“Oh, I know I don’t need to keep apologizing. Although, knowing exactly how unapologetic you are… sometimes, it is beneficial for someone to apologize on your behalf. Especially when I know you wanted to take that conversation, whatever it was about, much farther than it needed to go. Don’t try to deny it: I know that look in your eyes when I see it. I thought it best to safely de escalate it for everyone, before someone--namely that blonde warrior or the Eyraillian prince--saw fit to punch you in your adorable face.” Briery teased the shapeshifter and shook her head. “Though if you truly think that I err on the side of caution in these social situation to save face for the Missing Links--then you obviously haven’t been acquainted with us for long enough. Our reputation has only begun to smooth out its wrinkles in the past handful of years, since I managed to begin to get my illness under control. Don’t you remember our situation when we first met? How difficult it was to find towns and cities that would be welcoming and accepting of us, since from time to time, we had no choice but to engage in… less than honest behaviour?”
Finding a rare nook where bodies did not occupy a space near a wall, Briery pressed her back against the cool marble as her faoladh companion paused to indulge in several large gulps of wine. “We weren’t always able to make our earnings under moral standards, when so many shows had to be canceled due to my monthly incapacitation. The tricky thing was, sometimes we were good at stealing, and sometimes we weren’t. And the places where we happened to conduct that business when luck wasn’t on our side happened to remember us in a far less than positive light. Unfortunately, word and opinion travels… Suffice it to say, there was a reason why we had to enlist your help in the first place.” Her lips twisted into a guilty sort of grin that suggested she didn’t really have any regrets, either way. “So no, I’m not apologizing because I think your presence is sullying the appearance of the Missing Links, my dear wolf. Why would I bother to keep you around, if that is the case? I do it because I don’t want you to get your ass kicked by a couple of irate warriors. Who would be my dance partner if you ended up with broken legs? You don’t heal that quickly!”
Pushing away from the wall, Briery took him by the arm as they continued on their way through the crowd, toward the doors. “And you’re right; you are welcome to up and take off whenever you want. The Missing Links are nothing, if not adaptable. You have to be, in this business; after all, it’s not like we thrive by letting roots grow in any one place. What matters is you always seem to show up at just the right times. Although I have to admit… I’ve rather enjoyed this lengthy opportunity to have you as company. It does spice things up. But altruism or bias aside… You cannot argue that your decisions do sometimes result in outcomes that benefit other people. Believe it or not, you can be selfish and selfless simultaneously. I wouldn’t have thought that at all possible until I met you.”
On their way out of the bustling room (which had taken far longer than it should have, for the sheer amount of bodies that made movement anything but easy), the ringleader saw fit to swipe one more goblet full of dark wine to replace the empty cup in his hand. Sometimes it was difficult to tell if the shapeshifter’s deep moods were a result of having imbibed too much, or too little, and there was only one way to find out. “Whatever your reasons, the summoner is lucky to have you in her life. So there are two things that you are going to have to learn to accept. One is that you do, in fact, have redeemable qualities. The other is that you are not solely to blame for the outcome of your blood sister. There is only so much you could have done; and in the end, it was impossible to shelter her from her curse, forever. Just as you know it is impossible to shelter young Teselin from her volatile magic. But here is what I think, for whatever it is worth.” Briery sighed quietly in relief as the cool autumn air finally hit her face, a welcome change from the stifling ballroom. “You’ve already done this, once; you did it with Rowen, and it was not a successful venture. She took a turn that you could not have prevented. But I know that you have also learned from that experience, and whatever mistakes you think you made before, you will not make them again with Teselin. So the difference is, Hadwin, that you are no more able to alter the summoner’s fate than you were Rowen’s--but you will have far less fodder with which to blame yourself, this time around, if the future does not turn out shining bright.”
Off in the distance, they could see that the trapeze had already been erected near the Missing Links’ caravan, thanks to Lautim and Rycen’s hard work. The latter had expressed resentment at the fact that he hadn’t had the opportunity to mingle with the very desperate women whom Hadwin desperately sought to avoid. The golden acrobat had to reassure him that there would still be plenty of time after the show, after he’d wowed them with his theatrics, and that seemed to have placated the illusionist for the time being. Before Briery could approach the illusionist by incorporating Hadwin’s disappearance into their spectacle that evening, she was confronted by a very direct question, as the faoladh’s hand found the side of her face. Naturally, she did not respond right away; for although she knew the wolf man perhaps better than any other ally, he was still fully capable of taking her off guard on many occasions. This happened to be one of them. “You want to know if I love you, Hadwin? Or if I am in love with you?” She answered with a question of her own, taking a bold step forward and pressing a lithe hand against his chest. “Because those two statements do not mean the same thing. That said, they are also not mutually exclusive. It could be one, it could be the other; it could be both. Those are three possibilities. Maybe one day, if the mood strikes me...” She flashed a sly smile and pulled away, ever so slightly, her hungry hazel eyes giving him a once-over “And if our paths happen to cross as they usually do, you might just find out. But, regardless, I’d be happy to take you up on your offer. In fact, I’m counting on it. There also happens to be something undeniably sexy about a man who isn’t afraid to be himself, unabashedly.”
The ringleader’s smile softened, and this time, it was her turn to cup the side of his face. “Don’t change, Hadwin Kavanagh; not for me or for Teselin, certainly not for these baby-crazed women. Keep your flaws and flaunt them. This world has enough heroes; enough people who want to abandon themselves for the greater good. And it’s not only unrealistic, it is ingenuine. This plane needs more people who just exist for the sake of existing, because this is the only life we have, and I’ll be damned if I don’t experience what I want out of it. And… I just so happen to like your brand of fucked-up.”
On a whim, the ringleader quickly closed the distance between the two of them long enough to steal a kiss, and smiled playfully in the aftermath. “You’re sure as hell worth something to me, wolf; whatever my undying adoration happens to be worth.”
“What are you charging for this performance, Frealy? Will all my hard work with Lautim getting your trapeze secure suffice as payment for this public display of affection?” Rycen sidled up to the two, having taken notice of the ringleader and the newest honorary member of the Missing Links. The illusionist looked less than impressed. “C’mon, Briery; you put me and Big Guy to do all the dirty work so Cwenha can go pretend to have fun with her Forbanne suitor, and you can lock lips with our friendly neighbourhood wolf?”
“Would you believe me if I told you that hadn’t been my intention?” Briery chuckled, but did not appear to be particularly remorseful, or have any regrets whatsoever. Although, she finally did put a more respectable distance between herself and Hadwin. “It was actually my plan to save Hadwin from the newfound desires of practically all of women in Galeyn. Something about one person having a baby within a stable marriage, and they all want it--except Hadwin, of course. We were actually hoping you help make a few… changes to our finale, this evening. You see,” she glanced sidelong at her faoladh companion. “Hadwin would like to disappear.”
Instantly, the illusionist’s mood appeared to lighten. “You mean work I’m actually cut out to do? Now we’re talking. So the question is, what are we thinking? You want to vanish into the shadows? Go up in flames?” He accentuated it with a few dramatic hand gestures and grinned at Hadwin. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll deliver.”
Chara’s confession turned Lilica’s head--and not out of shock or dismay. No, this had been something she had long since assumed of the proud Rigas woman. That Chara would want a child of her own; or, more specifically, a child that was hers. Of her blood and lineage, not… not some unrelated little seed that hadn’t even a trace of Rigas blood in its veins. She did not fault her for it, either, not even for a moment. But it was perhaps the first time in a long, long time that made her realize however cohesive the two of them were, it was impossible for her to expect that the two of them would always fall into step with the sort of flawless synchronicity that Elespeth and Alster did. All of their decisions, it seemed, were only made with one another in mind, but… that had been possible for them. Because Elespeth had abandoned everything she’d known, including her name, when she had met Alster. And when they married, it only made sense that she take his name and become part of his legacy as a Rigas, herself.
But such a luxury had never been in the cards for her and Chara. Before all of this, before Galeyn, when she had still been Lilica D’Or, and not yet Lilica Tenebris, her relations with Chara, a well-respected Rigas, had been controversial, at best. It had taken some time for Lysander to warm to the fact that she loved his daughter, but even his blessings might not have been enough in the eyes of the Rigases at large; especially if such a union would never produce another Rigas child. The fact remained that Lilica could have had a favourable reputation and all the power in the world, and it still wouldn’t have been enough… and she had always known this.
“No; not heartless, Chara. Just honest.” She said after a beat, her dark eyes trailing to the crowd without actually seeing anyone in particular. “I’ve never thought about this aspect of a future because I never thought that it was in my future. But now I wonder… if I will even have a choice but to consider it. I wasn’t a wanted child. Not from the moment I was conceived… at least, I was not wanted by the family who was stuck raising me, because of the way my magic manifested. And all I can think is… what if the same becomes of my child? What if whatever dark turn plagued me is somehow linked through blood? I know what I am… what I was capable of. Perhaps it was exacerbated by the neglect of my parents, but whatever was there to turn ugly in the first place… that was all me. That was me. Not the person I am now, but the person I was, and I…”
The Galeynian Queen trailed off before her voice could catch. This was not the first time she’d entertained these thoughts; but it was the first time she had given them voice, and let that voice reach the ears of another… namely, Chara. It left her feeling vulnerable and inexplicably guilty. “I think… your desire is sound. And if that is what you want--a child that you have made of your own flesh and blood--then I would never stand in the way of that. But, regardless, you are right. Now is not the time to be thinking too far ahead.”
Taking a breath, Lilica relaxed her shoulders and smoothed out any wrinkles in her composure. “I’m probably worrying for nothing. Even if Galeyn now has babies on the mind, the citizens know better than to put that expectation on me anytime soon. Not before we secure this place from Locque. It is as you said; we need to focus on the present.”
Managing a smile, she sighed. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to plunge an otherwise festive day into darkness; perhaps I still find myself leaning toward it from time to time. Do you think he will fare well enough on his own without your supervision?” She nodded in Haraldur’s direction, the poor man with nowhere to go, surrounded by people on every side. “I haven’t yet paid a visit to the new mother and her children, and I feel that that is an expectation I should probably meet, as Galeyn’s reigning monarch. I’d love the company, if you’d do me the honour. With any luck, she’ll be resting, and they’ll send us away.”
“No,” came Hadwin’s glib response. “Not denying anything. But believe it or not, I had enough self-restraint to reel in my ever-so-desirous temptation to bash that clueless warrior’s head in with my biting rhetoric. Though it really ain’t fair to her; easy prey. Doesn’t even know how to exist outside of soldiering without making it look painfully awkward. She’s so damn punchable, though; I can’t help it. Maybe it’s my destiny to always start tussles with warrior-types. Hey,” he plucked a fallen leaf from one of the Night Garden’s errant vines off the libations table and twirled it about his fingers, “if we give it a few months, she’ll undergo some tragic event that fundamentally changes her as a person and then we’ll become the best of friends. Worked with El. Hell, it’s working with Papa Sorde. He likes having me around, though he won’t say, because he doesn’t have some compulsive urge to kill me anymore and my presence lets him soak it in.” Knowing of the vines that slithered into the ballroom and their properties (from “asking” a Gardener or two...in bed), he nibbled on the stem of the leaf, tearing open the juices and letting it wash over his teeth. It was great for refreshing and cleansing the palate, and he always liked to keep his breath fresh--for he never knew who he’d be snogging at any given opportunity.
“But nah,” he dismissed, “I’m not so idiotic to try my luck bludgeoning two killer-warriors over the head with a proverbial stick. I can hold my own in brawls and I’m slippery, to boot, but I suspect if they want me dead--I’ll be dead. I do beg to differ about one thing, though.” With an expert flick, he violently cracked his wrist, breaking several of the fine bones along the area. “When it comes to broken bones--it’s not an issue at all.” He held up the same wrist and rotated his hand in swift, flexible motions, betraying its broken state from moments before. “They can crack me like an egg all they want--and I’ll dance my way up to that stage with you by curtain call, as spry and eager as ever. But thanks for wanting to preserve my ‘adorable face.’” He flashed an illuminating smile, all teeth and allure. “Can’t lose my physical charms; otherwise, how can I negotiate my way into someone’s bed?”
After he finished cleaning his teeth with the leaf stem, he rolled it around in his mouth. “See, the reason I mention reputations and all is because of the high-profile audience you’ve now managed to attract and win over. You’ve got the approval of the Eyraillian prince and princess, Lord and Lady Rigas, D’Marians you’ve entertained in Braighdath, and Galeynians who oblivious to your less than stellar respectability record. They know shit about your past. In Galeyn, it’s clean slates for everyone--because the people in this hermit kingdom don’t know about the history of the last one hundred damn years--or nothing about nothing. Tell me, have you thieved around since I made my grand re-entrance into your life? Hmm...didn’t think so.” With the remains of his leaf, he swiped the feathered tip across her nose. “And why the hell would you let these charitable people down by choosing treachery and deceit--outside of the stage, anyway? C’mon, Brie.” He nudged the acrobat with his elbow. “You prefer being honest and reliable, and all this positive attention is great business for the Links. You don’t want to sully your clean slate by letting ne’r-do-wells run amok and start pointless fights. Sure, Cwenha--exists,” he chuckled, “but she doesn’t make as big a splash as I do. She’s prickly and likes to shoot her quills at people for target practice, but that’s about the extent of her poor behavior practices. And now that she’s got her Forbanne beau, things have quieted down for her, too. Not for me, though. I’m still turning over every stone I see and pissing on every plant and tree in this entire blasted garden. Sure, by turning over a rock, one might find a gold nugget, but more often than not, it’s gonna be dirt and shit. Me in a nutshell, but hell, I’d be remiss not to say I don’t hate it--lending a hand and all. Especially for irresistible acrobats who always know how to stroke someone’s ego. Seriously,” he mock-punched her on the arm with the wrist he’d broken a minute ago. “You flatter me way too much. Calling me an enigma--it’s like you’re trying to turn me decent.”
Taking Briery’s lead, Hadwin followed her across the ballroom, past the inexhaustible queue of people lined up to speak with the newly-minted father, and through the doorway. He strode with the confidence of someone not being hunted for his mating potential, and no doubt his shamelessness attracted the women on the queue who had before sought him as a marriage partner in-the-making. When he caught their eyes, he smiled and winked, as he absconded with the ringleader. They would not surrender their place in the line to chase him, not until they could receive the blessings of the First Father of Galeyn, foremost. Some of the pep and cheer in his step faltered, however, when Briery delivered him an answer to his darker musings. Times like these, he wished he carried his pipe; its pungent Night Garden herb hit him tenfold, over the wine that no amount of imbibing could satiate in him.
“No, I don’t blame myself. I’m shit, and I make things worse more often than I make them better, and I’m unapologetic about it. I have to be; otherwise, there’s no hope in surviving this world. It’s more that I wish Rowen would have had it better than the fucked up family she got. There’s no do-overs between me and her; only opportunities, going forward. Tes was an opportunity. A poorly-executed one, but there you go. I’m full-on using the kid so I can--I don’t know,” he massaged his brow as if to remove the troubled creases that formed between a typically carefree face, “to do better--you got it right.”
“But you’ll never do it better. You’re an infection. People get sick around you. They die. When will you be satisfied, Hadwin? When the world shrivels at your feet from your unparalleled greed? How incredibly selfish of you, to live when others die. Die, so that others can be free of your poison.” The shadow, persistent as ever, trailed alongside him, taking residence in his own shadow. Arbiter of his fears, the spirit of Fiona Kavanagh would never stop talking until her message was understood, and followed to the letter. Fiona would never stop until her son died.
As was his modus operandi, Hadwin launched into a distraction. Fortunately, Briery proved the perfect distraction, with her soothing words and blatant encouragements. He sought her eyes and the fears that plagued them; in comparison to the ever-present wisps that haunted him, her fearscape acted as a balm--because it was familiar. The Red of her disease, regressing to wreak havoc on her health in bloody streaks, the dissolution of her troupe, her concerns for Cwenha....her concerns for him…
“Oh--you damn tease!” Good-naturedly, he shoved her, forcibly severing the sensual tingles of their skin-to-skin contact. “Won’t give me any juicy details--pah! Just say you don’t know, geez. Well,” he sighed in faux exasperation, to conceal the true weight of his upcoming words. “It’s for the best, anyway. If you loved me, then I’d have to break your heart, and the last heart I wanna break is yours.” With the hand that before shoved her, he latched to her arm and wrangled her into a side-hug. “My my, what a bold thing to say. Never change? You gotta stop saying all the right things Briery, Frealy, or I’m gonna suspect you’re trying to manipulate me into being yours and yours alone. That’s not fair to the other people who rely on me for a bit of action, y’know. So you’re really into the whole scoundrel thing, eh? Oh, you misguided fool. C’mere.” At the same time as she had planned to, he had also landed her a kiss. Though short-lived, it was a kiss of passion, sensual and with promises for a good time, later. He pressed against the small of her back and propelled her into his loose clutches, lapping up and enjoying every dram he could wrench from her in the brief moment afforded to them.
He drew away from their mutually-planned kiss, just in time for Rycen to weigh-in on his opinion on their “spectacle” performance, which they’d paraded in front of him. “It’s the pre-show, firefly,” he said, stepping aside in time with his dancing partner. “Meant to disappoint every woman in the room with eyes for me--which, as Brie here is quick to point out, is your chance to pounce. Though I’ll have to warn you, as a concerned citizen--they’re gonna wind you into a commitment pact, so make sure to locate the nearest door at all times if things get a little too real. But if real is what you’re looking for--have at it. I’m transitioning to men for a while, anyway. Well,” he returned the ringleader’s side-eye, “with a few exceptions, of course.” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them with anticipation, as he stepped closer to Rycen and the trapeze. The Missing Links had rigged up their gig in the small clearing beside the east entrance of the palace, away from the newborn babies in the Night Garden. “So,” he leaned against the trapeze pole, simultaneously checking it for stability, “I’m up for the phoenix act. Up in smoke and flames, gone in a flash. Except, unlike the phoenix, I ain’t rising. I give you every liberty to make it as deadly as possible.” As they worked out the details, Hadwin aimed a rueful smile inwardly, to the ever-lingering shadow with the glass shard teeth. You’ll get my death, Fiona--and it’ll be as fake and staged as the love you had for your children.
“But I loved you, Hadwin,” the face in the shadows sneered.
Do you love me now? His thoughts challenged.
“...No.”
Hm. The smile manifested on his face. Good.
“That would not happen, Lilica--I am positive in my assertion.” She plumbed the depths of Lilica’s dark eyes with the expert clarity of one who had pierced through its abyss, before. “I stand by it. The poison of your magic would have remained dormant, or awakened as something entirely different, were your childhood circumstances any different. Is it any wonder that a toxic environment bred toxic magic? Yes,” she hesitated on the subject, “my mother died by the consumptive powers of her magic. It was a disease, borne in her by birth, and though she resisted for so long, it eventually took her life. I am not fool to believe that people are born with an unfortunate strand of magic, more debilitating than beneficial, but for you, Lilica, I do not prescribe that explanation to your specific case. That is not the whole of your story. Therefore, I have no doubt that any child you conceive will not inherit the worst of you, in particular because you will love them. They will be wanted, and cared for, and nourished by love from a parent who for so long was denied love, affection and the decency of a helping hand. So while our speculations are far ahead in the future, whatever you should decide to do, Lilica, will not end in the disaster your fears foresee. Because there is something that devil-may-care mongrel taught me,” she snorted with disbelief, surprised for daring to recall such a dark chapter in her life, “in suffering his company and his band of merry circus performers for the better part of a month. It is this: fear always exaggerates the worst-case scenario--and reality rarely seldom delivers the worst-case scenario. At least, not on a consistent basis. Though some people have ‘shitty luck’ --his words, not mine. Though I daresay the worst-case-scenario with someone who already has poor luck is possibly a monumental, disproportionate disaster of world-ending scope. So in sum, Lilica--” she pecked a quick kiss on her cheek, “it is a fear that will not come to pass. I will make certain of it. Mollengard’s interference notwithstanding, I do have better luck than you. That is why I am acting as your advisor--because you certainly need every ounce of help that you can conceivably obtain.”
“On that note,” Chara scanned the crowd, determining if her assistance was required for the duration of Haraldur’s endless stream of company, “...we will not be gone for long. Prince Sorde can handle the masses until we return. Crowd control is a skill he will have to learn, anyhow. What better way to learn than to have the role thrust on to you?”
Haraldur Sorde, indeed, had the role thrust on him, and in so short a span of time! The situation hadn’t given him any moment to think about how he would present himself to the Galeynians, a blessing in disguise for one whose career prospects never included public speaking and small talk with civilians. Oddly enough, his experience as a Forbanne commander had served him well in the transition from troop management to crowd management, so even when Chara disappeared from her self-imposed duties of guiding him through the morass of excitable Galeynians, he plowed through on his own, with the pacing to match. He shook proffered hands, offered his and Vega’s gratitude, shared in his wife’s recovering condition, and answered simple questions about how he and Vega met. Well-meaning questions--but he assumed they did not wish to know the dramatic and often upsetting details of their romance from start to finish. To their complex questions, he provided the questions they wanted to hear. “We reunited after years of lost contact, in a faraway place--where we rekindled our ties. We fell in love, even though I was a commoner, and she, a princess.” The answer sat well with the Galeynians, especially the women in the audience, who cheered, while the men nodded their approval and gave him wine to toast. While he couldn’t deny their hospitality, drinking during the first evening of fatherhood seemed...irresponsible. Nonetheless, he partook in a sip or two, and moved on to the next person.
Unfortunately, accumulated sips in a person recovering from blood loss added up, and by the time he cleared the queue, he was moderately drunk. At some point in the shuffle, he ended up in Sigrid and Naimah’s company.
“Well--now I can’t return to Vega and the babies until I’m sober,” he commented to the couple, as he resolved to supplement his fuzzy head and fuzzy limbs with some water. “She wanted me to go to the celebration but I doubt she wanted me to celebrate with them. Not like this. They’re not letting me escape so easily, either. My attendance is required at the Missing Links show. I hope they don’t drag me on stage and have me throw knives at someone because in my current condition, I’m going to hit an artery. Funny if I actually do end up killing the mongrel, and it’s entirely an accident. Are you coming to the performance? I…” he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, “might need someone around to keep me steady.”
The assertion--no, the utmost confidence in Chara’s voice was enough to take the Galeynian Queen off guard. Whatever oblivion her dark eyes had been focusing on, they were quick to shift to the Rigas woman, who spoke as if there was no question to her take on what might become of Lilica’s hypothetical offspring. While she could not deny that Chara’s opinion of her (and her own opinion of the haughty, blonde woman) had changed significantly since their first fateful encounter, it would never have occurred to her that, at some point in the time they had gotten to know one another, that the woman for whom she cared did not attribute the toxicity of her magic to something that was inherently her.
And it was only then that Lilica realized how much she had been holding herself at fault for something that might well have been beyond her control.
“Do you… mean that?” Her voice took on a soft quality, one that was barely audible among the din. “You think that what I… what my magic presented as, it wasn’t a result of something awry in my biology? Do you really think that what I experienced in my childhood was responsible for what I… became? That it wouldn’t have happened, otherwise?”
Coming from anyone else--even someone as knowledgeable as Alster--and she wasn’t sure she’d have believed it. Too often, people were wont to coddle and placate without giving much thought to what they were denying. It isn’t your fault, or, No one taught you to understand, or to control it--what else could you expect? Or, Forget about what happened before, focus on what needs to be done now; the past is the past for a reason. She had been the recipient of each and every one of these dismissive comments, shortly after her toxic fire had left permanent marks in the marble flooring of the palace. Reassuring her, through those days and weeks of fevered semi-consciousness, that what had occurred --and everything that had ever occurred prior to this--must have ultimately fallen into place for this very outcome. Good to know you have all benefited from my suffering, was all that she could think, and to this day had difficulty letting go of that bitter sentiment. No amount of bland, thoughtless reassurance on the part of the Galeynians could change that.
But Chara… she did not hold back. Not when it came to the truth, even at the expense of upsetting those closest to her, because she did not believe in those white lies that coddled and consoled. And from any other lips, she would not have believed the words. “I may need… to hear that from you, again. And maybe again, after that, but if I hear it enough… maybe I’ll be able to believe it. Really believe it.” The Galeynian Queen said, clearing her throat to break up the catch in her voice, her fingertips reaching up to touch her cheek where Chara had kissed her. “I’ve spent a very long time believing that I have always been, inherently, the problem. Even now, surrounded by all of this, placed in a position that I know I do not deserve… it is a difficult thought pattern to break. So, if this is what you really believe--that I was not born with that destructive darkness… please tell me again. Until I can finally believe it.”
A smile graced her pale face as she took the Rigas woman’s hand and began to make her way through the crowd, guiltily feeling desperate for an escape. “To be honest, I am not sure if it would be less acceptable for me to leave this merry making, or to not give my so-called ‘blessings’ to these brand new babies,” she confided, her eyes darting from side to side. Fortunately, a good half of the room, at the very least, was more preoccupied with Haraldur Sorde to pay much attention to their Queen and her primary advisor. “But, since I am convinced the Sanctuary will be far less hectic… I’m making this executive decision. Here’s hoping our Prince of Eyraille won’t hate us too much for leaving him to his own devices.
Out of concern for the overwhelmed Eyraillian Prince who was, at every second that day, surrounded by excited people asking the same questions, both Naimah and Sigrid had rather silently agreed to remain closeby in case the poor man needed a quick escape. That did not stop the two of them from making merry in their own ways: from dancing and mingling (as much as Sigrid could tolerate the latter), and occasionally sipping on proffered wine, though not nearly enough to helplessly fall into the hands of mindless inebriation. Not one for parties, even in the presence of her beautiful Kariji companion, the Dawn Warrior might have suggested they leave long ago, as soon as Naimah was sated on the amount of social interaction with the crowd. But it was because of the focal point of this party that she knew she had to stay--even if she wasn’t sure she had entirely forgiven him, yet.
It was for the fact that she knew Haraldur would do exactly the same for her, were she to reluctantly find herself caught in the spotlight. It was not a pleasant place to be, not when everyone in the room was so highly attuned to every single move you made, and regardless of where the two cousins stood… Sigrid could not help but feel sorry for him. He didn’t need to say it, but she thought she could tell from his posture, and how throughout the night he appeared to begin to lean away from his adoring crowd, that he was finally reaching his point of saturation. For that reason, she did not shy away when at last the man had a moment to approach the two of them, looking a little unsteady on his feet.
“Well, your wife did insist you be here--and were she here as well, you can bet the Galeynians would make sure there was a goblet of wine in her hands at all times.” Sigrid commented good-naturedly, one arm looped around Naimah’s shoulders. “The way I see it, the performer’s spectacle should provide you with a bit of reprieve. No one in their right mind is going to make Galeyn’s first new father in a hundred years target practice for their knife thrower; believe me, you’ll have a whole wall of people jumping in to take your place if the Missing Links decide that that is a good idea. Nor are the performers foolish enough to trust your aim that much when you’ve clearly become too well acquainted with alcohol...”
The Dawn Warrior rolled her shoulders in a shrug, and toyed with the tip of her long, half-assed braid. It was a shame Elespeth had not been up and well enough to help her manage a more respectable weave; the once-knight from Atvany was so well practiced that she could practically weave her own hair in her sleep, even as it stood at its shoulder-length. What she was able to do with someone else’s unruly locks was positively amazing. “If your dear wife ordered you to make an appearance and in relish the fun, then you’d best respect her wishes. Go and watch the spectacle, have a few more drinks; you’re living for the both of you, after all. Tell us how it went, afterwards.”
It hadn’t been her intention to follow the rest of the herd as they filed out to be entertained by the Missing Links. Unlike Naimah, Sigrid Sorenson did not thrive in crowds, and was really only present for the Kariji woman’s sake (and because, like Haraldur, she felt wholly helpless to deny her significant other anything). But it appeared that Naimah was, in fact, eager to witness the performance, and a pleading look on her part was all it took for the warrior’s resolve to melt like ice in on a mid-summer’s day. “...on second thought, I suppose we could stay for a little while. Until it gets too hectic.” She amended with a soft sigh and a half-smile. “Anyway… if you do end up ‘accidentally’ killing our shaggy friend, I’d want to be around to see it.”
With Naimah at her side, she followed Haraldur out past the doors, as the near remainder of the room trailed in their wake. There was no grand tent, tonight, not like times. But the Missing Links had erected a stage, and their usual trapeze. Whatever they had in mind, they evidently did not see fit to be confined to the restraints of a tent. The show had not yet begun, and already, anyone who wasn’t pushing nearly six-feet tall like Sigrid would experience difficulty seeing over the crowd… most of which appeared to comprise of Galeyn’s young (and even some older) women. At least, toward the very front; the ones who wanted to be the closest to the performers… or, a certain performer in particular.
“Something tells me you aren’t the only man here that people are so excited to see,” the Dawn Warrior snorted, nudging Haraldur in the side. “I’d say I’m willing to bet I know exactly who the girls up front are hoping to see, but… well, I think it is pretty obvious.”
There was no shortage of cheers and elation when the golden ringleader, Briery Frealy, and her silver-clad protege with the blonde curls and wild temper took the stage. The acrobatic duo knew how to rile up a crowd with their expert orientation and synchronicity in the air, but from what Sigrid could tell from her vantage point, some of the women appeared to be looking past the two on stage. Looking for someone else, murmuring to one another in impatience and anticipation. Those same women hardly reacted when the giant Lautim stole the spotlight, while his verbal colleague, Rycen, called for ten volunteers in the crowd. Some of those women were the first to have their hands up, and were thusly selected to take a seat upon a long bench, borrowed from one of the taverns closest to the palace. What Sigrid could hardly believe was how the volunteers could hardly bat an eyelash, and were instead craning their necks to try and see behind the cube of curtains that served as the Missing Links’ ‘backstage’, as if they had not yet seen precisely what they had come for.
That was, until Lautim gracefully lowered the bench, took his leave, and Rycen returned with the only member Galeyn had not seen. The very front row went wild with the distinct sound of feminine voices the moment Hadwin took a liberal bow, clad in glimmering vermillion, with… was that kohl lining his eyes?
“Unbelievable…” Sigrid blew air from between her lips and raised her eyebrows. She was not referring to the act, however. “And here I thought he was merely boasting a larger than life opinion of himself, but it seems as though our fiendish wolf friend wasn’t even marginally kidding; the women here want him. So why, then, would he go and put himself on stage to escape them? Unless…”
Of course! This was going to be a disappearing act. Having lent a hand to the performers before to set up their stage, the Dawn Warrior was vaguely familiar with that particular set-up as having a false bottom, particularly for disappearing acts. And this was precisely what Hadwin planned to do--disappear.
The new twist to this age old trick appeared to be the ring of fire--very real fire--that Rycen lit in a circle surrounding the faoladh, who had also been wrapped in chains, beforehand. Hadwin not only chose to disappear, but it looked near like he was faking his own death. And it certainly had the desired effect. No sooner did the flames climb around the wolf man, who was on his knees, that the crowd gasped and cried in amazement and concern; and, perhaps, a little disappointment. Some of those women appeared pretty damned upset… and Sigrid wasn’t convinced that Hadwin or the Missing Links had really thought about the fact that they might not accept he was gone.
“Excuse me for a moment; I’m going to go and do a good deed. Whether or not I’ll regret it later stands to reason.” Pecking Naimah on the cheek and quickly patting Haraldur’s arm, Sigrid smiled and pushed through the crowd, making her way to the back of the stage, where about three suspect women were also headed. To think I share the same sex as these baby-crazed individuals… The Dawn Warrior thought with no shortage of surprise. Fortunately, she could anticipate exactly how this would unfold, knowing the tricks Hadwin had up his sleeve.
“I’m afraid I have to ask you not to proceed any further,” she said to the women, who all collectively gasped at her audacity. “Safety precautions, of course. The performers have a delicate set-up that only the professionals themselves know how to approach. You just saw the pyrotechnics on stage--don’t be so foolish as to become caught up in that.”
As she spoke, Sigrid could see a familiar reddish wolf sneak out from behind one of the curtains and make haste toward the Night Garden. So he’d emerged from the trap door in one piece, after all… “Please move on and go enjoy the rest of the show,” she said with finality, playing up her Dawn Warrior privilege. The three women in question murmured their disappointment, but did not question the warrior, and finally made their way back toward the audience. As soon as they were gone, Sigrid poked her head in the tent, saw the glimmer of discarded, vermillion garments, and scooped them up before trailing the wolf. Wherever he was, the Night Garden was only so big, and he could not have gone far.
“I’ll give it to you, that was clever. But your adoring audience is intent not to give up on you.” She announced, folding the clothes over her arm as she called into the Garden bathed in the golden light of early evening. “They were ready to drag your dead body out of there if you really had gone up in flames. Perhaps you should consider not playing yourself up to every piece of ass you deem desirable. You’re welcome, by the way; oh, and if you care at all, you clothes are here.”
She tossed the vermillion garments into a pile, at which point the reddish wolf finally made his appearance with a cautious gait. “Look. I might hold grudges, and hold them bad--but I am also sinfully loyal to gratitude. And you were right: you are the reason I have Naimah. There is no way I’d ever have had the courage to approach her on my own, and she’s changed my life in so many ways. As big a pain in the ass as you are… it is kind of hard to hate someone who happened to be the catalyst of a happy ending.” A ghost of a smile curved her otherwise straight lips. “Oh, and before you ask--I haven’t forgotten about your little summoner protege. I didn’t see her in the crowd, so my assumption is that she has chosen to visit the new mother. So as not to risk any more of Vega Sorde’s ire… I’ll wait for her to return. It’ll give me time to word an apology that will suffice, since as you so eloquently pointed out, I’m absolute shit at that.”
Chara anticipated Lilica’s reaction to her validating review of the situation, as she saw it, and when the Galeynian Queen probed for more clarity on the matter, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “What, do you honestly believe I am concocting some ridiculous lie, Lilica? As I am fully entrenched in the politics of both D’Marians and Galeynians, I have been known to stretch the truth, and as your advisor, you may see it as my job to bolster your spirit through any means necessary--even if I have to spout a few falsehoods to achieve my goal. But that is not so. Not in this case.” She planted both hands on her hips and twisted inward, giving Lilica the full brunt of her attention.
“I may not be as well-versed in magical theory as Alster is, but I am observant, and I do my research. If your magic inheritance stems from your father, then it is of Galeyn. Of the Night Garden. I cannot speak for your birth mother, and if I am honest, she is the unknown variable in this entire equation, but if your magic currently manifests in a similar vein to what the Gardeners themselves have--well, then, we must ask: why?” As she sometimes did when deep in thought, Chara tapped the tip of her foot against the floor, grinding it against the marble like she was annihilating a pesky insect.
“The Night Garden cannot fundamentally change the structure of your magic. You may wonder why my own magic changed so drastically, but it is because I was receiving a new inheritance altogether, and I could not regain what I had previously lost. Which begs the question--was this benign strain of magic in you, all along? To answer this question, I say: yes. But the magic grew up crooked alongside you, culminating in a gnarled, unsteady, half-dead tree.” Removing her hands from her hips, she gesticulated the concept of “crookedness” through pantomime. “It is the soil that determines the health of the tree, Lilica. However, this does not mean the gnarled tree that has become your magic will remain gnarled and stunted. Prune the dead branches,” she illustrated a cutting motion with her fingers, “stabilize the twisted trunk with stilts. Introduce the tree to better soil, regular sun, and rainwater, and the tree, eventually, will straighten itself out and show its full foliage. That is what is occurring with your magic. Since we are in the Night Garden, this process is expedited tenfold.”
“Therefore,” she pressed her heel back to the floor, “the logical conclusion is thus: your magic was never born ‘wrong,’ just as you were never born ‘wrong.’ Surely, if your magic were truly toxic, with no ounce of goodness in it, the Night Garden would not be able to ‘cure’ it. True, this is a miracle Garden, but it also operates under the bounds of reality, as far as I can measure it. Of course, the question of your magic and its nature has been addressed long ago.” She swept her hair over her ears when she felt their ravaged tips poking out from beneath her well-maintained blonde shroud. “I remember Alster going through great pains to reach this conclusion for you, but for certain,” her pursed lips squeezed into a tight smile, “my analysis is the voice of god for you. Well--I care not for whom you choose to believe, so long as you finally believe what I imagine many people have been telling you for months, already. I will reiterate it to you every night before we slumber if this information will finally percolate inside your thick head. Because it is about time we strangle this stray demonic thought of yours until it is dead. Perhaps its corpse will provide rich fertilizer for your metaphorical tree’s healthful growth. If we work together, we can expedite this demon’s fate.”
Winding her hand through Lilica’s, Chara took one last look at the project she was effectively abandoning, shook away the need to carry it through to its predictable end, and nodded for her partner to lead her out of the ballroom. “It is customary for the sovereign of her nation to extend her congratulations to the mother of royalty. Aside from our status as acting sovereigns, our presence is more than a mere formality--seeing as we are all acquainted with each other, however peripheral our relations. Besides, I am confident Sir Vega Sorde would love to hear a report on the goings-on of this merry affair, the struggles of her socially-inefficient husband, included.”
The wine helped, for certain, but the wine had also contributed to a muddled sluggishness that Haraldur could not quite shake from his fuzzy mind. Tunnel-vision set in, blurring his periphery, as well as his many, many interactions with the exuberant Galeynians. All of his answers to their burning questions blended together, his tongue like a vestigial organ sticking to his mouth and garbling out responses that were not intelligible, far as his ears could detect. Fortunately, the long slog of a seemingly endless line began to thin out, perhaps because of the announcement of the Missing Links and their imminent performance. Falling in step with the other Galeynians (especially some of the women, who were first to excuse themselves from the queue in pursuit of a good spot near the erected stage), Haraldur made an announcement to the remaining citizens that he would be attending the show, and the queue, at last, dissolved. Now free to wander away as he pleased, he ended up in Sigrid and Naimah’s company, realizing that they had been standing nearby the whole time.
“That was not necessary--but thank you,” he bowed his head in gratitude to the couple. Naimah crossed her arms into an X-shape and demurred to the sentiment politely.
“No, there is no reason to thank us. We danced, we drank, we watched, and we so happened to do all three activities in your purview. Besides, watching you interact with the Galeynians provided its own entertainment value.”
“Oh?” Haraldur scratched the side of his nose, interpreting “entertainment value” as himself making foolish gestures and foolish conversations. “Was I doing that badly?”
“No--no!” She put a hand to her mouth and laughed, a warming tingle of bells that twittered out of her throat. “You misunderstand me, Haraldur. You have made a valiant effort to engage your adoring crowd. On the contrary, we were entertained by the Galeynians, themselves, and marveled on how you managed to maintain your patience after hearing the same question several dozen times.”
“It was the wine. Well,” he cleared his throat, “a combination of the wine and of wanting to avoid Vega’s wrath when she wrenches from me the truth about my unwillingness to participate. Now, no one can say I avoided my duties. I don’t see how this helps in my parenting, but I guess it helps improve my status and rank as an Eyraillian prince.”
“Yes, Sigrid keeps mentioning this is what you and she have in common; refusal to deny the requests of their partners.” A knowing look sparkled in the corners of her dark brown eyes as she cozied into the Dawn Warrior’s outstretched arm. “Speaking of--we all must go see the Missing Links performance. We do not need to hug the stage, mind; I know you do not wish to interact with the set so closely, Sigrid--and neither do I, lest the silver acrobat recognizes me in the crowd and decides she wants to pause the show to have fisticuffs with me.”
“No, not a bad idea,” Haraldur concurred. “We’re all pretty tall, anyway. We’d block the view for the majority of the crowd if we decided to stand up front. And...just in case they do call on me, it’s better to stay relatively hidden. I made the mistake of showing them my knife-throwing tricks during the Equinox Festival; since then, they’ve wanted me to demonstrate the skill in a proper show. I don’t think they’ve forgotten. That reminds me,” he fell in step beside Sigrid and Naimah as they exited the ballroom with the rest of the Galeynians, “have I ever told you I did a brief stint at the circus as a knife-thrower?”
“If you did not share such a curiosity, I would never have known. You do not seem the type, if you’d excuse my presumption,” Naimah’s smile broadened as she imagined Sigrid, the staid, straitlaced warrior, in the same compromising position, dressed garishly in gold or vermilion and making cheeky remarks to the audience. An amused laugh belted out of her lips a second time.
“I’m not the type, you’re right. But that was the point; to be someone else. Something else. Something not associated with what the Forbanne are so famous for. But...it didn’t stick. I don’t mean to sour the mood, though.” He gave his apologies as he took another sip of water, determined to sober himself before his return to the sanctuary--to Vega, and his children. His family. Something that did stick.
“Not at all. I should prescribe knife-throwing as a hobby to some of the better rehabilitated Forbanne. Perhaps knowing they can engage in weapon play without causing injury or death to another is exactly what they may need to help open their world to new possibilities.”
“Yes.” Haraldur shared in her grin. “I’m all for it. Speaking of the Forbanne, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about inviting the silver acrobat’s ire. One of my own is in the audience to watch her.” When they emerged outside of the palace and gathered in the small clearing in front of the stage, the Eyraillian prince jerked his head towards a sleekly-built man who stood awkwardly at attention near the front row.
“Oh!” The Kariji woman pulled on Sigrid’s sleeve, delighted to see the man whom she helped to name, eagerly waiting for the show to begin. “It is Kadri! Well, then--we shall not interfere. I do not wish to upset the silver acrobat by existing in the same line as sight as her friend. Besides, we have found a more than adequate place to stand for the show.”
Having noticed the abundance of women scrambling ahead for premier spots near the stage, Haraldur tilted his head in curiosity at the same time Sigrid mentioned her own suspicions for the cause of the influx. “I’m relieved,” he said, and blew out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “The target’s been changed. Who knows? They may end up trampling the scoundrel to death before I even have the chance to drunkenly kill him with an errant knife.”
The curtain lifted to unanimous applause as Briery and her silver-clad accomplice took to the skies on the trapeze, floating gracefully from above as though they were little birds flitting from tree-top to tree-top. As he continued to watch the performances unfold, first with the dual acrobats and then with the giant and his monumental demonstration of strength, the talkative illusionist at his side, he came to the same conclusions as his cousin did. “There’s no doubt who’s stealing the show, and he hasn’t even made an appearance, yet.”
But that was about to change. After the giant-man sent the ten volunteers on their way and exited the stage, the much-anticipated performer strode into view, the vermilion of his outfit bright enough to rival the setting sun. The women of the audience screamed and fawned in unison, their hands gaping at the stage, fingers outstretched with the hopes to graze his foot or ankle. The faoladh played into their hivemind desires, proceeding downstage and crouching to near the level of his too-eager fans. He winked at one, kissed the outstretched hand of another, and whispered something into the ear of an older woman, which had sent her into a frenzied, swooning stagger.
“You know, he’s not helping his cause any, leading them on like that.” Haraldur frowned as the wolf-man continued to acknowledge his fans by teasing them with his effulgent charms and indefatigable attitude. “I should have had him filling in for me whenever I needed a break from tending to that enormous queue of people.”
“The man likes attention, whether good or bad. But,” Naimah tucked a stray curl behind her ear, “I cannot fault him for his methods. He is working the audience. He knows his clientele and how to please them. At least, superficially. They came here to see him, so he is giving them what they want. For now.”
Pleased with the attention he heaped on the squealing women clawing at his feet, Hadwin launched himself upright and moved further upstage. “Well, it ain’t fair to anyone else if I didn’t wow them with a spectacle, so,” he turned to Rycen and clapped the green-man on the shoulder, “with our resident fire-bug’s help, here, I’m gonna light myself on fire! But not to worry.” He gave the women up front a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve done this many times and lived to tell the tale. At least,” an expression of mock horror overtook his face, “I think I’m alive. Tell me, álainn,” he stretched out his arm for a random audience member to touch, “am I solid? Opaque? Your fingers aren’t sinking right through me, right?” At her stuttered affirmative, he broke into a grin and made a ‘whew’ sound, wiping imaginary sweat off his brow. “Scared myself for a minute. Thought I was as dead as a ghost! But there are no ill portents, here. Fire and chains and poof! I’ll make a grand escape, entirely unscathed!”
And grand escape he made, but not in the way any of his female audience members anticipated. Once properly chained, he stood in the middle of the stage as Rycen lit a ring of fire around him, engulfing him in towering flames. Cries and yelps carried over the roaring fire, exaggerated signs of a struggle--and, just as the chains slithered and dropped to his feet, he bellowed out his final death knells, and disappeared from the stage, a tidy pile of ashes left in his wake. The womens’ choir of the audience outwardly lamented the outcome of this act, not because they believed he actually ‘died,’ but because they feared he would not return. A few of the more adventurous, enterprising sorts opted to take matters into their own hands by organizing an active search for him backstage. At which point--Sigrid stepped forward to spare the faoladh the unrelenting female attention.
“If you’re doing what I think you’re doing,” Haraldur said to a retreating Sigrid, “...you have a bigger heart than me. I’d let him sweat it out. Get what’s coming to him.”
“We cannot be too hard on him, Haraldur,” Naimah rested a hand on his arm, steadying the sway of the inebriated man who had not yet achieved full equilibrium. “After all, he is to thank for the union between Sigrid and me.”
Meanwhile, Hadwin, who survived his “death pyre,” made his swift escape from under the stage, slipped into the connecting tent, shed his clothes, shook into his wolf skin, and slinked out of sight in the developing evening air. His solo sojourns lasted only a minute or two, before the voice of the Dawn Warrior called to him in the Night Garden. Curious, he emerged from his hiding place in the bushes (but only after ascertaining no other women were lingering closeby--not that they would recognize his new form). He stared up at Sigrid with his luminous gold eyes and sat on his haunches, listening with flickering ears to the warrior’s unbelievable speech. Was she expressing...gratitude, for his interferences in her then nonexistent love life?
His tail swished to and fro as he approached her and his proferred clothes. Not wanting to revert to human form and deal with the ensuing backlash of being naked within range of baby-hungry women, he responded in kind--by springing on his back heels, leaning his front paws against her chest, and nibbling playfully on her arm. A mere tickle of teeth and a lick for the trouble. Lowering down to all fours, he lifted the bundle in his jaws, wagged a tail of farewell, and darted back into the bushes. Arguably, it was one of the least ‘annoying’ of encounters between Sigrid and the wolf, and it spoke its own gratitude, loud and clear.
The Night Garden… Why was it so easy to forget that she, a child born of Theomyr Tenebris, must have inherited some vestige of goodness, of balance, from a place and people who were known for their miraculous ability to heal? Perhaps it had to do with the lack of grounding in her true heritage, having never known up until just some months ago, that fateful winter, that her blood was not--as far as she could tell--a result of some dangerous curse, or something innately dark inside of her. And even then, upon discovering her heritage, there was still far too much history upon her shoulders to discredit what she, as a child, had done. That she was responsible for her parents’ deaths, a decision that had not even been an accident, but premeditated. She was responsible for making others suffer in her years to come, because it had been far easier to inflict pain than it was to inflict happiness… Could she really blame all of that on poor upbringing? On neglect of the love that she had so desperately needed as a girl?
Chara seemed to think so. Perhaps that was all that mattered; that the people who mattered to her did not hold her accountable for what she had become… or, rather, what she had once been. “I understand your point of view--and I do understand Alster’s, which does not deviate far from yours at all.” The Galeynian Queen clarified as they made their way through the throng of merry-makers, desperate for a breath of early evening air. “It’s just… it isn’t easy, Chara, even in light of your undeniable logic to see myself as more or better than what I was. I’ve done awful things--you know this, first hand. Was it the driving force of my magic that made me kill my parents? Was it because of my magic that I once sought to kill Elespeth?”
Detecting a hitch in her strained voice, Lilica cleared her throat and relaxed her shoulders. Though it appeared as though no one was really paying attention to the reluctant Queen as her composure had begun to slip, Chara’s presence kept her grounded--or, at least, reminded her of the benefits of remaining grounded. When she had found the Rigas woman again, months ago in the early days of Spring, hiding away in some alley in Braighdath, she had resolved to be that very unshakable pillar that Chara had once been for her. And even in the days that had passed, as the haughty blonde had gradually regained her confidence and found her niche once again as a royal advisor, Lilica felt she owed it to her--and more--to not lose herself. What right did she have to be miserable, to wallow in what once was, when an entire kingdom and its people had been handed to her on a diamond-studded platter?
“I’m sorry. I’m taking it too far.” She silently amended, bowing her head and looking away, ashamed. “It’s difficult to separate now from then. From the me that I have become, contrary to the me that you first met. The one you once hated--the one I once hated. I have had a long, very long time to learn to hate myself, Chara. To blame myself, over and over. And as ridiculous as it sounds, even logic, at times, is not enough to dispel that. Nor enough to dispel the paranoia that any new life I were to bring into this world wouldn’t suffer the same fate, in one way or another. As much as I wish it were not the case, I hardly trust myself as a Queen, let alone anything else. I’m trying--I really am. These people…” She gestured to the room, filled with Galeynians and D’Marians alike. “They are depending on me to be stable and confident and sure of myself. I need to make it right… and I do need your help. Of course I need your help; I have only been able to make it this far because of you.
The chthonic mage gave Chara’s hand a tight squeeze, a smile finally reversing the frown on her lips. “Help me suffocate what remains of my self-doubt so that I can finally be the person this kingdom needs. And so that I can be the person you deserve; that you have always deserved.”
With it settled to go and visit the Eyraillian princess, where she was purportedly confined to bed rest in the sanctuary following a less than ideal delivery of her twins, the two women at last broke free of the overly-crowded palace, and made their way hand-in-hand toward the Night Garden. It was not an exaggeration that the entire kingdom had gathered to celebrate the birth of Galeyn’s first babies in over a century; the further they veered from that gathering, the fewer people, Gardeners included, happened to cross their paths. Lilica imagined the only two people who they would find not to be caught up in the impromptu celebration were the Sybaian and Clematis healers, who had been attending Vega Sorde since the very beginning of her pregnancy.
And that was, in fact, the case. Knocking quietly upon the sanctuary door, Lilica and Chara instantly felt as though they were overcrowding the small, intensive infirmary, which comprised a still-unconscious Elespeth Rigas, the two attending physicians, the new mother, and her two brand new babies. “We beg your pardon, Your Highness.” The dark mage quietly offered, bowing her head in greeting. “I debated disturbing your much needed rest, but… it also struck me as negligent that Galeyn’s own Queen not congratulate the new mother of this kingdom’s current reason for celebration.”
Vega, albeit pale and weary from the ordeal earlier that morning, did not appear offended in the least, however. She held one of the newborns against her chest, while Daphni was occupied with the other twin, who was throwing more of a fuss in her arms. “‘Your Highness’ is completely unnecessary. I introduced myself to you as Vega, Your Majesty. So ‘Vega’ will do just fine.” The Eyraillian princess smiled, blinking the urge to sleep from her eyes. It wasn’t as though motherhood allowed for much shut-eye, anyway. “I am glad you decided to pay me a visit--and you as well, Lady Chara. This seems to be the only way I will be seeing anyone for the next week or so. Neither of these fine healers are even willing to budge on helping me up to so much as take a bath.”
“Consider it a luxury of new motherhood that you have people willing to give you a sponge bath, Vega.” Daphni quietly interjected, arching an eyebrow as she rocked a fussy, swaddled Klara in her arms. “Not many complain about being waited on, hand and foot. You’ll regret your dismay once you are up and walking again.”
The reason behind Vega’s bedridden state had not escaped Lilica, and her smile faded at the very edges, noting that the Eyraillian’s look of discomfort must easily be stemming from more than lack of sleep and an adjustment to full time motherhood. “Word travels fast in a small kingdom… are you well, Vega?” She asked, with genuine concern. “I understand there were complications…”
The Eyraillian princess’s own smile did not even threaten to break, her once fierce blue eyes now soft with love as she looked down at the slumbering infant on her chest. “Lilica… if I may address you casually, as well. I realize how this must appear, to you. How I flew in from my kingdom on a whim and took your people into my own hands because I was so desperate to do something, than sit and wait for my husband to return… but, truth be told, I knew I needed to be here. I knew my babies needed to be born, here. Galeyn and the Night Garden…” She paused, as if contemplating her next words, and sighed quietly. “It saved my life. It gave me the chance to be here for my children… to be part of my family, nurture them and watch them grow. As much as I love Eyraille, I am not sure I’d have had the same chance, there…”
“You know you are welcome to remain in Galeyn for as long as you wish,” Lilica cut in to assure her. “You always have been welcome, Vega. You have been nothing but helpful, and you have given my kingdom a reason to rejoice--which is more than I have been able to give them. In fact,” her smile managed to return, “I would probably do well to learn from you. Someone who has been a leader in the public eye for quite some time.”
“I… am not so sure that I am the one you should talk to, I’m afraid. Eyraille--some of it, at least, has resented me since I abdicated, Lilica. Because I had that option, and I took it. Some of them resented me more when they learned I had become pregnant out of wedlock, and now… the first babies born to the monarchy were not even born on Eyraillian soil. If I am being honest…” Vega sighed again, and it seemed much sadder than before. “It still stands as to whether my own kingdom will welcome me back. But that is neither here, nor there, right now. I do not want to presume that you are interested in being the first Galeynian, besides the healers, Gardeners and wetnurse to hold my children, but as Galeyn’s reigning monarch, I offer you the opportunity, should you wish to take it. So that you can return to the grand celebration taking place and report first-hand to your people that you have held them.”
If it were possible, the Galeynian Queen went a shade paler and cleared her throat. “I am ashamed to admit this, but I… I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about so much as holding an infant, Vega.”
“Well, you and my husband have that in common--and he learned rather quickly.” The Skyknight said, and her smile stretched into a grin. “Now is as opportune a time as ever. I’ll offer you Kynnet; he happens to be the quiet one. I imagine I will never hear the end of it from Haraldur that it is our daughter happens to be the fussy one, of the two. Best prepare myself that he will liken her to me, every chance he gets.”
With an encouraging look from Chara, Lilica stepped forward with uncertainty, and knelt to take the dozing infant boy in her arms. Although he squirmed, he did not open his eyes in the transfer. “He is quiet because he is content. Because he was born of love.” The dark-haired Queen said quietly, after a moment of complete silence. “And your daughter… she fusses because she knows it is safe. That she can cry and cry, and you will still hold her, until she stops crying.” She smiled down at Kynnet Sorde, suddenly realizing what people meant when they told new mothers, your baby is perfect. Because any baby brought into the world with love was perfect.
“You are welcome to try and hold Klara, lady Chara, if you so desire. She fusses with Daphni because she refuses to be assertive with her.” Vega piped up with a knowing smile. “Something tells me you will not show her the same passiveness.”
It was anyone’s guess as to just how deeply Hadwin had accepted the Dawn Warrior’s gratitude, but whatever his sentiment, she had the slobber and teeth marks on her sleeve to prove she’d at least tried… and it felt good. Almost as good as letting go of a grudge. Something about speaking it aloud, putting it into words and calling it a ‘happy ending’... because it was. Because, with Gaolithe no longer a looming threat over her life and happiness, she could have Naimah, and there didn’t have to be an end to their togetherness. And all because a nosey wolf had decided to be the catalyst of her newfound love life…
As she wandered back toward the spectacle, at which point the green-clad illusionist had taken the stage (much to the disappointment of all of the women who had come to see Hadwin, alone), it took her no time to spot her taller-than-life cousin toward the back of the crowd where she had left him. “It’s not about having a big heart, by the way,” she told him, in response to his earlier comment. “I simply don’t really have it in me to despise the person who brought Naimah and myself together, it seems. It’s easier on my mind to be at a neutral standing with him; and anyway, he is the kind of person who can make your life a living hell, if he sees fit. Better to not be on his bad side. Where did Naimah go?”
Asking after the Kariji woman’s absence, Haraldur explained she had gone to heed the call of nature after liberally imbibing in the wine that Galeyn had provided for the celebration. “Did she just leave? Good--because there’s something I need to get off my chest, and I feel far more comfortable telling you while your drunk, so that if you call me on it later, I can pretend you dreamt it in an inebriated stupor, or something.” Suddenly appearing uncharacteristically self-conscious, and more like the sky warrior she had been before Naimah had come into her life, Sigrid stared down at the toes of her boots and worried the tip of her braid. “This might sound ridiculous, I know… because I haven’t known for her particularly long. Only a few months, and not all of them spent together, but… but even then, it feels so right to have her in my life. She is someone I want to hold onto, someone I want to protect from this world so that no one and nothing else will ever hurt her. And as selfish as it is… I want to be the one to do it, alone. To love her, protect her, go leaps and bounds beyond my comfort zone just to make her happy. I think…” Her voice faltered, and heat crept into her cheeks, staining them as red as the roses blooming in the Night Garden. “No, not think. I know… that I want to marry her. I’ve known for quite some time, but to be honest, I am not sure if I’ll ever find the courage to tell her, because it would be the end of my if she did not feel the same way. And not many people can end me, I’ll say that, but Naimah… she could.
“I’m not even sure why I am telling you this.” Sigrid huffed a sigh that was partially a laugh in spite of herself. “You and Vega proposed simultaneously; it isn’t as though you can give me any advice. Maybe I just needed to say it out loud, to someone, so they can tell me it’s a bad idea before I go and potentially mess up a really good thing I’ve got going with a really good person.”
Chara, not known for her patience, found workarounds when it came to listening to the woes of the people she loved. While she was always quick to dismiss their troubles, because dwelling on a topic seemed supremely unproductive to her, she often cleared out some space in the judgmental side of her brain to try and understand why her loved ones suffered so many self-image problems. Recent events contributed to her empathy insofar as she had struggled for months following Mollengard’s violations of her freedom, her body, and her magic. Following her and Teselin’s escape, the long road of recovery forced her to address all that she lost, including herself. Bereft of all meaning, she had desired erasure. She was too cowardly to erase her life, but she could transform into a nobody and blend in with all the other nobodies milling about the streets of some nondescript village in the mountains, content in the removal from the excess and glamour of her previous existence. Perhaps she was still recovering from this dangerous mindset. She had declared her intentions to advise Lilica from within the shadows, but in Alster’s absence, she had no choice but to return the mantle of Rigas leadership upon her own hesitating shoulders. The transition wasn’t as painful as she had anticipated, but a strange sort of surreality painted her every interaction as a leader, a sort of mirror-world that differed so drastically from her initial stint as Rigas Head that the changes between old Chara and present Chara were too jarring to compare. It did her little favors, to look back on the person from before Mollengard’s...influence. Every day, she resolved to focus on the ‘now,’ and the assertion seldom led her astray.
Lilica, however, was a different story. She had not yet accepted her role as Queen of Galeyn, because her thoughts too often lingered on past events. She was too fixated on the unchangeable that she failed to hone in on the numerous opportunities parading in front of her nose. The old Chara, surely, would get cross with Lilica’s fruitless wallowing, demanding she cease her self-pity and cast aside her crippling doubts. The current Chara, while spouting similar sentiments, had removed the edge from her voice, no longer as desperate to pop those annoying, niggling kernels of doubt out of her partner’s head as though they were some debilitating disease which, if allowed to proliferate, would send her to a premature death. They were natural, even essential manifestations of a person, and it was imperative that Chara maintained an open dialogue for Lilica’s concerns. To dismiss them outright was to let them remain unaddressed, festering--and the last thing the chthonic mage needed was another toxic environment, with another toxic person.
“No, you are not taking it too far,” she reassured. “These are valid points--and I am accustomed to hearing of these existential questions of the spirit, from Alster, himself. He is also guilty of prompting the happiest of philosophical musings.” Her eyes roved heavenward. “Constantly. But if you are suggesting that you were born ‘evil,’ then you, too, must prescribe this ‘truth’ of yours to the inherent evil borne in all infants--including the very two children we are soon to visit. And far be it for me to tell a new mother, to her face, that her children, by nature of the magic running through their veins, will turn into a blight on humanity. Because, Lilica, if you are sincere in believing you were born to do harm, then it would not matter if you grew up in a loving, supportive family. Though,” she brushed out the wrinkles of her crimson dress, “I do think it is rather presumptuous to conclude that the world is by default, ‘evil.’ Quite an insulting opinion, really. The world is indifferent, Lilica. Indifferent. It does not care what you become. It only created you, but it had no hand in your destiny. It is random chaos, and your circumstances were random chaos. It was you all along, Lilica--not a thing inside of you. It certainly influenced you, but it was never some invasive alien entity like the Serpent. It was you, but it is all over, and the world is, again, indifferent to your current, better, situation. There is no harm in embracing what you have.” She touched the side of Lilica’s face, buffing away the moisture that threatened to pool into a shallow well of tears.
“I cannot tell you to stop blaming or hating yourself, but my hope is that one day you can learn to care a little less about what already happened and focus on what you have, now. Do not worry about appearing as stable or unstable, either. The Galeynians have seen you at your worst. Anything you do from that fateful evening is an improvement. You’ve set the bar, Lilica--your self-image can only recover from that point. Moreover, it is my job to protect your image, so leave it to me, and I will smooth over any social faux pas you will inevitably commit--which will be often. Because of course you need my help.” A wry smile touched her normally austere facial expression. “Now, if we are settled on our respective roles, it is nigh time we escape this embarrassment of a celebration, before I decide to stay and overhaul this dreaded formation. It is quickly getting out of hand.”
With that, the queen and her advisor filed out of the ballroom, a feat made easier once the latter motioned for the Galeynians blocking the door to move out of their way or she would take their sign of disrespect as an invitation to deny them an audience with the Eyraillian father. In silent head-bobs of apology, they stepped aside, clearing the path for their ruler and her one-person entourage.
“And that is how you do it, Lilica,” she brushed her hands together in victory as they reached the exit to the Night Garden and passed into the refreshing, always summer, but never hot nor humid, air. “You must exert your presence. You cannot be a fly on the wall or cow to your own subjects.The onus will be on you if they do not acknowledge you as a rightful queen in charge of their kingdom. Do not be afraid to generate a few ripples--your Majesty.”
When they reached the quaint hut nestled into a moss-covered promontory, Lilica and Chara knocked gently on the door, and were given clearance to enter by the Clematis healer, who, donned in his signature red jerkin, gave Chara cause to wonder if it was the only outfit he owned--and how often the hygiene-obsessed healer washed it.
“As Rigas Head of a nation that, frankly, is defunct and does not have any sovereign pull here in Galeyn, it is still custom to offer my congratulations to the birth of your children,” she hesitated, “Vega.” Seeing as they had no commonalities aside from their circle of mutual friends, she, to avoid any awkward gaps in conversation, added, “I am certain Alster will be disappointed to discover that he missed this momentous occasion. He is always so keen on being present for everything. I suppose,” she tossed her head in the direction of the comatose Elespeth, “his wife is acting as his proxy. I am curious to know, whenever she awakens, if she remembers hearing what we’ve said in her vicinity. I should be careful then, not to badmouth her.”
Whilst Lilica and Vega took turns with their (rather insufferable) back-and-forth praises to one another, (to which she took some umbrage; were her teachings of leadership somewhat lacking, that Lilica had to approach someone with comparatively more experience in running a kingdom!?) Chara’s eyes roved to the two newborns. As she was present for the “naming” ceremony, she had learned one was named Klara and the other, Kynnet. A baby of indeterminate gender wailed in Daphni’s arms, disinterested in the gentle cadence of the Sybaian’s voice or her attempts to lull the baby to sleep. The baby did not want to sleep, at all. The second baby, conversely, was all too content to slumber against his mother’s breast, bloated with milk and with love. Chara cursed the needle pricks of contagious, kingdom-wide maternal-mindedness that called her to lift a baby and...do something with it. She didn’t know what; she’d never held a baby, before. Rigas births were sporadic, and none had been born in her short tenure as Head.
The opportunity soon presented itself, to Lilica, anyhow, when offered to interact with the newborns. Clamping a hand on the Galeynian Queen’s shoulder before she could retreat from the baby, Chara’s meaningful gaze seared a message for Lilica alone to read. You will not poison him. There is no ‘evil’ to transmit. When she obliged, and cradled the sleeping baby like a vase about to break, Chara gave the chthonic mage a pleased nod. I told you so. See, he does not react to your ‘unholy’ touch. He cannot sense in you the person you once were.
“Yes, I will venture to hold your baby, Vega.” She perked up when Vega extended the offer to her. “I daresay the reason she fusses is because she does not wish to sleep. She is not hungry, either; she is bored. If you would believe it,” she drew a boastful hand to her chest, “I was a model baby. I gave my parents no fuss. You can go ahead and ask Lysander, Lilica. He will vouch for me. No; it was Alster who threw massive, angry fits--so I have heard. Do not be surprised if their roles reverse, when they are older. Your husband will have to withhold his teasing commentary on the twins and their personalities until after they have properly developed a sense of self.”
Outstretching her arms to accept the screaming baby from Daphni, she secured the tiny bundle in a firm yet gentle grip, and lifted the newborn towards the low ceiling--a slow yet deliberate ascent and descent. Gauging to see how the baby reacted to movement, she expanded upon their dance by rotating on her heels in a gradual circle. Klara, whether stunned by this new experience or sated by it, closed her fledgling bird of a mouth and fell into a whimpering silence. “Well,” affixed Lilica with a teasing stare, “by your logic, little Klara does not feel safe enough to fuss in my arms. Perhaps she can recognize that the woman before her is not one to be trifled with, and her silence is of awe.” She gave the newborn a waggle of an approving nod. “I like her. We are similarly named. She will do well in life.”
“As opposed to little Kynnet?” The Clematis healer, sorting through and cleaning his medical tools beside Elespeth’s bed, could not help but input. “Who will do poorly?”
Her shrug was one of dismissal. “I’ve no concerns for Kynnet, either. The Galeynian Queen is holding her. These children have no shortage of blessings.”
Hadwin’s flashy stage exit did not garner much support from the majority-crowd, some of whom dispersed from the crowd as though to search for him. Haraldur, who didn’t want to stay for the duration of the show, now felt guilted into staying for its entirety as a sign of goodwill. Some impulsive, drunk-addled side of him even thought of volunteering to do the knife-throwing act, if it would recapture the interest of the crowd. But he did not act on the thought, because he enjoyed having a moment to be, without the bombardment of hundreds of Galeynians shaking his hand or asking him the same ten questions. Haraldur was never a popular man, and the overwhelmingly positive attention continued to throw him aback. It would fade, over time. He was but a stand-in, beloved by his contribution to the creation of the twins, but not by his contribution to the war-tactics he employed around the perimeter of the palace. Fatherhood aside, he was still a military commander, a relatively unpopular figurehead among a pacifistic kingdom. His image shifted in the course of an entire day, all thanks to the birth of their children. Even if it meant unwarranted attention for the better part of his residence in Galeyn--he preferred the love over the fear. However much he didn’t deserve it.
As the show was nearing to its terminus, Sigrid returned from the backstage area and rejoined him in the crowd. “I can’t understand the differences in his behavior when you are on his good side versus on his bad side. He claims to ‘like’ me, and yet he still fucked around with my head. Telling me I’m not human, and--” he clamped down on his loose tongue. It was not something he had discussed with anyone other than Vega and Teselin, and he wasn’t yet sure he wanted to reveal his suspicions of its truth to anyone else. Not unless he could verify the facts with a knowledgeable person--likely a Gardener. With the birth of the babies, who were doubtless affected by their father’s inheritance, it was of import to uncover the details of his origins. All the same, he did not wish to cause controversy among his children, or burden them with more attention. If it turned out he was not all human...would it change the Galeynians’ perception of him, of his family...of the twins?
Luckily, Sigrid’s preoccupation was on Naimah’s absence, and if she noticed his strange comment, she did not address it. Soon enough, the thought dissolved, like the sparks of the illusionist’s pyrotechnics across the stage, when his cousin mentioned...marriage. “First off, Sigrid. I’m not that drunk, so if you think I’m going to forget what you just said--think again. Second,” he swerved from the direction of the stage, giving the shorter woman (but not by too much), the full brunt of his attention, “it’s not ridiculous. While I’ve known Vega for years, our rare interactions were superficial. Strictly business--and I had a wife, back then. When we reunited by happenstance recently, we only really knew each other for a few months before we married. And though we proposed simultaneously, I took the first step, completely unaware of what she’d been planning to do. Hell,” he shook his head with the memory, an amusing anecdote in hindsight, but a nerve-wracking experience at the time, “I had to ask the king for permission to marry her, and he hated me for a while. To wed her without eloping, I had to ‘woo’ him, too--it wasn’t easy. So I assure you, Sigrid, I have enough experience to dole out advice.” He smiled, traces of sorrow clinging to the edges of his mouth. “I’ve done it twice.”
Coughing out the threat of a somber mood into the back of his hand, he gently separated Sigrid from the crowd, not straying far from their original location in case Naimah returned to search for them. “But even if I’m ‘qualified,’ my advice isn’t too helpful--because both times, I didn’t know what I was doing. But I...I knew that I wanted her in my life, indefinitely, and I had to believe she would say yes. It sounds like you’re feeling the same. You need her--but you’re not sure if she needs you. Not in the way you need her, anyhow. But if you don’t ask, then you’ll never know.” He lowered his hand from the Dawn Warrior’s shoulder. “It’s a risk--I won’t tell you that it’s not. But, even if she rejects the proposal, she’s not rejecting you. If you’re confident she loves you, too...then it’s no loss to tell her exactly how much you love her, through the gesture of marriage.” He chose to withhold the fact that as a whore, she’d probably heard numerous marriage proposals from clients and the like, but he doubted any of them would reach the same level of genuineness as Sigrid’s would, should she work out the courage to deliver the speech to her heart’s desire. However, they hadn’t any time to discuss the matter further, when the subject of their conversation emerged from the palace, rejoining the two cousins in the slowly dispersing crowd.
“It looks like I missed the finale,” Naimah said, arching her back to see over the heads of the undulating mob of Galeynians.
“You didn’t. They took a slight intermission to set the stage for the final act. But I’m going to miss it.” He jerked his head in the direction of the Night Garden. “I’m ready to retire. I have to make sure Vega hasn’t been driven crazy by two screaming infants when it’s only been day one. Let me know how it goes, ok?” Disengaging from the crowd, he waved farewell to the couple. “And come see us at the sanctuary tomorrow. Both of you. We’ll discuss your guardianship duties, Sigrid. And Naimah--she’ll need your moral support, I’m sure.” Without another word, he dipped out of the noisy atmosphere and returned to the environment he’d dearly missed since the moment he left to attend the party.
Chara did not need to put words to the look that she gave the Galeynian Queen upon the woman receiving the infant in her arms, because Lilica immediately knew what she would say, were it an appropriate moment for words (which it wasn’t). The tiny child did not fall apart in her arms; did not burst into flames or dissolve into nothingness because it was in the hands of someone who was, irrevocably, a killer. That was a piece of herself of which Lilica could never let go, knowing that her own parents had been the first, and not the last to perish at her hands… and now, those very hands were holding a brand new life, but nothing was happening to him. Kynnet Sorde’s little eyes did not so much as flicker open as he was exchanged from one pair of arms to another. Perhaps she could attribute it to the baby’s desire to sleep (if babies ever had such a desire), but the fact remained that Lilica Tenebris wasn’t so poisonous as she’d thought. And somehow, holding this tiny and fragile life form resonated more than verbal reassurances ever could.
“I think I most certainly will ask your father for clarification on your temperament as an infant, Chara,” the Galeynian Queen chuckled, feeling inexplicably… well, warm, as she stood with Kynnet sleeping soundly in her arms. “Not that I am one to boast. I… well, I do not know how I fared, as a baby, to be honest. My parents never mentioned it.” Because they never talked to me. “I do remember as a child… well, very early on, that very little upset me. I cannot recall tantrums on my part. Although… I am not sure my own temperament had anything to do with feeling safe or loved, so much as it had to do with childhood naivete. ” Which was the truth, in so many ways. But while Lilica could not recall being a fussy or resentful child (at least, not up until that one fateful day when everything went horribly wrong), she did remember always feeling very sad. Reaching for her parents when they would not reach back, often left to her own devices, even if she was sick. She remembered the child--no, the children she had seen when Alster had attempted to heal her from the inside out, to close that door that continued to let her toxins flow. The little girl who had been cold and shivering and ever trusting that someone would find her, would make her warm, would take her home… and then, the other child. The girl who did not now how to be happy, did not know how to love or to be loved or to really feel, so she hurt, and she killed. Because at least under those circumstances, she could feel something, even if that something would later lead her to attempt to take her own life. Funny, how pain that once had manifested as passivity had turned into something so… violent.
Lilica was quick to push those thoughts from her mind and change the subject altogether, before memories got the better of her, and she was forced to leave before dissolving into a blubbering mess. “I would not say that Klara doesn’t feel safe, no. Like you said--she is bored. And you are someone new, and I daresay, you have and always have had an air about you that demands respect. Evidently, even infants are not immune to your charm.” She grinned as she turned her attention to the baby girl, who hadn’t gone entirely quiet, but had also ceased in her wailing.
“For someone who is not a mother, that is very intuitive of you, Chara.” Vega commented, gingerly adjusting her position against the pillows propping her up. “Frankly, it didn’t even cross my mind that she might be bored, but it appears your are right… and perhaps, so is Lilica. She has seen enough of me, I think. Would you…” She hesitated, afraid the request might come across as too demanding. “Would you mind holding her for just a little longer? Just to see if she will fall asleep… gods know, I need that child to sleep so that I can.”
“Welcome to motherhood, Vega.” The Sybaian healer quipped, seemingly making an effort not to feel too offended that her purposely calming presence hadn’t been enough to placate the fussy Sorde daughter. “Sleep will likely be a luxury until they are old enough to talk. Especially if their circadian rhythms are not synchronized; which, in twins, isn’t uncommon.”
“I am well aware, Daphni. And I am prepared. It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” the Skyknight princess grumbled, her brows knitting together to meet in the middle.
In spite of the good-natured bickering, Lilica could not help the smile that had formed and stayed on her lips. She now understood the delight of her people in response to the birth of these children, because it reminded her, and them, of how precious new life was, and how monumental it symbolism with regards to a kingdom that had seen no progress, no life or death, for a hundred years. Who’d have thought the mere act of holding a newborn baby would evoke such an emotional response in someone who had never so much as considered having children in her life?
“You do well with her, Chara.” Vega commented, noting how as the moments passed, the fussy Sorde daughter finally began to find some semblance of an infant’s sense of calm. “If not for the fact Haraldur was so emotionally invested in asking Sigrid to be a guardian to fussy Klara, you would otherwise be a prime candidate. When Alster returns from his journey… we plan to ask him if he would accept guardianship over Kynnet. He and Elespeth, both…” Her gaze strayed to the comatose woman in the bed at the other side of the room. Vega had thought it might be eerie, sharing the sanctuary with someone in the former knight’s state, but instead… she only found it sad. “I trust him to speak on Elespeth’s behalf, as well. Of course, it will be some time before I am able to safely return to Eyraille with my children, so in case you’re interested,” she smiled sheepishly, “you are always welcome to calm down that little blessing if you happen to have the time. Something tells me Sigrid will be more than happy to pass the baton when she gets the opportunity. And, Lilica,” she averted her gaze to the Galeynian Queen, “you are welcome to permit some visitation on the part of your people; I know they’d like to see the twins up close and personal. Of course, I’d only ask that they not all come at once… if that is even possible.”
“I am not sure that I can guarantee that,” the Galeynian Queen confessed guiltily. “Considering the people of Galeyn didn’t even think to consult me before trying to organize this celebration. However…” She averted her gaze to Chara and flashed a knowing smile. “I know someone who is more than capable of helping me keep them in line.”
Haraldur didn’t have to mention the particularities of Naimah’s profession, and the fact that Sigrid was more than likely not her first love interest, nor the first person to propose to her. For someone who overthought every possible wrong angle of every social situation, that possibility had already occurred to her. “I would venture to guess that I wouldn’t be the first to ask her to wear a ring for me,” she murmured, as if reading his mind while he neglected to mention the same suspicion. “And we haven’t known each other long, and she knows she was… my first. For practically everything. What if she thinks me naive? Just another person infatuated with her winning smile and irresistible personality? Hell, maybe I am naive, but I know what I want, and I know who I love and who I need… and I need her. I love her. But if I am being honest… I don’t think she does need me the same way. Even if she cares, it might… not be the same.”
Sigrid’s shoulders slumped and her brow furrowed, a rare look of utter vulnerability crossing her sun-tanned features. “Naimah is quite possibly the strongest person I know. She was well-off before I was around, in terms of standing on her own two feet. She has been through what I daresay was worse than what I experienced, and she learned to become stronger for it. She does not need me the way I need her, because she can thrive just fine without me. I might have been the same way, once, but… not anymore. I realized this when she was avoiding me.” The Dawn Warrior stared at the tips of her boots, far too ashamed to so much as look up at her cousin. “All I could think of was her, and how I wanted to see her, and how I should approach her but was too afraid, in case she didn’t want to see me… So I’ve got a lot to lose, if she were to refuse me. But Naimah’s got nothing to lose. I don’t know… I don’t even know the words. How I would ask her, or when. Because there might never be a right time.”
Realizing at this point that she was just venting, the Sigrid shook her head and rubbed the side of her nose, finally taking her eyes off her boots. “Forget it. I just needed to get this off my chest.” She said at last, looking as though she’d just gone through an ordeal by confiding as much. “I was hoping you would tell me I was crazy and not to go through with it… but you won’t give me that, will you? So now I’m going to have to figure out exactly when and how to do this--and how to brace myself for her refusal…”
The conversation came to a halt when the very topic of conversation returned, at which point the life of the party decided to cop out of any further celebration. “You’re the guest of honour, and you’re already leaving your party?” Sigrid snorted, folding her arms. “Well, I guess I can’t blame you, considering just hours ago you were pre-grieving for your wife and family. Go get some rest. If it suits me tomorrow, maybe I’ll…” Her words took a turn at a single look from Naimah. The Kariji woman was right: she couldn’t deny her, even when she hadn’t verbally asked. “...we will definitely see you at the sanctuary. But I warn you, do not expect me to know anything about babies.”
Watching his back as her cousin retreated, Sigrid deflated her lungs in a deep sigh and nervously scratched the back of her head. “I certainly hope you realize I am going to depend on you heavily, if he puts me up to any tasks with those infants.” She warned Naimah, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Babies frighten me. They’re so easily breakable, and I am not exactly a dainty woman by any means… so help me if he asks me to hold them.”
Part of her was hoping that both Haraldur (and Naimah) would have forgotten that specific request the next day--but the Dawn Warrior had no such luck. After taking time to awaken the next morning, she opened her eyes to find that Naimah was already up and ready, dressed in those bright tones that complemented her skin so well. Making the mistake to inquire as to why she had chosen not to join Sigrid in a particularly lazy morning after a celebration that had gone well into the evening, the Kariji woman reminded her of her promise.
“You’re really going to hold me to this.” The blonde woman groaned, and pulled the covers back over her head in disappointment. “Why not later? It’s not even lunchtime; come on, do we really need to be wearing clothes yet?”
But Naimah did not budge, and frankly, Sigrid hadn’t expected her to; changing the Kariji woman’s mind was not an easy feat to accomplish, and it was evident in the sparkle in her kohl-lined eyes that she was eager to see the newborns, herself. “Alright--alright, I concede. Just… not for too long? The sanctuary is small, and already overcrowded with the new parents, two new babies, two dedicated healers and Elespeth, still deep asleep. I can only handle the close quarters for so long.”
Reluctantly pulling on a tunic and trousers, and weaving her hair into a respectable braid, Sigrid departed for the sanctuary with Naimah on her arm, arriving just a little after lunchtime. The new family was wide awake--all of them, mother and father, including the two infants. It was difficult to tell if they were making fussy noises due to being unhappy in some way, of it that was just what infants did; the Dawn Warrior certainly wouldn’t know the difference.
“Sigrid? And Naimah.” A particularly exhausted Vega looked up, her tired eyes brightening at the arrival of the two. “Haraldur mentioned you might be by, today. I wasn’t sure I believed him until now.”
“Neither was I. He has a way of knowing how to secure my promises.” The Dawn Warrior mentioned, both arms in her hips as she looked between Haraldur and Naimah. “But… I suppose it is necessary, if I am to be Klara’s guardian. So, now that I’m here… perhaps you’d care to explain just what that might entail.”
Noticing how Lilica was close to spiraling downward, into an oversentimental journey to the past, she sidled close to the Galeynian Queen and elbowed her with just enough force to jolt her out of her current headspace. There was a time and a place for dark recollections, and now, before infant twins, a new mother, two healers, and a comatose woman, was not the best opportunity for a breakdown. While it wasn’t necessarily a bad place for a breakdown (considering their presence in a veritable healing hut, surrounded by healers), she suspected Lilica did not wish to join the already crowded room as its latest patient.
In a second attempt to blast the chthonic mage’s memories of self-loathing out of their joyful company, Chara straightened her posture and, with the stifled and stunned baby Klara still in her hands, flicked on her bombast. Mindful of the sound-sensitive babies in the vicinity, it was a bombast on low volume, but nonetheless, no soul in the room was spared Chara in her most exaggerated, egotistical state. She, a peacock, commanded the attention to all who would pay her heed. With Klara as her unwitting accomplice, she was impossible to ignore. So much for lingering in Lilica’s shadow; the Galynian Queen could not yet stand on her own, much as Chara primed and prepared her for public appearances daily. She needed someone to hide behind, at least until she gained her bearings, and the Rigas Head was more than glad to volunteer herself as the shield, whilst the true queen sorted out her baggage in the background.
“Yes. Young Klara does well to recognize greatness,” she boasted, in a high-toned, over-the-top cadence. “She is more than welcome in my company, whenever you or your husband sees fit, Vega.” Chara resumed the “dance” with the whimpering newborn, swinging her low and high and speaking to her as though she were a tiny subject in her nonexistent kingdom. So dense was the shield of pompousness erected over her, that anyone would fail to see the...delight she took in both handling the baby and in the request to visit and visit often--as a supplement to Sigrid and her guardianship duties. “Yes, yes, of course. Should I have the time, I would not mind pitching in to ease your twofold burden. Even when Alster returns and awakens his sleeping princess, he, too, is going to need some instruction. If you imagine Sigrid will have trouble interacting with a newborn, Alster is doubly hopeless. He does poorly around young children. If I am being honest, it is quite the sight to see. It is though they can sense he does not fancy them and they search him out in droves. There we go, Elespeth--” she directed her speech to the unresponsive woman in the corner. “I did not badmouth you, but your husband is fair game.”
“I cannot fault him.” Elias, who stepped away from administering some liquid nutrients into the tube system he’d rigged around the slumbering Elespeth, pulled off his gloves and rinsed his hands in the washbasin. “Children are walking dirt clods and are, by large, inconsiderate and selfish. While you may begin to count down the days until you can enjoy a full night of sleep, Vega, it is a trade-off. Newborns cannot run away, roll around in mud, or toss insects into your mouth while you sleep.”
Chara exchanged a curious look with the Clematis healer. “This sounds like a personal experience. Do you have any younger siblings?”
Elias dried his hands on a towel and approached the circle gathered around Vega. “Older brothers. Who acted just the same. There was no difference, I assure you.”
“I always wanted a younger sibling. It would have been nice to have someone to torment. But I suppose being in charge of a group of people holds similar. Speaking of--” Chara returned Lilica’s smile with a devilish glint in her eyes, “it is a challenge most accepted. Galeynians will not dare to cross the line with me. If they at all value visitation with your two little miracle babies, then they will follow my every instruction, lest they lose the privilege altogether.”
“Good.” The Clematis healer nodded his approval. “Do so, Lady Chara. This is not some sideshow attraction at a carnival. These are two young human lives. I’d rather the family were left alone for the first month, as that is the most vital to the health of the children, but it is ultimately up to the parents what they wish to do.”
“If I can instruct Galeynians to approach Haraldur Sorde in a single-file line and enforce a twenty-second limit per person, then yes, this is a doable feat of mine. By the way, Vega,” she tossed her head, and her smile turned sly, “to visit you and the twins, we had to abandon your husband to the mob. Pray he survived the inevitable stampede on his own.” To her surprise, when she checked on the fussing baby in her arms, she had, at some point, fallen asleep, her shallow but deliberate breaths indicating that she would not stir awake any time soon. “Well, this is unprecedented,” she whispered, as she slowly transferred the baby back to Vega, “I do not inspire people to fall asleep, so I do not know if I view this as a compliment or not, that a baby used my arms as a cradle.”
Haraldur did not interrupt as Sigrid proceeded to rant about her high, almost godly regard for the Kariji woman of her undying affections. She did not exactly want advice from him; rather, she valued his ear, and in particular, hinged on him to condemn her entire proposal as the rantings of a mad-woman.
“That’s not my call to make, Sigrid. To tell you no. That doesn’t help you in making the easier decision, but,” he rocked on his heels, testing his balance now that the effects of the wine were slowly purging out of his system, “is ignoring the problem really a decision, or a lack of a decision? You’ve obviously given a lot of thought to this, and the thought won’t simply vanish if you end up dropping the plan. And if your reasons for opposing it are because you believe she doesn’t love you enough--then you haven’t been paying attention. Which,” he idly rubbed a spot on his shoulder, “is a shared trait among us both. Seeing what we want to see, hearing what we want to hear--and you want to see Naimah as this spotless woman; perfect, patient, loyal, independent, capable. The same traits I’ve attributed to Vega--with the exception of ‘patient,’” he quirked a grin. “I couldn’t understand why she’d ever want me. I couldn’t understand why she continued to want me, even after everything I did to her. But she never hid the truth from me; that she’d fall apart if I left. That she couldn’t do it alone. That even though I couldn’t stand what I’ve become...she didn’t want to lose me. Wouldn’t you say that Naimah acted the same, when she feared losing you?” He turned his head, double-checking to see if the Kariji woman had returned. “Why else would she conspire with us to hide Gaolithe? Why would she dissolve into tears in front of everyone and declare that she was not a strong person until she met you, and that your end would be her undoing? That wasn’t just lip-service, or exaggerations spurred on by the desperation of the moment. I might have been a mere observer to that conversation, but it sounds to me like she needs you, too. Try to put yourself in her perspective, Sigrid. What would she lose, if you left her? If she cares for you like you care for her, I would say...there’s plenty she would lose.”
At the reemergence of the woman to whom they’d been discussing, at length, the two of them promptly ended their conversation and pretended to comment on the individual performances of the Missing Links. When Naimah rejoined their company, Haraldur used the opportunity to retire for the evening, half in want to reunite with his children, half to remove himself from interfering with a couple who were--despite Sigrid’s concerns about her “better” half--very much in love.
“Correction: I am the guest of honor who did not choose to be the guest of honor, at an unplanned party that popped out of nowhere. Seeing as this is all very informal...I think it’s perfectly fine that I duck out whenever I want--wouldn’t you say?”
“Most definitely.” Naimah agreed with the waddle of her head. “Father knows best, after all.”
“Tomorrow, then--”
“Yes.” Naimah gave Sigrid a nudge and a pointed look. She didn’t need to, it turned out, when Sigrid corrected her ‘maybe’ into a ‘definitely.’ “Yes, Haraldur. We will definitely see you and your precious family tomorrow. No matter how much Sigrid tries to slink out of the responsibility, you can rely on me to drag her, kicking and screaming, to the sanctuary, at your request.”
“Thank you, Naimah--for keeping Sigrid honest. Well, if you excuse me…” With a parting wink at the Dawn warrior, Haraldur removed himself from the crowd, allowing Sigrid and Naimah to spend some unadulterated time together...just the two of them.
Naimah knew she was going to have some trouble convincing Sigrid to rise the following morning. The blonde warrior would look for any opportunity to wriggle out of her commitments like a worm escaping the talons of a bird, so it was up to Naimah to close off any escape routes. She excuse-proofed their chambers by rising first--despite her light headache from imbibing too much wine the night before. Not only did she rise, she dressed, laid out Sigrid’s outfit on the bed, called for breakfast, refilled the washbasin, replacing the towels with fresh ones, and waited for the Dawn Warrior to stir on her own--for if she were to wake her partner early, she would use the lack of sleep as an excuse, and the former’s preparations would have been for naught. At last, Sigrid stirred to wakefulness, and Naimah wasted no time in reminding her of their upcoming visit.
“There is food on the table, and a warm basin of water waiting for you. Wash up, Sigrid. I took the liberty of selecting clothes for you to wear. Now, come on.” She clapped her hands together, urging the woman to her feet with an encouraging pop of sound. “We shall have the rest of the day to laze about--after we’ve made our visit. There is nothing more endearing than a woman who keeps to her promises.” As she prompted Sigrid to throw on her clothes, she drew forward, tenderly looping the buttons of her tunic in place. “I understand you are nervous, but this is a private affair, among people you know. I will be there. You are not going to kill a baby with your clumsy hands.” She tingled out a laugh, “Let us be realistic, here. Please,” her jovial voice threatened to crack with the reveal of something more somber; a plea. “You made a wonderful effort yesterday, navigating a party you did not entirely enjoy. It is asking too much to expect you to recovery so shortly after that event, but...if we go now, we do not have to worry about going later. We shall not be long. And then we can do whatever you like.”
It was the encouragement Sigrid needed to wash-up, dress, eat, and head out the door. Minutes later, they knocked at the sanctuary door, after gaining permission from the Forbanne on patrol to pass. As if intuitively aware of the visitors on the other side of the door, it was Haraldur who bid them welcome and waved them inside.
“Hello, Sigrid. Naimah. I told you, Vega,” he called out to his wife, who was rocking Klara to her chest while he secured Kynnet in one burly arm. “She can’t run for the hills if her escape route is blocked.”
“Indeed, if you are inferring I am the blockage, I will take it as a compliment, Haraldur.” Turning to Vega, she curtsied with the hems of her multi-colored skirt. “It is a pleasure to see you, Vega. I pray you are doing better than yesterday. Congratulations on the newest additions to your family. I know I am far from the first person to congratulate you, nor I am the last, but my words are not any less sincere.”
“Thank you, Naimah,” Haraldur pried the wiggling baby off his arm and presented him to the Kariji woman. “Would you like to hold Kynnet? Don’t worry, Sigrid,” he hurried, seeing her skin begin to pale, “you’re not obligated to do any baby-holding if you’re not comfortable.” Accepting the squirming infant, Naimah’s lips parted as she made tutting sounds and rocked the little bundle in easy, pendulous motions. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you, Naimah?”
“Oh--yes.” She shook away the moisture that threatened to cling to my eyes. “I had a little brother. My parents often called for my assistance, so I suppose I became competent in rearing babies.”
“You can have a seat, Sigrid.” The Eyraillian Prince gestured to the closest available bed. “By the way, this is Klara.” He lifted the child from her mother’s chest, calming her baas of protest by tucking her against his heartbeat. “I know we’ve only known each other for two days but I’m predicting she’s going to be a handful. If she’s anything like her mother, she’s going to be fierce and energetic--perfect for a fellow warrior, who can keep up with her activity.” The tiny thing reacher for her father’s finger an caught it in a grip that showed no signs of loosening. “But that’s not till quite a way ahead. For now, she’s still too young. Brand new to this world. There’s not much anyone can do with an infant. So for now, Sigrid--I only ask that you keep her in your mind. Visit her. Let her see your face. Let her know you. When she’s older...that’s when you can really begin your relationship with her. You and Naimah.”
Naimah, half-distracted by the baby she was entertaining, snapped her head to Haraldur, her eyes growing wide. “Sigrid and...I? Have I misheard?”
“No. We think it’s only fair.” He motioned to Kynnet with his chin. “We’re planning on asking Alster and Elespeth for the honor of becoming Kynnet’s guardians. Two guardians for Kynnet, but only one for Klara? Besides,” he teased a smile in his cousin’s direction, “Sigrid can’t do it on her own. So she’ll need help. Vega and I gave it some thought...and we’d love for you to be a guardian to Klara, as well.”
“But,” all the blood rushed to her head, staining her olive-toned cheeks a deep crimson, “but you scarcely know me. I...it is too inappropriate for a whore to--”
“--I have to stop you there, Naimah. You’ve already done so much to help rehabilitate the Forbanne... and to keep Sigrid alive. Seeing as she’s going to ask for your assistance anyway--it’s not too outrageous to give you guardianship status.”
“If...if you insist, but,” she looked to Sigrid for an answer. “This was not your idea, was it? I am not an ideal candidate. I am a nobody. An absolute nobody.” Tears shuddered on her lids. “It is not appropriate for me to have this…”
“I was a nobody, too. In many ways, I still am. Here.” Carefully, he removed Kynnet from Naimah and replaced her empty arms with Klara. “As a co-guardian, it’s only right that you hold her.” Maybe it’ll inspire Sigrid to hold her, too, his unsaid words seemed to carry to the Kariji woman, who nodded in apparent acknowledgment of the message.
“...Thank you. It is…” minding that she did not harm Klara in her movement, she bent forward into a deep dip of a bow, her face marked with tears. “I cannot begin to express my gratitude. My apologies. I am,” she sniffed, glancing sidelong to Sigrid. “Can you fetch my kerchief? I,” she emitted a pitiful laugh, “I must be a mess, right now. I do not want to spill tears on poor Klara.”
She was doing a fair job of hiding it, but there was no use for a facade around Lilica when it came to Chara. The Rigas woman’s pompous, haughty, and self-righteous attitude was only a true character trait insofar as it reared it head whenever the blonde woman saw fit to diminish something else, something she’d rather not have witnessed by others. More often than not, it was a sense of insecurity, something of which the Galeynian Queen also had no shortage and for which she certainly could not fault her capable advisor; merely, it manifested differently for the both of them. But it was not insecurity that Chara appeared to be masking now. Holding that small infant girl in her arms, speaking to her as if she were already a person, rocking her back and forth, up and down so as to quell her supposed boredom… Behind that look commanding gaze in those pure blue eyes was undeniably a look of bliss.
It returned Lilica’s thoughts to their very conversation, not an hour ago… The gentle quaver in Chara’s voice when she had confessed to wanting children. And not just any children, but her own children… It isn’t a passing fancy, the Galeynian Queen thought to herself with a soft smile. You really want this… Then I will make a kingdom safe enough to make it possible, when you are ready.
“Be that as it may, even if it is true, you should give Alster more credit.” She said as a follow up to Chara’s somewhat harmless slight on Alster. “He has already proven time and again that he is willing to step out of his comfort zone, if the occasion calls for it. I am sure that he will happily accept this honour from Vega and Haraldur; as will Elespeth, I have no doubt. Even if it is a learning curve. But, in the event that it takes him some time to get used to it… I daresay, you will have no shortage of people willing--wanting--to care for your beautiful children, Vega.”
“I have a feeling you are right. And I am not sure exactly what sort of upbringing you and your brothers had, Elias,” the Skyknight princess raised a copper eyebrow, “but I can assure you, my children will not be sticking insects in anyone’s ears, if I have something to say about it. Both their mother and father are military commanders. Disrespect of such will not be tolerated… when they’re older, of course.” Her azure eyes softened as they redirected their attention to her children, both who seemed to be faring well in the arms of others. “One step at a time. For now, I fully intend to focus on trying to get them to sleep at the same time…”
“Good luck with that.” Daphni couldn’t help but cut in. Her face flushed upon the realization that her words might have come across as sarcastic; something Elias might be more akin to blurting. “You may find that twins have a lot in common, but synchronized sleep schedules is rarely one of those commonalities. It will sort itself out, eventually, but for the coming week, Elias and I would like to request that you and your husband do rely on some well-intentioned help, now an again, especially after the ordeal you went through this morning. If not from Elias and myself, then from other trusted friends.” She looked pointedly at Chara, who was not only holding fussy little Klara Sorde, but a sleeping Klara Sorde.
The Eyraillian princess nodded her agreement, shifting her body in vain to try and become comfortable. But in the aftermath of an emergency surgery, after months of being pregnant, and her breasts swollen and sore from feeding the hungry infants every couple of hours, there was no getting comfortable. “You won’t find any resistance from me, Daphni. Frankly… I do welcome the attention. I will certainly take care to see to my children’s heatlh, first and foremost, but a month of solitude with my children… to be honest, I don’t think I could do that.” She shook her head slowly, and tucked her copper waves behind her ears. “I spent the majority of my pregnancy alone, and I need people in my life, again. The Galeynians included. And, Lady Chara… you are most certainly welcome to come and visit these infants, whenever you see fit. It seems you have done the impossible, and gotten my daughter to actually sleep.” The look of relief on the young mother’s face was so palpable, it prompted a sigh of relief. “You wouldn’t happen to fancy staying for a couple more hours by any chance, would you?”
“The Galeynians organized this party in your honour, completely without consulting with me, first,” Lilica mentioned, carefully handing young Kynnet off to Daphni in turn. “I’m afraid of what my people might decide to do in my absence, for that long; and I daresay, I am going to need Chara to help sort them out when this party decides to die down. Unless--you’d prefer to stay for a while, Chara?” She felt the need to make the offer to the Rigas woman, realizing it was unfair to speak on her behalf. “I suppose I could try and wrangle the crowd on my own… It is a skill I will have to learn sooner than later, in any case.”
Not at all to her surprise, the proud Rigas woman sputtered some excuse that of course her expertise would be required to sort out the elated Galeynians, and politely promised to return to visit the newborns during a more opportune time. Nevermind the dissonance that Lilica detected in her features; Chara Rigas would not admit to anyone that she might possibly enjoy caring for a baby. “If we run into your husband, we will be sure to try and execute a means of escape for him,” the Galeynian Queen promised, as they approached the doorway. “I have a feeling there is nowhere else he’d rather be than in this safe space with his precious family.”
Following their departure, which was whisper quiet so as not to awaken the two sleeping infants, Lilica waited until they were a ways away before speaking up again. “I never, in the century I’ve been alive, would have guessed that you would be so good with children,” she confided with a chuckle, and laid a hand on the inside of her elbow. “You are a woman of many hidden talents. I think you should take Vega up on her offer--especially if you do not feel that Alster will provide adequate support as a guardian to them. Or, more likely, if the Dawn Warrior is not up to the task.” You looked so happy, holding her, was what was left unsaid. She knew better than to call Chara on such sentiments that she knew the blonde woman would otherwise wish to keep hidden, when more often than not, it would only result in denial, and possible withdrawal from something that secretly brought her joy.
Despite the fact that Sigrid knew well she was helpless to resist Naimah’s wants and needs, the Kariji woman still had her way of convincing the Dawn Warrior to follow suit to her desires without making it seem completely unappealing. Getting out of bed was non-negotiable, but so much less stressful when she neither had to worry about putting together something that resembled a respectable outfit (coordinating colours and styles was not at all her forte) nor fetching a quick breakfast. It did not make the promise to which Naimah had held her any more palatable, but her Kariji companion at least had the sense to realize that Sigrid was not a pleasant personality to be around when she was hungry; and there was no place for a foul mood before a new family with two infants. So however reluctant the Dawn Warrior was to hold fast to her promise, at the very least, she could face it in relatively good humour (or as good as it could be, considering how the idea of being a guardian to a baby tied her stomach in knots).
“I’m not nervous, Naimah,” she heard herself saying, hands falling away from the buttons on her tunic to allow the Kariji woman to lend a hand, instead. She would never say no to her lover dressing her--or undressing her, for that matter. “I just don’t think it is… a good idea. I am not a good fit. The only reason Haraldur suggested it is because he thinks I have some meaningful right to his daughter's guardianship simply because we are related by blood. But blood relations do not always make a decision right.” Realizing she was obviously coming across as nervous, even after she had denied it, the Dawn Warrior cleared her throat and stood from the bed. “I am merely doing my duty looking out for the best interests of my cousin’s children… and I do not believe that my guardianship is within their best interests.”
There was no more excuse for further delay, having already eaten, washed, and dressed. At least the Kariji woman had the sense to recognize that despite what she might (or might not) admit, Sigrid was already far out of her comfort zone, and it was obvious that the only reason she even deigned to entertain Haraldur’s wishes was due to Naimah holding her fast to that promise. But with the promise of doing whatever they wanted after this brief visit… Well, that was enough to spur that boost of courage and determination that she so desperately needed. “Alright. But I am holding you to your promise, too,” she told her, raising an eyebrow. “Anything I want later, if I just put in a little time to humour my cousin? Fine. Anything later, then.”
Sigrid winked conspiratorially before offering her arm for Naimah to take, and putting behind her air of reluctance as they departed their shared chamber. The Kariji woman had a particularly swift pace, so dragging their feet was completely out of the question as they made their way to the small safe haven in at the heart of the Night Garden. Even with her long and muscular legs, the Dawn Warrior at times found it difficult to keep up with her light-footed lover. If she’d ever wished Naimah could walk a little more slowly, then now was the time.
They were greeted with tired smiles upon their arrival. Vega, despite looking as though she hadn’t slept in over a day (which might not have been far from the truth), appeared to be in good spirits, with one of the babies snuggled close to her chest. “I never doubted for a moment, Haraldur. I knew you’d find a way to bring Klara’s guardian to us.” The Skyknight teased, and grinned gratefully at the Kariji woman accompanying the Skyknight. “I thank you for your help in that, Naimah. You truly are someone we can depend on.”
“See, now--I did not allow myself to be dragged out of bed to be treated like a trapped animal.” Sigrid frowned, slighted by the fact she appeared to be the butt of everyone’s joke. “For what it is worth, I did come of my volition.” Even if that volition included some attractive promises on Naimah’s part to make it worth her while, later. “So… which is which?” She nodded at the babies in their parents’ arms. “I realize they are wins, but they are also newborns… so forgive me if I cannot tell the difference.”
Her question was answered when Haraldur offered their son, young Kynnet, to a startled Naimah, who apparently hadn’t thought for a moment the offer might be extended to her. But the Kariji woman took the baby into her arms so naturally, she made it look easy. All the while, Sigrid silently fretted taking Klara into her arms, for fear she might accidentally drop the poor child. To her relief, her cousin did not force his infant daughter into her arms, and offered her a seat instead, which she gratefully took. Just being around the two new lifeforms felt exhausting, and they weren’t even being fussy. “I’ll remind you, Haraldur, that I was far from a model child, from what I can recall. If there was a way that I could get into trouble, you can bet I would find it. Are you sure that is the sort of influence you wish your daughter to have?” Her mouth curled into a grin, though her expression softened around her eyes as she took in the sight of young Klara, grasping tightly at her father’s finger. So young, and already testing her own strength. “If you only wish for me to visit her, for now… I can do that. It is not out of my comfort zone, nor beyond the realm of possibility for me.”
It didn’t strike her as even mildly odd that Haraldur would include Naimah in his request to visit young Klara, but the beautiful Kariji woman seemed completely taken aback as though she felt very out of place--not unlike how Sigrid felt, around these babies. “He is right, you know. There is no way I can master guardianship on my own. You’ve held and cared for babies,” she pointed out kindly, her grin fading to a soft smile as Naimah turned to her. Upon realizing that the Kariji woman needed more than a smile, right now, the Dawn Warrior stood from her seat and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“I didn’t put him up to this; this is just Haraldur, for you. He likes to pull the rug out from under your feet when it suits him.” She shot her cousin a brief, knowing glance. “But, for this… he isn’t wrong. You’re not a nobody. You are so much more than you think you are, and more integral to my life--and therefore, my family’s lives--than you realize. I am the one with a history of poor, destructive behaviour. Klara is going to need someone with a level head to look up to. I daresay she won’t get it from me--or her parents.”
“No offense taken.” Vega interjected, but only went as far as to arch an eyebrow, recognizing this was a fragile moment.
With the clean sleeve of her tunic, Sigrid gently dabbed away the tears streaking Naimah’s cheeks as Haraldur switched calm Kynnet out with animated Klara. The infant squirmed for a moment in the Kariji woman’s arms, her own arms extended and reaching for something, anything, to entertain her. “So you’ll do with me? Try to make some impact on this impressionable little life form?” She asked softly, and was pleasantly relieved when Naimah agreed. “Well, then… suddenly, this task doesn’t seem so daunting. Does that suit you, little Eyraillian Princess?” The Dawn Warrior asked the infant, offering her own hand for the baby to grasp. Klara took the offering and latched into Sigrid’s index finger, with a grip the suggested she thought it now belonged to her. So interacting with an infant wasn’t so terrifying, after all... “You’re right, Haraldur. She’s got her mother’s fire. Congratulations; you’re going to have your hands full.”
“You’re too kind, Sigrid.” The Skyknight rolled her eyes and pouted. “Although… I suppose I deserve that. In return for agreeing to be a guardian to Klara, you have my word not to use my authority over you, again.”
“So you won’t send your guards after me for avoiding a party?”
“No. Besides,” a knowing smile lit up her tired face, “you now have Naimah to keep you in line. And she’s damned good at it.”
Upon returning to the sanctuary the evening following The Missing Links performance, Haraldur stepped through the doors to find nothing amiss. No crowds of Galeynians packed inside like seamen on a long voyage belowdecks, and no valued friends and allies--beyond the two healers who seemed a fixture tied to the health of their children, indefinitely. Despite the intermittent bleats and whimpers of their two children, the sight of his family, safe and secure, recovering and relaxing amidst the surrounding chaos stirred up in their names, brought in Haraldur a rare sense of peace and fulfillment. It would not last, the practical side of him warned. Beyond this day, your children will not bring you peace. Not for a long time…
But it’s the sliver of madness I asked for, he retorted, pushing away the naysaying voice that spouted its obvious truths. He never shied away from hard work. He’d been working since he could comprehend how to swing a woodcutting axe, string a fishing line, or collect peat in the bogs for fire. Since the day his mother passed giving birth to his sister, he was ultimately responsible for a young life, and though he was young, himself, he toiled and struggled to cultivate in her the enriching soil required for her growth. But she was fragile, and brief. Unlike the hardy snowdrops that spouted in the early spring, which proliferated when the snowmelt emptied into the rivers and verdant fuzz overtook the valley, she wilted in his arms, and crumbled into the earth.
But also like the snowdrop, it returned, every year, rebirthed, hanging off its stalks like dewdrops of milk, dripping into hungry, eager mouths. The children he sired shared the same story as the sister of his childhood. They opened like petals eager to see the sun.
I’ll have actual peace when I’m dead, he told the voice. This is the closest to perfection that I’ll ever reach in this life. And I couldn’t be happier.
Therefore, when he slipped quietly through the door to his family and greeted his wife, he did not collapse on the bed out of physical, social, and alcohol-induced exhaustion. Though his eyelids stung and burned whenever he blinked, and his head swam through inescapable fog, he smiled and offered to watch the children while Vega slept. While accepting occasional help from the healers (who also had not retired since conducting the birth of the twins), Haraldur took the brunt of the work--and purely for selfish reasons.
“You got to know your mother plenty when you were inside her,” he whispered to the fidgeting infants, their eyes finally showing signs of sleep. Before he continued his one-sided conversation with the oblivious babies, he double-checked to make sure Vega, along with the two healers, had gone to bed. “But I want you to know Papa, too. He was not always a good man. He ran from you and your mother out of fear of hurting you.” Scooping the two bundles into the warmest of embraces, he kissed each one on their pink, bulbous heads. “Vega wants us to share you with all of Galeyn...but I don’t want to share you. Not yet. Not when we’ve only met, and there’s so much I need to do--to help you feel safe with me. To prove that I’ll never hurt you. Not as I’ve done before, to others.” He closed his eyes, fluttering out the moisture generated by the ever-present burning beneath his lids. “Everyone is so eager to know you. It can get overwhelming. I’m overwhelmed on your behalf. It’s not fair those who’ve helped us along the way...but I don’t want any more people to come between us. To lose you in the crowd...I don’t want to lose you when I’ve just met you. I don’t want you to forget your father...among all those other eager, loving faces so desperate to hold you and have you for themselves. No.” Somewhere in the middle of his monologue, Kynnet fell asleep. Klara, in open rebellion against her brother, stretched around in the tight swaddling of her blanketed chrysalis, as if ready to emerge as a butterfly and dash out the sanctuary. Our time was brief, papa, but I must go, her constant squirming implied. All of Galeyn needs to see me fly.
Don’t leave without me, Klara. Not again.
Not again…
The next morning came, after some sporadic sleeping by all the caretakers in the sanctuary, who took turns in cycles. The babies required feeding almost every two hours, which drained their mother, to the extent where she almost voiced aloud her desire for a wetnurse. Almost. Haraldur did not sleep more than he willed his body into practiced soldier-readiness, a shallow meditation, ever-aware of his conscious space and the threats in his vicinity. At the slightest stirring of activity, he was awake and snapping to attention. Their first full day as a cohesive family unit was fraught with wailing children, a few uninvited Galeynians hoping to sneak past the Forbanne guards for an unsanctioned visit, clandestine runs to fetch breakfast (for he’d rather trust himself to deliver the food over a nosy Galeynian attendant), and threats to call the wetnurse if Vega did not pace herself to heal from the trauma of her surgery. It was only when they managed to carve out a precious moment of calm that they received the knock on their door, and Haraldur welcomed Sigrid and Naimah into the sanctuary.
It was in witnessing how Naimah held gentle Kynnet, bouncing the infant with expert rhythm, that he knew he’d come to the correct decision, involving the Kariji woman in the care of their children. Among the expansive roster of volunteers willing to raise the twins ‘alongside’ their parents (which to Haraldur, meant they all wanted shared custody--and he visibly shuddered when some well-meaning bloke at the party cheerily said, ‘It takes a village,’ to the unanimous bobbing of Galeynian heads), Naimah was a solid and trustworthy choice. After all, if the emotionally-reserved and mistrusting Sigrid found her worthy enough of marriage, she was more than worthy in contributing to the welfare of their childrens’ lives.
“Yes. You’ve got me all figured out, Sigrid.” he said, grinning when Kynnet curled his toes inward, reacting to his father’s tickling touch. “I like to throw people into hot water. And I’m definitely a bad influence on the twins, too. Naimah, you can’t do much worse in lending a hand to their development than the Forbanne Prince,” he snorted at Hadwin’s commonly used nickname for him, “and the Runaway Princess. We’re not the most ideal, faultless parents around. I’d say you have more moral integrity than anyone in this room--well,” he acknowledged the two healers, “almost.”
“I beg to differ.” The sardonic healer crossed his arms over his chest. “I have no moral integrity.”
“I...I see.” Naimah’s shaky smile did not stave off the ready stream of her tears, but she thanked Sigrid for her role as human handkerchief, brushing away the offending moisture from her cheeks. “Then...then I accept. If it will bind you to your duties to this family, Sigrid.” Though her smile twitched wider, it faltered when she added, “to your family.” Before a new stream of tears threatened to flush out the kohl rimmed around her eyes (the majority of which now clung to Sigrid’s soiled sleeve), she laughed as the tiny, willful Klara accepted the Dawn Warrior’s finger as her newest acquisition, a trophy for her and her alone. “Yes, it appears Klara has quite the fiery spirit. If she takes after her mother, then,” she tilted her head at Haraldur, “will Kynnet resemble his father? Tell me, Haraldur. What was your temperament, as a child?”
“I sure hope not,” Haraldur peered into the sleepy Kynnet’s half-closed eyes. “I imagine I was pretty serious. No time for play when there was work to do.”
She furrowed a curious brow. “And what is wrong with ‘serious’? You were hard-working and responsible. These are valuable traits to instill in your child. Believe me, you will want a calmer twin when the other one is running amok and learning bad habits from Auntie Sigrid.” With a teasing hiss, she leaned against the blonde warrior, looking away from her partner only once to affix Haraldur and Vega a silent expression of victory. Unprompted, Sigrid willingly made contact with a baby. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and a hopeful sign of good tidings to come. Gaolithe is gone, she reminded herself. She had to believe it was gone. Gone, gone, gone.
It would not disrupt their lives again.
A few days after his grandiose escape from an ensnaring pack of hormonal women, Hadwin rearranged his priorities, restricting his sexual escapades to whores and men (with Briery being the only and obvious exception). To make himself scarce, the faoladh either whiled away his time at the Missing Links caravan or embarked on frequent explorations of Galeyn outside the palace. There wasn’t much keeping him tied to the heart of Galeyn anymore; after the smitten Dawn Warrior finally held up her end of the bargain and apologized to Teselin, it was on the day the summoner was heading off to the farmhouse for an extended stay with Tivia. Since Vitali’s departure, she often visited the outskirts to lend a helping hand with the workload. Whether the star-seer appreciated the company was another story.
Too restless to remain in one place for too long, Hadwin wandered around the countryside, taking sinuous, roundabout pathways into nooks of civilization, or anything remotely exciting. Unfortunately, Galeyn was a rural nation dominated by farmers. Villages were too small and tight-knit to offer anything like a proper tavern, with proper alcohol or proper entertainment. Boredom quickly set in, but not because of the predictable discovery that rural-folk valued work-ethic above a good time (the impromptu yet ultimately wholesome birth party for the Sorde twins notwithstanding). It was because she did not come for him. Short of wearing his flashy Missing Links outfit around Galeyn, he could not make his intentions more obvious to the huntress in the woods. Here’s your chance. You want me dead, so do the deed.
She never rose to his bait. Also predictable...and disappointing.
Riding on the heels of his conversation with Briery at the party, Hadwin resolved to do something about his sister. What that something was, he didn’t know. He’d have it all figured out once they reunited, face to face, but they never did meet, and he couldn’t track her scent, let alone single out her lingering essence anywhere he traveled.
She was avoiding him.
Had she changed her mind? Envisioned a more diabolical plan involving not his death, but someone else’s death? Did she rule out annihilation by her hands as too merciful for his ilk? Or--she actually wasn’t a dumbass like him, and wouldn’t rise to his bait. She was too cautious to seek out his specific brand of chaos and meddling. No, she wouldn’t reveal herself to him--but, he may yet succeed in catching her off guard. She was bound to make a mistake, or make a move--one or the other. Once she did, she’d have to expose herself in the open...and he would pounce.
A morning of mind-numbing wandering led Hadwin, at last, to a settlement. It was not a random settlement, either. His aimlessness took him on a direct route to the D’Marian village, a project that had almost reached completion. Welcoming the detour, the faoladh waltzed down the main thoroughfare and tutted in approval, as the likenesses of the white-washed buildings and their colorful doors and roofs really did resemble a colony of Stella D’Mare. But his passive marveling of the architecture (fortunately) was short-lived--when a blurred figure side-tackled him down an enclosed alleyway.
“The fuck--” He narrowed his eyes at the young man who managed to get the drop on him while he was distracted by (he sighed), a damn building. His opponent, however, was not looking for a fight. Well--not that kind of fight.
“Well, well,” the faoladh’s visage brightened, “if it ain’t my old jailer buddy, Antares. Good t’see you. What can I do for you, my man?”
It became evident what Antares wanted. He smelled the salt of it in the air. Desire. Control. The metallic taste of blood as it oozed out of an inflicted flick of a well-placed dagger. Antares liked pain, too. Giving it and receiving it. And Hadwin was the only candidate fucked-up enough to adhere to the man’s wishes, free of charge. Together, the two men found a small, empty hut, still under construction, and had their way with each other. For the better part of the morning, they stayed busy, until Antares, noticing the positioning of the sun in the sky, hurried off, trousers barely fastened, as he scrambled to get to his guard-duty shift in time.
“Ah, great city, Stella D’Mare,” he effused aloud. “Even when far from the true source of its debauchery, the people still know how to have a rollicking time. Shame I never visited the place in its heyday. Fuck--I’d never wanna leave.”
The shadow figure with the glass-shard teeth said nothing. She never deigned to engage in a normal conversation, not when her singular goal was to punish him for pushing her into an early grave.
“Dammit, Fiona. When I die, and I’m tasked with haunting the hell out of someone, I’m at least gonna make it entertaining for the both of us. You’re too fucking stuffy. I can’t imagine you’re having fun. I sure hope it ain’t all business in the underworld.” After throwing on and fastening his discarded clothes, Hadwin sneaked out of the back door to avoid detection.
“Now, now, Fiona,” he addressed the sullen shadow as he returned to the main thoroughfare, ignoring the stares from passersby who wondered who he was talking to, “what should we do next? Hell, I bet your immortal soul they’re building a tavern somewhere. Let’s check it out!”
When he reached the lake, his boots ground to a halt. His nose caught the unmistakable aroma on the downwind. Here was his opportunity, ripe for the taking.
“Oh no, you ain’t getting far,” he muttered under his breath, clearing the D’Marian village, and darting into the woods. There was no need to shake into his wolf-skin; not yet. Rowen hadn’t transformed, either. His nostrils overfilled with her human stench. She did not move fast. On the prowl, no doubt. But for whom?
A second odor wafted towards him, and its identity impelled him to break into a run, stealth be damned.
Cwenha. Her target was Cwenha.
When he broke through the woods and into the clearing, the two had already met each other in combat. Blood soaked the grass in messy streaks. The two small women wrestled, blades drawn, stabbing, shrieking, each trying to roll out on top to deliver the final blow. And Hadwin, standing at his advantageous angle...hesitated. And did not interfere.
Who am I supposed to root for? Who the hell do I save?
The reckless faoladh, always quick to barrel into the fray first and ask questions later, stayed glued to the spot, stricken by indecision. And once he finally slid one acting foot forward, it was too late. Rowen had shifted into a wolf and bit down hard on the silver fairy’s slender neck. A sickly crack snapped into the air like a thunderclap, and the raging acrobat went motionless.
Rowen, emerging from the brawl, deep scratches marring and matting her fur, turned her wolfish eyes ahead, and drank in the appearance of her brother. She flashed her blood-slicked teeth, licking her jowls to emphasize her deed as a satisfying conclusion to her bloodsport--before galloping off into the woods whence he came.
And he let her go. He did not pursue. He did nothing else but crouch in front of the ruined and broken Cwenha, watching as the life slowly drained from her eyes.
“...I bet this wasn’t how you wanted to spend your last moments, cygnet. With someone you despise, killed by the sister of someone you despise. But,” he choked out a humorless laugh, “we’ve always known how fucking demented this world really is. And I’ve always known...that I’d be the death of the Missing Links. I didn’t mean that literally, but hell…” he pressed Cwenha’s lids closed, “it is what it is. And now you’re dead. ‘Cuz at the end of the day...I’m a fucking coward who’s too chickenshit to face my own sister. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth?” Uncontrollable laughter poured from his mouth, guffaws of jubilation bordering on hysteria. “It’s hilarious how pathetic I am. Right, Fiona? Right!?”
Miraculously, the shadow with the glass-shard teeth did not weigh in on his illuminating commentary. She only stood there...grinning.
While Galeyn has found a cause for loud and boisterous celebration, with its denizens seeking avenues to express happiness and indulge in the happiness of others, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone even remotely familiar with Cwenha that she really wanted none of it, herself. It wasn’t that she felt the need to deny them their happiness, nor did she find the birth of the first children in Galeyn in centuries an event that was relatively inconsequential; especially not since word had spread like a disease of the complications the mother had experienced while giving birth. Of course they had the right to celebrate, and the silver acrobat didn’t even bat an eyelash when Briery proposed performing in honour of the newborn babies. It was easy enough to put on a winning smile and wow a crowd with her feats, and woo them with her music; it was her way of life, and that form of acting came naturally to her.
So she rode out the wave of excessive happiness until the end of the show, later in the night. She assisted her fellow performers in dismantling the stage, and returned to the palace to sleep, stopping only once when she’d run into Kadri… who, of course, had an endless array of questions pertaining to the joy following the birth of Haraldur and Vega Sorde’s infants. Of course, as usual, she did not exactly have the answers he sought. “Damned if I know, Kadri,” she said, as the Forbanne soldier escorted her back to her room at a leisurely pace. “Children have never exactly been an aspiration in my life. I suppose it makes sense why the parents are so happy, but the rest of this place--who knows? Maybe they were just looking for an excuse to have another party. Morale hasn’t exactly been at its height since this place awakened, according to the Queen. No one’s been born here for a century because the entire place was asleep. My guess is something about new life must be reminding these people that they are alive…”
The silver acrobat ran a hand through her unruly blonde curls, welcoming the cool autumn air on her flushed skin. “The thing is, people want to find a reason to be happy. I’ve always been sort of the opposite; I just figure… why bother, when something is always going to come along and spoil the mood, anyway? So I guess, in a lot of ways, I only have myself to blame for being the miserable rain cloud that everyone sees me as. One of the many reasons why you really need to stop coming to me with your questions: I am far from your best option for answers. But anyway…”
She turned on her heel upon reaching her room and faced him. “If this pours over into tomorrow, I don’t think I’m going to have the energy to keep this fake smile on my face. Will you be at the D’Marian settlement, tomorrow? If there are any tasks I can take up to lighten the load… well, I’d much prefer to get my hands dirty than to continue to wallow in this noxious pool of errant joy that the Galeynians are getting lost in.”
After reassurance from the awkward Forbanne soldier that there was surely a task with which she might be able to help, Cwenha retired to her room to get some much needed sleep. She was up early the next morning, however, to actually make good on her promise of lending a hand, instead of merely killing time in another vicinity where people weren’t expecting her to exude joy from her pores. As it turned out, joy was long-lived when it came to these otherwise passive people, and although the party had ended that morning, talk of the twins was far from coming to and end… and, frankly, she didn’t have the stomach to tolerate it. I know its petty, she told herself, against that voice in her head that berated her for her attitude. I don’t want anyone to be happy because I am not happy. But petty or not, spending time around these highly delusional people isn’t going to make me feel any differently.
So that help that she’d decided to provide the next day ended up spanning the next handful of days. The Missing Links didn’t mind; they hadn’t been asked to put on another spectacle anytime soon, considering that the real spectacle was cooped up in the sanctuary in the Night Garden. A pair of days-old infants that, one by one, the Galeynians were determined to meet. This was the best decision for everyone, ultimately: the kingdom got to have its joy, unspoiled, while she didn’t have to sit back and roll her eyes at it. The D’Marians, while just as happy for the royal Eyraillian couple, had better things to do than dote on inconsequential children. Such as continue to get their settlement up and running. They’d come remarkably far since the spring; everyone had a roof over their heads, and a few key community centers had been erected, all in that familiar white D’Marian architecture.
Cwenha was not anything close to a carpenter, but she’d done her fair share of painting sets and stages over the years for the Missing Links performances. So given that she was not only able to adequately handle a paintbrush, but she was incredibly capable (and fearless) of climbing those taller edifices on ladders and supports to reach those impossibly high places that most people would rather not chance, for fear of falling. That alone made her help and presence more than welcome among the D’Marians, some who breathed a sigh of relief for not having to climb a two-story ladder. And the best part was, she often found herself alone way up high, without the expectation to make idle conversation with anyone. It was a nice break from the life of a performer, always expected to wear a smile when seen in public so as not to ruin the illusion of the ‘Silver Fairy’. With the only person around to speak with being Kadri, who wasn’t of the mindset to expect so much of her, it almost felt akin to a vacation. If she’d known she’d find such reprieve in such menial tasks, away from the hustle and bustle of the heart of Galeyn, she’d have volunteered her services to the D’Marians eons ago.
Although the coming of autumn brought with it a crisp bite in the air that was enough to blunt the edge of the enduring summer sun, the silver acrobat did have to bear in mind that it was always hotter way up top, and more often than not, she felt the need to descend and take frequent breaks so as not to become light-headed. Being high in the air while performing stunts was one thing; she had an adrenaline rush to keep her going. But the mundane, repetitive task of painting more often than not left her feeling less that ideal to be sitting or standing up so high for a long period of time. Who’d have thought tt would be harder to perform feats that anyone with a pair of hands could do?
During one of these breaks, Cwenha descended the secured ladder, only to run into Kadri, who sadly didn’t have enough patrolling to do, in these parts. But, with his one and only clarified ‘friend’ spending most of her days here, lately, the young Forbanne soldier had requested an extension of his duties around the D’Marian settlement, if only to have the occasional conversation with the one person in the entire kingdom who likely couldn’t give a damn about conversations. All the same, the young man reminded her of an abused puppy that would just keep coming back, no matter how many times it was kicked… and for all her vices, the Silver Fairy was not about kicking puppies.
“You should at least try to make yourself look busy, Kadri. Otherwise your higher ups might catch on that there isn’t enough for you to do here.” Cwenha teased, with a half-grin and her hands on her hips. Even in her drag, paint-stained tunic, without a lick of silver or glitter in sight, however, it was still difficult not to come across as looking remarkable. Something about her cherubic, heart-shaped face, the white-blonde of her curls, and her deep, oceanic eyes didn’t permit a dawdy appearance--for better or worse, it seemed. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to say to you right now, though. I’m not of the mind for a conversation, if you’re looking to have one. But… maybe just give me a moment to myself, to clear my head. Propping myself up so high without actually doing much moving has been making me restless.” Taking note of the ill-hidden disappointment that crossed his face, she was quick to add, “Twenty minutes. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, alright? Hold onto whatever you have on your mind. We can talk when I get back.”
Flashing what was as close to a genuine smile as she could muster, Cwenha left the D’Marian settlement and wandered into the nearby woods to escape the sun. It always struck her as odd, that this forested area was not frequented so much by the D’Marians, who appeared to prefer their creature comforts over the solitude of nature. Or… perhaps it was something more that kept them away. A sort of instinct that they didn’t even think to acknowledge, other than the woods simply weren’t an option in their day to day lives.
Perhaps if Cwenha had such an instinct, she’d have been able to keep her promise to Kadri. Her promise to return.
The wretch of a girl was quiet, and she was fast--but so, too, was Cwenha, and at the very least, her survival instinct comprised of sensitive hearing and goosebumps when she was in danger. No sooner was Rowen Kavanagh on her with a blade that the Silver Fairy slipped a slim knife from her boot, arming herself and fending off her attacker in a heartbeat.
“Your’e… you’re her! The mutt’s sister,” she hissed, attacking and defending, attacking, defending, over and over again in this endless dance that was getting neither of them anywhere. From the very first moment, it was obvious that their skills were matched. Rowen was a killer, but Cwenha was a survivor. And she hadn’t gone through hell and back to fall to this faoladh scum.
At least, that might have been the case, if the fight continued, human to human. But one fatal flaw that the silver acrobat hadn’t considered was that Rowen didn’t need to be human when it did not suit her--and apparently, losing as a human did not suit her.
At one point, she managed to make Rowen lose her footing and tumbled to the ground, but the deadly girl took her with her. It was a tangle of hair and limbs and knives. Cwenha suffered some lacerations, but so did Rowen, and there was still no clear projection for a winner… until the fight was no longer between a girl and a girl, but a girl and a wolf. Cwenha had seen Hadwin transform before, out of the corner of her eye, and she recalled the process being remarkably fast. But not nearly as fast as it took Rowen to shed her human skin in favour of wolf’s fur and fangs, and by the time she realized what was happening, it was too late.
There was pain--terrible, awful, sickening pain, and she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Even after the wolf leapt off of her, and scurried away into the forest, pleased with its job well done, she couldn’t bring herself to so much as twitch a finger. Isn’t this what you wanted? An accusatory voice at the back of her mind taunted, as she lost blood far too quickly, staining her pale blonde locks a sickly red. Isn’t this what you’ve hoped for? To no longer put up with the shit of this world? You have your wish.
Except, it wasn’t… it wasn’t her wish. Not anymore--and perhaps, she realized, as she felt her life slipping away, it never had been. Perhaps what she’d wanted wasn’t to die. Perhaps all she’d wanted was a chance, a way, to really, truly, feel alive…
The sky is dark. But it is still day… why is the sky dark? It wasn’t the sky, though. It was a combination of something, someone, blocking the light, while her vision began to fade. I know that voice… She knew it. She’d heard it time and again of late, over this past handful of months, and yet, she couldn’t place it, because the pain was too much, and it was getting more difficult to keep her thoughts straight. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t breathe… couldn’t sing. Not anymore.
I promised Kadri I would talk to him when I returned.
That was the last thought on her mind before the sad songbird called Cwenha, also known as the Silver Fairy, and as cygnet to someone else in particular, fell silent and still, indefinitely.
Kadri never found the words to rightly explain why he was so drawn to the silver acrobat’s company, but if anyone else could venture a guess on his behalf, it would be that he liked her no-nonsense, candid bearing. She did not hide her fear of the Forbanne behind a disingenuous smile because she: did not fear the Forbanne, did not give a care to smile for no reason, or both. She was honest about herself, honest about the world, and never spared him hard truths out of concern that she’d disturb his development into a halfway functioning human being. Others--Galeynians, Naimah’s whores, D’Marians--carefully filtered their words around Forbanne, too worried about triggering their fragile, recovering minds into violence, or suicide. If it could happen to Commander Sorde, a man who had not been a Forbanne soldier for well over a decade, it could--and it did--happen to the hundreds under his leadership. But Cwenha did not tiptoed in Kadri’s presence. In spite of her nimble feet, she stomped. And he liked it. Liked that she did not lie or deceive or trick him into doing one thing when she meant for him to do the opposite. She was uncomplicated, because she told him exactly what she was thinking, and he didn’t need to guess, like with other people. While he didn’t always understand her spoken thoughts, it helped that she allowed him to figure out her meanings with questions. Whenever she got angry at him for asking too many, he also learned to back off and give her space.
Their joint efforts in building homes in the D’Marian village taught him a lot about his first and closest friend. Four days in, and he grew accustomed to their shared routines. Morning: rise. Wash up. Dress. Go to the community hall. Sup on bread and fresh green vegetables. (Cwenha hated the stringy ones). Arrive at the construction site. Pick up a hammer, nails. Haul lumber. Stack lumber. Affix in place. Coat the stacked logs with white clay. Paint over the bits of brown that exposed the wooden skeleton of the building. Attach the roof (Cwenha excelled at roofing and painting). Repeat until break (she spent break alone). Repeat until next break (she wanted to spend all breaks alone). Repeat until dusk. (He liked this part of the day because she was more interested in speaking to him. They’d dine on supper and she listened. She always found time to listen to him). For one who earned the honor of acting as Commander Sorde’s liaison, menial labor, especially with his friend, was far more rewarding than any recognition he received from his role at his commander’s right-hand side. And there was a lot of recognition for anyone who served under or near the man who now took on the new title of “Father.”
That morning, he hauled and slotted a sturdy log into a large hole carved into the dirt. With the support of other Forbanne, Kadri filled in the hole to secure the foundation. Stepping back from the newly-erected supporting pole, he brushed the dirt off his hands, before turning to see Cwenha, who told him he wasn’t working hard enough. “I’m being busy. Don’t tell my superiors. I am working very hard, Cwenha. ...Oh!” He slapped a revelatory fist against his open palm. “This is a joke? Do I laugh? Or is it not right to laugh, because the others won’t know it’s a laugh and will think I’m gurgling with pain over a sustained injury? Ah!” He interjected his speech for the second time since Cwenha’s arrival. He was learning how to answer his own questions. She brought it out in him. He always felt smarter in her presence. “It’s break-time for you. So you’re going alone. Twenty minutes, then! I will be done with this wall, and then we can have our first afternoon talk. I like the evening talks but I want to see if there’s any difference if we talk in the sun.”
If there was one thing Kadri excelled at, it was in detecting exactly how much time passed by studying the positioning of the sun. Twenty-minutes elapsed, and Cwenha did not return. Thirty minutes. Forty. Fifty. An hour. Why did she not return?
Flashing back to the memory of when he sensed his Commander’s demise, Kadri...sensed it again. Danger. In the woods. Cwenha, she was in trouble!
In perhaps the boldest move he’d ever made, Kadri openly defied his orders and did not return to the construction site after his break. Instead, he headed into the woods to look for his lost friend.
He did not wade into the orange and yellow-speckled greenery for longer than five minutes when the crunching of leaves alerted him to an intruder in the area. Without his halberd or his glaive equipped, he drew a short hunting spear from his belt and pointed it towards the source of the disturbance. “Show yourself!”
Emerging from behind a stand of trees, a hunched figure appeared, a large lump jutting from his back. At first glance, it seemed like a deformity, but as the figure neared, he revealed himself as a man carrying someone on his back. A small, lithe someone, concealed by the man’s jerkin. Hanks of frizzy blonde curls poked out from beneath the jerkin’s collar--dirtied by dried blood.
“Cwenha!” Kadri twisted his spear into an offensive stance, ready to vault it straight into the aggressor’s chest. “That is Cwenha. Why do you have her? Answer me!”
“She’s dead,” the aggressor answered. “Fuck, Kadri, put the spear down. It wasn’t me. I’m your friend, remember? Your other friend.”
Kadri squinted at the man, barely registering any words after, She’s dead. “What did you do to her!?” He reared back his arm and aimed his spear.
“I’ve got no time for this!” the aggressor roared, storming forward until he and his dead charge were too close for throwing range. “Are you gonna help me or what!? We need to get her on a carriage and to the Night Garden now!”
In their close quarters, Kadri finally recognized the man. “Hadwin!” He lowered the spear, but did not loosen its grip, or move out of the way. “You killed--”
But Hadwin circled around him and marched to the D’Marian village with no regard for the deadly weapon trained on him. “If there’s an inkling of a chance of saving your girlfriend, it’s at the Night Garden. So stop talking, run ahead, and get us a damn carriage!”
Owing to his Forbanne upbringing, Kadri obeyed the orders without fail, even as he questioned the person who gave the orders. But there was no time to think. No time to question. Cwenha was dead and she needed a carriage. A carriage with fast horses. Commander Sorde made it to the Night Garden on fast horses and did not die. The soil healed him. He woke up and fathered children. Cwenha. Carriage. Get get get. Get the horses, get her to the Night Garden. She would wake and continue to paint houses, sing beautiful songs and jump across roofs and wires and swings. He ran to the village, announced his emergency to the first carriage driver he saw, and pointed to the woods, where Hadwin and Cwenha (she was still Cwenha; death did not remove her name!) made their way across the field and the road. The carriage driver did not question the state of the dead girl slumped over Hadwin’s shoulders before he bid them all to climb inside.
“The Night Garden isn’t at full strength, and it’s during the day,” the driver, a Galeynian, delivered the news with a tsk to accompany the shaking of his head. “I’m afraid a prompt arrival won’t--”
“--Commander Sorde lived!” Kadri, who never spoke out of turn, yelled over the driver.
“It was at night, and the necromancer bound his spirit. There were potentially other factors at play--”
“--Goddammit, you two. Shut up and drive!” Hadwin’s request dominated the argument, punctuated by the uncompromising pierce from his gold eyes. It demanded silence and obeisance. As the driver clicked the reins of the horses and the supply wagon rolled forward, Kadri and Hadwin, who settled in the wagon proper, laid the unresponsive acrobat across the floorboards. Kadri, who had seen thousands of dead bodies without reaction, grew sick to his stomach. Beneath the strip of cloth that Hadwin had hurriedly tied around her neck, Kadri noted that a great, bestial force had wrenched her throat open with teeth and pressure. While the blood had since clotted, drips of it spilled from the wound and formed a growing puddle beneath her head.
“Fuck. Fuck.” Kadri caught Hadwin’s whispered murmurs from the other side of the supply wagon. “How am I gonna explain this to Briery?”
Kadri, ignorant of human nature, somehow understood that the question was not directed at him. And somehow, he knew that the killer was the one who attacked Commander Sorde last month. Hadwin’s sister. Rowen Kavanagh.
Not twenty minutes after they pulled out of the D’Marian village, the horses whinnied in protest as the wagon shrieked to a halt. Jolted out of his muttered recitations to himself, Hadwin poked his head through the opening that faced the driver outside. “What, now!?”
But whatever Hadwin saw (or smelled, as his nose actively sniffed the air), was not made aware to Kadri. Wordlessly, he hopped off the back of the supply wagon. Unsure of what else he could do to make Cwenha’s corpse comfortable, aside from cleaning the blood off her face and tightening the makeshift bandana around her neck, Kadri stood and followed him, spear in hand.
Outside, another carriage lay discarded in the middle of the road, the horses unharnessed and gone. Throwing out a hand to stop their bewildered driver from advancing on the scene, Hadwin pushed ahead in his place. “Stay here,” he warned the driver. Jerking his head at Kadri, the Forbanne nodded and accompanied him to the abandoned carriage.
Only, it was not abandoned. Inside the small coach, two women and the driver sat on plush seats, leaning against the windows as though huddled into sleep. But the blood added another element to the story, the interior decorated in crimson splash patterns, issued from the gaping necks of all three victims. The same method of death as Cwenha.
Kadri identified one of the women. Her multi-colored dress, the elegant curlicues of her dark hair, the heart-shaped, painted lips, parted as though to sigh…
“Naimah,” Kadri said, not knowing what else to say.
“Well isn’t that just great. Great, great, and more great.” Hadwin threw his hands up in the air, clawing them into tight fists. “We’re a fucking funeral service, now.” He punched the roof of the carriage; it came away with blood from his knuckles. “Whatever; help me load the bodies into our bloody hearse.”
Together, they transferred the three corpses from the carriage to the wagon, with the driver looking on, too mortified to lend any assistance. Mutely, he climbed aboard the coach and set off around the murder site. The load in his wagon was light compared to its usual transports of lumber and stone, but it weighed heavy with the dead, and their blood was more burdensome than the densest iron ore.
Inside the wagon, Kadri and Hadwin assembled the four bodies in a row, binding their shredded throats with strips of fabric torn from their shirts. “Like it’ll really make a difference,” Hadwin said, and while Kadri took over the ritual in his stead, his companion returned to his seat in the corner, running bloodstained hands through his bloodstained hair.
“Hey Kadri,” he spoke over the steady rumbling of the earth beneath the rhythmic squeaking of the wheels, “do you sometimes stop to wonder if the world conspires to undo any bit of good you’ve ever done?”
“I...don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t know,” he dismissed, his sigh bordering on a seethe, which bordered on a laugh. “I forget who I’m talking to. What does it matter, anyway? ...Nothing fucking matters. It’s all a game, and they lost. It’s over.”
“It’s not,” Kadri pressed a palm against Cwenha’s cold, stiff hand. “We’re going to the Night Garden. It will help them.”
“I hate to break it to you, but that garden’s far from peak bloom. And without a necromancer to tether the spirit, psh,” he leaned his head against the wagon’s wood frame and closed his eyes, “they’re floating above our heads, now. Ghosts. All of them--ghosts.”
“Ghosts,” Kadri blew hot breath into Cwenha’s hand, as though warming her could reverse the process and bring her back to life.
The wagon gradually slowed to a stop, a sensation that startled the two men until they noticed they were at the front gates of the palace. After passing several checkpoints, they arrived at the entrance, where a line-up of Gardeners, who received the grim news from one of the guards, congregated on the wagon with stretchers for the four bodies. Loathe to leave Cwenha behind, Kadri handled her limp form, lowering her onto the proffered stretcher. He proceeded to tail the Gardeners assigned to her welfare, despite their protests. But for the second time that day, he ignored orders.
“Will you take them to the Night Garden? To the sanctuary? Bury them in the dirt like you did for Commander Sorde?”
The Gardeners did not respond, too delicate a situation to reveal the truth to a grieving friend: that nothing could be done for the dead.
“Hey.” Hadwin secured Kadri’s arm, pulling him aside. “Let ‘em go, ahead, first. There’s no one out there saying we can’t follow them from a distance.”
Despite the lost cause, the Gardeners acted on protocol and took the bodies to the Night Garden. Forgoing the sanctuary (which had transformed into a temporary nursery), they moved closer to the source of the Garden’s power and laid the dead against the roots of the sentinel tree. Hands linked, the Gardeners bowed their heads and initiated their healing chants. Kadri watched them from the base of the tree, eyes wide with hope, too mesmerized by the procedure to notice his companion had vanished from his side.
Hadwin did not need to stay to know the result. They were dead. Rowen made sure of it; she learned from last time, when she attacked at night. And yet…
He could have done something. He could have tried to stop her instead of standing still and gawking—never mind if he actually succeeded (considering her alliance with Locque). But he didn’t stop her because he was chickenshit. Because he didn’t want to be responsible for killing off another person from his family. Because he loved her...and love weakened his resolve. Made him lose sight of achieving results. It reduced him...to a frightened little pup who still clung to his little sister because she represented the precious little he did right with his life. And it had all gone wrong. He couldn’t save her, because he didn’t save people. He damned them. He damned his sister from the beginning.
What does it matter? It doesn’t fucking matter. Kill the whole world for all I care, Rowen. It’s all a stage. Nothing’s real, anyway.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, Hadwin stumbled upon one of the last people he wanted to see. Sigrid, catching wind of the commotion, but not any of the details, met him in the hallway, and asked the dreaded question: ‘What happened?’ Covered with blood as he was, he couldn’t wriggle his way out of the answer.
“I’m not looking to fuck with you today, Sigrid. But I don’t have it in me to be direct right now. I take no pleasure in this news, not at all. The answer’s in the Night Garden. If you’re ready to have your entire world shattered, then by all means--go and see. Consider this my warning: steel yourself, and expect the worst.”
Saying nothing more, he continued down the hallway, leaving Sigrid to bask in his ominous statement. And while he was on his downhill roll of disaster after flaming disaster…
...Briery, you’re next.
Sigrid had been sitting on the question for days, ever since her impromptu confession to Haraldur that she had been toying with the idea of proposing to Naimah. Up until she has spoken to her cousin, the possibility of every being married to the woman she loved had seemed like little more than some elaborate daydream, especially considering Naimah’s chosen profession. How would it affect any future clientele if the accomplished (and often sought-after) whore became wed? Would they no longer be comfortable seeking her services, with a wedding band visible on her ring finger? The possibility of rejection rang all too strong, and as soon as the idea or the nerve surface, the Dawn Warrior’s confidence would shake and shatter, and the thought would return to the recesses of her uncertain mind.
But something that Haraldur, even in his ridiculously inebriated state, had said something that she could not shake. That it was not rejection she should fear from the beautiful Kariji woman. Because in the mere act of asking for her hand in marriage, there was no better way to express to her, clearly and without a doubt, that she loved her above and beyond all else. That she, shy and uncertain and terribly socially awkward as she was, loved Naimah with such fervor that she was willing and ready to take this risk and ask her to join her in a more official type of union. Not that there was anything at all wrong with their casual relationship, but a small part of insecure Sigrid Sorenson wanted to know that she could have Naimah heart, forever; and she wanted to give her her own heart, forever. Vulnerable and raw, and beating only for her. Because there was no more direct way to convey her love than to offer up a heart, a piece of herself that could be destroyed far more easily than it could ever be mended.
No, she could not shake this idea any longer. She could not sit and dwell in ‘what ifs’ while the world and time itself continued to progress. While the two of them grew older every day, and while uncertainty and danger still hung threateningly in the air. For months--indeed, months!--the Dawn Warrior had been telling herself that she must hold out for the ideal time. Ideally during some romantic break in the tension that hung over Galeyn, and with a ring to offer the woman whom she hoped to become her betrothed. It was becoming more and more apparent that Sigrid’s idea of the ideal time was just that--too ‘ideal’. And there was no such thing as ideal, in the real world. Ultimately, she would just need to learn to make this work, as she did with everything else.
So the blonde warrior chose to invest all of her faith (and some of her finances) into this decision, and the very next day, after her brief visit with Haraldur and his new family, had set out to do some secret shopping when Naimah returned to her daily duties. Venturing into the market, she scoped out one of the jewelers to secure the bounty she had set out for. Sigrid had no experience in purchasing jewelry, for herself let alone anyone else. Embarrassingly enough, she wouldn’t have known that an engagement ring looked like to see it. Was a specific stone, or shape, or cut required? Did it even matter? The answer was irrelevant, at the end of the day, because what was ‘right’ or ‘proper’ might not have been what Naimah would have liked. Sigrid thought of her beautiful Kariji lover, how her bright, vibrant silks favoured her smoky skin, and how she always stood out like the most brilliant flower in a vast garden. Only something equally as bright and vibrant would suffice, to fit her delicate hand, so the Dawn Warrior ultimately selected a ring that boasted a stone reflecting all colours of the rainbow. It was not a natural stone, the jeweler felt obligated inform her; not exactly, not like a diamond or a ruby. It was a common quartz, merely polished and treated by alchemists to make it catch the light in every colour of the rainbow, depending on the angle, millions of colours all swimming inside something that was barely a few millimeters long. All the same, he went further to inform her that this particular brand of quartz treatment was known as angelstone, and was exclusive to Galeyn’s small handful of alchemists. It was impossible to precisely replicate beyond the kingdom, making it unique and valuable in its own right.
Although she had little sense of fashion or colour coordination, the Dawn Warrior knew right away that it would complement each and every outfit Naimah donned, making it not only symbolic of her love for the Kariji woman, but a rather useful accessory. Despite that she couldn’t even guess as to whether it would fit Naimah’s slender ring finger, the jeweler reassured her that he would happily alter it to fit, once her betrothed accepted. Betrothed. Accepted. This stranger was so sure that Naimah would say yes… but then, so, too, was Sigrid. Or else she wouldn’t be making this purchase in the first place.
All the same, even with her resolve solidified in the form of a yellow-gold ring with its mesmerizing angelstone, it was still a couple of days more before Sigrid Sorenson worked up the nerve to decide to ask Naimah for her hand in marriage. After they parted that morning, she of her duties to the Dawn Guard and Naimah to accompany one of her girls on a special request from the D’Marian settlement, she decided that that evening would be the time. She had it planned, down to the minute, working every last romantic bone in her body to ensure it would be as perfect as it could possibly get. After Naimah returned, and after they’d eaten a good meal, she would ask her to accompany her on a walk in the Night Garden, the only mystical spot where summer eternally endured, while autumn claimed its territory all around it. There, among the warmth of the Garden and its bioluminescent flora, she would open that last, hidden chamber of her heart to the Kariji woman, in hopes that Naimah would open her heart in return. It was as close to ideal as she could get, and she would do it tonight… tonight. Tonight was that night, because just as she had come far in overcoming her fear of meeting potential romantic interests, tonight she would vanquish her fear of rejection. Hell, Hadwin would be damn proud of her, if he knew!
Unbeknownst to her, she would be seeing Naimah in the Night Garden, later that day… but it would be far, so far from ideal.
The commotion had started sometime after noon, when the sun was high and the autumn day was at its peak in heat. A scurrying of palace staff flooded the halls, running this way and that, responding to some emergency that had arisen. Fellow Dawn Guard soldiers were instructed to keep the greater populace at bay while the crisis was dealt with--whatever that crisis was--and so Sigrid complied. Anyone who was not a Gardener or being treated for illness or injury by one was not to set foot in the Night Garden. Of course, there could be only one reason why the greater kingdom at large would not be permitted at the one place that gave Galeyn its strength, and it was not long before words such as ‘bodies’ and ‘murder’ and ‘death’ were uttered among the palace guard. Frankly, this was reason enough to begin to scour the kingdom for the culprit, who it seems had gotten away and remained unidentified, according to word of mouth, but Sigrid remained patient and kept her questions and nagging curiosity at bay, while knowing she could be put to far better use than just standing around…
It wasn’t until she ran into the faoladh that her resolve finally gave way. “Hadwin.” The wolf was in a rush, and for once, did not appear to be in the mood for a conversation, or even pick on anyone, as he was wont to her. Without a doubt, it had something to do with the blood staining his jerkin, his hands, his trousers… “Hadwin!” She caught his arm before he could get too far, her blue eyes wide an inquiring. “What happened? Why are we keeping everyone from the Night Garden?”
He wouldn’t explain--not exactly, but whatever had occurred had shaken him enough to address her by her real name. If that weren’t enough, he seemed to insinuate that whatever had occurred in the Night Garden would particularly impact her… “What do you mean?” She ventured to ask, but the faoladh shook out of her grasp and walked away without looking back.
So much for adhering to current directives.
“Sigrid--wait, we aren’t to go--”
One of the Dawn Warrior’s fellow brother in arms attempted to stop her as she paraded out of the palace, her boots picking up momentum with every step. She didn’t listen to him, nor anyone else who inquired as to why she was suddenly rushing from her post when no one but the Gardeners were permitted in the divine Night Garden. Sigrid shook off everyone who attempted to stop her, although those people were few and far between, for fear of interrupting someone with such a deadly look of determination in her blue eyes. She pushed past the Gardeners who barred entry to the Garden--hell, she even had the gall to push past the Queen, herself, who had been alerted immediately to the crisis at hand…
No.
Nothing--no words, no warnings, nothing could have prepared Sigrid for what she witnessed at the roots of the sentinel tree.
No no no no no no no no…
The sight stole the breath from her lungs. The sight of four victims, four bodies, two whom she recognized… and one whom she loved, laid out lifeless at the roots of the tree.
“No…” The word escaped her lips in a desperate sigh. All feeling must have left her body as she fell to her knees next to Naimah’s still form, her skin cold to the touch and unresponsive. “Naimah? Naimah, open your eyes… it’s me. Open your eyes for me, Naimah…” Her eyes were closed, her red lips slightly parted; she could easily have been asleep, were it not for the rags had been tied around the lovely Kariji woman’s neck to conceal what was obviously a bleeding wound. The very same wound that all of the bodies sported, their necks looking to have been bitten and torn by some vicious animal.
Not too late… it’s not too late. This is the Night Garden. It’s not too late. “What are you doing? Why are you just standing there?” The Dawn Warrior barked at the cluster of Gardeners, who looked on with helpless pity. “Help them! Help Naimah! This is the Night Garden, and you are Gardeners--this is what you fucking do!”
“The Garden cannot revive the dead, Dawn Warrior.” A middle-aged man in Gardener’s robes reminded her gently. “These poor souls… it was too late. They had passed before they’d arrived…”
“Bullshit! That is absolute bullshit--last summer! Your revived my cousin, the Prince of Eyraille, just months ago when he too had arrived dead! So do the same damned thing for Naimah!” She was beyond reasoning with, that much was obvious. Denial was paramount in the stricken warrior. “You lot aren’t even trying! The Dawn Guard has pledged itself to your protection, to Galeyn’s protection, and you won’t even fucking try?! Do something! The longer you lot just stand there--”
“Sigrid Sorenson.” The calm yet firm presence of Senyiah inserted herself between the Dawn Warrior, and the simultaneously frightened and helpless Gardeners. “Your cousin, Haraldur Sorde, was not beyond saving due to the interference of a necromancer. His soul had not passed, and so his body was revived. These bodies--”
“Fuck you!” Sigrid rose to her feet, every inch of her body trembling. “Bodies are buried--these are people! Still people! Naimah is a fucking person!”
“She is gone, Sigrid. They all are.” The Head Gardener took no pride in her assertion. On the contrary, her eyes had welled with tears. “Death is beyond the reach of the Night Garden. Sigrid Sorenson, Warrior of the Dawn Guard… I am so sorry. If anything at all could be done for these people, then it would be done.”
Meanwhile, with talk of bodies and death circulating the kingdom like a plague, Briery and the Missing Links concerned themselves with assembling their troupe and accounting for the members. No names had been released of the supposed victims, but enough had died that a state of emergency had been announced, alerting all denizens to return to their homes and stay safe until further notice. And Briery intended to track down her traveling family as quickly as possible.
“...Hadwin!” An audible sigh of relief escaped her lips when the ringleader ran into the honorary Missing Link just outside of the palace. She didn’t miss a beat before running to him and throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank the gods. There is talk of murders… I’ve sent Rycen to retrieve Cwenha from the D’Marian settlement. Lautim is waiting back at the caravan. I was afraid I might not find you…”
When she pulled away, the golden acrobat took note of the blood staining his clothes, and the solemn look on his face. For the first time since she had known him, there was no humour in those golden eyes… “Are you alright? I realize you heal quickly, but Hadwin, if anyone has tried to harm you…”
But he hadn’t shuddered in pain when she’d hugged him. He was upright and not showing any telltale signs of injury. Which could only suggest… the blood on his clothes was not his blood.
“Hadwin.” Briery reached up and cupped his face with her hands, searching those golden eyes for answers. “What… has happened? The bodies--the victims. Do you… know them? Were you somehow involved…?”
Kadri took the official announcement of the deaths incredibly well. As Forbanne, revealing violent or emotional outbursts spat in the faces of the Masters who trained them for every conceivable situation--beyond those of a societal nature. While understanding that, as a free man, he needn’t fall back on old habits, which the late Naimah and her whores instilled in each soldier who sought their company, it was also his choice, as a free man, to approach a difficult event however he saw fit. He wanted to be a soldier, so he straightened his loose posture and relaxed his facial expression into unyielding calm. His first friend was dead. The woman who named him was dead. The Night Garden didn’t save them. Hadwin told him the truth, but it was the hardest truth he had to hear. Harder than the things Cwenha spouted from her lips. Harder than learning of Commander Sorde’s death and subsequent revival. Harder than his liberation from Mollengard.
It was too hard. Cwenha told him that he had to keep going, in spite of the discomfort. It was part of the process of being human. But so was death, and he always saw death. Nothing new to experience. Nothing quintessentially ‘human’ that his obligatory service as Forbanne denied him. People died every day. He killed many of those people. Cwenha was a person. A friend, too, but a person all too vulnerable to the consequences of a battle fought and lost. Death, he could handle.
So why did he think, ‘This is too hard?’ Why did he think at all? If he was so seasoned a soldier, why did he make the conscious decision to flip to his Forbanne state? It should have happened without resistance or stalling, and yet, the transition was far from seamless.
Before the Gardeners closed off the Night Garden, Kadri fell in step with his fellow Forbanne, blending into their ranks to avoid detection as the intruder who slipped through the doors at a distance, as Hadwin had instructed they do. His baggy trousers and torn, blood-streaked tunic did not hide him too well among the polished soldiers on duty, but no Gardener paid the Forbanne any attention. Settled into his perspective, he honed in on the ritual surrounding the sentinel tree, waiting for the bodies to gasp awake and rise. Waiting for the announcement. The incredible news. Death did not survive in the Night Garden.
The news did arrive. An official statement, by the Head Gardener. Kadri tilted forward, ears perked. Cwenha did not rise. Naimah did not rise. But perhaps they were sleeping. Yes. Sleeping. The Night Garden saved people. Miracles happened beneath the sentinel tree.
They are dead.
The Head Gardener made a joke!
They are dead.
No one laughed.
They are dead.
By the third time he cycled the words into his head, he nodded its acceptance. Yes. Yes. Miracles were reserved for important people, like Commander Sorde. But regular people died, because the world considered them disposable. The Night Garden did not want to waste its energies on whores and circus performers.
He nodded again. It made sense. They were not worthy. Kadri was not worthy. Not as Forbanne, bred to fight and die. The people who named him, the people who thought he mattered, did not matter to the tree of Judgement. So why did he matter as a person?
Kadri accepted their deaths. Accepted the command from the Masters of the Heavens, who determined the fates of men. He accepted the Head Gardener’s statement as irrefutable fact...but it was hard to accept that he lost anything at all. Yes, one could argue he had lost, in life. He lost the parts that made him a functioning man. He lost his autonomy. Humanity. Freedom. The core difference, though, was that in this specific case, he chose for himself what he wanted to keep…
And lost it.
Better to be an emotionless soldier, heedless of the concept of loss. Of friendship. Of a name.
But could he so easily shrug it off? The ways in which Cwenha made him feel?
It was his choice to make.
It hadn’t taken long for Haraldur to catch wind of the crisis happening outside his family’s quaint cottage paradise. Aside from the constant tours of visitors and the bombardment of questions he received whenever he peeked his head out the door, it was (for five minute intervals over the course of a given evening anyway), quaint, and quiet. So at first, when a tumult of activity trickled inside the thin walls of the sanctuary, the Eyraillian Prince dismissed the noise as rowdy Galeynians requesting an audience with the royal twins. The Forbanne stationed themselves around the sanctuary perimeter to intercept any unplanned and unwanted guests, as well as to enforce a hush policy, in case visitors needed reminders on how to act near sound-sensitive newborns. Galeynians respected the rules, and no Forbanne implemented any next-level tactics to maintain the peace. It was unanimously understood that babies needed sleep.
But this afternoon, the outside noise was climbing to an unprecedented volume, and it affected the wellbeing of his and Vega’s fussy children. No Forbanne reported the goings-on in the Night Garden, and Haraldur’s concern escalated. While loathe to leave his wife and children behind without a protector, if he did not investigate the disturbance, he couldn’t rightly defend them from an unidentified threat. For all he knew, Locque could have materialized, to wreak havoc on the denizens that gathered in the Garden. And by the frantic shouts of one person in particular, whatever was happening out there sounded dire.
Handing Daphni the bundled Klara, who screamed herself until red-faced, Haraldur grabbed his sword from the corner of the room and buckled it in place. “I’m going to check it out.” Vega’s eyes trailed to the sword he equipped. “Precautions,” he reassured, heading over to plant his wife a quick kiss on the mouth. “It doesn’t sound like all-out war, but if it’s bad, I’ll come right back. I promise.”
Upon exiting the sanctuary, the first thing he noticed was the bodies.
Because the sanctuary was tucked beneath one of the sentinel tree’s giant roots, it shared proximity with the center of the Night Garden. As a result, Haraldur was not spared the immediate sight of four dead bodies arranged in a row, their throats concealed with bloody cloth, or the Head Gardener failing to appeal to a prostrate woman, who, hunched over one corpse in particular, loosed peals of agony so profound, they appeared to shake the ground with their contained sorrow. The others—Forbanne, the Galeynian Queen, Lady Chara Rigas, Gardeners, looked on, helpless to leaven the devastation the incident had wrought. And the woman who shouted the name, “Naimah,” tear-stricken, disheveled from pushing against the dirt and wiping the blood from the object of her fixation…
Sigrid.
Approaching the scene and his cousin with all the care of tracking a spooked elk in the woods, Haraldur slid into the din of people, occupying a position close to her and to the alleged carnage which had taken four lives: two he did not recognize, and—Cwenha. And…
He confirmed it with his own eyes. He was looking at Naimah. A once vibrant woman, now reduced to the ashy shades of death. Beloved of Sigrid. Guardian of Klara. Forbanne charmer. ...Welcomed as family.
Not you, too, Sigrid. You weren’t supposed to experience this kind of pain at all. You weren’t supposed to lose her. I don’t want this for you!
Haraldur knelt beside Sigrid. Beside the body. He whispered his cousin’s name, affirmed to her his presence, but said nothing else. She had the right to grieve, without anyone trying to interrupt her. He provided his support but did not foist it on his ailing cousin. Did not shower the air with thoughtless words or grab Sigrid into a comforting embrace. None of it would help. None of it would heal the dead. They were pointless gestures, enacted on the part of the helper, which did not necessarily benefit the aggrieved. Instead, he bowed his head, and silently grieved with Sigrid.
“Commander Sorde.”
Haraldur perked up his head. Kadri insinuated himself into the crowd, his work tunic and slacks stripped threadbare—as though they’d been torn to serve as bandages for the four victims.
“Kadri.” He rose to his feet, glancing first at Cwenha’s body before gauging the man’s impenetrable expression. You lost someone, too. Your first friend. And now, you’re hiding behind the facade of the Forbanne because it’s easier.
“There is a report I must make. It can’t wait until we’re in private quarters.”
“Very well. Were you involved in whatever happened, here?” Deftly, he herded Kadri farther from Sigrid and the bodies and closer to Queen Lilica and her advisor, permitting them to listen in on the report.
“Yes. With Hadwin.”
“Hadwin?” His eyebrows furrowed together, anticipating an unpalatable story. “Go on.”
“At the D’Marian village, Cwenha did not return to her duties after she took her break and went off into the woods. I looked for her after an hour, and I met with Hadwin—who carried Cwenha on his shoulders. She was already dead. We hailed a supply wagon en route to the Night Garden and came across an abandoned carriage in the middle of the road. Inside, Naimah and the two other bodies you see, there, were found dead in similar fashion to Cwenha. Their throats ripped out by an animal attack. Commander Sorde, I have reason to believe this is the work of Rowen Kavanagh. Can you confirm?”
“I,” he crossed his arms, hesitating, “can neither confirm nor deny it, Kadri. Rowen assailed me with visions and drove me into taking my own life. She was never a wolf during our...encounter. But,” he nodded, shaking away the dregs of shame that surfaced whenever he referenced the night of his suicide, “your suspicions are plausible. It’s unlikely she would have stopped scheming to murder after she was done with me. She would have to lay low for a while, but it’s been about two months of inactivity—more than enough time to start targeting people again. I suppose Hadwin hasn’t said anything about her, when you were together?”
The impassive Forbanne shook his head. “No, Commander Sorde. He did not mention the culprit by name. But if I should be so bold as to suggest this, Commander Sorde,” a slight downturn of his lips, the twitching of his fingers over his spear, the slightest knot of tension in his brow—and he was exhibiting signs, however slight, of anger, “please allow me to kill her.”
“If she is protected by Locque, it won’t be so easy. Kadri,” he laid a hand on the Forbanne’s shoulder, “I appreciate your eagerness, but we have bodies to bury. Funerals to conduct. Revenge will come, but it will need to be a joint effort to prevent the loss of more lives. For now—“ he accompanied his soldier to the unfortunate victims sprawled across the soil of the Night Garden, the soil that saved him, but not them, “take Cwenha to her troupe. They will want funeral rites. As her friend, you’re the best person to deliver the body. It may help them to see a familiar face once they learn what happened.” It was difficult to tell to what extent Haraldur’s order affected Kadri, but he saluted his obeisance as he approached the four bodies and consulted one of the Gardeners for permission to take Cwenha from the Night Garden.
As for Naimah…
Haraldur returned to Queen Lilica’s and Chara’s company. The two women chatted in low tones to Senyiah, away from the inconsolable Sigrid. Apologizing for his interruption, he honed his attention on both Lilica and Senyiah. “Allow us the honors to bury Naimah. The Gardeners may have their own rituals for burying bodies in Galeyn, but please pass the responsibility to us. To me, Vega, and Sigrid. She...she is our family. And Sigrid alone can’t do this.”
Hadwin stepped outside the palace en route to the caravan; it occupied some land within the gates, a stone’s throw from the East entrance, making its location ideal for hearing firsthand gossip and exclusive news. Unfortunately for Briery, today did not relay amusing anecdotes or impromptu celebrations which they could capitalize on, with performances. Nothing about the situation called for cheer or humor, and Hadwin killed the pretense right away, even when Briery vaulted towards him, arms flown tightly around his neck. He accepted the gesture, but found no desire to reciprocate the hug. His arms hung limp, still coated in remnants of Cwenha’s blood, among others. To touch her was to transfer death. So he didn’t.
“Of course you’d ask if I was alright...and miss the point entirely.” He pressed his lips into the ghost of an ironic smile. “But hell, I can’t blame you for not knowing shit. In any other situation, I’d prefer you not knowing the things I get involved in, and sure as sin, I’ve kept you at arm’s length from the brunt of my checkered past. But,” there was an audible droop in his voice, a droop that, were he a wolf, would translate to pulled-back ears and a hanging head, “there’s no hiding this from you. Rycen’s looking in the wrong place for Cwenha, Briery. She’s here. ...I’ve got her splattered all over me.”
His proclamation of fact hit its intended target like a slap to the face. Fear colored her aura in a familiar shade of red. The red he saw only when people thought of its deep, bloody vibrancy. She drew back from him, now aware of what she touched when she hugged him.
“I won’t mince words. Not like I did with Sigrid. She’s dead, Briery. She’s dead, and I watched as my sister snapped her neck and ripped her throat out with her teeth. I watched...and did fucking nothing to stop it. Then it happened again, and again, and again, with three other suckers, one who is Siggy’s darling roisin. The same one I set her up with way back in Stella D’Mare. My sister feasted on them all, cuz after she finished snacking on Cwenha, I let her go. Because I made my choice. I chose Rowen over Cwenha. I chose Rowen over everyone else. I let her do whatever the hell she wanted because I can’t reconcile what she’s become because of me!” He raised his voice, punctuating each beat with the curling of his mouth, a grimace which showed his just-as-capable set of ripping jaws.
“So yeah, do me a favor, Briery. Get your troupe, and get out of here, before she kills you, too. We all know I’ll stand around and let it happen!”
She’s dead, Briery.
The ringleader knew there wasn’t even the ghost of a chance that Hadwin was trying to pull a fast one on her, because he knew well enough that this was not a topic that rang even remotely funny. All the same, the faoladh’s words did not quite register when he spoke them. Despite the gravity that hung in the air like a death shroud, despite the blood--still wet and crimson--that clung to the wolf’s clothes, the words did not seem real. Because, as Hadwin had once told her himself, the ultimate manifestation of one’s greatest fears were often rooted within reason, but expanded beyond reality, making them fairly less than plausible. Certainly, the death of her fellow acrobat and Missing Link was a possibility that always hung in the air above her head, like a raincloud threatening to storm at any moment, but over time, she had come to fear that raincloud less and less because she had seen the progress Cwenha had made. She had seen how the silver acrobat might still have toyed with the notion of death, but she no longer clung to it… especially of late. Especially since she had met Kadri, who had, for whatever reason, appeared to give her all new meaning to find hope in a world that had dealt her such a terrible hand.
But that was the problem with fears; if you focused too closely on one possibility, it blinded you to other niches of reality… and that was exactly the case. For while Briery had always feared that Cwenha might succumb to death by her own hand, it had completely surpassed her sense of reason that death might still find the Silver Fairy in another way,
The leader of the Missing Links, feeling suddenly very cold, drew away from the faoladh with wide eyes. It wasn’t evident as to whether or not she’d taken heed of his own involvement and lack of action taken to prevent Cwenha’s death, or whether she heard his warning to take her fellow performers and flee the kingdom completely. It wasn’t even evident as to whether she held Hadwin accountable for his actions--or in this scenario, his deliberate inaction. Quick as her nimble body allowed her, Briery turned away from the faoladh and rushed toward the Night Garden, pushing past everyone in her way without so much as a second thought. No one could stop her--not the Galeynian guards, but she did not need to make it all the way. Lautim and Rycen were gathered up ahead, huddled together, with someone else in their company… Kadri. It was Kadri, the Forbanne soldier who had taken to Cwenha, and whom even fierce Cwenha hadn’t the heart to turn away. Something was bundled in his arms, wrapped in a nondescript beige blanket, but even that was not enough to convince her of what she was about to see. Denial was strong, especially when it came to facing the one truth you never wanted to embrace…
“Briery…” Rycen looked up in time to see the ringleader come to an abrupt halt, her hazel eyes wide with terror and anguish--and she hadn’t even seen the body. “I’m sorry, Brie. I was on my way to find her… but Kadri already had. There’s nothing we could have done…”
“Cwenha. No, Cwenha, no…” Briery’s voice hitched and her eyes welled with tears. The pale-blonde curls that poked out from the blanket, the side of the bundle in Kadri’s arms… it was her. It was Cwenha, still and silent: the complete antithesis of the personality she knew characterized the silver acrobat. “No. No, she… she was getting better. She was getting better… happier…”
Rycen lay a hand on the golden acrobat’s shoulder. Her whole body had gone tense and trembled. “He says it was an attack. Didn’t see it happen, but it appears to have been a wolf.” He nodded to Kadri, as if citing the facts would make this any easier on the troupe. For once, even Lautim’s silence felt loaded and hot, a storm just waiting to happen. “It wasn’t by her own hand--not like you always worried it would be…”
“And you think that makes it any better?” Briery snapped, venom and pain lacing her voice. She never snapped; she never lost her cool. Short of the flare ups of her disease which she had always suffered in silence, this was the first time both he and Lautim had witnessed their ringleader completely unravel. With trembling hands, she touched Cwenha’s hair, moving the locks away from her face… “This isn’t right. She was getting better… she was happier. Still damaged, but happier… why? Why her, why now?” Tears rolled down her cheeks and her breath hitched in her throat, before the strong ringleader of the Missing Links fell to her knees, dissolving in her own sadness.
Silence enveloped the troupe and Kadri, its only interruption being Briery’s heart-wrenching sobs. No one knew what to say, and even if they did, now wasn’t the time for words, because no choice words would bring Cwenha back, and repair that now broken chain that was the Missing Links. Rycen only saw fit to speak up again for the fact that one of them--their honourary member--was still missing. “No one’s gonna fault you for crying, Briery. And I get that you might not want to talk right now. But if we’re accounting for who’s here, did you manage to find Hadwin?”
The ringleader offered a barely perceptible nod. She didn’t look up to meet anyone’s eyes. “I did. He’s alive. His sister… it was his sister. She killed Cwenha.” She did not say anything about how he had witnessed the Silver Fairy’s last moments, though. How he had watched--and how he had done nothing to prevent the murder that had indefintiely severed the chain of their tight-knit troupe. Regardless of how culpable Hadwin really was, it wasn’t as though he had instigated the attack. And neither blame nor revenge would not bring Cwenha back. “He said… we should leave. Before we lose anyone else,” she went on at last, after a pregnant pause, all hope gone from her eyes. “...I am inclined to believe that is sound advice.”
It had been a storm just waiting to happen. Ever since Haraldur’s own run-in with near death, Lilica had been on the edge of her seat, wondering when the next tragedy would colour Galeyn with its darkness. And she couldn’t help but feel responsible by default, as a result. Could she had prevented this with more foresight? Sent her guards and instructed the Dawn Guard to further investigate the hidden poison that threatened the otherwise peaceful kingdom? She had been walking on eggshells since the very beginning; too afraid to disrupt the fragile peace the Galeynians cherished, all the while knowing they needed to take caution against this lurking threat…
“I should have been more proactive. This didn’t need to happen…” She whispered to Chara, clearly distraught, but managing to hold herself together all the same for the sake of the Gardeners, and those grieving the losses. Lilica clutched her elbows, her fingernails leaving deep crescent punctures in her skin without realizing what she was doing. “I just don’t understand. The performer, two whores and their driver… there doesn’t seem to be any connection between these murders. No pattern, aside that from everyone who has been attacked or killed this far, has not been Galeynian… but if this is the work of Locque, wouldn’t she want to target the Galeynians primarily? What sort of point is she trying to make, targeting the lives of seemingly random civilians?”
Regardless of the reason behind the sorceress’s murders (and the fact she was clearly making Hadwin’s sister do her dirty work), it was more obvious now than ever before that it was high time to devise a plan to stop her before any more lives were needlessly lost. But unfortunately, there was no moving forward without finding closure in the tragedy that had just occurred. The Eyraillian prince approached her then about just that, and fortunately, Senyiah--who knew far more about Galeynian death rites than she did--was nearby to address his request.
“We do not bury our dead. Typically, Galeyn’s tradition is to cremate their dead and spread their ashes across the soil of the Night Garden. Their spirit is thought to live on in the flora the grows from the ashes, and contribute to healing the loved ones left behind.” The Head Gardener folded her arms in her sleeves, taking her eyes away from the lifeless forms spread out on the soil. Away from the inconsolable Dawn Warrior who wouldn’t leave her lover’s side, even while only her empty shell remained. “However, none of the victims are Galeynian… so it is entirely up to those by whom they are survived to decide their last rites. I am happy to leave Naimah’s remembrance to you and the Dawn Warrior.”
“I did wonder why there wasn’t a single cemetery to be found in this small kingdom…” The Galeynian Queen mused softly, turning her dark gaze on the Head Gardener for answers. “Not so much as a grave or memorial to be found… I honestly wondered if death even happened, here. Now I see how foolish it was to entertain such a notion…”
Senyiah offered a slow shake of her head. “It is not out of lack of respect for the dead that we traditionally leave no memorial marker. Rather, we believe the spirits of the dead continue to live on in the soil of the Night Garden. Death, to us, is not a finality, but a transition, and those who leave this plane are not truly lost; rather, pegging them as ‘gone’ with a grave, conversely, harbours undertones of disrespect for Galeynians… but,” she turned to Haraldur and offered a solemn nod. “We understand and respect your own beliefs, how you choose to show respect to the dead holds just as much merit. You are free to grieve and remember your lost loved one as you so choose, when you are ready.”
The Head Gardener added that addendum while turning her attention to Sigrid. The Dawn Warrior still knelt in the soil, clutching one of Naimah’s hands, her head bowed as if in her own prayer. Still hoping that there was some chance, some miracle hidden within the soil of the magnificent Night Garden, that would bring the fallen Kariji woman back to her. As if there were still a chance that Naimah would open her eyes, again. Haraldur had the right idea, being proactive in pondering funeral rites, but none of that ensured his cousin was at all ready to say goodbye and to let go of the woman she loved. The only thing more painful than gazing upon the still face of a loved one who, not long ago, had still been alive, was to bear witness to those left behind when they somehow still managed to hold out hope.
And such was the case for Sigrid Sorenson, who was not ready to believe that her time with Naimah had come to an abrupt halt. Not ready to believe that the world had taken the Kariji woman away from her, before they could actually start a life, together. “I pledge myself to protect Galeyn. I pledge myself to protect this Garden.” She murmured, over and over through the tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “I pledge myself to the powers that will bring her back to me. I pledge myself…”
One of the younger Gardeners, Teren, dared to approach the grieving warrior, and knelt next to the fallen Kariji woman. His shoulders were heavy with defeat. “If we could bring her back to you,” he said softly, empathetic to her grief, “we would not hesitate to do so. We would bring all of them back...”
“It’s not right. It wasn’t her time.” Sigrid hissed, not in anger, but in anguish. “She cannot be gone. Not yet. There has to be something… something…” The Dawn Warrior’s typically steady voice broke as she dissolved in a fit of sobs, still clutching Naimah’s cold hand in her own. Time had long since lost all meaning to her, and she couldn’t be certain as to how long she knelt next to the lifeless form of her lover, whose body was growing ever colder. At some point, the sun, which had been overhead seemingly just moments ago, was now veering toward the west, and the air had grown colder. The other bodies had been taken to prepare their final rights; the Gardeners, helpless to be of any aid to the grieving warrior, had left. For a while, she was completely alone with Naimah, yet she had no sense of when the others had departed, or when Haraldur had returned to find her in the same place, the same position, murmuring the same words. Her cousin’s hand on her shoulder was what finally alerted her to the passage of hours, but it didn’t make her care about it. She was so beyond caring or feeling aside from what she felt for Naimah; it didn’t even matter.
“I told her that I would protect her. I told her that I would shield her from anyone and anything that would do her harm… I promised her.” When at last she spoke, her voice was weak and raw, and it hurt to form words. “I promised her. And I failed her. I failed the one person I meant to protect, and there is no going back. There is no second chance. I failed…” She squeezed her eyes shut, tears forming anew. “I am not fit to be called a Dawn Warrior. I don’t know that I even want the title, anymore. It has no meaning… and it has no merit. Because I’ve failed.”
Sigrid’s feet and legs were prickly from poor circulation when she rose to her full height, shoulders slumped, like she couldn’t truly stand tall anymore. “She said there was no retribution for turning my back on Gaolithe. That is could not exact punishment against me for ignoring my calling… but how do I really know? What if this is my punishment for refusing to wield it?” For the first time in hours, she turned her bloodshot eyes on her cousin, her once vibrant blue irises now dull and completely devoid of hope. “First Naimah, and the acrobat… who will be next? If you will not return to sword to me… then stay away. Keep you and your family far away from me, lest one of you suffers the same fate.”
The Dawn Warrior cast one last glance at Naimah, whose exsanguinated was too pale and ashy to mistake for a deep sleep, anymore. She was dead; and this was just a corpse. Naimah, the bright and vibrant woman who she’d once known, was indeed gone, so far beyond her reach… Without another word, she headed out of the Night Garden and toward the stables near the palace proper. As soon as night fell, she would venture to Braighdath to inform Roen of the tragedy that had befallen Galeyn… and to inform him of her departure from the ranks of the Dawn Guard.
In the wake of a tragedy so great as to have shaken more than a few core members of their collective group of friends, someone had to stand as the pillar of reason. Chara resolved to take on the mantle in Lilica’s place, but relief struck her to find she did not embody the role alone. Haraldur Sorde, on arriving at the scene, not only informed them of the culprit via his Forbanne envoy’s report, but shouldered the responsibilities of two of the victims’ bodies, one of which he relegated to the Forbanne for conveyance. Though she would not say, Chara appreciated not needing to deal with the funereal aspect of Galeyn’s latest, most unprecedented event, namely because…
She could not forget her travels with The Missing Links. While it persisted in her memory as a month of hell, plagued as such by nightmares and feelings of extreme inadequacy, of the need to disappear, Cwenha had...understood Chara’s mindset. She understood, and gave her the space that the much flashier, nosier Briery (sometimes paired with the equally flashy, nosy Hadwin) denied her. It was brief, her tenure with the circus troupe, and though she never expressed her thanks for returning her to the D’Marians, she made sure to elate their troupe and set aside a place on the palace grounds of their own, not only as per Alster’s pre-departure request, but because she wanted to. Working alongside Lilica, she provided them a safe haven for as long as they elected to stay in the kingdom of Galeyn. While she could not allow regrets to pepper her mind, Lilica’s guilt was contagious--and staring at the faces of the people she once knew did not help her impartiality and reason, either.
“We were proactive,” she squeezed her partner’s hand as a gentle reminder. “We established checkpoints in and around the palace grounds. Forbanne security, Dawn Guard security--no one has breached these palace walls uninvited. But we cannot account for the people who decide to leave our zone of protection. We cannot shackle your people, or my people, to their homes as a defense measure. It wouldn’t have mattered, besides. These murders--two, at the very least--were not senseless, but deliberate. And when people are chosen as targets, you are no longer protecting a kingdom, but individuals...an infinitely more difficult feat to accomplish.”
“It only takes a moment.” Haraldur, who dismissed Kadri to have him attend to Cwenha’s body, stared ahead at the remaining three corpses, his eyes faraway. At first, Chara could not tell if he was responding to her or speaking to himself. “You walk away, and then they’re gone. Wiped out by an avalanche. Pierced by skyward arrows. Dead by disease and malnutrition. By murder. By massacre.” He turned from the pile of the dead to directly address the three in his vicinity. “Cwenha did have a bodyguard, of a sort. Kadri is a highly capable soldier, able to fend off an attack, be it a wolf attack or a magic attack. He was keeping an eye on her for days--and yet, she died. Naimah was in transit. It was supposed to be a quick carriage ride. No longer than an hour. And yet, in that narrow window of time...she died. We can be prepared for everything and still lose the people closest and most precious to us. But for all our losses...this threat has a name. A face. Unlike an unstoppable force of nature, or the futility of sickness, this one can be defeated. Though--we’ll speak of this, later. We have people to mourn. And bury.”
And as the subject shifted back to the grim topic at hand, Chara and Haraldur tilted their heads at Senyiah, intrigued by Galeynian custom in regards to their view of death and the afterlife. But while both reacted with interest, they had dissenting opinions on the practice.
“I like that notion.” Haraldur raised his eyes above, to the swaying branches of the sentinel tree. “Your spirit returns to the earth. Can it be the whispers you hear on the wind are wisps of Galeynians who’ve passed, who are now one with this Garden?”
Chara lifted an eyebrow at the Forbanne Commander, baffled by his sudden bout of poetic inspiration. “That is all fine and good, but we Rigases like to honor our dead by erecting monuments in remembrance of their legacy and contributions. How are you to honor one’s specific life, Senyiah, if the ashes of your loved ones are intermixed with the ashes of some other loved one? No; on second thought, do not answer. I understand it has something to do with how we are connected with each other, and yes, it is all very profound.” She opened her palm and gestured it towards Haraldur. “Do as you wish, your Highness. In this case, I daresay it is for the best to burn the body, lest our lamenting Dawn Warrior never release her iron hold on her lover’s corpse.”
It seemed that Chara did not exaggerate, for when the sun lapsed across the sky, signaling the beginning of evening, Haraldur returned to find Sigrid in the same position from hours ago. During his absence, the Eyraillian prince tightened security along the palace perimeter, arranged an appropriate send-off for Naimah, and, of course, checked on his wife and children in the sanctuary. While loath to bring so much negative news into the safety of their nursery, Haraldur could not hide the truth from Vega, or the inquisitive healers, who asked if anyone needed medical attention. Unless they suddenly developed necromantic abilities...no; they could do nothing. It came to Haraldur’s attention how fortunate he really was, to have access to a necromancer not once, but twice. Much as he despised Vitali, it was due to his niche skills that Haraldur and Vega had not suffered a fate similar to Sigrid.
Hence, the bitter taste in his mouth, when he looked upon his grieving cousin, drained of all color save for the puffy red rings around her tear-swollen eyes. She had no chance to defy death at the behest of her lover. No chance to reverse a fatality. The Night Garden, though miraculous in its healing potential, respected the line between life and death. It did not go against its nature. As Senyiah had so eloquently put it, death was not a finality, but a transition. Were that the case, why, then, would the Night Garden reverse the transition? Naimah was not lost; therefore, she did not need to be returned.
But no human, at the height of their grief, would take comfort in that knowledge. No human, if given the choice, would accept death over life, so soon after losing a loved one.
Why? He glanced at the sentinel tree, the veritable pillar of creation of all things thriving in the Night Garden. Why her? ...Why my family? Why do we always suffer? Why can’t I hum the language of the trees and restore these lives? Is it because I’ve already defied death, twice? Is it divine punishment?
Sigrid seemed to think so.
“Sigrid,” he clutched her shoulder, whispering her name so as not to startle her out of her unsuccessful meditations. “It’s been four hours. We’re going to take Naimah’s body and dress her wounds. You’ll have one more chance to say goodbye. The Gardeners have agreed to give her last rites, tonight. In the Night Garden. She will be honored as a Galeynian. You’re welcome to join us.” What remained unspoken, was that she was not obligated to show up if it pained her too much to watch her beloved rise up in flames.
“I know nothing I say will convince you otherwise, Sigrid, but you didn’t fail. We’re human. It’s impossible to keep that promise.” There’s no such thing as safety. To protect is to suffocate one’s own freedoms. Hadn’t Hadwin told him something similar? And yet, he didn’t want to adhere to the deranged wolf-man’s counsel. Not when his murder-happy sister was the responsible party, and when his motivations remained so unclear. What were his affiliations? To them? To Locque and his sister? Should he even be allowed to stay inside Galeyn’s palace? “But we don’t stop trying. And you never did. You never stopped looking out for her. Better than anyone else.”
His words rang hollow, just as he thought. Because he was right; nothing he said could guide Sigrid away from her unconditional surrender...of herself.
“This isn’t punishment.” Hollow, hollow, hollow. Only moments ago, he questioned the same. Is this punishment? “If Gaolithe aimed to punish you, why would it take Cwenha? Or Naimah’s friend? Or the driver? I’m not in danger from the sword. Neither is Vega, or the twins. It would have killed me, already--the second I laid hands on it. Don’t…” He stoppered his tongue. Don’t what? Don’t walk away? Don’t isolate yourself? Would he follow the same advice, were he in her position? Recently, he did the same. He rejected Sigrid. He rejected Alster. He rejected his wife. And, after successfully cutting away all his relationships, he rejected himself. They singled him out. Targeted him. Wanted him dead. They almost succeeded.
...Was Sigrid next?
“...Don’t let your guard down, Sigrid,” he warned, as she began to retreat. “Whatever you do. Wherever you go. ...This is what they want. Alone, you’re vulnerable. That’s how they got me. But you don’t have to be alone. I’ve been where you are. Let me...”
He trailed off as Sigrid retreated from him and from the corpse that once housed the vibrant soul of Naimah. He had no sway over her. He...couldn’t protect her. Not without enslaving her. Not without removing her choice. He’d already done so, by hiding Gaolithe. And while he couldn’t trust Sigrid to make the right choices, in the end...who was he to decide for her? Regarding his cousin, he could only follow her so far. He had his wife, his children, and he promised never to abandon them. His stance, then, became abundantly clear. He belonged with them, at their side, as husband and father. And Sigrid...
He feared, this time, he would lose her. For good.
Hadwin did not accompany Briery in her mad dash to the palace; he spent the better part of the morning handling Cwenha’s corpse and did not need to bask in the reminder of his largest fuck-up to date. Never one to care about social etiquette, now, he considered the appropriateness of his presence among the Missing Links. Whether Briery shared the details of his involvement to the others, it didn’t matter a lick to him. He was done. Done with The Missing Links. Done with Galeyn. Done with Teselin. Done...with his sister. The best procedure going forward...was to leave.
“You were wrong about me, Briery,” he muttered under his breath, to his shadowy audience of one, always presiding in his periphery. “But hell, I listened to you spin your fairytale anyway. I liked the story. How you painted me as some loveable rogue, living for my selfish whims. Never change? Hah...you got that right. ...You got what you wanted out of me. And it cost you.”
While Briery and the Links were occupied fussing over the cygnet, who was too dead to deliver a well-timed snap at them, as any proud swan would do, Hadwin headed in the opposite direction--to the caravan. Inside, he gathered all his belongings: his rucksack, pipe, herbs, his change-purse, and a few sets of clothes. With a washbasin, he sponged and scrubbed himself clean of the blood, changed into a fresh outfit, and hauled the strap of his rucksack over his shoulder. Before exiting, something sharp and shiny glittered in the corner of his eye. Turning, he caught the emblazoned vermillion (dulled, naturally, by his colorblindness), of his costume, hanging from a hook on the wood-frame ceiling, winking at him as if to say, “Where are you going, without me?”
“I’d fucking spoil you on the road.” He glared at the costume, as if it personally offended him. “They can sell you for spare coin. Better yet,” he rummaged through his bag and threw his change purse on the lower bunk bed. “...I don’t need any of it.”
He didn’t venture to linger in the caravan. No more hesitation. He decisively stepped away from his temporary home on wheels and closed the door. It shuddered in his grasp. The wood cracked, creating a diagonal split from the latch to the archway. How symbolic, that his mere touch would break a damn door down!
But there was no helping it. No fixing what already broke. What he contributed in breaking. He didn’t look over his shoulder, did not turn back around, as he marched away from the people who had treated him as family. He didn’t need the maudlin associations on his bleeding conscience, on top of everything else. In the end, he hadn’t chosen them. He chose Rowen. He chose his own self-preservation. He had no loyalty to them, or to Teselin. I’m here for a good time. I’m here to stir shit, to break things, and to leave. Better not forget my fucking purpose. Hah, you won’t let me forget--Fiona.
And…
Another shadow materialized beside his mother. Like Fiona, she also sported teeth like cut glass, as well as a gaping neck wound, which bled and bled black tar in viscous, slithering clumps. Her eyes, hollow sockets, blazed with blue hellfire.
“Ah.” He smiled a welcoming smile. “There you are. Was expecting you, cygnet. Come and curse my name till the end days. Hell...it won’t be much longer, now. I was always meant to die young.”
Hadwin, with his new ghostly companion in tow, made himself scarce until sundown, when he emerged in the stables in search of his getaway steed. And, as his shit luck would have it, he encountered Sigrid for the second time that day. Right on schedule. Why not? Why the hell not? It was one absurdity after the other, collecting high like the world’s most unstable shit pile. He’d be remiss not to admire it. Or to try and knock it over.
In the brief silence that followed, Hadwin reared back his head...and laughed. “Ah...Siggy, Siggy. Look at us; we’re total wrecks,” he managed, in between spirited guffaws. “Are you also planning to hightail it out of here? Cuz that’s where I’m going. I’d ask if you wanna come, but considering, you know, my sister killed your girlfriend--probably for the best that you didn’t. Oh, but here’s the funniest part. The part that’s got me rolling, nonstop, here.” He clutched both hands against his stomach, for emphasis. “It’s because of me you met Naimah, but it’s because of me she’s dead. Ok, so I can’t take full credit for my sister’s antics, but, I also let her go when she feasted on Cwenha. I let her go, and she took off, found your lover’s carriage, and finished the job. How’s that for a real punch in the gut? A beautiful disaster. We’re living in the perfect tragedy. The kind of tragedy audiences would boo for being too contrived. But here I am, laughing because it’s just so damn melodramatic!” The forced mirth contorted his jovial grin, a mirror image, beset with cracks. “C’mon, Siggy. Give me something for my troubles. I’m easy pickings. There’s no way I can put up a fight.” Lowering his hands to his sides, he approached the Dawn Warrior, a disarming gesture, despite the manic flashes in his gold eyes. “I’m giving you a damn gift. Psh, well not a gift per se, but a consolation prize. Take it, Sigrid. Take it and do whatever the hell you want with it.” Desperation bunched at his brow and clamped at his jaw, pulling at the corners of his mouth and eyes until he resembled a tragedy mask donned by troubadours on stage. “I’ll make it hurt, too,” he curled his left hand--his dominant hand--into a tight fist. “if that’s what you want.”
It was a strange feeling, this numb sensation that followed the cutting agony following the realization of Naimah’s death. Though her feet carried her toward the stables, Sigrid couldn’t really feel them hit the ground. Nor could she hear voices or sounds, not her cousin speaking her name or words of caution and reassurance. It was as if something inside her had switched off the world surrounding her; as if without Naimah, the world and everything tangible in it lost all meaning. She had a single task: to walk from the Night Garden to the stables. From there, it would be up to the steed to take her to Braighdath, and from there, she would collect her thoughts and her composure to partake in her next task: informing Roen of her decision to leave the ranks of the Dawn Guard. It made things easier, this way; looking at the rest of her day in terms of a sequence of tasks, devoid of any feeling. Because if she let herself feel too much… there would be no going back, and she was not sure she would get anything done at all.
That feeling of not feeling followed her all the way to the stables, where she surveyed the horses for one that looked adequately prepped to ride. She hadn’t anticipated running into the faoladh, there, and if she had, she might have put off her departure for a bit longer, not trusting herself with what might happen should she encounter the man who had delivered the worst possible news she could ever receive. But, as it turned out… she did nothing. She did nothing, and felt nothing for the wolf man, who appeared oddly shaken by the events in his own way. Dark humour appeared to be his shield, while a complete lack of feeling was hers. And she couldn’t bring herself to oblige his desire to fight.
It wouldn’t be hard; not a warrior against a man who was relatively unarmed. She could have at the very least left a number of dark bruises and a broken lip and a bloody nose. Frankly, she wasn’t even she that he would try to fight back, for all he seemed so eager to have a showdown then and there in the stables. And yet… she hadn’t the slightest desire. Hadwin Kavanagh and his ironic smile, then and there, was of no more interest to her than the grass beneath her boots.
“Why? What would I gain from making you bleed?” The question was as much for herself as it was for him. While Hadwin’s face was a study in dark comedy, Sigrid couldn’t even convince her muscles to form an expression. It was as if she was devoid of everything but the ability to put one foot in front of the other. “Tell me it will bring Naimah back, and you have a deal. Tell me it will give her a second chance, and I’ll break every bone in your body as many times as you want, wolf.”
The Dawn Warrior paused for effect, without so much as glancing in Hadwin’s direction. Her flat, glacial gaze was locked on the stables without actually seeing anything. “No? Then you’ll have to deal with your guilt some other way. Go to your acrobat and convince her to punch you until you bleed. She must be hurting enough from losing one of her troupe that she wants to make someone else hurt, too--except that someone can’t be you, can it? Because she loves you. So she won’t hold you accountable.” She finally turned in his direction, still not a trace of expression on her slack face or in her red-rimmed eyes. “Don’t look so surprised. Even I am not enough of a social idiot not to have noticed. She cares for you, and could probably use your support, and what are you doing? Running away with your tail between your legs. Just like me; the difference is, there is no one left who needs me. The same cannot be said for you.”
She approached a sturdy looking Nightsteed, dark and black as its namesake, which wouldn’t be speeding through the landscape anytime soon. Not until nightfall, which was still several hours off… “...I want to run, right now. I want to run and never look back and never think about this pain. But that’s unrealistic; because it will follow me wherever I go. And… I’m not sure I could forgive myself if I did not remain long enough to observe Naimah’s last rites. It isn’t as though by not witnessing it, it won’t have happened; as if she isn’t really gone. Unless you talk to the Galeynians and their convoluted idea of ‘death’ not being final. I don’t have the patience to entertain such inane ideals that only serve the purpose of making you feel better about something terrible…”
At this point, she wasn’t sure that she was actually speaking directly to Hadwin, at all, but rather voicing her thoughts aloud. Making sense of the headache pounding in her temples, and the dissonance weighing like lead in her chest. How she wanted to badly to take that steed and leave everything, including this pain and the Dawn Guard behind… but knowing she couldn’t. Knowing that she owed it to Naimah to say goodbye, one last time.
She still had a ring in her pocket that needed to make its way to its rightful owner…
Sigrid sighed so hard that her shoulders slumped forward. She turned away from the steed. It wouldn’t really be of much use to her until nightfall, anyway. “It seems as though the Galeynians are going to hold a communal memorial for the fallen, tonight. That includes the fallen acrobat. I overheard the performers will remain long enough to say their final goodbyes… If you’re really going to take off, then here’s some unsolicited advice. From someone who did not get a chance to say ‘goodbye’ to the person they loved, before she was taken.” Tears had gathered in her eyes again, clouding her vision of the faoladh. “Don’t take them for granted--the people who care about you. Go and say goodbye. You owe them that much.”
Making a decisive decision, the Dawn Warrior left the stables with heavy feet and an even heavier heart, leaving the faoladh to make his own decision with regards to his own guilt. She couldn’t hate him, in spite of the fact his inaction had contributed to Naimah’s premature demise, simply because she didn’t have the energy left to hate. Any and all anger was carefully bottled up for his sister, the real culprit, and it went without saying that if Rowen Kavanagh dared to cross Sigrid Sorenson’s path, she would make damned sure that only one of them would walk away from that encounter--and she would be that person.
With hours to spare until the memorial, that would take place just outside of the Night Garden, the Dawn Warrior didn’t have it in her to return to her room. Instead, she sought the whores’ encampment, and made for Naimah’s tent. It still smelled like her; clothes and silks were haphazardly tucked into places where they didn’t belong, and her bed of cushions was in disarray. It looked like she was still there; like she had left in a hurry, and would return to tidy her clutter before her next client arrived. There was still an impression in one of her pillows from where she had recently laid her head. Sigrid almost expected the bed to be warm when she touched it… Death had never been intended for Naimah. It had been a rude hurdle that disrupted the flow of her day to day life, and taken her before this world had been ready to give her up. Reaching down, Sigrid picked up one of the silk scarves, a vibrant fuchsia, that the Kariji woman had worn just the other day, and held the featherlight fabric in her hand… I can’t leave. Not when it feels like you are still here… like you are still with me…
She hadn’t realized she had any tears left to cry until she sat upon the vacant cushions and let them spill.
Senyiah hadn’t exactly explained Galeynian death customs to the best of her ability earlier that day, amidst all of the shock and pain of the four sudden deaths, and how their lives had ended. But as evening encroached, and plans were made to hold a final service for the four lives that had been lost, Lilica and Chara had come to learn that it was not as though nothing remained to remind loved ones of those lost to them. Although Galeyn did not sport cemeteries or erect monuments in honour of those who had passed, it was established that the ashes of the departed were used to plant something new in the Night Garden, be it a bush or a tree or a flower. The beauty of the Garden was that the flora thrived continually, and if ever something was picked or chopped down, it regenerated relatively quickly. Eternal life for an eternal plant, that went on to sustain and heal the lives of others… Chara had been right. The philosophy behind it all was far deeper than what they had time to discuss, but it did bring Lilica a modicum of relief that those most affected by this turn of events--the Missing Links and Sigrid Sorenson--would have some closure in knowing there would continue to be physical proof and a reminder of the lives that had once walked this plane.
It was difficult to make something beautiful of such an ugly turn of events, but with the help of the Galeynians and the care of the Gardeners, the four bodies had been cleaned and dressed by evening, and were as presentable for a funeral as they possibly could be. They had been carefully arranged upon four separate wooden planks set upon a pyre that was decorated with wildflowers, some which had also been placed in the hands of the deceased. Each of them wore high collars or scarves to conceal the grizzly wound that had ended their lives, but the light of the waning sun favoured their pale complexions by bathing them in an autumn glow. Their faces were peaceful; it was about as much as anyone could ask for.
And it turned out to be no small event. A good portion of the populace had come out to acknowledge the deceased; both Galeynians and D’Marians. They gathered to pay their respects and offer condolences--particularly to the Missing Links, who had decided that Cwenha deserved them to see her sent off to the next plane of existence. But that was the difference, between Cwenha and the others; two whores and a carriage driver. The kingdom knew Cwenha, or at least, they knew of her. They knew her feats and knew her voice. They knew the troupe she belonged to, and while there was no shortage of flowers for all four bodies, it was the Silver Fairy who received the most attention.
And then there was Naimah, whom only a small number of people held dear. Although she had been responsible for overseeing the rehabilitation of the Forbanne through her human touch, and the touches of the girls who worked alongside her, she had been a humble woman who had spoken to few of her ventures and accomplishments. But Haraldur knew what she had done; Vega knew, as did Teselin, Tivia, Chara and Lilica, all whom were present at this final send off. Teselin, in particular, was beside herself with not only sadness, but deep concern. Hadwin was not to be seen, anywhere, and if this really was Rowen’s doing… what had become of him? Or what would become of him?
“Briery… I am so sorry.” The young summoner finally mustered the courage to approach the three remaining Missing Links. People who had helped her when she’d needed it most… and she could do nothing for them. She didn’t even know what else to say.
But Briery didn’t even appear to hear her; not really. Her hazel eyes, red and swollen from crying, were fixed on Cwenha, as if wanting to remember every detail of the girl who had brought so much life to their troupe. Even in her darkest moments, she had been nothing short of a light… “...can you hear that?” She asked suddenly, furrowing her brows. She clutched her arms to her body as if fending off the cold. “It’s like… I can still hear her singing. I know it isn’t real. But… I still hear it…”
At the front of the pyre, Lilica stood, with Chara at her side, to address the crowd, who had long since lapsed into a hush. Four brutal deaths in a single day was more than these people were able to bear. “While we have gathered to honour and remember these individuals who, just this morning, walked alongside us, I wish to convey to Galeyn that this matter is not taken lightly. That these lives, cut short, will not be taken lightly. Whoever stands against us, be it Locque or someone else acting of their own will, they have sought to make a point; and they have. So now, I will make my point, in turn.” The Queen’s dark eyes surveyed the crowd, and the village beyond, as if sussing out whether the perpetrator was among the lot. “I am through relying on defensive tactics. Clearly, those are not enough. So, as of tomorrow, the Galeynian Guard, along with members of the Dawn Guard and Prince Sorde’s Forbanne warriors, will scour this kingdom, in search of the killer. All gates are blocked, allowing no entry and no exit--and this land is only so big. It is my promise to you that they will be found. After today, I will see no more lives lost to this threat. That,” she squared her shoulders, conviction burning in her eyes, “is my promise to you, as your Queen.”
“So this is what it took, to make you come to finally this decision? Four consecutive murders?”
Everyone turned toward the accusatory voice of a familiar, blonde-haired Dawn Warrior, whom they had been surprised not to see right away at this gathering. In the hours that had passed, Sigrid Sordenson had managed to gather her composure, but barely. Her eyes, still red-rimmed and bloodshot, settled on the Galeynian Queen, and the crowd before her parted to allow her a path toward the pyre. Toward Naimah.
Lilica was understandably rattled by the sudden accusation in the voice of someone she considered an ally. But time spent meditating on all of Chara’s counsel and advice helped her not to look taken aback, at least not outwardly. “Sigrid Sorsenson of the Dawn Guard. I see, I understand, and I accept your pain. All of us do; I do not begrudge you your anger.”
“Is that so? And what of Naimah’s pain? What of what was stolen from her--does that matter? To any of you? How many of you, exactly, came here to say goodbye to her?” Sigrid’s eyes swept the crowd, filled with the displaced anger she hadn’t been able to summon earlier. “How many of you knew or cared for any of these people, aside from the performer? Is this really about remembering the dead, or is this about seizing the opportunity to finally declare that you will come through for your people, Your Majesty?”
“Sigrid.” Lilica’s heart raced, and she took a steadying breath, one hand clenching into a fist, all the while trying not to make it obvious that she was on her last nerve. “We are not your enemy, here… I am not your enemy.”
“Maybe not. But you know who the enemy is. You have known since my cousin almost lost his life to her; some of you have known since even before then. But now--only now, that Naimah is gone, do you decide to act.” Turning away from the Queen, from the aghast onlookers, from the concerned faces of Haraldur and her comrades, Sigrid approached Naimah one last time. The Kariji woman’s wounds had been cleaned and hidden, her hair arranged beautifully around her face. Not even death could steal her radiance… not really. “...it isn’t fair to ask you to accept this. Not now that you cannot rightly refuse, should you so decide.” The Dawn Warrior spoke softly, only to her beloved, as if forgetting for a brief moment that they were not alone. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew the shiny new ring with its glimmering stone… one she should have given to Naimah sooner. “You don’t need to think of it as a proposal. Just think of it as a gift. I bought it with you in mind… it isn’t as though I could ever offer it to anyone else.”
Gently lifting the Kariji woman’s hand, she slipped the angelstone onto her finger. She’d been right; the gem complemented her dark skin, accentuated the bright hues of her clothes. It fit just the right finger. It was perfect. “...this world could not keep you because you were too good for it.” The Dawn Warrior whispered, her chest growing tight, knowing this would be the last time she would ever see the face of the woman she’d loved. “Be at peace with your family. They will be elated to have you back.”
With nothing left to say, and for fear that if she did not leave now, she would not find the strength to do so later, Sigrid turned away and retreated the same way she had arrived. She had said her good-byes, and this was as far as she could take it. Even the Dawn Warrior was not strong enough to watch her late lover go up in flames for the earth to reclaim.
The pacifistic kingdom of Galeyn rankled Hadwin more than ever. Before, he found it as a quirk, something he respected as part of their unerring ideology. People typically resolved their differences through mediation, not fists or brutal stabbings. The rare tavern welcomed guests with faces too friendly and trusting to smash into a pulp. So reliant were they in adhering to the unwritten rules of human decency, he hadn’t the heart to corrupt or bruise a system that actually worked in favor of its citizens. But the harmony got to him, after a while. There were no drunken brawls. No bloodsport. No underground pugilist rings or gambling dens or torture chambers to punish the accused for their criminal acts. Really, he should be thanking Rowen and Locque for introducing Galeyn to the reality outside the borders of their hermit kingdom. Violence was human nature, and the sooner the citizens learned from it, the sooner they could take up arms and defend themselves.
Hadwin taught Rowen about how to navigate through an inherently unjust and broken society. He taught her how to exploit loopholes and work them in her favor. Who was he to blame her for implementing his teachings? Sure, she took a more extreme approach, choosing murder over wheeling and dealing through town to town, city to city, but then again, Rowen had always been more ambitious--and cutthroat (literally!) than him. Ambitious enough to trade her useless brother in for a better deal. It was no loss to her, to make him her enemy, or to kill the people whom he invested so much of his attention. She sussed out his weaknesses, and he put up no fight, no resistance. He surrendered to her, always...because, in the end, he was the biggest chump out of them all. A pushover. A coward. And oh, how she banked on it. How she knew he’d do nothing to stop her murder spree. The student had become the master, in the end, and he was the one to hand over the manual to his downfall. As Fiona had predicted, his demise would cost the lives of other people. You’re poison. And you’ll take them all down with you. The only way to stop it...is to die.
“Are you telling me you’re also buying into this shit pacifistic approach, Siggy?” With both fists raised, he assumed an offensive fighting stance. “Fuck, what you gain is smashing my face in. If you punch me hard enough, maybe my ability to attract ghosts will rub off on you, and you’ll have your roisin Naimah whispering sweet hauntings in your ear until you die and join her in the underworld. I’ve already got the cygnet on my side, next to my mam, so hey, it’s like they never left, yeah? I guess Galeyn’s you’re-not-truly-dead spiel’s got some merit. Because ghosts sure as hell exist, and they’re vengeful fuckers. So go ahead and try your luck. I’m sure your lover’s still hanging around, waiting to settle in the corner of your eye like some floater you can’t shake, and oh how she’ll riddle you with holes, regaling you, in detail, with tales of how you’re a shit person who ruins lives just by breathing on them funny. So c’mon, Siggy.” His balled-up fists shook in his white-knuckled grip. “Let’s give the ghosts something to talk about.”
His eagerness to swarm in and deliver the first punch faltered, however, at the Dawn Warrior’s mention of Briery and “love,” uttered in the same breath. His teeth pestled together so hard, his jaw popped. “That’s the fucking problem!” he barked, his pained exclamation loud enough to startle the horses in their immediate vicinity. “She won’t hold me accountable, so someone’s gotta do it. I warned her. I warned her! If she loves me I’m gonna break her heart. Consider it done! I’m outta here. Because I’m a coward, you got that right! So take your unsolicited advice and choke on it, Sigrid; it’s not like you don’t have plenty of people who care a great deal for you. The lengths they’ll go, to keep you from becoming cursed sword fodder. But you’re gonna abandon them, like me, because it’s not the love of your whore, so it doesn’t matter, right?! Love--eros--ain’t shit. It’s two or more people coming together out of the desperation not to be alone. Take it from a whore, himself; that’s all it is. It’s to fill a void; to stop the march into the arms of existential death. We’re all nothing.” An eerie calm stilled the rhythmic bouncing of his heels, the lively pumping of his arms in anticipation to strike. It ceased. The anger, the bite in his verbal fisticuffs that aimed to destroy Sigrid without ever laying a hand on her...everything. “It’s pointless. We’re absolutely pointless.”
Heeding his own advice, he lowered his arms, unfurled his fists, and let the Dawn Warrior leave unscathed. He did not give chase because she would not give him what he wanted. No one in Galeyn could, apart from the Forbanne, and they only responded to threats. He wouldn’t self-destruct here. No, he couldn’t. In a sea of selfish decisions, this one was as selfless as they came.
No one needs this. They think they do, and they’ll stop me if I give them the chance. So they’ll get no chances. No goodbyes. It’s shitty, but I’m shitty, so I’m keeping true to myself, Briery. I’ll never change.
And, waiting until nightfall, Hadwin selected a night steed, tricked the guards into authorizing his departure, and ran from Galeyn, his tail between his legs.
Tivia and Teselin arrived at Galeyn’s palace in time to discover the full extent of the tragedy which had occurred that morning. Owing to her faulty star-seer ability, its reliability most effective in determining the status of a Rigas or, in rare cases, a non-relation with whom she’d become either physically or emotionally intimate, she did not sense any foul-play until the moment of impact. She sensed that whatever happened would affect Haraldur, and through her peripheral connection with him, mapped out other people who would suffer the extent of the aberration screaming from the heavens (and into her ears). She had a limited reach, but she grasped involvement by the sorceress Locque. From her two focal points, she concluded that Sigrid, and to some extent, Hadwin (and she hated how she shared a few degrees of separation with him, via his prior investment in the lives of her parents), were especially shaken by the events rippling throughout Galeyn. While she kept knowledge of the despicable wolf-man to herself, she informed Teselin of the emergency, and suggested they head to the palace as soon as possible.
They set off on their steeds in broad daylight, which pushed their projected arrival back nearly four hours. But it was too early in the day to tarry until nightfall, not when the matter of a prompt departure could be the difference between arriving on time or arriving too late. But it was all futile. Their journey from the farmhouse on the outskirts to the center of Galeyn was plagued with delays, setbacks, road blockages, and checkpoints so numerous, that when they finally reached the palace, the sun had begun to sequester beneath the western horizon. Through their ill-fated pilgrimage, however, they learned of what had happened: four murders, all in the span of one morning. While Tivia did not know them well, two names rang familiar to her. Cwenha, of the Missing Links, and Naimah, the whore who Sigrid more than fancied. And Rowen Kavanagh had been the one to kill them.
“What is it with this wolf-man and his family?” she remembered relaying to Teselin, in hushed, disgusted tones as they dismounted their steeds and entered the palace. “I thought he was bad, but then someone worse comes along and silences my expectations. I hope there are no more of them. I shudder to imagine a sister or brother worse than the one currently causing all this misery.” But that was a conversation for another time. A hush fell over the palace as they traversed the hallways. What days ago exhibited a carnival-like atmosphere now amounted to a mausoleum.
They’d arrived for the four funerals. Not too early; not too late. Just in time.
Nothing to be done. Nothing she could have done. Even if Vitali were still in Galeyn, and the stars delivered a cogent report on the fates of the four victims, she and the necromancer would not find them before their spirits departed their bodies. Alster, strongest Rigas since Rigel, could not help. Neither could the Night Garden at full strength. Or Teselin, herself, a force with unlimited magical potential, had no practical use. Surrounded as they were by powerful casters, one of whom could predict the future, a miracle Garden, Dawn Warriors, and Forbanne, a scrawny wolf-girl managed to massacre four lives. For that, Tivia could not fault Sigrid’s rage-filled speech, as she converged upon the funeral pyre the Gardeners had erected in the ethereal twilight of the Night Garden.
“Yes, Sigrid Sorenson. This is what it took.” Chara, in defense of Lilica’s ordinance, stepped forward to address the irrational, aggrieved Dawn Warrior. She did not raise her voice; only presented the facts with reason. “One isolated incident is only that; an incident. As with the case of Prince Sorde, the intelligence gathered on the culprit was not made clear to us, due to some complications over unveiling her identity. A character witness who has intimate relations with the culprit failed to come forward to identify her until much later.” She did not need to speak his name to fan out her frustrations over Hadwin (and to an extent, Teselin) for withholding information about Rowen Kavanagh’s direct involvement, nevermind her role in the murder of six D’Marians and Braighdath’s own Councilman Thamon.
“Despite the limited information, I assure you, Warrior, we’ve launched investigations in the area--myself and the Forbanne. We searched for her and we searched for the elusive sorceress, Locque, but since you are not familiar with pursuing criminals who possess magic, this is no easy feat to accomplish. Galeyn is a small kingdom, true, but we have a limited army at our disposal. We pull guards and soldiers from the palace perimeter and we expose the Night Garden to infiltration. I assure you, I am more than invested in apprehending those responsible for these heinous crimes. Need I remind you that no Galeynian has died, but since our arrival here, my people, the D’Marians, and other unaffiliated outsiders, have. I, too, am ready for retribution, and it will be done, you have my word.”
Whether Chara’s rebuttal appeased her or not, the Dawn Warrior had, at least, backed off. She turned towards the pyre and muttered her farewells to the deceased. Naimah, dressed in her colorful garments, did not respond, but a stray breeze fluttered the coils of her hair and the wide sleeves of her dress, furthering the illusion of a response. Somehow, she accepted her gift, her ring, with similar grace and appreciation as when she was alive. Be it a trick of the light, or a delusion brought on by lack of sleep, Chara thought she saw the dead woman’s lips press into a smile.
As the Dawn Warrior made her retreat, Haraldur, who remained silent throughout the tense exchange, called over three of his Forbanne guards. “Follow her. Watch her. But give her space. Don’t let her see you. Be mindful of where she goes, and be mindful of her surroundings. Anything suspicious at all, you report it to me. Go.”
At their dismissal, the soldiers saluted, fist to chest, and headed off to their stealth assignment, maintaining a wide berth between themselves and Sigrid.
Once the Galeynian Queen and her advisor commanded order among the muttering crowd, the Gardeners emerged, torches in their hands, and lowered their beacons to the wooden beams of the pyre. The flames taught on the tinder and spread from one end to the other, illuminating the platform like a second dying sun to rival the first one in the sky. Though she had no personal investment in the dead or in the majority of the bereaved, Tivia was not immune to the sorrow that permeated the atmosphere, in particular, from Briery, who was beside herself in tears. Some moisture caught under the star seer’s own eye, a phenomenon she attributed to second-hand tears. Deftly, she wiped the residue away from her leaking eye, and focused her attention, instead, on the stoic Forbanne who took residence in the company of the circus troupe. Like most soldiers of his ilk, he did not react. Steadfast, he stood, at attention--but what she found strange was that his fist was held over his chest, in salute to the dead. In salute...to Cwenha. Forbanne did not respect the dead, yet this one demonstrated enough integrity to crawl out of his past teachings and actively honor people who the world would never think to honor. Two whores, a carriage driver, and a circus performer--and he was treating them like royalty. Moved by his sentiment, Tivia placed her hand against her chest and bowed her head, as well. The flames climbed high, engulfing the pyre. Engulfing the four bodies. There the crowd stayed, not satisfied with the ritual until the ashes scattered into the wind, across the garden. And in the faint moonlight overhead, they appeared as stardust shooting from the heavens, taking up residence in each alien flower, herb, and tree--like celestial butterflies sucking at the nectar.
As the flames died and true night settled in the Night Garden, Kadri came back to life, shaking out of his statue formation to address Briery. “Commander Sorde has given me leave for the rest of the evening and tomorrow. If you have need of my services, I will help you ready your caravan for departure. Will Hadwin be joining you?”
“I doubt it,” Tivia, who had not said a word since the start of the funeral service, supplied. “I have a feeling...that he’s gone.”
Days following the funeral for the four victims, Sigrid Sorenson had yet to make the departure from Galeyn that she so desired. It wasn’t even for lack of a desire to flee, to put this pain and the memories adhered to it behind her, but rather, the inability to accept that she would have to push forward for the rest of her life without Naimah. Every time she thought she found the resolve to leave the peaceful albeit shaken kingdom, something would stall her flight. Something that reminded her of the lost Kariji woman. Sometimes it was as simple as a colour; a flash of bright vermillion that reminded her of Naimah’s silks. A shock of dark, curly hair that for a brief moment, made her wonder if her lover was somehow still among the living, until the owner of those locks would turn around, revealing another person entirely. But that was all it took to shake the Dawn Warrior enough to dissolve her intent to put this person and these memories behind her, and she felt those fresh wounds bleeding anew; her heart still bleeding for her loss.
So what might have been a moderately poor decision only led to ever poorer choices made in its stead. It began with the night following Naimah’s cremation. It was the second night that the Dawn Warrior had failed to find a means to sleep, no matter where she sought it, no matter how she attempted to exhaust her body through exercise or training. Of all the advice that came to mind, it was ultimately Hadwin’s that resonated the most, and the grieving warrior eventually found herself at one of the kingdom’s few taverns late at night, forcing her palate to accept large quantities of ale. Not one who was particularly partial to drinking, it just so happened that she hadn’t much of a tolerance, and inebriation was a quick result… but not enough to help her sleep. Not enough to forget, when she had become so used to the warmth of another body close to hers, to hearing the soft breathing of her lover next to her ear as she fell asleep.
Which brought her to her next tactic, one the Dawn Warrior never thought she would embrace in a hundred years. If it was a warm body and female contact that had lulled her to sleep during her brief but meaningful time with Naimah, then perhaps that experience could be emulated, enough to put her mind at ease just to the extent that she happened to find rest. Hadn’t the faoladh said something about love ‘filling a void’? Well, if that void was occupied by another presence, whether or not it was meaningful, then by that logic, this solution was sound. So Sigrid Sorenson, the shy and introverted Dawn Warrior and wielder of Gaolithe, spent the next handful of nights seeking the company of the whores who had once worked with Naimah. They were all beautiful, all had their own unique touch and means to connect, and it certainly was not through lack of attraction that Sigrid always found herself bowing out before anything could transpire between two naked bodies. The trouble was, none of them were her; none of them were Naimah, and for that fact, she ultimately found herself unable to touch any of them. They were beautiful, all of them, and seductive to a fault, but their body types were all different, their hair shades of blonde and russet and some brunette, and their skin all a different hue of fair. In the end, they were not Naimah… and they could not emulate what had been between the Kariji woman and the Dawn Warrior. None of them could--and, to be fair, not for lack of trying on their part.
It always ended the same. No sooner would the whore, the current object of Sigrid’s interest, disrobe in full that the Dawn Warrior felt herself physically, mentally, and emotionally withdraw. Needless to say, this struck many of the girls a huge blow to their confidence, and almost all of them would look down at themselves with shame and disappointment that they could not please this particular client. “Am I not to your liking?” They would often ask, which always had Sigrid scrambling to find a way to explain herself, without revealing too much.
“Of course that is not the case--you are beautiful! I mean it; only a fool would think otherwise. I just…” The Dawn Warrior would always fumble with the ties at the front of her tunic, often because she found her hands shaking. “The timing isn’t right. That’s all. I am so sorry to have bothered you without following through…”
In the end, she always paid them in full; sometimes more than the price they’d asked. Some would wordlessly accept the gift that the hadn’t even had to work for. Others would kindly attempt to refuse. Those happened to be the girls who had been more keenly aware of Sigrid’s relationship with Naimah, and perhaps had an inkling as to the pain that must be raging in the Dawn Warrior’s heart and mind. In the end, Sigrid always insisted they take the monetary compensation, regardless, and left with lighter pockets and a much heavier heart. No one can take your place, Naimah. It was this thought that had allowed despair to truly sink in. That that ‘void’ Hadwin had referred to might forever remain a void. The truth was, the Dawn Warrior had never completely healed from the rejection of that pretty dancer in Braighdath some years ago; she’d never really overcome that feeling of unwantedness that had set in during her parentless years as a child. Sigrid Sorenson did not heal emotionally, not as well as others did. How was she ever to overcome this deepened pit of emptiness that Naimah had left in her absence?
Word of the tragedy in Galeyn had made its way to Braighdath relatively quickly, and it wasn’t long before Roen had pieced together the relation between Locque’s latest victims, and his own Dawn Warrior, Sigrid Sorenson. And that instilled him with dread, because he of all people knew that this was a blow from which Sigrid could not recover on her own, and he feared how she might fare upon the realization that she sought neither help nor comfort from anyone.
The leader of the Dawn Guard decided it was necessary to put Braighdath’s domestic issues with the council aside long enough to venture to Galeyn and check up on Gaolithe’s wielder, especially since none of the Dawn Guard envoys that traversed the kingdom to the city and back again could really speak to how Sigrid was faring. When he arrived, two days later, he immediately saw fit to seek out her cousin, figuring there was no one better to consult than her own flesh and blood family. Sadly, Haraldur and Vega Sorde hadn’t much that was useful to impart. Not since there were matters that understandably required more immediate attention; namely, that of a pair of newborn twins.
“Your Highnesses. I offer my sincerest congratulations on the birth of your children.” The aged man had informed them, with nothing but kindness and excitement on their part. “I suspect they will grow to be as strong and as capable as their parents. You are right to focus on their well-being, as well as your own. I cannot myself speak to parenthood, but… well, I suppose I did have a hand in shaping Sigrid into the warrior she has become. If they are anywhere near as strong-willed as Klara’s guardian, you will have your hands full.”
It wasn’t without a hint of sadness that he spoke those words, feeling helpless that there was nothing he nor anyone else could do for Sigrid. She was alone because she chose to be alone; because Naimah’s sudden death had inflicted such a painful wound that anyone who sought to help only irritated and aggravated it. And as a precaution from that pain, she had already chosen to push them away. “You have my thanks for sending your Forbanne soldiers to watch over her in this time of distress. I fear what might happen to her without support. I’ve seen her vulnerable; and it opens her up to hurting herself, badly. I am not confident that she will come back to herself anytime soon, but in the interim, so long as she is safe…”
“Are you really doing this? Worrying about my safety, when other innocent lives within Galeyn are in danger of being lost to a murderer?”
No one had heard Sigrid approach the open doorway to the sanctuary. The blonde-haired Dawn Warrior had never been known for her stealth, but of late, she had withdrawn into herself so intently that it almost literally diminished her presence, down to the lack of noise her feet made upon stone or soil. As if she literally were a ghost of her former self.
“Sigrid…” Roen turned to once proud warrior. She still stood tall, and strong, and willing and able to fight should the need arise, but she was not the same. There was no colour to her sun-tanned skin, save for the dark half-moons beneath her sleepless eyes. She still wore her long hair tied back in a braid, but it was barely holding together at the tip, and threatened to completely unravel at just the wrong movement at the wrong time. Her azure eyes had lost all spark and brightness, and now appeared hard as stones at the bottom of the ocean. I short, Sigrid Sorenson, in only a few days, had been reduced to a shell. “Everyone is worried for you. The culprit responsible for the murders almost managed to end your cousin’s life; being a warrior and able to fight does not make you immune.”
“No, it doesn’t. Which is why I have been on guard, and looking for the bitch responsible for Naimah’s death before she can find me. Which is exactly what you should be doing, too, if you really want to help. Which reminds me,” the stricken Dawn Warrior turned her eyes on Haraldur, who was holding a contently sleeping Klara in his arms. She at least had the compassion not to raise her voice and disturb the child, but the intensity remained in her tone. “I want you to call off your soldiers, Haraldur. They shouldn’t be following me; instruct them to go and find Rowen Kavanagh. She needs to be found. You are wasting resources by having Forbanne idle in my periphery.”
“With all respect, Sigrid, are you in any shape to be searching for a murderer right now?” Neither Roen’s words nor tone were particularly accusatory. On the contrary, the lines in his face conveyed sadness. “Please be honest; when was the last time you slept? Or partook in a full meal? It has only been a few days since this tragedy, but you look as though you have been fighting a losing battle for far longer…”
“I am going to find Rowen Kavanagh, if no one else can; or I will die trying. Whatever happens first. She will not take any more lives.”
“Do you wish to find her to prevent further carnage? Or do you want revenge?”
Sigrid’s expression remained stoic, betraying nothing. Perhaps there wasn’t anything left to betray; she’d already bled her feelings dry through her tears, which had dehydrated days ago. “Those reasons needn’t be mutually exclusive.”
“She will be found, Sigrid. The Queen of Galeyn has sworn it. If you will not rest, and will not take solace in the company of your family by blood and relation…” He indicated Haraldur and Vega, and the sleeping babies in their arms. “I left our city to ask you to come back with me. To Braighdath; to the Dawn Guard. I understand the significance of your loss, and how you loved Naimah, but we have been your family, before. We’ve been your family for a long time. We stand together, we bleed together, and we grieve together. Let us help you.”
“The Dawn Guard is--it was a shelter, Roen. You sheltered me for years by taking me in when I didn’t deserve it. And I will forever be indebted to you for that. But my time for being sheltered is over.” It appeared that she meant what she’d said. Sigrid was not sporting the indigo tunic of the Dawn Guard, today; she hadn’t, since the day Naimah had died. If her decision hadn’t been clear enough then, there was no mistaking it now. “If you really want to help--any of you, all of you, then have Naimah’s murderer found. Help me find her and bring her to justice. But that isn’t what I came here to say.”
The Dawn Warrior--or former Dawn Warrior, as she seemed to be implying, turned her deadened eyes on Haraldur. “I’m afraid I cannot take up the mantle of guardianship over your daughter. With Naimah… maybe I could have made it work; she knew what she was doing. But I don’t, and I don’t have time for it. Just as you haven’t the time any task that takes you away from your family, Haraldur… and as it so should be. Do not ask me to step away from my task, and I will not expect you to forsake your duty.”
Before any of them could think to try and convince her to change her mind, Sigrid Sorenson departed the sanctuary, to the sounds of two mewling infants in her wake. Almost as if the babies had sensed the sadness in the air and reacted on instinct…
She did not make it too far before a small cluster of familiar faces caught her eye. The remaining members of the Missing Links, along with Queen Lilica, Lady Chara, and young Teselin were gathered in a semi-circle. Upon closer inspection, they stood near four small mounds of rich, Night Garden soil. Something small and green appeared to be sprouting from each of them.
“Sigrid…” It was the young summoner who looked up in time to see the Dawn Warrior approach. With a sad, albeit inviting smile, she stepped aside as if to show her something. “I’m glad you’re here. The Gardeners have planted the memorials within the ash-enriched soil; look, they’ve already begun to sprout. This one… this is Naimah’s.”
She would have walked on, were it not for the utterance of her lover’s name. Senyiah had said something about planting new life to honour the lives lost, but Sigrid had been far too aggrieved to listen. But now, there it was, before her in plain sight. A seedling, no taller than half an inch; growth that wouldn’t have been possible at such a rate, anywhere else. Naimah… it was nourished by Naimah’s ashes. The last gift she had to give the world.
“It will become a tree, with vibrant red petals that will blossom every spring.” Lilica interjected gently, hands folded before her in an apologetic stance. “We wanted to consult you first, Sigrid, before deciding what was best to plant in Naimah’s memory… but the Gardeners insist that the ashes are most effective in fertilizing the soil early on. And we could not find you to consult…”
Sigrid lifted her hand and shook her head. “It’s fine. A tree… is perfect.” Strong and sturdy. Something that sheltered and provided for other life. Something that was often overshadowed or not thought of quite enough… Naimah’s legacy would become one of the tallest entities in the Night Garden. It would be impossible not to acknowledge her, now. “It has already sprouted… when will it take form?”
“A few months, according to Senyiah. Far more quickly than a typical tree. Growth and life is accelerated, here. And Cwenha’s… just over there,” Lilica nodded to where Briery and the Missing Links were huddled, just some yards away. “Briery decided to plant a rosebush. Beautiful but untouchable, just as her companion was.”
Cwenha… In Sigrid’s grief, she selfishly hadn’t considered that others, too, were grieving. The once bright and jubilant ringleader, too, had dulled in her complexion and demeanor, gazing helplessly at what the Silver Fairy had become, with the giant and the illusionist at her side. “Briery,” Lilica spoke up again, trying to catch the ringleader’s attention. “Once again, you and your troupe are welcome to stay safely within the walls of the palace until Alster Returns with your caravan. I swear on my own life that no harm will come to any of you while you wait.”
At first, it appeared as though the golden acrobat hadn’t heard her, until at last she shook her head. Her eyes, too, were bloodshot from endless crying. “We didn’t have a need of two caravan’s before Cwenha. Her presence was too big… and we’ve already remained in this kingdom for longer than we should have. Hadwin… warned us to leave. I just hoped…” Her voice trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished, but Teselin knew what she had been getting to. Or rather, who was on her mind.
“Briery, did…” The young summoner struggled to find the words. How could she put this without coming across as insensitive? “When you saw Hadwin… did he say where he was going? Or where he might flee?”
“Forget about him. He ran for the sake of running; and he won’t be back. Because it is easier for him to run than to face his own guilt.” Venom had crept back into Sigrid’s voice, and that brief moment where Naimah’s sapling had brought her back was gone. “Fine by me. If he isn’t here to protect his sister, then there is nothing standing in our way to bringing her down.”
It wouldn’t bring Naimah back, no more than smashing Hadwin’s face in would have. But there was no closure in suffering the sudden murder of a loved one… so she would find her closure in bringing Rowen Kavanagh down.
Out of necessity, the homeostasis inside the sanctuary-turned-nursery more-or-less returned to normal in the days following the funeral. Haraldur made it a point not to enter the tiny space stressed or overwhelmed by news of his cousin’s deteriorating condition, or the tensions growing high among every soul in the palace. No longer did excitable Galeynians rush up to him and ask the wellbeing of Vega or his children as he tread the hallways with Forbanne at his heels, dressed, like them, in full armor and equipped with as much weaponry as he could carry. On duty, he did not appear the least bit approachable, nor receptive to idle chitchat that did not pertain to the allocation of troops or reports on the whereabouts of either Rowen Kavanagh or the sorceress, Locque. As no one could associate the mysterious woman with a face, the majority of search parties focused on the apprehension and execution of the wolf-girl, who, with Teselin’s cooperation, was given a physical description, a sketch that passed Haraldur’s approval, despite his limited view of the aggressor when under the shade of night.
Fortunately, when Galeynians encountered the prince of Eyraille donning his military persona, they had the sense not to refer to him as a father, but as Commander Sorde. Now was no time for informalities, much as part of him actually missed the lightheartedness that, barely a week ago, was so prominent within the kingdom.
Before he returned to the sanctuary, he would cast his battle-hardened aspect aside, remove his armor and weapons, and only then step inside the cottage, to greet his wife and children with kisses and hugs. Determined not to bring strife and the daily stresses of work into a child-proofed haven, he withheld unnecessary details about the investigation, and of Sigrid, answered questions with a terse, but conclusive, “she’s not well.”
However much he resolved to separate family life from the toils of the outside world, the outside world, inevitably, came to them. While Haraldur was cradling little Klara in his arms, an urgent knock on the door prompted him to answer. On the other side, he recognized the aging commander of the Dawn Guard.
“Roen.” In any other circumstances, surprise would have colored his response, but considering the dire condition of his Dawn Warrior, the visit was not an unexpected one. “To what do I owe this honor?” Pleasantries were exchanged as they discussed, in brief, the little ones, their names, and their popularity amid the majority of enamored Galeynians, but all pretense vanished as the two Commanders shifted attention to their mutual concern.
“Why don’t we continue this conversation outside? Or in one of the palace’s empty conference rooms?” He nodded to the fist-flinging baby and her endless fussing as his prime excuse for changing the scenery. “I think she needs a nap; it’s best not to disturb her.”
Before Roen could oblige his request, the woman herself managed to sneak into their company, startling even the hyper-vigilant Haraldur with the sudden announcement of her presence. It was hard to look at her. Like driftwood washed ashore, she presented as a petrified hunk of wood, hollow on the inside and drained of her color. “Sigrid.” He met her ice-chip eyes, gone of all their glacial-blue. He cleared his throat before speaking, sieving out the clumps of worry that he feared would cling to his voice. She was in no mood for emotional entreaties, but if facts alone could reach her…
Something had to reach her.
“I won’t call them off, Sigrid. Rowen Kavanagh succeeded in….what she did, to me,” he still couldn’t name it as suicide; not out loud, “because I was alone, and isolated. She’d been working for weeks, whittling me down until I was susceptible to her suggestion. My circumstances were extremely lucky, but Rowen has learned from that evening...as we all know,” he muttered the last bit. “I can’t stress how important it is that you’re not alone. If you don’t want to return to Braighdath or to the Dawn Guard, then at least allow the Forbanne to stay in your vicinity. They won’t bother you unless it’s an emergency. As a potential target, Sigrid--one pair of eyes alone is not enough to stave off the threat to your life. If we hope to apprehend Rowen, or even Locque, doesn’t it stand to reason that we station our best soldiers within arm’s reach of our enemies’ next target? Think of yourself as bait; if you want to draw them out, work with the people who are looking for them. Kadri is helming the operation. Go with him if you feel so inclined. But one thing is clear, and that is you are not doing this alone. Because that’s how you get yourself killed.”
He was prepared to defend his decision, as he defended his disposal of Gaolithe, and as he defended everything he deemed worthy of defending; with unyielding stubborn pride. But whether she agreed or not, she moved on to her next order of business, one he’d been anticipating. Dreading, but anticipating. As if to protect little Klara from the news, he pressed the bundle against his chest, to block her ears. “You’ll always be Klara’s rightful guardian, Sigrid. That won’t change, no matter what you say. She’ll wait for you, when you’re done with your ‘task.’” With a long, regretful sigh, he jerked his head in the direction of the sun. Kadri should be at the East gate. Go and join his team. If you’re going to do this, you’re doing this right. With no margin for error.”
When Sigrid made her silent departure, the Forbanne Prince turned to readdress Roen, in case he needed to state his reasons for essentially enabling her to embark on a revenge quest. “At the very least, it’ll give her something to do. And she’ll be among soldiers. If she strays, or goes it alone...my soldiers will act accordingly. ...She was going to do this, anyway. Might as well support her as best as we can.” Lowering his head to the wailing child, he soothed her with hushes and gentle back-and-forth motions, but to no avail. Klara was inconsolable. So much for separating fatherhood from his commander duties. He’d invited the stress into his home, and the babies knew. They felt the chill in the atmosphere, and no amount of loving gestures were able to soothe them to sleep. Not for a while…
One thing could be said of the long trek back to Galeyn via Nairit; it was similarly uneventful as the trip going there. No bumps in the road, no brigands straying near, either during the day or at night (which Alster attributed to his shielding and concealment talismans he’d positioned around the caravan), and no maintenance required for their encumbered home on wheels. Their schedules hadn’t changed since acquiring a third passenger. Primary travel occurred at night, with rest happening when the sun reached its zenith in the sky. Meals were served at their usual time, and the occasional bickering--and card games--passed between Alster and Vitali in equal measure. Though ashamed to admit, sometimes the Rigas Lord even forgot Isidor had accompanied them, for all they actually saw his face on any given day. Sure, their schedules differed, him diurnal while Alster had technically adopted Vitali’s nocturnal patterns (if one considered ‘insomnia’ a viable nocturnal strategy), and they had to remind him to join them for meals, but aside from his brief appearances, when he’d accept his bowl of food and either sink his nose into a book or vanish with his dinner inside the caravan, his presence left few traces.
Alster had heard all the comparisons imaginable from his unwitting companion. Isidor was a phantom, or a skittish squirrel who cautiously approached his meal, swiped it, and immediately bounded up a tree before the predators could swoop down and claim him with their talons. Alster always sprang to Isidor’s defense, never hesitating to give the overwhelmed alchemist the benefit of the doubt in regards to his present circumstances. To accommodate him as much as possible, Alster offered him the entire caravan’s living space, while he and Vitali pitched tents outside whenever they needed to sleep. And whenever he decided to check on his wellbeing, he knocked gently on the alchemist’s door and always kept his visits brief. This persisted for the next fortnight, until they finally reached the outer border of Galeyn, the last leg of their trip…
And found the road populated with soldiers on patrol.
Easing the steeds into a halt, Alster and Vitali waited for the soldiers to approach, torches in hand. By their cream-white uniforms, they were neither Forbanne nor Dawn Guard, but Galeynian guards, their role previously restricted to the palace and Night Garden.
“State your names and purpose, travelers. Our border is closed to visitors.” One guard, a superior officer by his stolid, unruffled appearance, shone his torch into their faces, before realizing, just as Alster spoke their names, to whom he was addressing.
“Lord Alster Rigas--and Vitali Kristeva. Do forgive me for my precautions.” The officer bowed his head in a show of supplication. “But we have been tasked with securing our borders since the unprecedented attack last week. No action need be done on your part, Lord Rigas. Queen Lilica and Lady Chara told us to expect you and your retinue, so you will be allowed entry.”
“Attack?” Alster frowned. “What happened, here?”
“Four consecutive murders. Two whores, a carriage driver, and a circus performer. The culprit has been named as Rowen Kavanagh, and we believe she is in league with the sorceress.”
Alster sat back in his seat, slowly processing the flood of information that uttered from the officer’s lips. “Rowen Kavanagh. Hadwin’s sister. The same one who murdered six D’Marians, councilman Thamon, of Briaghdath, and targeted Prince Sorde. That Rowen Kavanagh? Who…” he hesitated, “do you know their names? The names of the victims?”
The officer, shifting his torch so it did not threaten to singe their hair, thought about it for a moment. “They call the circus performer the ‘Silver Fairy.’ Beautiful singing voice. I cannot speak for the other three victims, but one of the whores has the Dawn warrior--the holder of Gaolithe--horribly upset. I do not like to spread gossip around, but it’s understood the two of them were lovers.”
For what seemed like hours, Alster was stunned into silence. Did he hear the guard correctly? How did he even begin to respond to this terrible news, let alone react? “I…” his voice was scratchy, and it scraped along his throat, “this is their caravan. The Missing Links. Cwenha, the Silver Fairy...I was sleeping in her bed. For...weeks. And...and Naimah…”
The officer, also at a loss for how to mitigate the disastrous turn in the conversation, placed a hand of solidarity on Alster’s shoulder. “You knew them, then? I am sorry, Lord Rigas. It was a horrible tragedy, and it affected us deeply. But,” his eyes traveled to the wagon, its vibrant colors visible even in the fade of night, “if this is The Missing Links caravan, I’m afraid you missed them. They left two days ago.”
“Y...yes. Of course. It would be too dangerous for them to stay, after what happened…”
“Lord Rigas.” The officer’s tone softened. “I imagine it’s been a long trip, and you are very tired. Allow us to take charge of this vehicle. In exchange, you may use our Night steeds and head to the palace. Your caravan will arrive by the morning, I assure you.”
“I appreciate the gesture. Thank you, but this caravan was left in my care, and I promised to see it to its destination. Even if The Missing Links aren’t there to reclaim it...I’ll return it to the palace, regardless. Vitali,” he turned to the necromancer beside him, “why don’t you take one of their Night steeds and head back to the farmhouse? I’m sure Tivia will be happy to see you.”
After the necromancer disembarked, chose a steed, and blurred into the scenery in a clamor of hooves and wind, Alster, bidding farewell to the Galeynian guards, flicked the reins and continued on the road to the palace. Though one passenger lighter, the caravan felt especially burdened, its wheels grinding against the dirt road in cries of agony. He nodded along to the grieving carriage, and, since Vitali was not around to judge him, let fall a few tears. Cwenha. Naimah. Could their deaths have been prevented, had he and the necromancer stayed in Galeyn? Could he have done something?
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the caravan, as though it had a mind of its own. “Cwenha’s...not coming back. They’re not...coming back.” The caravan sagged, and the wood groaned its lamentations, persisting until they finally reached the front gates of the palace that morning.
Stepping off the coach, Alster knocked on the side door to inform Isidor of their arrival and to make himself presentable in the next few minutes. While he waited, two figures made their approach. Chara and Lilica, sporting dark dresses of mourning, greeted him with somber nods.
“So it’s true, then.” He skipped the small talk, and honed in on the unavoidable topic. “A Galeynian guard told me. They’re...dead? Cwenha, and Naimah? What of the other two victims?”
“We did not know them, and we doubt they were especially targeted, but they died all the same,” Chara said. “It has been a difficult week for the lot of us. They are buried in the Night Garden. Their ashes have been used to cultivate the growth of new life. You will be able to visit their ‘memorials’ in time, Alster. But first, I must ask,” she swept a hand towards the caravan, “were you successful in your acquisition?”
Before the Rigas Lord could respond, the paint-chipped side-door opened, revealing the timid alchemist, his lanky form stooped beneath the doorway and his spectacles crooked against the bridge of his nose.
“Yes.” He reserved a smile for the man. “May I introduce Master alchemist, Isidor Kristeva. Isidor,” he swept a hand to the two women, “this is Lady Chara Rigas, my cousin, and Queen Lilica Tenebris, Vitali’s half-sister.”
Chara seemed to hold her scrutiny in her nose, for the struggling snort that threatened to sound out of her nostrils. “Isidor. A pleasure. We’ve chosen a more than adequate room for you and your supplies, if you would like to come with me.”
“And if you don’t mind…” he dipped his head at the two women in black, “is it possible for me to see Elespeth?”
