real.”
“Are you well enough, your Highness? Would you like to hold your daughter?” Senyiah asked, noting that the Eyraillian princess did look far more stable than she had several moments ago--that being, she was no longer on the verge of completely losing consciousness.
“Yes--please. I want to see her… both of them. Klara, Kynnet…” Vega extended her arms and carefully accepted the tiny baby girl that Senyian placed in her arms. Klara, who had been putting up more of a fuss than her brother, appeared to be running out of steam, and her high-pitched wailing had toned down to indignant whimpers. “Perfect. Haraldur… they are so perfect.”
The Skyknight princess looked up from their daughter as her husband took a seat on the edge of her bed with their son. “We talked about them being born in the fall… with the leaves all changing color. But the Night Garden doesn’t know any season but the summer. The leaves here won’t change. No fiery reds and oranges. All the same… this is where they needed to be. Where we needed to be.”
“A mother knows her children best.” Daphni gently inserted, taking a pillow from an empty bed to tuck it behind Vega’s back for support. “And you… you knew best, Vega. You knew best. This is where you needed to be. Here,” she placed a mug half-full of steeped liquid next to the princess’s bed. “This will help the pain.”
“What pain? I can’t feel anything, Daphni.”
“You’ll want it when the feeling comes back. For your incision.” The Sybaian healer smiled, her fingers deftly touching Klara on her forehead. Something flickered across her face--something perhaps akin to longing--but it was gone as soon as it was there. “Newborns need to feed frequently. When you’ve all had a moment to rest, we should take a moment to ensure they can properly breastfeed. And where you have two mouths to feed, you may want to consider enlisting a wet nurse for assistance.”
“I am enough to feed my own children,” Vega frowned. “Both of them, thank you.”
A half-smile twitched on Daphni’s lips. She shook her head. “Let’s see how much two infants will allow you to rest. You may end up changing your mind.”
Murmuring something to Elias, the two healers stepped out to permit the new family a moment of privacy, together; alone save for Elespeth, who remained comatose, several beds over. Vega’s expression fell, glancing her friend’s way. “When she awakens, I’ll have to tell her she was here for my delivery. That she didn’t really miss it. She was despondent for having missed our wedding…”
“Mm, I see. Then I was entirely wrong about you, Vitali.” With a good deal of willpower, Alster emerged from the morass of his sorrows, sitting upright with inflated purpose. He relit the ball of etherea and directed it overhead, shining a beam of light on the path in front of the Night steeds. With the reemergence of the light, he scrounged together the parts of him that were functioning and whole, pushing aside the problematic aspects of his personality in the darkness where they belonged. Vitali didn’t respond to emotional depth, nor did many of his gender. It was an uncommon thing to so unabashedly expose vulnerabilities, especially to the one man who could exploit them out of sheer disgust. There was only one way to be around people of Vitali’s ilk. Unaffected. Why did he let down his guard, then? Desperation for a connection? Had he taken Teselin’s promise to heart? He said he’d establish a cooperative environment between them. Cooperation did not translate into unwarranted, one-sided soul-bearing. Such an overwrought tack did nothing but broaden the gulf of dissonance between two entirely disparate people. Pathetic. What did he think would happen? But it was not like he had anywhere to go, to destress and decompress. Where were his choices? Internal bleeding was much more toxic and dangerous than an open wound, but the problem with an open wound was that everyone saw it.
So I’ll play it your way, Vitali. I’ll give you what you want.
“I read too much into something that was never there,” he said, rolling his words into insipid, disingenuous, speech. Clipped and dry, drained of wholesomeness...and free-flowing blood. “How stupid of me to believe you carried any complex emotion. I’ll be sure to tell Tivia what you told me about merely accepting her company for no other reason than because she’s made herself comfortable in your presence. I won’t even stop to consider your helpful interference in preventing the death of Haraldur Sorde as an act of altruism, because surely, it was not. You saw an opportunity to wriggle yourself out of the kingdom of Eyraille’s concentrated ire. It had nothing to do with Tivia; how could I be so foolish? With Vitali Kristeva, what you see is what you get. Thank you for the clarification; I won’t make the same error twice. For the sake of your tolerance, I’ll speak no more about uncomfortable topics. You’ve risen above it all. You be who you want to be; it’s a waste to describe you with modifiers you despise.”
As promised, he spoke no more on the topic, or on any topic, letting the two reluctant travel companions sink into silence. And it was silent, but for the creaking protest of the caravan as its wheels strained over the uneven terrain. Alster sat back, nursing the stabbing pains of his artificial arm. While he readily admitted defeat to Vitali in regards to his self-image, and his resolve to remain despicable, it did not change Alster’s mind in the slightest. For as much as he insisted they were not similar, the necromancer did bear something in common with Hadwin Kavanagh: flippant dismissal. They didn’t want to be seen as ‘good,’ or ‘helpful,’ because with those terms came responsibilities they’d never realistically fulfill. It was better to play on preestablished expectations; to do otherwise inhibited their freedoms. Vitali valued profit and gain. Hadwin valued lust and entertainment. No doubt they both cared; the latter made no pains about expressing that he cared, when interrogated, in the shallowest of terms. But they, especially Vitali, could not be cajoled into admittance. Just like his half-brother stowed away in the caravan, it was up to him how much he was willing to show of himself, to others. The man, after all, had a reputation to uphold. His survival had depended on it--and old habits died hard.
Not surprisingly, the crowd of Galeynians reacted to the news with an eagerness that pressed them forward, insatiable eyes hungrily honed in on his children. Tearful cries spilled in the audience, as did sighs of awe, spurts of joyful laughter, the shuffling of approaching feet with the aim to draw close. A few arms reached out, questing for a touch to ascertain their realness. For some, who hadn’t seen or held a baby in over a century, the experience was akin to something religious. While Haraldur didn’t want to deny the good people their moments with Kynnet and Klara, he couldn’t help but retreat a step when the Galeynians slowly surged toward his space. They were respectful, of course, and their reactions not unfounded, but as a new father, nervousness overtook his enjoyment of the welcoming procession. Fortunately, Senyiah intervened, voicing the words he did not have the heart to tell a citizenry which had moments ago shifted their opinion of him into something favorable, just by association. Dipping a thankful nod to the Head Gardener, he turned again to the audience and repeated her sentiments. “Again, we are grateful for your support, but please allow us this time to bond as a family with our newborn children. I will relay your well wishes to Princess Vega Sorde. Thank you.”
In a welcome hush appropriate for the feisty babies, Haraldur retreated with Senyiah, comforting the inconsolable Kynnet in his arms with a tender shush. “It’s ok. It’s over, now,” he assured the tiny baby as they reentered the sanctuary and closed the door. “I know. Too many people. Too much to take in. Your father doesn’t like crowds, either. But they’re nice people, and they’re happy to see you.” When he looked up from his one-sided conversation with the bewildered baby, Vega was lucid, her eyes open and flitting between Kynnet and Klara, who Senyiah held out and pressed into her waiting arms.
“Yes--either it’s real or I’ve inhaled some hallucinatory Night Garden drug,” he said, in a poor attempt at a joke. But the corners of a smile twitched downwards, the occasion too sobering an experience to make light of, especially in the face of what could have happened. “I owe you an apology, Vega. Well...many apologies, and I’ll be paying for them the rest of my life, I promise you, but--coming here was the best reckless decision you’ve made so far. I can’t say the same of my own reckless acts, but that’s not surprising. You’re the real hero, Vega. You’ve done for us what I thought was impossible for me to have.” He bowed his head, penitent. “I’m one lucky fool. I shouldn’t be here. It’s not real. Yet...I’m here...and it is.” Carefully, he placed Kynnet into the crook of her available arm, bookending her with babies--their children. “They’re perfect...because you made them. And let’s hope they take after you. We both know who has the most desirable traits among us.” At that, he crooked a smile. With the babies now reunited with their mother, Haraldur took the opportunity to sit and bask in the company of his beautiful wife, and his beautiful children.
“If that is the case, Vega, you best start breastfeeding your children right away. The first hour of a child’s birth is an essential time to start. Any longer, and they will” Elias inputted, his hand at the door. “It will be a difficult endeavor for you, what with two mouths to feed and your lower extremities too numbed for proper or comfortable movement. Like it or not, you will need the assistance of a wet nurse, even if it is you alone who supplies the milk. Among Galeyn’s ranks, it will be simple to procure one--so I will return shortly.” With Daphni and Senyiah in tow, the three healers made their egress, giving the fledgling family a precious, yet brief, moment amongst themselves--with the exception of the comatose Elespeth, who presided from her corner vantage point, unresponsive but not any less present, or alive. Haraldur caught Vega looking her fellow warrior woman, her eyes glazed over in wistfulness.
“No, she didn’t miss it at all, Vega. And when she awakens, we’ll be sure to ask her to be Kynett’s female guardian. Alster, too--once he returns. Guardianship is a custom from Mollengard and the Northern regions,” he added, by way of explanation. “Parents can’t raise their children alone. They need assistance. Yes, we’ll be in no deficit of assistance in Galeyn; everyone is eager to care for our children--but guardians play a special and symbolic role in a child's development. And I can think of no one better for our children than Elespeth and Alster. Elespeth, who’s been a reliable friend to us, and Alster, who has saved our lives...and their lives.” He nodded at the tiny, shriveled babies, their wails reduced to mewls and their grandiose hand gestures, dwindled to jerky twitches.
“And if Klara and Kynnet indeed have magic that they inherited from their good for nothing father,” he snorted a laugh, “he can aid them in their magical instruction. The two of them will be an ideal match for our children. And,” he glanced at the closed door, where, not a half an hour ago, he asked Sigrid to watch over Klara, specifically, as her guardian, “I’ve decided to ask Sigrid, as well. For Klara. I feel she should have the honor before all else. She was kind to my sister. I’m speaking of Aunt Klara, your namesake,” he interjected, addressing the pinkened newborn, in all her dazed obliviousness. “I’m not sure she’ll agree, but,” he sighed and looked down at his feet, “it’s my last and final attempt to connect with her. I’ll cut my losses if nothing comes of it. I’ve already come to expect that I’ve lost her. She visited here, today, but as a courtesy, I’m sure.” Realizing he was muttering to himself, he shook his head, slapping his face to wake up his mind and his body, which slowly slumped and curled forward from exhaustion. He had no right to claim exhaustion at all--not before his long-suffering wife at the crux of her risky operation, who, awake and stable, hadn’t given a second thought to breastfeeding both her children, despite her condition. “Besides,” he elected to shine a light of optimism amid his doubts for Sigrid’s consent, “we don’t need to restrict the number of guardians we choose for our children. As long as they’re meaningful to us. As long as we trust them. And,” he pressed his hands together, already surrendering the possibility of the Dawn warrior’s involvement, “ as long as they agree.”
Sigrid did not search for Naimah long; owing to the momentousness of the occasion, the Kariji woman and some of the escorts at her camp arrived at the palace to see for themselves the congregation at the Night Garden. Hearsay alone did no justice in gauging the size of the crowd. All of Galeyn (within range of the palace), had arrived to witness the birth of the royal babies. The flood of people was so vast that the Forbanne on duty had to concentrate their security on all the entrances and in the vicinity of the Night Garden, ensuring additional safety for their Commander and his wife. With the chaos piling in and out of the makeshift ceremonial grounds, Naimah was surprised to find Sigrid at all. The Dawn Warrior, emerging from the tumult of gathering Galeynians, met with the Kariji woman in the hallway. Grabbing her by the shoulders, Naimah gently moved her away from the mob and relocated her to the servant’s corridor, which was free of people.
“While I did not know what to expect, I certainly did not anticipate a turnout this enormous!” She marveled at the continuous trickle of people. It reminded her of the busy thoroughfares of Stella D’Mare during market day. “I hear Commander Sorde is to present the children at the Night Garden. Judging by your presence, either it happened already, or--?” She caught the woman’s troubled expression, the discomfort hiding behind her glacial-blue eyes. “What happened?” Sigrid disclosed the last conversation she had with Harladur Sorde before exiting the Night Garden, as well as her hangups over being chosen.
“Really, Sigrid--that is amazing news!” She lowered her voice, in case any eavesdroppers passed along the information and inundated the Dawn Warrior with innumerable questions, praises, or congratulations. “But I understand your trepidation. The two of you haven’t been on the best terms, ever since he confiscated Gaolithe. To be honest, Sigrid--it isn’t fair to him, to Vega, or to young Teselin, when I contributed a great deal to ensuring we pry that accursed thing from your hands. It has been almost a month, Sigrid, and he obviously wants to move forward with you. Whether or not you are related by blood, he sees you as family. You are neither related to your brothers and sisters of the Dawn Guard, but you have fought alongside them as trusted siblings, all the same. So why is this designation any different?” Desiring privacy, Naimah tested a door to her right, which opened, revealing a dark closet space. Not even balking at the ridiculousness of their chosen hideaway, she encouraged Sigrid through the door and closed the latch shut.
“My apologies for the forwardness, but what I am to say requires a somber atmosphere. Amid the merrymaking outside...it would have distracted my thought process. Sigrid,” she clutched the warrior’s arm, “I’ve spoken to Haraldur since that day. He told me he wanted to handle Gaolithe to bear some of the burden for you--and to experience your struggles. Whether or not you forgive him for putting himself, an expecting father, at such risk, it is still a testament to his loyalty and dedication to you--as family. And...forgive me again for my mood, but,” her breath hitched in her throat, “Sigrid, it is unfair. It is unfair that you have people who so desperately want to include you in their family affairs, and yet here I stand, praying to the gods for the chance to reunite with my family when I die. Even if it is for a moment, to see my parents, my older brother, Tolga, little Faruk...I pine for that chance, Sigrid. Before you walked into my life, it was the one consolation I carried with me; upon my death, I would see them, and beg for forgiveness.” She removed her hand from Sigrid’s arm, and wound it around her waist. “But you choose to isolate yourself; nothing has changed with you, Sigrid. You refuse to live, beyond me, and our tent, our little world, removed from every strife, every uncomfortable situation, and...it is not enough for me. Kariji thrive in community, and here, is a willing community for you to join. My community consists of whores whose trust in life has been so irrevocably damaged, they resist my attempts at solidarity. We stand alone, as a defense mechanism against further hurt and pain. It is rare for us...to find wholesome, unconditional love...and you have found it. And you don’t want it. Why, Sigrid? Because their betrayal weighs heavier than my own? Because fear of the unknown continues to cripple you into inaction? Because you expect us to live in an vacuum where nothing harmful can find and touch us? ...It does not work like that. It is not healthy for us. So I am breaking the habit.”
Circling around the Dawn Warrior, she lifted the door latch and slipped out of the tiny room, through the sliver of light that opened to the world of jubilant noise and celebratory faces. “Do what you must, Sigrid, but I intend to celebrate with these Galeynians, and by extension, celebrate the birth of your cousin’s children--and I will do it without you. If I am so lucky, Vega and Haraldur will grant me an audience, and I can apologize on your behalf. Needless to say,” her typical warm demeanor frosted like the blue-tinged edges of the kohl around her eyes, “do not expect me to coddle you, tonight, for I will not be at my tent.” With a swish of her colorful gowns, she disappeared into the crowd, mingling and making merry with the cheerful Galeynian mass of humanity.
For a moment, it appeared as though something the Rigas caster said might actually have resonated with the necromancer, given the silence that ensued following his closing words to this conversation. Vitali seemed pensive, almost as if he were weighing the weight of what Alster had said, deciding on whether or not it was safe to call the man on a bluff. Moments passed, suggesting that he was happy to accept that this highly awkward conversation was over, until, unexpectedly, he willingly expanded on it again. “You needn’t take such offense to our differences, you know. It doesn’t make any logical sense.” Vitali shifted in his seat and adjusted his grip on the horses’ reins. “So I am not a bleeding heart whose duty is nothing but to do good in this world, deep down, and that disappoints you. But you should well know that it does not universally benefit everyone to be a Saint, Alster Rigas. Perhaps it works for you; the universe tilts in your favour to your dreadfully helpful demeanor. But such is not the case for every being that walks this plane, much though you cling to the motion of a just world, where good rewards good.”
His voice had taken on a quieter tone, one that suggested that this was perhaps a topic that he took more seriously than his flippant demeanor otherwise implied. Vitali looked ahead, as if he were staring off into the distance, a tilt to his chin that might’ve made one wonder if he was really ‘blind’, at all. He appeared to see much more than the layperson would assume. “Some of us have never been awarded the opportunity--the luxury--of what it means to live a ‘good’ life. Frankly, the idea has never seemed realistic to me, because were I to lead a disposition such as your own, I daresay I would not have survived for as long as I have. Believe it or not, I have toyed with the notion of ‘empathy’, and occasionally lending a hand--and in some cases, I’ve followed through. Do you remember who it was who pointed Lilica in the direction of the tree, at the heart of the Night Garden? I could’ve led her astray; her little blood ritual that she so believed might keep me in line would only have caused me discomfort, at most, because my dear sister is not notorious enough to invest enough intent in a blood bond that would doom someone; her intent is not vile enough. I could have sent her far, far away on some wild goose chase while I contemplated that tree for myself, maybe even coming into the luck to sense the curse it had intended for me before I fell victim to it. Maybe I’d have discovered a way to circumvent it, and to have Galeyn for myself. But, if I am being honest, all of that seemed to be far more work than it was worth, so instead, I chose to help her, just as you are so apt to help people. I don’t need to remind you of exactly how I was rewarded for ‘doing the right’ thing.’”
A trace of bitterness crept into the necromancer’s voice, but only for a moment. Only enough to suggest his discontent with his current predicament: blind and beholden to people he may rather cross. All the same, it was enough to drive his point home: that ‘good’ did not always beget rewards. Maybe it was just too late for the universe to cast a different light on his existence, after all. “Although, I am surprised you haven’t realized how that benefits you. After all, if it were not for people like me, who are so easy to despise, how would others find the reasoning to hold people such as yourself in a favourable light? You need both sides of the coin; because if there is no dark, then there is no light. Really, you should be thanking me; I make you look better than you really are, by mere virtue of association.
“So, yes: in a sense, you are right. I remain with Tivia because it benefits me, and because it has become a routine that benefited my rehabilitation as a functional being, as I adjusted to an utter lack of eyesight.” Vitai shrugged his shoulders in indifference. “And you are welcome to tell her that. Remind her that everything holding together the pieces of her little, domestic fantasy is just a lie, and that I am just using her the way that I use everyone. But I don’t need to tell you how that would crush her. And I don’t need to tell you that after what she has suffered and experienced, to be shattered all over again because you wish to spite me would only be salt in wounds that she would rather deny existing, at all. Though if you really see fit to bring her more misery in an ill-fated opportunity to spite me, Rigas, then that is up to you. I am not the one you will end up hurting, in the end.”
He was right, after all: in so many words, the necromancer had confessed that his wickedness was, in fact, a survival mechanism, and even if he wanted that to change, it couldn’t. Not when the world had spat on him at every small divergence from his character. Wickedness was not something inherent, but rather, something learned through conditioning. And the necromancer had come too far and survived too long by denying any and all potential to be ‘good’ that it was no wonder he saw no logic in changing, now.
“No… no apologies are not necessary, Haraldur. We are beyond that, now.” Vega shook her head slowly and cradled her newborn children, whose weight in her arms felt so foreign, and yet, so right. “What happened before… or what could have happened, is completely irrelevant. Our children are here. They are healthy. And we are here with them--together. Isn’t this what we wanted? To finally all be together, when they arrived to meet us?” The princess redirected her soft smile from her children, to her husband. “What I did was no act of heroism. To be honest, I’ve never understood why people are so apt to praise women for giving birth; I mean, exactly what were my choices, otherwise?”
The princess’s smile quirked in a humours grin, completely defying the gravity of the situation that had passed, and the fact she could well have lost her life giving birth, had it taken place in Eyraille. “These babies are perfect because we made them, and because we were both present at the time they were born. But they will only stay perfect if they mirror the both of us. Because we both contributed to their life--and that they should honour their father as much as they honour their mother. You cannot convince me otherwise.”
Unlike Haraldur, she hadn’t considered the idea of guardianship over the children, beyond the two of them. Such a notion was not practiced, to her knowledge, in Eyraille, although she was aware of it through other cultures. And… she was not at all opposed to it. After all, there were those who had helped take the edge off of her pregnancy during its later stages: and Alster, Elespeth, and Sigrid were among those people. “I think… that is a wonderful idea.” Vega agreed, her eyes growing misty. “I hope they accept. Elespeth always found time for me, even when she was bedridden or confined to that wheeled contraption for mobility. And Alster’s patience is infinite. I would love for our children to know them. And… Sigrid.” The princess’s face fell a little, and she held the babies closer to her body, as much to comfort them as her. “I did not make things easy for her; for trying to be a part of this family. I’ll admit, I felt threatened for a number of reasons when she came into your life. I am a Sorde, and I boast all the flaws of one--jealousy only being one of them. And yet… she never really pulled away, even when I pushed her. In your… absence, during these past months, I know she went out of her way to see to my wellbeing. To try and put a smile on my face when I was sad--and often, I was. But she never made a spectacle of it, and she found room in her heart to care, even with that damned sword threatening her own happiness. I just wish she could see that what we did to secure her future was purely out of love…”
Vega followed his gaze to the door. Earlier, she’d thought she’d heard Sigrid’s voice, but had been in too much pain, and was not nearly lucid enough to know for sure. “If she came here, then it would have been more than just out of courtesy. I hope that she accepts. I have seen the way that Dawn Warrior loves and cares; it is fierce love, unyielding. And I know that it also applies to you…”
The Eyraillian princess managed a smile when he looked her way, knowing how terribly alienating Sigrid had affected him. He needed a little hope, right now. “She did not refuse you, outright. And that leads me to think she will agree. Just give her some time. Sigrid is loyal to those she cares about; I have faith that she will come around.”
Struggling to make sense of what she had been asked, it was no wonder Sigrid sought out a far more level-headed and emotionally stable person to help shed some light on Haraldur’s request--and of course, the first person to come to mind was Naimah. It was not difficult to track down the beautiful Kariji woman, in her bright silks, among the more muted and pastel Galeynians. Word--and joy--had spread fast regarding the birth of the first babies in Galeyn in over a century. She found her in the hallway of the bustling and excited palace, but could hardly hear a word she said among the din, before Naimah relocated them to a separate, far more quiet hallway. “Nothing happened. Well--that’s not entirely true. Vega had a difficult delivery, but everything turned out fine. Haraldur has already presented the children, and now the family is resting. But Naimah… he asked me something, and I don’t understand. He asked me… he wants to be a guardian to his daughter; her name is Klara. And I… I hardly know what that means, or why he would ask me, or what he expects me to do. I haven’t given him an answer because I just… I don’t know! Guardian? What even is that? What part of me, anatomy aside, so much as suggests material instincts?! Why me?”
But Naimah was… elated. Excited. Clearly, there was something the Dawn Warrior was missing, which is precisely why she knew the Kariji woman could help her fill in the blanks. Although, what Naimah had to say, when she took her aside and into a… a closet, of all places, was not at all the clarification that Sigrid sought. “The Dawn Guard has nothing to do with this,” she said, on the defensive. “My relations with them have nothing to do with this. But it is just as you said; I have not spoken to my cousin in months. It isn’t fair to him that I’ve kept my silence, maybe, but how is it at all fair to me to make such a request out of the blue? To put me on the spot, and assume that I would accept such a vague responsibility when…”
Something the Kariji woman said next stopped her, short. And it was only then, when she heard that hitch in Naimah’s voice, that she realized her terrible misstep. “...I am sorry, Naimah. I know how you miss your family; I know how this must look to you, when you’d give anything to see them again. But, for whatever it might be worth--and I do hope it is worth something… you have me. Indefinitely, now, if you so desire, since I don’t even know Gaolithe’s location. It isn’t a factor in my life, anymore. I can never replace those who you’ve lost, I know this, but you do have family, here, by extension. We can be family…”
Sigrid reached out to lay a comforting hand on the Kariji woman’s shoulder; but Naimah did not want to be comforted. And there was no way the Dawn Warrior could possibly have prepared herself for what she said next.
...it is not enough for me.
Not enough for me.
For a moment, she thought she could hear her heart slow.
Not enough.
“I…” What was she supposed to say? Naimah wasn’t wrong; when she was not running back and forth as a mediator between Galeyn and Braighdath, when she wasn’t patrolling the premises with a handful of other Dawn Warriors since the drop in the number of Forbanne had left an impact in defense, Sigrid sought no one’s company buy Naimah’s. And that had been just fine, for her; because, yes, she had forgiven Naimah when she couldn’t forgive the others, and unfair as it seemed, she could not explain it. She could not explain her feelings and what propelled them because Sigrid Sorenson was terrible at identifying those feelings. But… had she been so blindsided by her own comfort that she had remained oblivious to the fact Naimah was lacking? “Naimah. I didn’t realize… have you been unhappy? What can I…”
Before she could find the words (if she could find them at all; Sigrid was not known for being good with words), Naimah unlatched the door, opening herself up to the noise beyond. “Wait--Naimah, please…” ...don’t shut me out, again. But the Kariji woman, intent on making merry with the rest of the kingdom, was gone and disappearing into the crowd before she could untangle her tongue, leaving Sigrid alone with her thoughts in the musty closet.
For several moments, the Dawn Warrior stood alone and in the dark, unsure of what to do, or what had just transpired, or how to make it right. But… she had come to Naimah for clarification; and the Kariji woman had given her that clarification, however much she hadn’t been prepared to hear it. She was right--of course she was right. It had been completely irrational and unfair for her to have so readily forgiven Naimah for conspiring with her cousin, while continuing to hold a grudge against Haraldur, Vega, and Teselin. She still did not agree with how he had gone about it, roping her lover into manipulating her while he confiscated a sword he had no business in handling.
...and yet, he’d done it with his heart in the right place. Out of concern for her. Out of a desire to have her in his life. Just as he had done today, extending an invitation to be a part of his daughter’s life… and she had walked away.
Sigrid didn’t know how to fix this; she didn’t even know that she could. But she knew how to try.
While the kingdom merrily celebrated the arrival of Galeyn’s first babies in over a century, the Dawn Warrior had to strong-arm her way through the wall of Forbanne that had formed around the Night Garden to protect their commander and his wife to access the Sanctuary. Only after a small handful of the soldiers recognized her as a relation to their dear commander did they let her through. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours since the children had been born, since she’d run from them--her family. But when she arrived, quietly opening the door, Vega was fast asleep, finally taking a moment to rest after her tumultuous delivery. Daphni was nearby, gently cleaning the residual blood from the cot and the sleeping princess. They had since managed to change the sheets and mattress, but the metallic scent still clung to the air. She had lost so much blood…
The babies were also fast asleep in their father’s arms. Haraldur had taken a seat near Vega’s cot, with both swaddled infants resting against his body. It had been an exhausting day for everyone; no one remained unaffected, one way or another, by the babies’ birth. “...I’m sorry I ran, earlier. But… you put me on the spot. You asked me something I didn’t understand, and I wasn’t prepared to give you an answer.” Sigrid closed the door behind her, keeping her voice low, so as not to disturb the children or their mother, and maintained a distance between herself and her cousin. Without it, she wasn’t sure she’d find the space to voice anything meaningful. “I still don’t really understand what it was your asked me; about being a ‘guardian’ to your daughter. I wasn’t raised with knowledge of such a custom. And if I am being honest, my gut instinct was to refuse, because I am still angry with you. With taking my destiny into your hands. But…” Her shoulders sagged and she folded her arms, averting her gaze to the floor. “I realize… not everyone has family to be angry at. For the longest time, I didn’t have family, in that sense. And I would have done anything to have the opportunity to quarrel with relatives the way that others do, and the way they take it for granted. By pushing you away, after I was so elated to find you… ultimately, I’m really only spiting myself, aren’t I?”
At last she looked up, not with resentment in her iceberg eyes, but… regret. “Do not misunderstand me--I am still angry. I still feel betrayed by you, by Vega, and I may for a long time. But, that said… I do not want it to be too late for us. So, if it is somehow meaningful to you… I will be a guardian to your daughter. To Klara. I cannot guarantee that I am an adequate choice; I know absolutely nothing about children. Though if it isn’t about adequacy, to you, and if it means something else… then I accept.”
Haraldur opened his mouth, about to say something, but the Dawn Warrior lifted her hand to stay his words. “Save your breath. I don’t… I’m not of the mind to be deep right now. And anyway, you look like you could use some rest. I just… I did not want you waiting on my answer. So now you have it. As for what comes next; we can discuss it when the energy dies down. They’re throwing a celebration for you at the palace, you know. Your children have really managed to raise morale in this kingdom. Maybe make an appearance, before retiring for the night.” Before she left, this time, Sigrid offered a small smile. It was gone as soon as the door shut behind her. Not enough…
She needed to find Naimah.
The Kariji woman was significantly more difficult to find, this time around. The number of bodies in the ballroom had doubled since she’d left for the Night Garden a couple of hours ago, and many had exchanged their muted pastel colours for the sort of vibrancy that Naimah typically sported. It was only through determination and asking a some of her lover’s ‘associates’ that she finally found her, mingling among the Galeynians; laughing, celebrating, having fun… just as she said she would. Not enough for me…
“Naimah.” After calling her name a handful of times, the Kariji woman finally looked up. She grabbed her arm before she could pull away. “Listen. I listened to you earlier, and I need you to listen to me, now. I need you… I need you to understand.”
Sigrid had to raise her voice, due to the sheer volume of voices that filled the room, but so be it; she wouldn’t leave until she spoke her mind… lest she not have the courage to say it, later. “I’m… Naimah, I’m bad at a lot of things. And among them, I’m bad at loving, and I’m bad at being loved. Unlike you, I didn’t grow up with a family, so it is difficult for me to miss what I’ve never had… and for that, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did not realize what my… behaviour was doing to you. But there’s something… there’s a lot I haven’t told you.”
Noting that their conversation was beginning to draw dregs of attention, the Dawn Warrior gently pulled her away from the heart of the crowd, toward a slightly quieter corner. “I’ve spent most of my life wondering what I’ve been lacking. When I arrived in Braighdath, I was just… some lost girl, wondering why my family left me behind. Growing up, I wondered why I wasn’t enough for any one family to want to keep me; and that made me angry. Made me… delinquent. So I started pushing people away; anyone that cared, because they would just end up giving me away at some point, regardless. Somewhere along the line, I came to realize I just wasn’t enough to care about; not enough for anyone to believe in, to see how I was just… hurting. And that’s how I ended up in the Dawn Guard. Not because I had some glaring potential, not because I was special. It was because I fought, and the city figured I might as well put my fighting to good use. So I had no choice but to accept them as my family. Because they couldn’t throw me away; I was one of them, part of them. I dedicated myself to them, and they didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t enough, because the Dawn Guard isn’t about any one person. We’re a unit; we’re unity. And for a long time, that was enough for me, until…”
Sigrid swallowed and took a steadying breath. “Until I found Haraldur. Until I found… you. And you’re right, Naimah; I did stop living, outside of being with you. Because when I found out Gaolithe would erase me, I never knew when the next time I saw you would be my last. And that didn’t change when you and Haraldur stole the sword; because there are still threats within this kingdom. Haraldur nearly fell victim to one, himself. So, yes, I have been monopolizing your time for selfish reasons--I’ll admit that. I confess want nothing more than for the rest of the world to disappear, leaving only the two of us, so that nothing can hurt you anymore… But if I’m with you, then I can protect you. I know you’re safe. And I’m not good at a lot of things, Naimah, but I’m good at protecting. And I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s not enough, that I’m still not enough, but it’s the only thing I’m good at--protecting. That’s why I haven’t wanted to leave you… but all the same, it’s not enough. It’s not fair to you, like you said. Because you need more. More… than just me.”
The Dawn Warrior sighed what sounded like quiet defeat and touched Naimah’s face. “You need this; joy, celebration, community… I understand why you need it to be happy. And I want nothing more than for you to be happy. So I also understand that you don’t want to see me, tonight; and I respect that. I’m not asking for pity or forgiveness, I don’t want you to coddle me. I just want you to understand, as well, because you deserve to know why I have a history of pushing away people who care. And why I need to protect; it’s the only way I really know how to love… and it’s not enough. But if you’ll give me a chance, I promise, I’ll figure it out. How to be enough, someday.”
Sigrid’s hand fell awkwardly to her side, and she looked around, not really knowing what else to do, having bared more than she’d ever prepared to divulge in a public setting. It left her feeling raw, and inexplicably empty. “The kingdom has its guard down, tonight, and the Forbanne are all focused around the Night Garden. I need to patrol, just in case any threats decide it is an opportune time to attack... I’m sorry I cannot make merry with you and everyone else.” She bowed her head in apology, errant strands of blonde hair falling into her face as they’d come free of her braid. “I’m going to do what I’m good at; protecting. Fighting, if need be. So you can continue to be happy.” With a sheepish smile, Sigrid planted a light kiss on her cheek, before turning to the crowd and disappearing amidst the jubilant bodies and faces that occupied the ballroom.
Alster, about to lean his head back and attempt to sort out the inexorable and inevitable torrent of the day’s baggage, which he hoped to process through the unconscious realm of sleep, startled back to cognizance when Vitali, not satisfied with how the conversation ended, dredged up all the details proving how his altruistic deeds of the past had undermined his own survival. His preoccupation with the topic seemed only to confirm with Alster his fixation with self-image, no matter how he argued its irrelevance. He cared enough to ramble in favor of his compromised character, defending his actions and condemning those which put him in league with the societal ideal of ‘goodness.’
“You have the wrong outlook, Vitali,” he lifted his head from the back of the seat and opened his eyes into pitch darkness--save for the little ream of etherea light that circled above the Night steeds. “That’s why you believe you’re being punished for your good behavior. Goodness doesn’t triumph by default. A few selfless acts don’t negate a lifetime of harm against others, nor will suddenly turning yourself around for the benefit of society reap you with rewards or accolades. It’s not good, or selfless, if you expect a reward in return. Whatever made you certain doing the right thing always served me well is a misguided interpretation. I help because I want to help, even if it compromises my health or sanity--or my life. And yes, I have compromised all three things before, many times. By no means am I holding anyone to the same insane standards. I’m not so naive to see the world in moralistic shades of black and white. I’ve straddled both sides of the coin.” Though Vitali could not see, Alster nodded to the etherea whilst flexing his black-steel arm, which in the night air, blended itself into oblivion. “I am darkness and light, quite literally. I’ve had a hand in playing these dual roles, even though I prefer the light. I in no way expect everyone to embody a ‘saintly’ disposition, and certainly, I don’t expect it of you, either. I merely posited that you care more than you let on; you were the one to see my reaction as an attack on your character.” He smiled in spite of the headiness of the conversation. “I suppose sarcasm doesn’t suit me, if you interpreted what I said as genuine upset and disappointment. It’s more that I’m disappointed in myself.”
“I’m not repulsed by your existence, or existences like yours,” he went on to clarify. “If that were the case, I wouldn’t abide by the likes of you at all, or of Hadwin, or of anyone with an opportunistic streak in them. We’re influenced by our circumstances, this is true. But I also believe we can rise and become better versions of ourselves, and I see the potential in everyone. Whether they choose to pursue it is their prerogative. There’s nothing more I can do to push them forward than to live by example. So no, Vitali,” he gazed over at the blur of trees he couldn’t see, “I am not actively trying to spite you, because that would go against my credo. I would tell Tivia about our conversation and spill your “truth,” not with the intention to hurt her, but because I know she would not believe me--plain and simple. She’s a star-seer, and is connected to you; perhaps not as strongly as I am connected to Elespeth, but she knows you well enough to see through your bravado. Nothing you say or do, nothing I say or do, would sway her, because she’s already seen your true nature--all sides of it. But if you insist, Vitali,” exhaustion coated his words, “I’ll continue to play the light, and you play the dark. Just as they are two sides of the same coin, light is not inherently pure or propitious, and darkness is not wholly sinister and cruel. So expect some overlap between the sinners and the saints.”
Haraldur had wanted to believe Vega’s hopeful premonition of good things to come between him and Sigrid, and thus far, it hadn’t steered him wrong to welcome a more optimistic mindset, but if Sigrid was anything like him, and she was, in many ways, nothing short of external interference would get her to change her mind. So he nodded to Vega’s encouragements whilst also nodding to his losses, and focused, instead, on his gains. Two healthy babies, a boy and a girl. His wife, radiant with vitality as ever, despite the ordeal which had left her pale and bedridden for the next several weeks. A nation gathered together for their children, forgiveness in their eyes as his sour reputation changed its course from a downward spiral to an upward spring. Haraldur, afforded so many chances to patch over his numerous trespasses, was ever thankful for the opportunities which had fallen into his lap since Vega’s reemergence into his life. It was important never to stray from his happiness ever again--and it was a vow he made as he uttered the names of his children under his breath.
“I’ll never abandon you. I’ll never forsake you,” he whispered as their tiny, twitching lifeforms fell asleep in his arms. Since that morning, he’d become comfortable enough with his children to hold them, one in each arm. After Vega, assisted by the wetnurse, had successfully breastfed the twins, he volunteered to take the first “watch,” as she fell into a long-awaited, much-deserved sleep. It was quiet outside as morning waned into afternoon, then into evening. The Forbanne, even without the mind-link to their commander, intuitively knew to protect the family as they patrolled the Night Garden and its vicinity. Haraldur feared their super-vigilance would set a bad precedent among the peace-loving Galeynians who only barely begun to accept him and his coterie of soldiers, but nonetheless, he appreciated the extra dose of protection they afforded. Protection, however, meant nothing if the soldiers recognized an visitor they deemed trustworthy, which was exactly what happened when Sigrid Sorenson opened the door and stepped inside the sanctuary.
“Sigrid.” At his sudden exclamation, the babies fussed and stirred in his arms. Biting his lip, he brought his volume to an acceptable level, though it was difficult to keep the surprise out of his voice. “Have you...decided, already?” She will say no, he thought, suffocating his hopeful expectations into the ground. And that will be the end. Why would she say yes? I killed all our chances at a reconnection. It’s over, now…
Therefore, his jaw slackened and nearly popped his mouth open when she defied his negative predictions and...agreed to guardianship over Klara. “I--” but she stopped his spoken reaction before he had the chance to formulate his gratitude or relief. External interference was the culprit, as he suspected. Sigrid must have spoken with Naimah in the interim. He had to remind himself to thank the Kariji woman for her input, if she had anything to do with Sigrid’s change of heart at all.
“You don’t have to agree if you don’t want it. I won’t be upset with you. It’s not something you have to feel beholden to, if it makes you uncomfortable. But if you’re serious,” he dipped his head into a grateful bow, “thank you, Sigrid. I’m too exhausted to be ‘deep’ right now, so don’t worry. Whatever role you decide to play in Klara’s life is of your own choosing. I won’t ask you to change her diapers or burp her if you feel that’s out of the question. I leave it to you.”
Before she slipped out of the one-room hut, he exchanged her smile with one of his own. “I might have to make an appearance, for Vega’s sake. Until she’s well enough to walk, I’m the most accessible liaison the Galeynians have for information pertaining to her and our children. I’m not one for celebrations, especially ones where I’m the center of attention--as you know from the Equinox festival, but…” he shrugged and rolled his shoulders, “it can’t be helped. One of my many princely duties, I suppose. And please remember; you’re always welcome here at the sanctuary. Next time, perhaps Vega will be awake for your visit--as will the children.”
When the Dawn Warrior departed, Haraldur, relaxing against the wall, shook his head a few times, marveling at the conversation that just happened. “Your mother is really something,” he whispered to the slumbering bundles of Klara and Kynnet. “Her positivity is so infectious, it borders on clairvoyance. I shouldn’t doubt her ever again, when she says things will work out in our favor. ...You’ll meet your Aunt Sigrid, yet.”
Naimah’s enthusiasm to join the Galeynian revelers at the courtyard ballroom, where they gathered one other time to celebrate the centennial birthday of Lord Alster Rigas, had dampened, the experience tainted by her final, harsh words to Sigrid, and the resulting expression, full of pain. As a whore trained to cater to the whims and physical, as well as emotional needs of others, it sat wrong with her to disregard her lover so discourteously. Surely, were her family alive, they would lambaste her for so much as sharing her unsavory opinions out loud, especially ones that targeted and accused and belittled. They would condemn her for petulance and childishness, and she would not blame them, for she had not acted with grace or integrity. The more she pursued a relationship with Sigrid longterm, the more the cracks of her flawed personality began to show. The Dawn Warrior, her first acquisition, her first true companion, was discovering the pettiness of her partner, and Naimah feared anything that devolved from openness, maturity, and patience would further isolate the emotionally-damaged woman already prone to isolation. But while she was taught never to expose her selfish desires, never to think of herself, her poised projected perfection wore on her, revealing threadbare patches and irritability.
Why, when she obtained practically everything she ever wanted in the form of a golden-haired, endlessly loyal warrior, she questioned its staying power? Why did she have the right to demand more, as if afraid that her life, tied so tenuously to a person destined for annihilation by a cursed sword, would fall apart and crumble if, or when, she lost the one constant that kept it whole? For all she spoke of unfairness, it was unfair of her to suggest Sigrid was in any way inadequate. Never. That was never true. But their circumstances, their sedentary lifestyle, secreted away in a tent, cut off from the greater world and its beauteous opportunities--that was inadequate.
And it was inadequate to celebrate Galeyn’s bounties without the dutiful Sigrid at her side.
Over the course of the day, Naimah managed solo, chatting with people whose reserved and introverted nature opened like a night-blooming cereus during its brief, yearly bloom. They discarded their unassuming colors of white and cream in favor of the bright oranges and yellows of autumn, specifically chosen to honor the babies and their birth date. Inside the courtyard ballroom, a small string band played, servants passed around trays containing small fruit tarts, and other guests partook in goblets filled to the brim with red wine. For the most part, Naimah stayed to the side, a cheerful spectator, but nothing more. Galeyn was not her home. Neither was Stella D’Mare. And before that, St. Thorne, with its stringent laws, never accepted the Kariji people as citizens, despite their irrefutable claim to the land. She was always an outsider, always meant to stand on the sidelines, watching. The presence of her family and her community had softened the edge of the sting, but nonetheless, she fared alone. Alone and lonely, standing on the fringes, calling out to someone…
And that someone came, and picked her out of the field of flowers, away from the panache, the merriment, and the joie de vivre encapsulated in each Galeynian smile. “Sigrid.” Latching on to the Dawn warrior’s arm, she allowed herself to be led off to a quiet corner, more open than ever in listening, in understanding her lover’s scruples, for loneliness affected each individual differently, and it was loneliness which had initially connected them together.
“Sigrid, please understand that when I said ‘it’s not enough,’ I never meant that you are not enough.” Her hands fluttered, eager to cup her cheeks, to draw her near, and to whisper soothing words of validation. I want to coddle you, so that nothing or no one will ever hurt you… “For me, it’s not enough to be among the world, cast aside without the love of my people to share in our plight. But I realize, as I am, they would never accept me. I am a whore; I lost their respect the day I offered my body for a price. Always, something will be missing. But that is not to say you do not complete the very thing that’s been lacking in my heart for years upon years.” This time, she did capture Sigrid’s cheeks with her hands, mindless of any stares from passersby. “I am content with you. I love you. And I am endlessly sorry for my words to you, earlier. I, too, want you to be happy. I want more for you than a lonely life, tethered only to me--because I do not believe that I am enough. I want you surrounded by family, cared for like you deserve, and I...I did not know how to express to you the importance of maintaining your ties without losing my own composure. No...it wasn’t fair to you at all to project my own losses onto you, for you have suffered differently than me. Sigrid,” she slipped her arms around the warrior’s broad shoulders, “you are not the only one who wants to protect. I’ve interfered between you and Gaolithe, and I will do it again--as many times as it takes, to keep you safe and alive.” Her plush lips moved forward, grazing against her ear. “I do not want to release you, because while I want this joy, this community...perhaps I did not make myself clear, before, but I want it with you. ‘It is not enough,’ but it will be enough when you and I step out of our self-imposed exile, and be a part of this place. Together. Would you reconsider?” With extreme reluctance, Naimah released Sigrid from the imprisonment of her arms. “You do not need to patrol; there is enough Forbanne stationed in the hallways, as well. Please stay, and protect me, here,” but she had disengaged, and was already broadening their distance, wandering away, going, going…”If I have at all earned your forgiveness,” she finished her final words, which choked under her breath.
Childbirth was unforgiving in an infinite number of ways, and Vega Sorde, in all her stubbornness and privilege, was not exempt from that. Although some would argue she had been ‘lucky’ in a sense, having been spared hours upon hours of excruciating labour pains thanks to undergoing the risky procedure by which Elias had successfully delivered her babies, that pain that Daphni had promised she’d experience upon the numbing drug wearing off had gradually begun to creep up on her while she’d been nursing her hungry children. And even that, to her surprise, was not without its own discomfort, though she’d never in a million years have guessed that breastfeeding could be even moderately painful. But by the time the two hungry babies were fed (begrudgingly with thanks to the wetnurse, whose help the Eyraillian princess had adamantly refused at first), and Haraldur had promised to keep an eye on the children in favour of allowing her to rest, everything had already come to a head, and rest felt impossible.
Fortunately, she did find herself able to doze as soon as she shut her eyes, but Vega’s sleep was at best restless for the hours that passed. Every movement, every murmur had her awake again, and it was all due to the fact that her ears were so keenly attuned to the possibility her newborns were experiencing distress. It was not that she did not trust her husband to see to Klara and Kynnet’s needs while she rested, but rather, having become a new mother, her senses were newly attuned to each and every mild distress her children might exhibit. Every murmur and whimper had her on edge and wide awake again, and just when she thought she was beginning to drift, she was awoken by the sound of the sanctuary’s door opening for the umpteenth time, and a familiar voice speaking in low tones with Haraldur.
Unable to sleep knowing that Sigrid had obviously returned to provide Haraldur with an answer, as soon as the Dawn Warrior took her leave, the exhausted princess opened her eyes and smiled at her husband, who was still looking at the door in disbelief. “I told you she would come around. You need to have more faith.” She teased, making an attempt to shift her body to angle it toward the Forbanne commander--and instantly regretted it. Hours upon hours of labour almost seems preferable to the sharp pains assaulting her abdomen, where the incision Elias had made was sutured, but still raw and fresh. “Did Sigrid say… something about a celebration? The kingdom is celebrating our children? That’s so… I don’t know whether to be flattered, or confused. We are neither of us Galeynian...”
“Your children have given this kingdom a lot of hope, today. Two healthy babies born into a place that had remained hidden and dormant for a century… I believe it reminded these people that they are alive, and well, and thriving.” Daphni, who had been diligently keeping to herself and watching over the princess and newborns while they rested, finally spoke up as she approached the princess with the very draught she’d refused earlier for the pain. “The twins are your blessing, but they are also Galeyn’s. Of course, it also may have to do with how the Galeynians are rather enamored of you.”
The Sybaian healer wordlessly offered the pain tonic to the princess, whose pride only permitted her to accept it just as silently, as if begrudging her own bedridden state. “You should go, Haraldur. For the both of us, especially if I cannot be there… though I wish I could be there.” Vega heaved a heavy sigh, appearing rather despondent, beyond her fatigue. “I’m Eyraillian. I practically live to celebrate the blessings in life, and I can’t even be there for a celebration surrounding my own children… Please go, Haraldur. Let the Galeynians know I am alright, and tell Sigrid… tell her thank you. For agreeing to be a part of Klara’s life.”
Something that both Naimah and Sigrid had in common was a stubborn streak, one that committed them to their decisions, no matter how foolish they seemed. And it was for that reason that Sigrid had no expectation that this night would end well, for her. Everything Naimah had said was true: she had shut herself away with the Kariji woman, denying the existence of the rest of the world around them, feeling content in a universe that only contained the two of them… and all the while, not thinking for even a moment that Naimah might need more than that. Harsh as her words might have been, they had opened the eyes of the emotionally-stunted Dawn Warrior to the empathy she owed her lover. How could she have been so blind to Naimah’s eagerness to leave her tent? To be outside, mingling among other people who could offer her things that Sigrid could not? Protection… that was the long and short of the blonde warrior’s virtues. She could fight, and she could fight to protect. She could and would fight to protect Naimah, if it was the last thing she ever did, but what was the sense in protecting the life of someone who wasn’t truly living? Not to mention, Naimah was herself a warrior in her own right, and not at all unfamiliar with handling a sword (or two!). So what right did she have to think that the beautiful Kariji woman even needed her protection? Naimah was beautiful, sleek, and dainty, but by no means would Sigrid have thought her to be ‘delicate’. She could hold her own, and if she could hold her own… What need did she have of another warrior, or a protector? What need did she have of her?
Not enough…
“It’s alright, Naimah. You don’t need to spare my feelings for your truth. It’s something I needed to hear…” Sigrid went on gently, before the Kariji woman’s soft hands were touching her face. She took note of the regret in her dark eyes, and it made her heart flutter, just a little. The words she had spoken earlier, ones that haunted her mind like a toxic mantra… they were not true. Or, rather, not true in the sense that they had gotten into and infected her heart. She hadn’t been talking about her; what she’d been referring to was their situation, and not how she wanted more for herself. She wanted more for the both of them.
But, be that as it may, Naimah still was not wrong. Their self-imposed isolation, living a life that only contained the two of them, was not only problematic; it was downright unhealthy, and completely disrespectful to anyone and everyone who wanted to bear some form of relation to either or both of them--Haraldur included. “Our experiences, our… suffering, it was different, you are right about that. But you are not wrong about what you said--about me, about… my cousin.” The Dawn Warrior sighed, her calloused hands finding the Kariji woman’s warm, bare shoulders. “You played just a big a role in confiscating Gaolithe as did Haraldur and Teselin. And if I am angry about that--and I cannot deny that a part of me still is--then it would only be fair that I extent the same resentment I’ve shown Haraldur toward you, as well. But my feelings toward people have never made a lot of sense, Naimah, and for whatever reason, I just… I cannot hold you at fault, not for anything. You are not perfect, because of course no one is without their flaws, and yet it is impossible for me to see you as anything but flawless. Which is irrational, and I know that, so… I tried to make it right, in the best way I could. That being that if I cannot be angry with you, it is time I try to stop feeling anger toward Haraldur.
“So… I’ve decided I am going to try. And he knows that, now.” The corner of her mouth curled into a self-conscious grin. “I spoke to him after you walked away, because I knew you were right. Especially since as a child, I’d have done anything to have any family with whom to quarrel. It is ridiculous for me to push away the people I’ve always wanted to have in my life… and I know that. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe a part of me still believes that I deserve to be alone; maybe that is why I cannot find fault with anything you do, because it is far too easy for me to find fault within myself. But, for what it’s worth,” the Dawn Warrior expelled a soft sigh. “I accepted Haraldur’s request. To have guardianship over his daughter, whatever that might mean to him. On the condition that he realizes I may not be any good at it, but that did not seem to matter to him. I realize… like you, he did what he did with Gaolithe out of care, not to try to seize control. And I’ll forgive him. Maybe not right away, because I’m myself terribly flawed, and I’ll admit to holding tight to grudges. But you are right: he is my family. He deserves a place in my life.”
The Dawn warrior broke her gaze away from the beautiful Kariji woman long enough to survey the grand ballroom, packed with bodies clad in the brightest oranges, reds, yellows, and golds. In many ways, this felt like Eyraille’s Equinox Festival all over again, although on a decidedly much smaller scale. Grand parties and celebrations had never been a significant (or desirable) part of Sigrid’s life, and even after becoming acquainted with Naimah, that had not changed. Although, she couldn’t help but wonder… how different the Equinox Festival would have been for her, had Naimah been at her side then. Had she not felt so awkward and shy around women from whom she was too afraid to ask to dance… Had there just been that certain someone--someone who was standing in front of her right now--to help bring her out of her shell.
On any other occasion, and upon any other request, the Dawn Warrior might have found an excuse to deny being a part of this celebration; not out of spite for her cousin and the birth of his children, but out of sheer dislike of crowds and public places. But for Naimah, who single-handedly put to rest her most current bouts of self-inadequacy, she knew she could not refuse if her life depended on it. “If you think the premises are well guarded without me…” Sigrid took the Kariji woman’s hand before she could fully withdraw. She had already watched her walk away once, today; she wouldn’t do it again. “I’ll stay, Naimah. We can celebrate together. And I’ll protect you from danger, if you’ll protect me from the excessive jubilation.” She smiled, but it was not without genuine concern. Of course, by now, Naimah was well aware that Sigrid was not in her comfort zone when she was thrown amidst other people who wanted her to make merry and would not take no for an answer. “During Eyraille’s celebration of Equinox, Vega literally sent guards to escort me to the festival’s final dance, because apparently attendance was mandatory. So you’ll have to excuse me if that trauma left a few scars.”
Of course, it was impossible for news of the Sorde twins’ birth not to reach Galeyn’s new ruler. Both Lilica and Chara had been informed almost as soon as it was obvious the Eyraillian princess was going into labour, and the celebration had been in the works before they’d even been informed. “How can a celebration not ensue?” One of the palace workers explained, when the Galeynian Queen inquired about the sudden bustle of decorating the grand ballroom. “This is Galeyn’s first birth since… since your father’s spell, your Majesty.”
And far be it from Lilica to deny them; frankly, she wasn’t sure the denizens would listen, even if she did. So in the end, it was far less of a headache for both she and Chara to let it unfold as the kingdom saw fit. In the end, perhaps it turned out to be something of a good omen: the Eyraillian princess, despite a high-risk delivery, was fine and recovering, and both children had emerged healthy in every way a parent could ask for.
“I think they are more excited about the birth of two Eyraillian children than they were at the moment this kingdom was reawakened,” she said to the Rigas woman as they perused the ballroom, Lilica’s hand on her arm as if she were afraid either or both of them might get whisked away by the rather uncanny jubilance of the denizens. “I suppose I must be in part to blame. They do love Vega Sorde: she extended a hand to them when they were in need. Showed them the kindness and patience that they needed to be secure. And I…” She blew air from between her lips and shook her head. “I sought to burn down the Night Garden in some despairing rage. I suppose they need someone to invest some faith in…”
Haraldur, who suspected Vega’s half-conscious state, still startled when she broke through his muttered commentary to an unresponsive audience of two and commented on what had moments ago transpired between himself and Sigrid. “Eavesdropping on private affairs, I see,” he scoffed good-naturedly. “This was supposed to be something I told you when you were fully-awake, to give me some time for reflection before I’d have to admit, yet again, that you’re right and I’m wrong. Though I’m sure you’ll never tire of hearing that from me--and I should get used to saying it for the rest of my life.”
As though reacting to the sounds of their awakened mother, the babies flicked open their little eyes in unison, stretching out their knobbly arms and legs and yawning wide. “I’m not really a ‘faith’ person--not the good faith kind. I’ve always believed in vengeful gods, vengeful spirits, demons, an unjust world filled with violence and short, torturous lives, so,” his smile contradicted the weight of his words, “cut me some slack; I’m still learning to see what you see. And I do see what you see, right here.” He lowered his head to the fussing babies, whose synchronized yelps signified the forthcoming wail. “These little blessings are getting hungry. How are you feeling, Vega? I’ll call in the wetnurse to give you a break. It’s more important that you rest, anyway. The sooner you recover, the sooner you’ll be able to feed them entirely on your own--and to reconnect with the eager Galeynians who can’t stand to be parted from you for so long.”
Rising to his feet, he gently rocked the babies, their yelps a hiccup of potential energy that was building and building--in preparation for the explosion of sound and need for their mother’s milk. “I’m a poor representative, Vega--you and I both know that,” His laugh would have projected more humor, if the truth hadn’t affected him so much. “They want to see you. I’m a prince in name, only, but I know nothing about...charming a crowd. They tolerate me now because of my relation to you and our children, but I doubt they’ll quickly forget how my presence in peaceful Galeyn has changed the…” he searched for the correct term, “aesthetic, here. Galeyn is not a martial nation, but Forbanne patrol this place like it’s a warzone ready to happen. And I won’t ease up, either, because I’ll put every shield I can find between the outside world and us, if it’ll protect this family.” The babies squirmed and their mouths opened, ready to unleash their request, their patience worn down to threads. “I’ll go, Vega, don’t get me wrong. I’ll go because they want to know so badly how you’re doing, and I know how much it means to you that you’re there for them. I’d rather be here, with our children, but,” he eyed the two babies, who in unison started to scream, “it’s obvious they need you more.”
Passing Klara over to Vega first, he turned to Daphni and set the inconsolable Kynnet into the crook of her arms. “One at a time, like the wetnurse instructed. You’re not ready for the two of them nipping at you at once. Before I,” he blanched exaggeratingly, “make my grand appearance at the ball, I’ll direct the wetnurse to you. I,” his eyes gazed with longing at Klara and Kynnet, afraid his brief egress counted as abandonment, “I’ll try to return as soon as possible.”
As acting Rigas Head and advisor to Queen Lilica, Chara never shied away from the massive workload that resulted from juggling two high-profile responsibilities. On the contrary, she enjoyed the challenge. It revitalized something in her, to organize and declutter both D’Marian and Galeynian affairs, for success in these endeavors was proof that she never lost her edge. It lay dormant for a while, but it had not vanished. So when the Galeynians had thrown convention out the window to plan a party without consulting the proper channels, namely, Queen Lilica and her advisors, Chara was miffed by the boldness of their insolence. She, who was largely absent from the heart of Galeyn to oversee the construction at the D’Marian village, was informed about the goings-on at the palace by one of Lilica’s envoys, and her initial reaction was outrage. What impudence! While the Galeynians were not her people, they should have known better than to host a party without consulting her expertise in its planning. Surely, they would make a shameful display out of their well-intentioned but inherently flawed celebration if she was not there to oversee the process. And so, excusing herself from her Rigas duties early, she rode her carriage to the heart of Galeyn and immediately took charge over the impromptu revelry before it collapsed into some chaos-driven eyesore too embarrassing for the likes of Eyraillian royalty.
“We are hosting a party to honor the new arrivals of a prince and a princess,” she reprimanded the servants and attendants under her faultless direction. “Please, show some class. Gossip will no doubt spread all the way to the mountain-top kingdom and I promise you, the king will not be pleased by your slovenly presentation when he hears of Galeyn and its underwhelming show of hospitality.”
Within the hour, the gathering at the ballroom started to resemble something approaching acceptable, enough to mollify Chara and step away from the mantle of leadership to enjoy a temporary reprieve with Lilica. For the occasion, she wore a gown the color of an oak-leaf in autumn; a crisp, mottled vermillion with a splash of fire-red. To offset the ensemble, she sported the teardrop-shaped pendant on a chain, which the Galeynian Queen gifted her during Alster’s celebration.
“Yes, this seems to be the case.” Chara scrutinized the ballroom and its jubilant denizens, her judgmental eye for detail never waning, even in midst of Lilica’s company. Should the party fall out of favor with her for any reason, she would not hesitate to reestablish order. “I for one can understand their unleashed obsession with this happy news. For many, babies symbolize hope, a future, the proliferation of the human species. Galeyn, which has been stagnant in their growth and development for one hundred years, has, at least, witnessed something changing before their eyes. Certainly, the citizenry here have experienced change since the kingdom’s awakening, but it’s been a change so far beyond their control and scope that their response has been mixed with caution. Today is the first day that change has not happened to them, but alongside them. It is good, pleasant news that has nothing to do with an unknown future, what with the threat of a sorceress, Forbanne soldiers crowding the palace hallways, and D’Marian refugees constantly interrupting their way of life. Today is when they can reclaim their pride as a community, and remember their core values of healing and fostering new life. That is not to say you do not matter, Lilica, because it is not about their preference for Vega Sorde over their monarch.” She took her hand and shifted her positioning until they were standing face to face, and looked her straight into her onyx eyes.
“Yes, they fancy her because she is kind and helpful, but they also fancy her because she was pregnant. You cannot compete with an expecting woman who waltzes into a kingdom which has not seen birth in over a century. I daresay the narrative would play out similarly were it someone else giving birth, instead. Also, we cannot forget; simple people have a fascination for royal babies. If you want to give birth and alter their lukewarm opinion of you, then by all means, find a surrogate. ...That was a joke. See? I’m laughing.” To demonstrate, she threw her head back and trilled a few halfhearted, high-pitched notes into the air. “Well, whatever you end up doing, we should follow the Galeyn model--D’Marians, that is. There has been a halt in procreation for everyone. We’ve lost too many Rigases...the time is nigh to start proliferating our population before our legacy dies completely. But I suspect that won’t happen at all until we reclaim the homeland. Galeyn is a wonderful place to give birth, but it’s not Stella D’Mare, and people are hesitant to make a permanent life here, regardless of its peaceful environment. Because,” she held back a sigh, “we’ve all learned by now that peace does not last.”
Fortunately for her, a wrinkle in the otherwise unmarred surface of the kingdom’s celebration caught her attention, but she did not mind at all; it was a welcome distraction to fixate on after spilling some of her darkest thoughts aloud to Lilica during a rare moment of levity. Near the entrance of the ballroom, the crowd had congealed together like a blood clot, their whoops and hollers overtaking the functional level of noise to a volume she did not condone. “I can only assume that Haraldur Sorde has arrived to rile up the crowd,” she shouted into Lilica’s ear over the din. “If you will excuse me, I must assist in wrangling this rowdy mob.” With a quick squeezing of the Galeynian monarch’s shoulder, Chara was striding towards the jovial fracas, insinuating herself between the people and Haraldur in case they smothered the poor man to death in their unmoderated elation.
Naimah shouldn’t have worried that Sigrid would travel far; in moments, the Dawn Warrior had returned, as receptive to her nearness than ever before. She broke out into a huge smile and returned her arms around the blonde woman’s waist. “I cannot even be cross with you for giving me preferential treatment over the others when it benefits me, so. Nonetheless, I’m so happy to hear that you are reconciling with your cousin. You needn’t fear guardianship; if they ever ask you to watch over their children, I will gladly help. I’ve had no end in practice from when I needed to assist my parents in raising my little brother.” The wrinkles around her smile faded just a tad. “I do not think your cousin will be so cruel as to saddle you with the care of newborn children, though. Unless it is his wife’s idea--if she sent guards after you because you refused to partake in a celebration, then it is not above her capability to force you to babysit their children. Though, you have me intrigued; I must know this story in full, Sigrid. But that will have to wait--because there is an incoming threat to your enjoyability, and as your ‘jubilation protector,’ it is my sworn duty to shield you from this disturbance.”
“Aw, am I that much of a threat to someone’s good time?” The ‘disturbance’ grinned his row of sharp canines before dousing the goblet of wine gripped in his hand. “Thought I’d come in and say ‘hi,’ but that would be too excessive for Siggy here to manage. Let’s forget the fact that I introduced the two of you in the first place; I’m obviously the bad guy.”
“Hello, Hadwin,” Naimah said, polite and proper. “Your hearing is impeccable, as always. Where are your people? It’s only at my camp that I see you prowling alone, looking for whores--unless you somehow believe you can buy me into your bedchambers, tonight?”
“What, you?” The faoladh guffawed, amusement alight in his golden eyes. “Siggy would murder me. ‘Sides, I like to think I’ve got some integrity than to go after the girl who’s got my favorite Dawn Warrior so constipated with love for you. And I ain’t exaggerating; it stinks of it in here. Anyway,” he tilted his head to the crowd, “my ‘people,’ as you say, are in this soup somewhere. But you couldn’t blame me for breaking off and searching for some prospects. And it’s serious out there; so many women have got babies on the brain, it ain’t fair; a simple ‘how are you?’ and they’re tearing their clothes off.”
“So I’m wondering, then; why are you not making the most of this bounty, Hadwin? Is it not challenging enough for your standards?”
“Fuck, they’re talking marriage.” He swept his russet hair into a messy coiffure. “They want a father in the picture and they’re all attracted to taming the unattainable piece of ass because it satisfies their greatest fantasies--so they’re baiting me with their ‘fuck me’ eyes and when I get near, they bind me to a contract of courtship. So yeah, thanks but no thanks. I ain’t in the mood to break hearts today.”
“A mature decision. I have to say, I am impressed by your restraint.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t shit where you eat, so--”
“--I take it you’re using us as a shield to protect you from the roving band of women?”
“Now, whatever gave you that idea?” His grin became an ingratiating one. “Catching up with old friends, is all.”
“Old friends who happen to be romantically involved with each other, a fact that every Galeyn in the crowd knows and a fact that you can exploit, because those women won’t be shooting glares of jealousy at us for commandeering your attention.” She raised an eyebrow at Sigrid. “What is your opinion, Sigrid? Should we help our ‘old friend’ out of his self-inflicted situation?”
Before the Dawn Warrior could answer, a collective cheer rose up among the party-goers when Haraldur Sorde appeared at the doorway, a shy squiggle of a smile on his face and his hand poised to deliver awkward waves of greeting. “Aw, ain’t that precious. Tree-man’s trying to act human again,” Hadwin effused with a nod of approval. “Still giving him the silent treatment for hiding your toy of self-destruction? No,” his eyes squinted with recognition at whatever he saw swimming in the warrior’s blue eyes, “that doesn’t seem to be the case, anymore. And if you’ve found it in your heart to allow him a pass, gotta say I couldn’t let it go if you didn’t extend some of that forgiveness to Teselin, you know.” Though the threat was in his words, his delivery was nothing but amicable as he clapped the Dawn Warrior on the back. “You were a real asshole to her and yet, she still wanted to help you out of your hellhole fate. But that’s neither here nor there, right? Here comes your cousin to the rescue.”
Somehow, Haraldur managed to excuse himself from the adoring crowd once he noticed Sigrid and Naimah captured by the jaws of the wolf. With promises to return (and it seemed inevitable, for Chara was organizing the revelers into a queue and setting up a meet and greet), he sidestepped out of the way and stayed to the walls, which inevitably led him to the trio.
“Congratulations, daddy,” Hadwin was the first one to welcome the Eyraillian prince’s arrival. “Can I call you daddy?” He winked.
Haraldur’s brow knit into an amalgam of annoyance and disgust. “No. Never say that to me again.” He turned to both Sigrid and Naimah, and his brow smoothed. “I didn’t think I’d see you in a ballroom of all places, Sigrid. Naimah--is this your doing?”
Naimah dipped into a curtsy. “Of course it is, your Highness. Congratulations on your healthy boy and girl. Sigrid told me she is to be the guardian of little Klara.”
“Yes--and we could not be more grateful. Sigrid,” he placed his hand to his chest and bowed, “Vega says ‘thank you.’ She wanted to be at this party and tell you this in person, I’m sure, but I’m her inferior stand-in for tonight. But,” he visibly brightened, “I do have a great deal of power among these revelers right now, and if you want me to oust the mongrel, here--I can make that wish of yours a reality.”
“It is hardly eavesdropping if we are both trapped within the same small space, with no choice but to hear every whisper and murmur.” The Eyraillian princess frowned, yet there was nothing unhappy about her expression; in spite of her exhaustion, and the trace of pain on her pale features, she appeared to glow with just as much happiness as her husband. “Anyway, I haven’t really been able to sleep. I think I’ve reached the point of exhaustion where I’m too tired to even fall asleep, but… I’m glad my ears were able to bear witness to what I just heard. It is so important that you reconcile with your family, Haraldur. And I knew that Sigrid could not stay angry with you forever.”
Vega’s smile weakened at the sound of the two infants rousing from their own slumber, and she pressed a defeated sigh from her lungs. “Really? Didn’t these two just feed but a few hours ago?”
“Newborns are required to feed every few hours. It is important not only for their health, but also for bonding with their mother.” Daphni reminded her with a lopsided smile. “With all due respect, your Highness, this is something you should get used to, and fast. Just a moment,” she moved toward the door. “You can relax, Haraldur. Stay with your wife. I will retrieve the wetnurse.”
“To hell with the wetnurse.” The Skyknight huffed and furrowed her brow, arms already outstretched to receive one or more of the fussy newborns. “I said I can feed my babies on my own. I’m awake and alert, and I have two breasts for a reason.” She carefully accepted wailing Klara into the crooks of her elbows. The tiny infant flailed her little arms, as if she intended to compete with her twin brother over who could put up the biggest fuss. With some careful manipulation, she managed to lower her new daughter to her breast. The princess was fortunate in that neither of the babies appeared to have any difficulty with their latch, and the small royal baby contented almost immediately as soon as her hungry mouth found the nipple.
Daphni gently rocked Kynnet to calm his own, hungry little rage, but shook her head at Vega’s stubborn insistence. “Human bodies are accustomed to bearing and feeding one child at a time, typically. And you’ve only just given birth; it will be a little while before your body is able to make enough milk for two. If you want to start producing enough milk for the both of them, you’ll need to start eating quite a bit, and soon. It may not feel as such, but your body is going to require a surplus of energy for nursing your children. So for everyone’s sanity, including your own,” the Sybaian healer sighed and held the infant prince close to her own body. But it wasn’t the same, wasn’t his mother, and Kynnet knew as much; his wailing didn’t cease, but rather, intensified at the gall of this imposter impersonating his mother! “Please allow the wetnurse to help. You are going to find you’ll need it, and trust me, you will be of no shortage of help in this kingdom.”
Vega sighed, looking from her content, feeding daughter to her slighted son. As a Sorde, pride was, of course, one of her many vices; and, as a Sorde, she should have realized that pride would only carry her so far. But beyond pride, what propelled the new mother’s sudden insistence that she alone meet the needs of her new children was knowledge of what they had been through; how their lives had been threatened by the death energies she had been harbouring, however unknowingly. How she had put them at risk traveling from Eyraille to Galeyn, by roc. How she’d dreamed for months about complications in delivery, but spoke to no one of those concerns… In Vega’s eyes, she had an awful lot to make up for.
As if sensing the princess’s concern (and in all likelihood, she very well did sense it), Daphni added, “Asking for or accepting help will not make you any less of a mother, Vega. Women enlist this sort of help all the time following the birth of their children. Haraldur is right: you will be the best you can be for them only if you are well and rested--not to mention, the sooner you are recovered, the sooner you can show yourself to Galeyn, who is more than eager to see you up and well.”
“All right… all right, I understand. You’re both right.” The Skyknight commander muttered quietly. “Go and get the wetnurse, do whatever you see fit. But Haraldur: I expect you to have enough fun for the both of us.” There was no room for argument in the chilly fires of Vega’s gaze. “Go, and carry your head high, like the proud Eyraillian father that you are. They don’t care about your standing or your relation to the Forbanne right now. They do care that you have stepped up and taken the mantle of fatherhood. So own it; boast our fortune, let the Galeynians indulge in our success, and then you can come back to your children. Trust me, neither myself nor they will be going anywhere, anytime soon.”
“I suppose that’s true. I wasn’t exactly the sort of change this kingdom was hoping for,” Lilica agreed with a quiet sigh. “But these babies--ones whose birth was facilitated by the Night Garden, at that… this is the sort of miracle that Galeyn needed to see to reestablish their faith, I think. After threat of an ancient sorceress, and what was almost a provoked suicide by the babies’ father, at that… honestly, I feel that nothing less than a pair of royal twins could have boosted morale to this extent.”
In all honesty, with everything else that had taken place since Galeyn’s awakening, the new Queen had not given too much thought to the Eyraillian princess and her babies before they’d been born. Vega had rather inserted herself into her life, insisting that she could facilitate the D’Marians’ transition to their new home, however temporary it might be, and frankly, Lilica couldn’t see a reason to deny her. So such had been the extent of their professional relationship; although, she had to admit, the fact that the Skyknight had also brought along the capable Sybaian and Clematis healers, during a time when the Night Garden was not yet functioning to its fullest potential, had been quite a boon. But Chara… well, she had evidently given far more thought to what the birth of children meant to Galeynians. “See, Chara? This is exactly why I need you around. You have enough experience with the masses to understand their thought patterns, and I daresay you’re right.” Lilica’s mouth quirked in a lopsided grin. “I can’t contend with a pregnant woman. She happened to have a hand of just all the right cards to win these people over. Though, if I am being honest… Even if I decided to heed your advice and find some willing ‘donor’ so as to get pregnant, I am not sure it would be very fruitful.”
The Galeynian Queen lowered her voice, and one of her hands drifted to her abdomen, to rest upon the bright copper and gold material of her own gown. It was only through Chara’s insistence that she try to ‘fit in’ and embody autumn like the rest of her kingdom that she had bothered to don anything other than a plain tunic. “It is no secret that my magic… the way it had developed in me, kept me sick for a long time. Malnourished, underweight, and everything associated. The Night Garden managed to reverse it such that I was able to put on weight, and I no longer feel so inexplicably cold all the time. But it is only within the past few months that I’ve so much as experienced a lunar cycle, and even then it is not… every month. They are infrequent. So if Galeyn is now truly holding its breath for the birth of a Galeynian royal baby… then I am afraid I may only disappoint them all the more.” Even if she had been joking--and Lilica knew Chara well enough to know she really wasn’t one to bask in a sense of humour--this revelation (or, more like a confession) had dampened the otherwise jovial mood, and Lilica wanted to bring it back to something hopeful.
“But--you might be onto something. Perhaps this will inspire the D’Marians to move forward with their lives and to bring new life into this world. I have come to accept that there is never going to be an ‘ideal time’ for anything, and sometimes, you just have to go forward with your aspirations. No, peace does not last, and danger will always exist--but we cannot cease to live and develop for fear of war and strife.” Lilica reached toward Chara’s neck to adjust the teardrop pendant, moving the delicate clasp to the back. “...when you were still engaged to Alster, was that… something you had thought about? Children?”
For the first time in a long time, the Galeynian Queen felt insecure. She’d have given Chara anything she asked for or desired, so long as it was feasibly within her reach… which, obviously, a child was not. But she did not have time to dwell on that insecurity, before the volume of the room crescendoed at the arrival of none other than the father of the newborn babies. Chara shouted something about organizing the mass excitement of speaking with the father, and excused herself, leaving Lilica to wonder at just what the birth of these Eyraillian children had triggered in the Rigas woman.
“Does it really come as such a surprise that I’d shirk my duties for your benefit?” Sigrid laughed, pulling the Kariji woman close. It always felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, when Naimah forgave her for whatever infractions seemed to set her off. “To be honest, I do not know what Haraldur expects of me, and I doubt that he knows, either. His daughter was named after his late sister, whom I befriended as a young child… there is more symbolic meaning to this guardianship than practical, I imagine. But if he does come around to ask me to mind his child at some point… you can bet I will be taking you up on your offer. I’ve never so much as held a baby, Naimah. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do with it! And isn’t it true that they will just cry for any reason--including the sake of crying? How are you truly to know if something is wrong? Though now that you mention it, if it is Vega’s idea...”
The Dawn Warrior pressed her lips into a thin line. “Then in that case, I will know it is deliberate punishment, and that I have done something to displease her. Have I not relayed that story of the Equinox festival and my cousin’s wedding night already?”
Before she could go on, a familiar voice tore her eyes away from the beautiful dark-haired woman at an all-too-familiar voice, and one that she had not heard in some time; not since he’d threatened her after upsetting Teselin. And the worst part was, Hadwin was right: she really couldn’t despite him, or even dislike him, because were it not for his… unconventional support, she’d never have met the woman who had captured her heart.
“Oh, I don’t think he’s stupid enough to try and buy your time away from me.” Sigrid stated with a half grin, which Hadwin was quick to validate. “Though if you’re not enamored of the scent of love, faoladh, then I can only suggest you avoid this celebration like it is the plague. There is nothing but love and hope in this room, right now. I daresay you’ll find just as many of those women looking to ‘fix’ you, court you, and fuck you within this crowd as you will outside. Where is your cherished acrobat? The one clad in gold; not the angry one.” She squinted, as if trying to pick out Briery in the crowd. “Here’s some advice to avoid the hopeful romantics--I’ve seen women employ this tactic at taverns to avoid unwanted male attention. Go find the acrobat and a pair of cheap rings. No one will approach you if they think you’re taken.”
But as Naimah said, he was using the two of them as a shield, as few to none of the Galeynians would have the courage to interrupt the tall (and sometimes intimidating) Dawn Warrior’s affairs, even if it was obvious that neither she nor Naimah was romantically involved with the wolf man. “Well, like he said… he is the one that brought us both together. It would be rude of us not to return the favour and shield him from the desires of some desperate women. Although, Kavanagh, if you are bothered by how much it ‘stinks’ of love around us… you should know, I am shirking my duties to be with the woman I love right now, and I will make it positively reek.” As if to make a point, Sigrid smirked and cupped the Kariji woman’s face, drawing her into a deep and shameless kiss which, just months ago, she never would have dared to put on public display.
The kiss was cut far shorter than she would have liked by the sudden cheer that undulated through the crowd, drawing everyone’s attention to the ballroom’s entrance. So Haraldur had decided to show up to his own party, after all… “How much money do you have?” She asked her two companions with a small grin. “Because I am willing to bet every piece of silver I’m carrying that he is here because Vega told him to be--and wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” She said, though the vestiges of her smile faded around the edges a tad when the faoladh mentioned Teselin. “Listen. I’ve already doled out forgiveness that I haven’t really come to terms with tonight; I’m out of that kind of emotional stamina.” Sigrid sighed, and scratched the back of her neck. “I don’t hold anything against the girl. Frankly, she doesn’t need my forgiveness, and if she feels she does need it to be validated, then I’d say that is up to you, her surrogate brother, to convince her otherwise. But if it makes her--and you--feel better… go ahead and tell her I don’t harbour a grudge. Not one that matters, anyway.”
Sure enough, Haraldur didn’t take long to find them amidst the other revelers, and however awkward it might have felt to be in his presence so soon after their last conversation, she was grateful to be saved from Hadwin’s nagging. “You should know well enough that she is the one person I cannot find it in me to refuse,” Sigrid replied, confirming what Haraldur suspected; that she was here because of Naimah. “Even if it means shirking my duties. Although… it is good to know that I am not the only one who is wholly unable to deny their significant other. Perhaps it runs in the family.” Her grin returned, and she gently elbowed Naimah. “What did I tell you? Vega won’t take no for an answer. As for the mongrel…”
She couldn’t think quickly enough of a clever comeback, before they were joined by a fifth body, one that moved with the grace only a dancer could possess. “Your Highness--congratulations on the birth of your children. This is truly a reason for celebration. My friend here isn’t bothering you, is he?” Briery Frealy, clad in sparkling bronze that brought out the shiny undertones of her wavy hair, made her graceful appearance and placed her hands on Hadwin’s shoulders. “I’ve been looking for you all evening--how popular you’ve become, do you know? I’ve already had six women come and ask me about your romantic availability, Hadwin. I told them I could not speak for you, and they would have to ask you themselves, but alas, you have been avoiding them. Whatever has gotten into you? I thought you loved chasing tail, but when the tail comes right to you, you run away.”
“Seriously; get some fake rings.” Sigrid snorted with an amused smirk. “Or shut yourself away until everyone gets mating out of their head.”
“Not enamored of love? Pah!” Hadwin wiped the back of his mouth as if to remove something sour off his tongue. “It ain’t for me, because anyone who’s touched by love’s got shit luck, and a gambler’s gotta keep that luck in check, thank you very much. But I’ve got no problems being in the room when it blossoms like a bunch of weeds and spores up the place. I know my way around the idea; how else would I have done such a bang-up job with my matchmaking? So go on ahead and get all kissy-kissy with each other. Love’s itchy on my nose but you gotta respect the people who’ve learned to figure that shit out. As for Brie’s whereabouts,” he cast a lazy once-over around the room, “she ran off to the caravan to get some supplies cuz she was thinking about putting on a performance tonight. Something about honoring Eyraille’s royal runts by using the set the Links used during the Equinox festival. Says it’s poetic to perform for the birth of the kiddos since they performed on the day before their parents’ wedding and all. A full-circle harmonic confluence. I don’t know; Brie used a lot of fortune-teller jargon to explain the symbology behind it. All I know is it’ll bring a bout of good luck to the family, and oh fuck do they need whatever the hell they can get. I’m on stand-by.” He unfolded the collar of his brown jerkin, a color he appropriately named, ‘dead leaves in a gutter,’ as an explanation for his decidedly ‘unfestive’ appearance, and revealed a splash of vermillion and red fabric, which crackled like a bonfire on a crisp autumn night. “Not sure I want to stand out tonight, but next I see the boss, I’m gonna ask about adding a disappearing act with yours truly at the front and center. Go up in smoke and flames, make it all dramatic, like I died.”
Naimah schooled her face to prevent her amusement from twisting it into an unflattering portrait of grotesqueness; she never fancied her reactions to humorous situations, as it removed the illusion of elegance that she always maintained, whether on or off duty. To peel the unmarred surface of her countenance would unveil an open pucker and oversized teeth, a blemish of crooked brown that to her looked even more crooked and brown before Hadwin’s flaunt of immaculate white teeth. “So,” she smoothed away the twitch and struggle of her lips, “if I am hearing you correctly, you would rather ‘die’ to avoid unwanted female attention than to pretend you belong to another woman?”
The faoladh shrugged as though it made all the sense in the world. “Gotta keep my options open.”
She raised an eyebrow. “By dying?”
Setting aside his empty goblet, he stretched out his arms and rested them behind his head. “Yup, because we all know when you die on stage, you die for real, Naimah,” he chuckled, with the roll of his eyes. “I put a ring on my finger and I’ll never see action in Galeyn again--aside from your bountiful camp, of course, and some rather virile Forbanne men who’ve had their second puberty and found their sexual awakening. I figure if I ‘escape,’ there’s always a chance to take some of those women up on their offer, granted the marriage craze dies down in their stricken, doe-eyes.”
“...You’re secretly enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Oh, there’s no secret. I’m always enjoying myself.”
Hadwin Kavanagh was far from the only person enjoying himself in the ballroom. When the Eyraillian prince entered the scene, the adoring crowd flocked to the man, honking, clucking, and oinking like starving farm animals about to be delivered their feed. Naimah, loathe to end her sensual kiss with Sigrid despite the loud presence of their audience of one, the self-satisfied gleam of his grin penetrating her closed eyes, the threat of the crowd dislodging them from their safe corner had forced them to separate. The music in the ballroom had ceased, as well as any and all other operations. Most of Galeyn’s residents were now taking residence around the entranceway and the corridors beyond, flanking, following, and bookending Haraldur Sorde as he tried--and failed--to act natural.
“Hah. No one’s gonna agree to a bet they know they’re gonna lose,” Hadwin, ever sensitive to the potential for the clattering of extra coin in his pocket, gave Sigrid a mock look of disapproval. “Now, if you’re serious about betting on your cousin for some real stakes, talk to me, and we’ll arrange something.”
“Don’t you dare challenge him,” Naimah’s brisk headshake dislodged a few curls from her elaborate updo. “He cheats. Half of my camp is in debt because of him.”
“For the last time--it’s not cheating if I know shit about people. And oh, could I charge a premium to some gossipy Galeynians on Harry, knowing what I know. But I’ll cut the man some slack tonight. Besides--” he tilted his head at the Dawn Warrior, patently unimpressed by her methods of dealing with her affairs, which was to say, not dealing with them at all. “I’m more invested in speculating exactly how much of your body comprises of inanimate material, for your cluelessness in all things human leads me to wonder about you, sometimes. Is it a Sorenson trait? A Northern trait? A Siggy and Harry trait? And here I was, blaming his stunted ways on his Forbanne training, when it was inherited all along. Different sources, I expect; you don’t smell...earthy, like him. All digressions aside, what I’m saying is--that’s a shit apology, and you know it. And you don’t have to tell me you’ve exhausted your ‘emotional stamina,’ whatever the hell that means. It’s all an excuse to protect your ego. You can beat around the bush about it but it’s all fear-related in the end. So--fear or no fear--I’m gonna hold you to it to tell her in person. Because really, Siggy? If you believe one has to ask for an apology when it should be given out freely, then you’re already failing hard. Never thought I’d have to be the one to teach basic etiquette, but here we are.”
“Okay,” Naimah pressed her hand against the faoladh’s chest and forced him back a step, away from his proximity to the already overwhelmed Dawn Warrior, “that’s enough out of you. You’re an asylum seeker, here. The price for our protection is equanimous conversation. Are you able to manage curbing your insult-flinging for a single evening, or is that beyond your ability, Kavanagh?”
The wolf-man, though unruffled and undeterred, conceded with a smile that elicited calm and civility, a manufactured construction that lacked sincerity, but demonstrated a willingness to cooperate. “Not at all, tuar ceatha,” he said, referencing the Kariji woman’s colorful dress, which went beyond the autumnal colors of red, orange, brown, and yellow. “This concludes my overprotective brother rant. My apologies, Sigrid.” He dipped his head, but every ‘apologetic’ gesture seemed to scream, ‘See? This is how it’s done. Watch and learn.’ “And no worries, you two, because here comes Siggy’s own ‘big bro’ to beat me into the dirt like the worm of a person I am.”
Haraldur Sorde, having escaped (for now) the swarm that so eagerly wanted to congratulate, inquire, and sprinkle him and his wife with nothing but praises and gifts and tear-stained gratitudes, made a beeline for his cousin while he was afforded the chance to act on his own. Chara had given him the go-ahead to seek his brief reprieve whilst she barked her orders for everyone to arrange themselves in a neat, professional, single-file line. One at a time. Thirty-seconds per person. Already, the prospect of meeting practically every Galeynian in the kingdom was a daunting undertaking. Exhaustion, mixed with blood-loss, muddied his willingness to embody the Eyraillian pride Vega so wanted him to represent in her absence. Nonetheless, he hadn’t any choice in the matter, and when choices were limited, he’d learned to pull from his final reserves, a place deep in his gut; his second wind. Though used only when in the thick of a heated battle, he was amidst a battlefield of sorts; a battlefield of societal pressure. Therefore, it was important for him to seek out the familiar--for grounding purposes. He was not running away, he assured himself. He was hunkering down...and preparing for the endurance test, proverbial sword in hand.
“No, you’re right, Sigrid,” he scratched the back of his ear, smiling sheepishly, “I would never hear the end of it if I didn’t come. Frankly, it’s giving me Equinox festival flashbacks--I wanted to sit that one out, too. I had to navigate it without alcohol, either. While I’d like a draught, if I so much as take a sip now, I’m going to collapse, drunk and out of commission. Not a good look for a new father. Or a prince. Or a Forbanne commander. Damn,” he transferred his roving hand to his forehead. “How did I gain so many titles in such a short amount of time?”
He was glad for the diversion from his ongoing list of duties and responsibilities--not only as they focused on an adequate punishment for the belligerent, no-filter faoladh, but he also welcomed a new but familiar face, who joined the group in the corner. “Briery--is it? Yes, I remember you from the Equinox Festival. I heard you’ve been keeping morale high for the Forbanne and D’Marians ever since Braighdath. Thank you. You can call me Haraldur. ‘Highness’ is a little presumptuous around here, and I have no blood-relations to the monarchy. As for your friend--” a magnanimous smile appeared on his lips, “he is bothersome but welcome to stay--granted he behaves. See it as my penance for attempting to kill you, Hadwin.”
“Nah--not necessary; my dear sister already got her digs in, so we’re even. I’ll make my swift exodus. Same as you, Harry, I gotta face my adoring crowd.” Taking Briery by the shoulders, Hadwin excused himself, leaving the trio to recover from the forcefulness of his company. “Huh, it’s six women, now? Haven’t I made a name for myself in this backwoods country?” In their exeunt from the densely-occupied corner of the ballroom, they found a great deal of space as people had abandoned their previous activities to greet a figure that had transcended into mythological status. “Lucky for us they’ll be occupied in the line-up to see their god among men. But don’t get me wrong here, Brie. I like it when they chase me, too, but this ain’t your typical chase borne out of pure lust. I can’t give any of these women what they want, so in the end, there won’t be a satisfied customer among us. They’re projecting their desires, and it’s cute, but they want a prince, not a wolf--and I’m never gonna be someone to love. The contract only works if both parties understand we’re in it for the fucking and nothing else.” As they passed a serving table, his hand reached for another goblet of wine. “It’ll play into their fantasies all the more if I wear a fake wedding ring, cuz it’ll confirm their ‘suspicions’ that I was tamable all along. You wanna help me break some hearts for the good of some impressionable women? Well, I’ve got a finale act for you.” He leaned so close to the ringleader, their lips were almost touching. “Make me disappear, and I’ll reappear in your bed, if you want me, tonight. Because fuck, I sure as hell want you--more than an orgy with six other women.”
Meanwhile, Haraldur’s self-entitled “queue manager” stomped into his casual conversation with Naimah and Sigrid, hands firmly squared on her hips. “I have given you ample time for your reunion, Haraldur Sorde, but the Galeynians are restless and I cannot control their whims any more than I can control the weather. Please do hurry it along, lest they become jealous that you are playing favorites. If they end up favoring their mob mentality and rush you in a stampede, heavens help me, I will not even attempt to quell the herd. It will be too late for everyone.”
“Well, in that case,” Haraldur retreated from Sigrid and Naimah, but before he withdrew in full, he added, “please visit us at the sanctuary tomorrow. The two of you. I’ll make sure Vega is awake and ready for the company. We’ll discuss your guardianship duties then, Sigrid.” Transferring his company to the ever-impatient Chara Rigas, Haraldur, after taking in a deep, calming breath, stretched a “princely” smile on his face, and stood where he was instructed to stand. “Let’s do this,” he murmured from under his breath. “I’ll show you, Vega--that I can be as Eyraillian as they come.”
One by one, he addressed the Galeynians on the queue, shaking hands, accepting their congratulations and thanking each person for their support and for providing Vega a safe and loving environment while away from home. He answered their questions pertaining to the princess and her health, when she was expected to recover--and, of course, he spoke of the twins. To protect their privacy, he mentioned only their names and their condition. Healthy, like their mother. Stable weight, stable heart-rate, and fussy, in that helpless, perpetually cranky way all newborns shared.
Chara, satisfied by the Galeynians following her order for structure, stopped policing the line with the vigilance of a watchdog and stepped off to rejoin Lilica, who kept a passive eye on her citizens from the sides. “Now this is more adequate,” she remarked, still directing the queue with hand gestures whenever a Galeynian would stall the line by occupying too much time with the prince. “What we were discussing, before? Oh, right.” Her current multi-tasking project gave her the perfect excuse to play up her scattered mind and thought process, one without room to display any emotional implications over Lilica’s unfortunate news. “Yes, I suppose I’ve thought about bearing children with Alster as the sire. As it stands, he is a highly desirable candidate among our family, and I was a solid choice, as we both share a direct line of descendance to Rigel Rigas. We never discussed the prospect of children, however. We were too swept up in war and politics and the family largely branded him as a traitor up until recently. I daresay the Rigases will start pressing for procreation in earnest if Galeyn’s good fortunes inspire them to repopulate; which means Alster and I will be prime targets. Him moreso than me; though I cannot say they will be pleased with the prospect of a half-breed child from Elespeth. Perhaps Eyraille’s royal birth will encourage them to let loose their traditional values. Or, at the very least, resign them to accept half-breeds as an unfortunate inevitability of our diminished population. As for me,” she faltered in her gesticulations, “well, I cannot rightly provide the Rigas family with a child if I have no sire. But,” she cast a hurried side-glance at the Galeynian Queen, “if the Night Garden could remove the poison from your magic, do you think it possible it could heal your womb? It is not the end for you, Lilica, should you choose to conceive. Except,” she pursed her lips, “those pesky sires are a problem. No matter how we look at it, we would have to lay with a man.”
“To be honest, I never thought I would see the day the wolf would rather ‘die’ than give into the desires of women.” Sigrid whistled, folding her arms in astonishment. “You’re really so afraid of being baited into commitment, Hadwin?” But all jokes aside… much though she was loathe to admit it, the faoladh was right about one thing: that being that she still had one person who deserved an apology for her cold behaviour. The Dawn Warrior had not laid eyes on the young summoner since the morning she’d noticed Gaolithe’s absence. In part, this was due to the fact that she had effectively been shutting herself away from the rest of the world, with the exception of Naimah’s company, but so too had the young summoner avoided the begrudging Dawn Warrior. Had she bothered to seek Sigrid out, she certainly would have received the reassurance that she evidently so desired that no bad blood existed between them… Except, as Hadwin had so eloquently put it, people should not be required to seek out or ask for an apology. But what made it difficult was the fact that Sigrid wasn’t even sure she was ready to apologize.
“Look. I am not going to pretend that I am content with the girl’s involvement in confiscating my sword. Frankly, I am not content with anyone’s involvement, if for no other reason than because it could have ended very poorly.” She went on, dropping her arms to her side. “I don’t trust easily, and I don’t forgive easily, with… few exceptions.” Namely, that exception being solely Naimah, it seemed. “If she needs an apology so desperately, then give me a day or so. I’m bad at wording… hell, I am just plain bad with words. So despite your your own rubbish take on my inadequacy, yes, you’re right: I am not well versed in people. Go ahead an analyze that however you like, but I’m not going to deny it, which I suspect takes most of the fun out of it for you. But if it means that damn much to you, and to her, then fine. My ‘ego’ has nothing to do with it, though, and neither does your threatening undertone.” The Dawn Warrior raised an eyebrow. “To be honest, I’ve had a long time to give this… event a lot of thought. And it was never your little summoner’s idea, in the first place; nor was it Naimah’s. And I suspect it might not even have been Haraldur’s plan, though if Vega was the mastermind, then I am also aware he will never admit it. Especially not now, that she has twins on her hands. I wasn’t aware the summoner was so disheartened over it all, but if it will make her feel better--and get you off my back--consider it done. I’ll even hand-write the apology and have it delivered on a silver platter. But I mean what I said.”
Standing taller than the faoladh, Sigrid had no problem brandishing her height advantage, and prodded Hadwin hard in the chest. “This need to be validated by everyone around her… Wanting to be a helping hand because it is the only way she can reconcile herself and her magic--if you’re going to be her brother, wolf, then that is on you to work it out of her. No more sheltering her feelings giving in to her altruistic whims. Because I may not know a lot, especially not about fostering relationships, but one thing I do know well is survival. And she is not equipped for survival, as it stands; so if you are going to fight for her, then do both of you a favour and teach her to fight for herself. Because no one else is eligible, especially since her own brother is away with Alster Rigas for an indeterminate amount of time.”
She was not angry, nor did the intimidating Dawn Warrior display any minute signs of hostility toward the faoladh, but Naimah still saw fit to step in and to remind the wolf of his place among them--one of seeking refuge from the onslaught of women who suddenly craved babies of their own, it seemed. “For one who boasts about exposing and criticizing everyone else’s fears, you certainly run pretty damned quickly from anything akin to commitment, Hadwin.” Sigrid couldn’t help but add, raising a pale eyebrow. “And don’t use your acrobatic lover as an excuse; I know just as well as any that you only adhere yourself to her and her troupe because you know she wouldn’t try to stop you if you decided to up and abandon them at any time. So, here is some friendly unsolicited advice.” Those arms, with muscles more defined than what you would typically find on a woman, folded once again. “Deal with your own demons before you go picking on anyone else for theirs. Otherwise--alright. Apology accepted. Tell me where I can find your pretend sister, and I’ll deliver my own apologies before the night is through.”
Haraldur’s arrival was something of a saving grace, before the atmosphere had time to simmer. Especially now that the fire burning the bridge between the two cousins had finally be doused. “You didn’t want to attend the Equinox Festival? I would’ve loved to sit out, but your loving wife saw fit to drag me into it like a criminal who was running away from their prosecution.” Sigrid snorted, not really feeling all that bad that the Forbanne Commander had become the center of attention of the grand room that sported everyone within walking and riding distance who could fit comfortably--and even that was a stretch, with wall-to-wall bodies. It was autumn, and the temperature was just beginning to wane from the humidity of summer, introducing a crispness to the air, and yet Sigrid could feel herself sweating from the cumulative body heat radiating from everyone’s skin. “Though, if I am being honest, motherhood very well may cool the dreaded Vega Sorde’s heels a little; pregnancy certainly did. Well, to an extent.”
Perhaps even more of a tension breaker was Briery, however, whose very presence exuded favourable thoughts and feelings. It must have had to do with being an entertainer, but Sigrid could swear she changed the mood of a room even more effectively than the Sybaian healer. “Haraldur it is, then.” The acrobat beamed, more than happy to drop titles. As someone who herself had never really known class privilege, she was far more at ease among commoners; although, she did a fine job at hiding her discomfort. Such was the territory of a performer. “As for my friend: please accept my apology on his behalf, if he has done or said anything to upset you. But he has been having a rather trying night, it seems. On the run from women who see someone wild that they would like to tame. I daresay, I would also be at my wit’s end, were even half of the amount of people pursing me to fulfill some romantic fantasy.”
Of course, she said it all with a smile that she didn’t even try to hide, suggesting that her amusement over Hadwin’s plight far outweighed her sympathy for him. And the same went for Sigrid, who smirked. “Chased by six women in counting because they want to get under your clothes? Sorry, Hadwin, but it sounds to me like you are suffering what is quite literally another man’s fantasy. No sympathy, here, though I wish you luck in hiding from your adoring crowd.”
By the time he walked away with the ringleader, Briery was trying hard not to laugh. “I am sure it would have been more than six, but not everyone is bold enough to ask after your availability.” She chuckled, tresses of wavy auburn falling around her face when she shook her head. “I have to agree with the Dawn Warrior, Hadwin; you are suffering another man’s deepest desire. I’d never have bet money on the fact that I might one day find you of all people running the other way from others’ desires. Though I have to admit… that’s rather noble of you. Not leading those poor ladies on to spare breaking their hearts in the end.” Without so much as asking, she stole the goblet of wine from his hand long enough to take a sip, before promptly returning it. “Though, unfortunately… you do not get to determine whether or not you can be someone to love. What others see in you is purely their own perception, and it might be enough for them to fall for you. Mind, you are in no way obligated to return that love, but don’t think I’m not aware of those qualities that might draw people’s hearts toward you. You saved the life of an important Rigas official, taken a desperate young girl under your wing when she had no one… sorry to say, but bravery and kindness are some pretty sexy qualities, my dear wolf. And I am not the only person who has noticed.”
On the bright side, this unwanted attention hadn’t scared him away from participating in their spectacle in honour of the new babies, which was to take place within the hour. Rycen and Lautim had already begun to set up, while Briery made an appearance to spread word of the show for the crowd to enjoy, once they’d had their fill of Haraldur. As for Cwenha… “You know, I’ve found myself say the very same thing to Cwenha, of late. How no matter how vicious she tries to come across, there is no fooling everyone; particularly not that young Forbanne soldier who has taken a real liking to her. Now, how he managed to get through to her when no one else on this plane ever could will forever remain a mystery to me: but I digress.”
Briery’s lips curled into a sly smile as she considered the faoladh’s proposition, as far as a ‘finale’ for their show went. “I don’t know if you are trying to bribe me, or seduce me.” The acrobat drawled, and reached toward him to straighten the collar of his jerkin. “Though, either way, I’m not opposed. Not to mention--coming from you? That is one hell of a compliment. That you would choose me over six other women, simultaneously… how can I possibly refuse you with flattery like that?”
Stealing his goblet for a second time that day, she drained what remained of its contents--which, honestly, wasn’t much. “I’ll talk to our master illusionist to see what we can do to make your exit as fabulous as your entrance. Send you up in flames, if you really want to play a dangerous game. So long as I am able to find your later.” She lowered her eyelids, and the sunlight coming through the windows caught her irises in a sultry, almost catlike glimmer. “Come, then; let’s go work out the details with Rycen. You can depend on the Missing Links to save you from all of the women in heat.”
Lilica knew more than anyone that Chara was a woman who not only needed a purpose, but needed to be in charge in some way, and of something. For that reason, she didn’t bat an eyelash when the Rigas woman stepped forward to take over the last-minute organization of a celebration on Vega and Haraldur Sorde’s behalf. Besides, it wasn’t as though she knew the first thing about organizing festivities, and the Galeynians were so in want of celebration that she wouldn’t even think of denying them.
So despite that the decidedly heavy topic of conversation between them was put aside, the Galeynian Queen recognized and understood her primary advisor’s motivation to moderate the attention that poor Haraldur Sorde was going to receive, whether he liked it or not. But without Chara, Queen or not, Lilica tended to become something of a wallflower, keeping close to the wall and blending into her surroundings; not to say that she wasn’t noticed, but she chose to observe rather than engage, unless someone specifically sought her attention. She therefore kept to herself for the time being, until Chara was satisfied with the order she’d brought to the room, and returned to Lilica’s side.
“I suppose that does happen, where it comes to valued bloodlines. That ‘need’ to continue a legacy.” She mused, looking down at the tips of her pointed slippers, the same copper/bronze as her dress. “Though it makes me wonder… how necessary is sustained blood? For the Rigases, I suppose it is a matter of passing on the magic. But look at that Dawn Warrior; Haraldur’s cousin. It is my understanding, in learning of Braighdath and Galeyn’s history, that the Dawn Guard has never extended membership to those not borne of Braighdath, unless under very special circumstances. And yet, Sigrid Sorenson is Northern: and not only did they make an exception, but she wields the legendary blade Gaolithe. Her, not someone with Braighdathian blood. And the Night Garden, it does not choose its Gardeners based on the Tenebris bloodline. My blood happened to awaken this kingdom because my father designed such a mechanism. All this talk of ‘half-breeds’ and those who are deemed less worthy… I don’t get it. I don’t get any of it.”
She pressed her lips together and turned her attention toward one of the windows, in plain view of the Night Garden beyond. “I will admit, I haven’t spent a lot of time in the Night Garden since assuming this throne; I haven’t had the time. Perhaps it can reverse years upon years of damage; it may make me able to bear children. But do I really owe it to this kingdom to have an heir of my own blood…? Because I do not know that I could bring myself to copulate with some… some stranger, just to conceive a child. Especially not when there are already so many unloved and unwanted children out there, already.”
Lilica blew air from between her lips and rolled her shoulders back in an attempt not to become overwhelmed with feelings she hadn’t yet addressed. But here they were now, out in the open. “I mean something, here, because I am the biological daughter of this kingdom’s former monarch… but that is all. That is the only reason I can call this place my home. And I wish… I just wish things could be simpler. Not just for me.” Reaching out, she took one of Chara’s hands in her own, and her voice softened. “For… us.”
Even more appealing than undressing a person with his stripping and tearing words was when the person sought to fight back using the same strategy. Not only did it rile Hadwin up with the eagerness to continue the verbal fisticuffs, back and forth until one remained the victor, but it reminded him of how wonderfully quaint the comebacks lobbed at his face usually were. I could wipe the floor with you. A devil-may-care smile projected his ego to a size that superseded Sigrid’s physical height. He could rip a person to shreds, but it was the wrong time, the wrong place, amidst the wrong set of people, and his opponent, despite her intimidating stature, did not want to fight beyond basic defensive measures, which amounted to protecting her besmirched character. Instead, he went for a different tack, and deescalated the situation with a riotous laugh.
“Ah, yes, Siggy. You’ve got that right. Me and commitment don’t get along. It’s not like it’s bleeding obvious or nothing. I never tried to hide it--what you’d call a fear, right?” The luminosity in his eyes seemed to glow at the mention of ‘fear.’ “Oh yeah, I’m not immune. Go on and keep picking at them with a chisel if you feel so inclined, but that’s not gonna stop me from picking at yours--or at anyone else’s. You can’t expect to tell me shit I don’t already know about myself, though--but you’re free to try. Here--as a sign of my apology and benevolence, I’ll tell you a juicy little detail.” He extended a fist out to her and slowly opened his fingers like petals on a flower, revealing nothing but his empty palm. A misdirection--to distract from the hint of discomfort hardening the creases around his bushy eyebrows.
“Last time I taught someone to fight and survive, she killed six D’Marians, a councilman, and almost took out our darling Prince Sorde--and oh yeah, she’s working for the ‘evil’ sorceress. If you’d like for me to beat the altruism out of the summoner, sure, I bet it’ll go off swimmingly like it did the last time, when I showed her some fears to ‘toughen’ her up and she locked herself in a dungeon because death from exposure was more appealing than the possibility of destroying the damn world. Yeah, sounds like a grand idea to keep putting an emotionally and magically volatile person through the wringer, just so you don’t have to deal with her well-meaning meddling. I mean, we’ve already had Alster Rigas poking around in your business, yeah? And you couldn’t succeed in telling him to cease his philanthropic pursuits because, small wonder, he’s got a mind of his own--just like Tes.” With a deft spin on his heels, he extricated Sigrid’s accusatory finger from his chest.
“Hell, I wonder how you’ll take it when I tell you I convinced her to let Haraldur do the brunt of the work in removing your weapon. Now would you call this an overprotective precaution on my part? Or a successful interception of her altruistic intention to single-handedly--or no-handedly--say ‘fuck you’ to Gaolithe? Look, Siggy,” both hands flopped forward, emphasizing his attempts to appeal and not entirely alienate the Dawn Warrior, “I can’t even tell you that you’re wrong. It’s my preferred method to throw someone into a pit of hungry lions and watch the carnage unfold--but you sure as shit weren’t trying to survive, either. Is your way really superior, then? A group of people conspired to pull a sword out of your hands because you couldn’t be arsed to survive--because you preferred to make an altruistic sacrifice. So, from one hypocrite to another--I can do without the ‘friendly advice.’ But,” a ‘chummy’ smile replaced the borderline-argumentative flourish of his expression and volatile swagger as he patted the warrior woman on the shoulder, “I’ll be sure to point you in the right direction before the evening’s through. Up to you what you wanna do or say--or if you also wanna run away--but I won’t guarantee I’ll like it. But I’m just a ‘pretend’ brother anyway, so it really doesn’t matter to you what I think.”
Haraldur’s entrance subdued the lingering tensions between the wolf-man and the Dawn Warrior, who, in dual realization of the reason for the celebration, affixed the proud father with smiles and “tame” remarks. “No, I was more than content to stay on guard duty for the duration of the Equinox Festival, but Vega wouldn’t have it. No surprise, there,” he smiled, fond with memories over the week leading to their marriage. That was over six months ago, and he wondered when he, Vega, and the children would be able to return to Eyraille, a place he counted as his home. A place he missed. “Motherhood won’t cool her heels at all, I can tell you that much. But I can’t guarantee I’ll be a cool or calm father, either.”
“You are among the majority of first-time fathers, Haraldur,” Naimah assured him. “The anxiety will become more manageable over time.”
Their conversation soon included another woman who the Eyraillian prince father welcomed into the circle. Briery Frealy offset her “partner” (whatever their affiliations beyond their performance relationship) by acting as his opposite. Where he was loud, brash, and irreverent, she oozed a quiet respectability that warmed Haraldur to the ringleader almost immediately. “As a married man, I’m not allowed to comment on this ‘male fantasy,’ so don’t look at me for an opinion.”
“Ah, y’see, it’s a male fantasy if the women want to fuck you,” Hadwin crossed his arms over his chest, “which they do not--unless I court them all good and proper, and agree to marry them and pump them full of babies. And courting six women at once is the kind of time and money-wasting philandering that I am not in the market for--so no. I’m firm on my stance. I’m not going in that direction; so I’ll gladly take my business elsewhere. And hell, I know exactly where to go. Better watch out, Commander Sorde; Forbanne love me.”
“Yeah, if you would keep your sexual affairs with my soldiers away from my ears, I’d appreciate the discretion.”
At that, Hadwin laughed uproariously. “Ah, Harry, Harry; I’m glad we can stand in the same room again and have conversations that don’t endanger my life. Mere months ago, I wouldn’t be able to get in five words without you trying to pierce me open with flying daggers.”
“Keep talking and we’ll see about that. It’ll be the Forbanne who end up killing you, in the end.”
The faoladh winked. “Oh, I look forward to it. I’m sure they can find all sorts of creative ways to contort and break my body as they bleed me out with their array of sharp, spiky, bludgeoning weapons.”
“Ok,” Haraldur cleared his throat and tried his best not to look completely disturbed. “I’ll pretend I heard nothing, but if I hear it again, I’m ordering the Forbanne not to associate with you anymore. I don’t care if it impinges on their freedoms; it will be worth it to deny you your sick fantasies that go so far beyond the typical male fantasy that I don’t even want to consider what else turns you on.”
The faoladh placed his fist to his chest in mock salute. “Gotcha, Papa Sorde; well, I’ll leave you to it.” And before Haraldur could protest on yet another variation of ‘daddy’ in his name, Hadwin absconded the scene with Briery close behind, linked by his arm. Once they gained enough distance, he turned to his companion and gauged her expression, which, as he suspected, would be full of disapproval over his antics. “C’mon, you have to admit it’s fun messing with conservative folks from time to time. And you don’t have to keep apologizing for me, either, like I’m your incorrigible child that you have to wrangle before he opens his mouth and says something embarrassing. Not your responsibility, what I end up saying. It won’t reflect poorly on you or the Links. As Siggy so beautifully said, I only like you because I can up and abandon you and the troupe at any time I’d like, with no negative repercussions. So you can rest at ease, Brie. No one’s associating my comments with your squeaky-clean troupe and its squeaky-clean reputation.”
In their strategic vantage point beside the refreshments table, they observed the majority of the crowd shift from one end of the room to the other, scrambling for their chance to congratulate Haraldur and, by proxy, Vega, in the birth of their children. The Eyraillian Prince had since excused himself from Sigrid and Naimah to stand where Chara had designated the ideal space that would not obstruct traffic filtering in or out of the ballroom. Hadwin caught a few familiar shapes in the crowd--in particular, three of the women who, according to Briery, were pursuing him in search for a serious relationship that he could nor never would provide.
“Yeah, yeah, you can say how ‘noble’ it is that I don’t wanna lead them astray or some shit, but everyone knows I’m doing it to save my own ass.” He provided no resistance when she stole the wine from his hand, because he knew she’d always return it to him. Sure enough, she replaced the goblet back into his outstretched hand. “The kingdom is small; people talk. One bad experience and the gossip’s gonna spread--and then my prospects become that much smaller. Gotta play it safe in close quarters. But if you want to attribute my decision to some--hah--altruistic notion--then I won’t stop you from singing my praises. But I will input that you’re biased in my favor. Everything I do, I do it for gain. Even Tes.” He threw back his head and took liberal gulps of his wine. Large amounts at a time--it was the only way to feel the slightest effects of the alcohol. His tolerance was legendary, but it did him no favors, in the end. “Out of some pathetic need to do it all over again, I latched onto that girl, yeah. It’s all wrong, my attachment to her. Need to quit while I’m ahead. Stick to my own kind. Go out there and face my fuck-ups. Psh,” he chortled, a quieter kind of laugh he didn’t employ often. “Look at me, blubbering out loud. I ain’t even drunk. But I’ve got a rampaging sister on the loose--my real fucking sister--and what am I doing? So what should I care, breaking hearts? Everything’s so inherently meaningless, anyway. We’re all dead in a handful of years. There’s fuck all to preserve. Dignity, decency, leaving behind a legacy--what does it matter, when you’re maggot food?”
“But,” he let Briery take the dregs of his goblet as he swiped another one from the table, “I’m already involved in this spectacle, so let’s get to it. Maybe if I inhale the fumes during my staged descent into hell, I’ll be blissfully incapacitated and at least I’ll stop spouting all this existential bullshit. Though, I must ask, my flying squirrel,” he cupped the side of her face and traced the lines of her cheekbones, “if you’re so adamant about my ‘lovability,’ are you trying to say that you love me, hmm?” Despite his flippant inquiry, his golden stare pierced with intensity, scrying for answers. The moment ended before it began, however, as Hadwin pulled away and gurgled a laugh whilst downing his third goblet in twenty minutes. “Aw, boss, you’d be setting yourself up for failure and you know it. But my offer still stands. I’ll be happy to warm a bed with you--because I gotta say, you’ve become infinitely more attractive to me among all these marriage-happy, baby-having women.” His voice lowered to a purr of a whisper. “There’s something sexy about a woman who...knows who you are. And likes you for it--likes you for being so fucked up. Who thinks you’re worth more, when really, you’re not worth shit. But you appreciate the sentiment--because you can’t say no to the way she looks at you.”
Without casting a look at Lilica, Chara could detect a shift in the Galeynian Queen’s mood, as it related to an ancient practice she’d always taken at face value and never disputed. As a Rigas, no one considered arguing against the rule of bloodlines, not when their family crest relied on distributing celestial magic through the channels most receptive to its inheritance. Without a significant enough blood connection to Rigel, their likelihood of receiving their Rigas-given became more scarce. However, blood-ties to Rigel did not mean a thing if there was nothing to inherit, as was Chara’s unfortunate case. She, as pureblood a Rigas as a three-thousand-year legacy could sustain, inherited the sediment from the bottom of a drained celestial pool, all thanks to Alster’s unprecedented birth, which suctioned the quintessence dry, leaving conditions in a drought-state for the next decade. The strength of her blood-connections had denied her the pleasures of magical-significance--because, in the Rigas family, power dictated the hierarchy--not blood. Cyprian, Adalfieri, and Canopus--all powerful casters with shallow claims to Rigel’s bloodright, enjoyed serving at the highest ranks. Alster’s unusual circumstances notwithstanding, blood did not always determine receptiveness to inherent power, and Chara existed as proof. The Rigas ritual at the Night Garden confirmed it; for, if she naturally obtained the channels, the stamina, and the storage for great power through blood, why did she receive a pittance of passive magic from the now overflowing pool of celestial potential? One could argue Mollengard had interfered in the deliverance of her channels, damaging them irrevocably, but Chara suspected the problem went far deeper. She, simply, not born with the privilege--blood or no blood.
So why did she still care about maintaining the Rigas bloodline?
“Blood is a very powerful mechanic, Lilica.” Pleased with the status of the queue, Chara settled against the wall near Lilica and relaxed for a short while. “But I daresay it goes beyond familial cohesion. You are correct in that. Compatability is also important; it is the only reason I can explain why Alster and Elespeth synergize so well with each other, on both a physical and spiritual level. Their blood intermixed and comingled, defying stifling Rigas law, which for centuries has claimed that our blood will seek like-blood. I understand that largely, we Rigases fear the loss of our traditional values more than fearing the loss of our power. And yet...I want my own flesh and blood.” And there it was--the direct truth. No minced words, circumlocution, or deflection. To spare herself Lilica’s reaction, Chara maintained her attention on the queue, its sinuous formation slithering forward without cease.
“One day. Not now, but...one day. It is heartless of me to say, but unwanted children do not interest me, because they are not mine. I want to create something of my own, and I would be willing to find a sire to make that happen. Of course it is not simple; Lilica. By choosing this path of ours, we tossed ‘simple’ to the wayside. But,” finally, she broke her eye contact of the line and lowered her eyelids to regard their intertwined hands, “whatever our desires for the future, for a family--it will have to wait, regardless. There are too many variables stacked against us. A kingdom to run. A homeland to reclaim. A mad sorceress stalking about in the forests somewhere. Let us not worry about these far-flung ideas fed to us by a baby-obsessed mob. Let us worry first...about us. And about what we have, presently.”
