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

Of course Rycen was in, before Hadwin so much as began to divulge the details of his master plan. With one of his comrades locked away, and his only other comrade standing like an obstinate statue before the walls of Essleau’s prison, he had no other choice than to give up and stagnate, with no direction to his worthless life, or to pursue another route in hopes that one day, the Missing Links could rise from their ashes. So they all came to the decision to work with what they had in terms of a haphazard plan that hadn’t quite been fleshed out with details, but not without the illusionist’s final words of caution. “You got a good head on your shoulders there, wolf man. And if anyone can cheat Essleau at their own fucked-up system, then it’s sure as hell you. But that’s all contingent on whether cheating is gonna get us what we want, at all… or else have three more people to occupy the cells of that prison.”

But according the the faoladh, scrounging up a small fortune in a matter of a week was no skin off of his teeth. Rycen had to bite his tongue from pointing out the obvious: that if Hadwin had left with them, had stuck with Briery and the links… well, they would never have found themselves in so dire a situation. But that wasn’t his place to decided, and contemplate “what ifs” would not propel them forward. So they rested, and that night, traveling by the swiftness of Night Steeds, they put their plan into motion.

While it came as no surprise to Teselin that Hadwin managed to accrue the money to pass them off as wealthy blowhards in record time, Rycen was left stunned each and every time the faolah walked away from the card tables with more coin than he could carry. At times, the amount was so great that they had no choice but to spend some of it right away to keep from overburdening the Night Steeds. Of course, it was clear to both comrades that Hadwin wasn’t playing the game or rolling in luck: he was playing the people. That fearsight of his offered him a glimpse into the shadows that folks wanted to deny or turn a blind eye to. And if you could see fear, well, it wasn’t really so hard to call a bluff in a game of cards, was it? Of course, Rycen was no stranger to getting his hands dirty, either, and when Hadwin suggested the tag-team the occasional bloke on the street, the illusionist put his masterful sleight of hand to work, swiping whatever loot the mark had on him, while the poor bastard drowned in visions of what he feared the most. Although, ever respectful of Briery’s wishes, he did suggest that they only target those who truly looked as though they could afford it-- which was no difficult task, the closer they veered to Essleau. There was certainly no shortage of fancy clothes or newly polished boots trodding the streets at night, and even Teselin, who was arguably the most moral of the lot of them, chose to turn a blind eye to the less than honest tactics. After all, it was these people--or people like them--who’d landed Briery where she was and effectively dissolved the Missing Links. 

The rich had what was coming to them.

After the clothes, jewelery, and other accessories had all been purchased, at last the hopeful and determined trio purchased a carriage at a price and quality that would almost--almost--make the prosperous citizens of Essleau jealous. But that just spoke to how goddamned wealthy that city was, and how it directly influenced their standards.Teselin hadn’t even witnessed such craftsmanship and attention to detail in Stella D’Mare--and certainly not in Galeyn, a kingdom that boasted its peace and kindness well above affluence. Although they’d ended up paying almost the entirety of what remained of their small fortune for the thing, Teselin knew all too well that it had been worth even more--and Hadwin, with his tried and true tricks, had found a way to haggle the proprietor down to a sum they could afford. Otherwise, it would have easily been another week or so of gambling, swindling, and outright stealing before they’d have been able to make a move to save Briery, and considering it had already been a month that she was without her tonic… who knew what sort of condition the Missing Links ringleader was in?

Finally, upon their arrival in Essleau, it came time to make their real move--and Hadwin was to spearhead that feat. The trio, who were known as Magnus O’Laoire, his niece, Julina (considering they didn’t bear quite enough resemblance to pass as brother and sister), and their nameless apprentice, who spent more time away from the other two than with them. After all, the rich typically weren’t seen with their ‘help’--and Rycen had the important job of filling Lautim in on the plan as it stood, while finding the means to hide the giant out of plain sight. Essleau needed to forget about the Missing Links; or, at the very least, they needed to believe that the once brilliant and talented troupe had completely given up on the ringleader locked away in prison, and their aspirations of ever reuniting.

The night that Hadwin made his move, at another card table surrounded by men far richer than he was, and who were just as well-versed in the art of cheating, Teselin had been reluctant to let him go in alone. What if he won? And what if that didn’t sit well with men who hated losing, and landed him injured, or--worse--imprisoned, himself? She would be helpless to break him out, herself, short of completely leveling that disgustingly well-endowed prison to the ground. And the worst part was… she knew she would do it again. If it cost another city just to save Hadwin’s life, the young summoner could not deny that she would choose him over hundreds upon hundreds of innocent people in a heartbeat. That was why she hadn’t seen fit to argue with Tivia during their last, less than friendly encounter: because she knew she would do it all again. 

But she didn’t want to have to… so, despite her better judgment, Teselin stayed inside the carriage, parked outside of the building where Hadwin was purposely gambling away the remainder of their money for a glimpse of pertinent information that would get them inside the walls of that prison safely enough that they would get Briery out. It was dark, and there wasn’t enough light in the carriage to even indulge Rycen in showing her some card tricks to keep her mind off of the danger Hadwin was willingly putting himself in for someone he cared about. For hours, the two of them sat silent, Teselin with her knees pulled to her chest, counting every breath and heartbeat as her dark eyes trained on the door of Lord Bartholomew Fortier’s grand estate in anticipation that she would see Hadwin leave. What was going on? How many games was he playing that he would be at that table for hours? Was he milking the time there for everything it was worth, absorbing as much information as possible, or had something gone wrong?

When two hours had passed, and there was still no sign of the cunning faoladh, the young summoner couldn’t take the apprehension anymore, and pushed open the carriage door. “Whoa--whoa, missy, this ain’t part of the plan!” Rycen hissed, grabbing her arm before she could go rushing for the front door of an estate to which she hadn’t been formally invited. “Give ‘im some credit, here, your man knows what he’s doin’.”

“It’s been too long. We don’t know…” Teselin trailed off, pressing her lips together in a thin line as she smoothed the wrinkles of her fine, silk down, the colour of pink salmon. “I’m the niece of an affluent and prosperous merchant. No one will think anything of a spoiled brat complaining that she’s bored. I need to know he’s alright…” 

No sooner had she voiced her decision that those gilded doors opened, and men began to spill through--some too inebriated on fine wine to walk in a straight line. Teselin quickly hauled herself back into the carriage and closed the door, effectively holding her breath until she spotted Hadwin, who made a real show of looking like the dejected fool who thought he could win at the rich’s game. But what he’d lost in money surely had to be worth what he’d gained in knowledge…

“You were so long… I was about to go in there.” The young summoner sighed when he climbed into the carriage with them. 

“That was one hell of a long game, there, friend. Though by the looks of some of those assholes, they spent more time with their eyes on their drinks than their eyes on their cards.” Rycen commented, though not without his own sigh of relief that the simultaneously dull and nerve-wracking wait was over. “So? What did you find out? And was it enough to get to Briery?”

It was--and then some, but it wasn’t safe to discuss out in the open. So the trio returned to their chalet at once, partook in a meal they really couldn’t afford, at this time (which would be the least of their worries when they fled the city with Briery), and Hadwin went on to explain how a certain Lord Declan Melbereaux would be the key to letting them literally strut into that impenetrable stone fortress, and walk out with whatever prisoner they wanted--no money owed. Unfortunately, Lautim and Rycen had sold the caravan, and practically everything in it in an attempt to free their ringleader the first time, so there would be no performing in their near future, likely for a number of reasons… However, considering the likely possibility that they would have to flee the dishonest city of Essleau before the other lords caught wind of their game, it was a boon not to have to worry about lugging anything but the carriage and themselves out of that place.

Apparently, this old Lord Declan Melbereaux, a tax collector who was heavily involved in both formulating and enforcing the laws that kept the rich rich, and the poor, poor, was particularly notorious for keeping himself rich at the expense of his own rich brethren. It was just a matter of some careful wording in fine ink that none of the others had bothered to look over too closely to realize that so many of them were being cheated out of credits that could potentially be making them even richer. On top of that, there had also been individual instances where Melbereaux, operating under the guise that he was getting a rich friend a tax break, had actually been undermining the other wealthy to his own benefit. Really, a man as well off as him had nothing to fear but being found out--which, in a city where the rich were already living so comfortably as they were, was not likely. No one would ask questions when they weren’t suspicious in the first place.

Which was precisely where Hadwin came in, to make that man’s fears a transparent reality. Because in his eyes, he’d seen each and every affluent man and woman Melbereaux had fucked over for his own gain--many of whom had been sitting at that very table, that evening. Now, Hadwin knew those faces, and had seen the misdeeds that Melbereaux kept to himself, in the dark. All that remained was slipping in the threat of tipping off those slighted few; having them take a closer look at some past documentation directly concerning money they should have “rightfully” saved. All it took was a little bit of suggestion… Declan Melbereaux could be ruined. It didn’t matter how much money he had if, in the end, he were found guilty of fraud against the other fat-arses he was supposed to be helping: he’d wind up in that prison without a hope in hell for bail. Ever.

“Perfect. That’s… that’s perfect.” Teselin hadn’t even touched the charcoal roasted duck or imported vegetables on her plate--one of the most luxurious meals she’d ever been presented with. Any traces of appetite were overshadowed by the excitement sending chills through her body. “We beat them with their own dishonesty, and no one will even have to get hurt! We’ll walk out with Briery, and Melbereaux will be so happy to see us leave he’ll probably buy us another carriage, just to put distance between himself and his greatest threat.”

“Bet the rich fucker won’t have a problem paying for this food when we check out, either, ‘cause you spent the rest of what we got, Kavanagh.” Rycen was not so shy about partaking in the meal, on the other hand, and ate like he’d been starving for decades; which, in a way, was not entirely untrue, considering the hardships he’d experienced with the Missing Links. “Sounds good, tho. You freak the hell out of him, name our terms, and we’ll walk out with Briery. I can hardly believe it’ll be that damned easy… I mean, we’ll have to steer clear of this city and surrounding areas for the rest of our lives--maybe emerge from our ashes with a new name and all, in case our dear Lord Melbereaux decides to stick it to us in the aftermath--but hell, it’ll be worth it. Just to be put together again… The Links, we existed at one point without Cwenha.” He put his fork down thoughtfully for a moment, taking a break from his ravenous appetite to ponder more solemnly. “And maybe that was in the past. Maybe the Missing Links can’t continue to survive without her. But Briery, Lautim, and Rycen--hell, we three can survive anything. New name, new audiences… it’ll be okay, again.” And then, more quietly, as if trying to reassure himself, he repeated, “It’ll be okay.” 

With the impending threat of his arrest dangling over his head like a pendulum, Hadwin--no, Magnus--laid on his charms to their thickest, creamiest consistency for his entitled audience of five. He exaggerated his Collcreaghian brogue, knowing how people tended to enjoy its folksy, singsong rhythm. He delighted the Lords with a variety of topics; on trade, the trending rises and falls of the marketplace, investments, on the preferred musical styles on the island from which he hailed, and, more seriously, his stance on prisons. His mam often told him he could pluck music out of yarn, and he did, for how much he spun and fiddled and played selections their ears most wanted to hear. If certain questions demanded too much honesty in a ploy to prompt him into divulging too much personal opinion, he expertly danced around their inquiries, answering with humorous anecdotes and playful retorts. Pleased with his tactful evasion, the Lords invited him to partake in food and wine, to which he happily accepted, drinking heavily and acting soundly knackered, despite the contrary. While expertly-equipped at pretending to be enjoying himself, he never let down his guard.

During their long, distraction-heavy game where winners were already predestined by the hands that concealed hands, Hadwin carefully examined every Lord, their valets, and the servants, for good measure--but none came as close to deliciously exploitable as one Lord Declan Melbereaux, tax collector extraordinaire. As far as tax collectors went, he embodied the stereotype: his eyes shone like two dull silver coins, his portly stature fattened by greed and excess. But the Lord, self-assured as he presented, buried under his fine clothes fear of his contemporaries: fear they would discover his double-dealing schemes. At first faint and hard to glimpse, Hadwin, whose overuse of his Sight had contributed to both his benefit and his downfall, successfully peeled back the layers of overinflated ego and bluster, to the rotten apple core of his nucleus. Once he reached the seat of Lord Declan’s fears, secrets spilled out of the man’s overlarge head; names, ledgers, ink stains, damning evidence of his tampering, loose floorboards, faulty documents and a parade of faces, many faces, of those he wronged, flooded into Hadwin’s consciousness. He was the perfect stooge. And he had fallen right into the faoladh’s lap. 

As the one-sided evisceration of a game drew to a close, he still chatted gaily to the Lords who’d so “graciously” hosted him, but he directed most of his conversation to Lord Declan. He learned that the insidious man, in his doughy innocence, adored the tweed textiles of Collcreagh, spun from the finest sheep’s wool, but with Mollengard’s takeover of the land, such luxuries were near impossible to export. Hadwin, as a professed Collcreaghian merchant, and who claimed to have stocked a wagons’ full before fleeing the country, offered to sell him some patterns for a mark-down. Having piqued the Lord’s interest, arrangements were made post-haste. Hadwin was to arrive at the Melbereaux estate tomorrow afternoon with the textiles and they would negotiate a reasonable price.

Having made a connection to a Lord, and having enchanted the others with charisma, he further solidified their regard of him by practicing good sportsmanship. Though he lost the game, and all his money, he walked from the table fully composed, albeit a little disappointed, as would any, in his situation. 

“Well then, Mister O’Laoire,” Lord Fortier rose from his gilded chair and shook “Magnus’s” hand with gentlemanly gusto, “it has been a pleasant evening with you as our esteemed guest. I speak for everyone here when I say you have been a delight. It shames me to admit, but we have had no choice but to apprehend previous guests to our table, as they did not respond well to loss. But you, my friend, have conducted yourself with great equanimity and grace. Let this not be the last time we grasp hands.”

“Ah, you’re too kind,” Hadwin released his hand and swept into a bow. “I am merely passing through Essleau. My tenure here won’t be for long, but if you have need of any goods, it would be an honor to do business with you, as it will be to do business with Lord Melbereaux.”

“I look forward to your visit, Mister O’Laoire,” Lord Declan chimed in, also encapsulating Hadwin’s hand in a shake. “We shall see you to the door.” 

As he bid his farewells to the five Lords of Essleau, he met with the prison guard from the tavern, who, standing out in the cool night air, had emerged from his hidden alcove, dropping the set of manacles to the ground.

“You’re shitting me,” he leaned in and whispered his disbelief in Hadwin’s ear. “You sweet-talked your way out of imprisonment?!”

“Mmmhmm.” He hailed the valet for his carriage.

“And what now? You still lost. You gained nothing out of this. It was a waste of your money.”

“Nah. I got exactly what I wanted.” And on that vague and mysterious note, he stepped into his carriage and rolled out of the estate. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, chickadee,” Hadwin sidled next to Teselin in the carriage as the Night steeds clopped down the road leading to the estate’s grandiose iron-wrought gates. “Had no choice but to milk every last drop of time cavorting with the elite. They’ve taken quite a shine to me; I danced when they told me to dance and made sweet love to their puckered arseholes. Had to throw the game, though--ain’t no way I could win and still have a head on my shoulders. Cheatin’ swine--can’t even cheat right. But--” his lips curled into a cake-eating, shit-eating grin, “I still won, after a fashion. Oh, let me tell you about our unwitting benefactor: Lord Declan Melbereaux.”

Teasing the information on the carriage ride back to their chalet, he detailed the shady man’s dealings at dinner, receiving the appropriate reaction from Rycen and Teselin: uncontained excitement. “I’ve already arranged a meeting with him tomorrow afternoon. He wants to buy some Collcreaghian tweed from me, cuz now it’s rare. Mollengard’s put an embargo on exports since their invasion.” He lit a victory pipe and lounged on a chaise next to the dining room. “Hells, if I’d known people in Essleau love Collcreaghian fashion, I’d’ve dressed as a spiral-horned sheep and let them sheer me, if it’s what it would’ve taken to get this wolf close to their operations on the cheap. But whatever,” he waved at the grand spread of food on the table. “Eat up, drink your fill. With Lord Moneybags filling our pockets, he’s gonna have to pay a handsome sum of hush money to get my yappy mouth to shut its trap.” 

The following day, as planned, the trio gathered inside their hearse-black carriage and headed to Melbereaux estate with deathly tidings to bid. They arrived at the mosaic-lined entranceway by the appointed time. With Rycen staying behind at the carriage as lookout, Hadwin and Teselin were greeted by the valet, who invited them into the parlor. They were not kept waiting for long before the lord of the estate appeared in the entranceway, all smiles. “Magnus” introduced the Lord to his ‘niece’ and pleasantries were exchanged before conducting their official order of business. 

“May I ask the whereabouts of the tweed you brought?” Lord Melbereaux twitched his nose at the empty-handed Hadwin. “I’d much love to see it before we settle the matter.”

“And you will have it.” He gestured to the window overlooking outside. “My apprentice is fetching it from our carriage--ah he’s a lad, that one. A bit slow on his feet but he works hard. He’ll have it here in a few moments. While we wait--I’ve heard tell of your brilliant library. My darling niece,” he clamped a hand over Teselin’s shoulder, “she adores books. Can’t get enough of them. She’s been enticing me to take up book-selling and I’ve heard you’ve amassed quite the collection. The largest and most impressive in all of Essleau, so say the rumors. Care to give us a quick tour? It would be helpful in my research.” 

“Ah, I hardly call it a ‘large’ collection, but it is most impressive, I daresay,” the flattered Lord stroked his chin, in consideration. “I suppose I cannot deny you the privilege of looking upon my wonderfully diverse set of tomes. I have a few which may be of curiosity to you. A Collcreaghian book of legends, written in the most exquisite illuminated manuscript. The colors are so crisp, the letters and illustrations pop out of the page. There is a particularly captivating passage showing the transformation of wolves into men. What a quaint country. You certainly hold endearing beliefs in the realms of nature and beast.” 

“Huh. Fancy that.” He cracked an amused smile. “My niece loves those stories, don’t you, Julina? Yes, by all means, please lead the way to your library.”

Down the hallway and to the right, the well-endowed Lord (in assets, at least), opened the massive double doors and led niece and uncle into a multi-tiered atrium, spiraling high with books and collections lining every shelf so abundantly, there was no room for any space in between. Hadwin stood at the center and nodded his approval, speaking as much to Lord Melbereaux, who glowed like the proudest little lightning bug in his field of plenty. “Ah, wait right there,” he said, wandering to an alcove under the second-floor balcony. “I will have to find the Collcreaghian book of stories. Now where did I put it…”

But Hadwin did not stay put. When the Lord turned around, book in hand, the faoladh had relocated to a shadow-splotched corner, checking the floorboards with his feet. One board yielded to his weight, creaking and squeaking its protest. “These boards are loose. It wouldn’t take any effort to hammer them back into place. Unless,” he looked over his shoulder at the stymied Lord, “you’re hiding something here. Relax,” he spun to face the man, head-on. “Everyone is entitled to their privacy. It’s likely a diary containing your deepest thoughts. Or, oh, I don’t know,” he inclined his head, locking eyes with his target,  “a secret ledger documenting the names of your fellow comrades who you’ve been embezzling for the past few years?”

Lord Declan’s face went from an underbaked white to a sizzling, livid red. “How dare you!” he hissed. “How dare you step into my home and accuse me of such a foul act! Gua--” his mouth clamped shut when Hadwin applied pressure on the floorboards, sending its characteristic groans rumbling n the air.

“Lord Chartres, Lord Wesley, Lord Decatur, Lord Van Dorn, Lady Vayssiere--I’m sure they’d all love to know where their mishandled funds have gone missing. It can’t have been from the trustworthy tax collector who has only wanted to help his fellow Lords live their most lavish, sensational lives. Not the same one who crafted nonexistent taxes by penning some innocuous add-on no one would notice. And if no one notices, then there’s no harm done pocketing the money, right? No,” he dismissed with an exaggerated shrug, “you’re innocent. I’m sure if I look under these floorboards, I’ll see nothing suspicious at all. Then you’d have nothing to worry about, hmm?”

The book fell out of Lord Declan’s hands and thumped to the floor. All color leeched out of his face. “What...who sent you!? Who do you work for and what do they want?”

“No one. I’m just a self-starter, like you. And I’m perceptive, to boot. It must be a Collcreaghian trait, one spoken of in your book. But we are a quaint country so we can’t possibly be endowed with intelligence or a pathway into seeing one’s greatest fears. No--that would be preposterous.” A preternatural glow rimmed around his yellow eyes and his mouth curled into a predatory smile. “Right?”

The Lord stumbled back a few steps, searching for his escape, but in a few lopes, Hadwin was on him. His pugilist’s arms pinned him against a bookshelf, digging his fat, muscle, and tissue into the sharp, wooden corners of the wood. “Ah no, not so fast. We’re not done talking. Now, you could try to silence me. Call your guards, motion for my arrest, send me to your moneymaker prison or even put me to death. But the moment you act against me, the moment you decide to be my enemy, information of your exploits will reach the ears of your friends on high. Mark my words, this doesn’t die with me; there are others who know. And if you think it’s your word against mine, think again. All it takes is a seed of doubt, especially where money is concerned. If there’s the slightest suspicion that the Lords’ money’s been tampered with --oh, you can bet they’ll check and double-check their account books. Once they notice something is awry...it’s your head. And you like your head,” he purred in the Lord’s ear, “don’t you?”

“You--you--you’re the devil! A demon!” He sputtered, struggling, to no avail, to break free of Hadwin’s death-grip.

“Not like I haven’t heard that before,” he snorted delightedly. “But I’m more than that, you see. I’m your nightmare, and I’ll follow you, and torture you until you break. This isn’t the worst of what I can do, and you don’t want to know what the worst is. Because I doubt you’ll survive it,” his voice lowered to an ominous, gravely scrape, like a beast clawing at the door. “But this nightmare can be bought. You can grant yourself temporary asylum from it. Buy an indulgence; ward off the demons. Give me what I want...and I won’t speak of this, to anyone. We’ll leave tonight and never look back.”

“What,” the trembling man swallowed his spittle and almost choked into a fit of spluttering coughs, “what do you want?”

“I want you to pardon a prisoner of my choosing. Also--money, of course. Let’s say in the range of...what you stole? You can write it all on your ledger as the price of a tweed coat--which you’re not getting, by the way. So,” he loosened his grip on the ruff of the Lord’s neck, “put it all in writing. And don’t even think about pulling a fast one on me; I’ll know if you’re scrawling loopholes. Throw in a bigger carriage, too; you can keep ours. Think of it as a memento of our lovely time together. Oh--I’ll take that book, too,” he nodded to the discarded tome on the floor. “It’s too quaint for you.” 

Within the hour, a new carriage equipped with bags of money (and the book) was prepared for the trio. In addition, an official wax-sealed document bearing the Melbereaux crest stating, in plain ink, the release of Briery Frealy, passed from Lord Declan’s fingers to Hadwin’s. Before stepping into the much larger carriage, one that would support their handsome inheritance and the handsome bulk of Lautim, the faoladh swerved his attention to the swindled Lord, who flinched and expected the worst. “Pleasure doing business with you, my good man. We’ll be out of your hair, now. But if something should go wrong with what you’ve given us, rest assured--you’ll see me again.” 

Waving a merry farewell, the trio pulled out of the estate by the clip-clopping of the Night steeds’ hooves. It was full dark by the time they reached the prison, an imposing fortress built into the side of a mountain--and where they met with and picked up Lautim. A precipitous drop met with any hapless prisoner foolhardly enough to scale the walls and escape. The only way in--and out--was by a heavily guarded stone bridge manned by several guardhouses and checkpoints. After passing through the fifth--and last--checkpoint, they reached the main gate and slipped the orders of release to the Guard Captain, who in turn transferred the paperwork to the main facility. It took about an order of processing before they, at last, caught sight of two guards helping an emaciated woman to the carriage. Though sallow-faced and stooped in obvious pain, it was, unmistakably, Briery Frealy. Jumping off the side of the carriage, Hadwin met Briery and the guards halfway, grasping her arms to steady her when the guards released hold of their charge. 

“Briery Frealy, you look like absolute hell,” he remarked with a soft, playful grin. “C’mon,” he gently turned her towards the carriage, “let’s get you out of here before they lock us all up. There’s a troupe who’s dying to see you again.”

Briery Frealy had lost count of the days since her imprisonment. It was difficult to keep track of time when her tiny cell had no windows to indicate whether it was night or day, and the guards patrolled around the clock, no matter the hour. It could have been a few weeks; a month, maybe even more, but the passage of time did not matter when one could hardly stand to exist in the present. If the gloomy, dank, and overall unhealthy conditions of Essleau’s infamous prison wasn’t enough to dampen spirits, the acrobat’s real threat arrived not longer she had been confined to the cell that wasn’t much bigger than a closet. It couldn’t have been all that long since she had last taken the dosage of her tonic: maybe just a day? Perhaps a little longer? Regardless, it had not been long after missing what must have been her subsequent dosage that familiar pains began to flare up around her abdomen. At first, they were dull, and she wanted to attribute them to the guards mishandling her as they’d dragged her into her cell. But as the time passed, without any further human contact, those pains blossomed into the sharp, aching stabs that had left bedridden and bloody in the past. Evidently, the tonic had done little more than keep her symptoms at bay; for in the absence of it, her monthly cycle returned with a vengeance.

When the bleeding began, it was by no means light, and left the former ringleader not only in a familiar pain that she had wanted to forget, but completely soiled from the waist down without a fresh change of clothes. If that weren’t bad enough, the already frigid temperature of the prison that had no source of heat crept into her bones through her bloody, wet clothes. She shivered uncontrollably, to the point where she couldn’t sleep, for fear that she would not wake up… but Briery could not let this be her undoing. This was not the end: not of her, at least. For all her lack of appetite, whenever she was able to (and whenever she was fed), the acrobat forced herself to eat. For all her pain, she forced herself to pace her cell, to keep her muscles activated and ready to flee in case she ever had the opportunity. Though she couldn’t really sleep, she forced herself to close her eyes from time to time in some semblance of rest. Whatever happened, inside or outside of this stone-walled hell, she refused to give up. Rycen and Lautim were likely still out there, waiting for their ringleader to make some daring and miraculous escape. She couldn’t let them down… not like she’d let Cwenha down. They had to hang on to what they had left…

But even the infamous Briery Frealy, who had once managed to cheat Rycen out of prison, was no match for Essleau and its elaborate incarceration scheme. Not only was it heavily guarded by well-paid guards, by the looks of their attire and their dedication to their jobs, but she was once against faced with battling an age-old enemy that was her own body, working against her in the worst possible way, at the worst possible times. This rebound was worse than she could have imagined; she bled for what must have been at least two weeks straight, leaving her not only in excruciating pain that had her curled up in a fetal position on the cold floor, but also terribly weak and anemic. She ate what she could, when they fed her, and muscled through to the best of her current ability, but none of it was enough to replenish the strength that such a substantial loss of blood had leeched from her. And without the strength to even physically fight back... there was no hope.

She wasn’t sure at which point her resolved had dissolved in her throes of pain or the winter chill that had settled in her bones; again, time had no meaning when there was no possible way to measure it. Meals were so infrequent that she couldn’t even deduce a pattern of breakfast, lunch or dinner. Time, for her, was measured in lucidity and lack of pain. Long periods of something that resembled sleep, followed by periods where she was far too aware of the agony of her own body to even achieve some semblance of rest. No, she couldn’t put her finger on when her hope had ultimately died, but it was probably around the same time that the bad took a turn for the worse. On top of her soiled condition, her diseased body and lack of nutrition and clean water, a new sort of misery decided to add itself into the mix when she first developed a fever. As if her chilled body were so desperate to feel warm, it warmed itself from the inside out… but, ultimately, that only made her all the more aware of how cold the air surrounding her really was. Following that fever, the pain in her abdomen spread to her chest, often leaving her in agonizing coughing fits that left her weak from the exertion, alone. Sometimes, it was so bad that she couldn’t muster the strength to lift her head to eat or drink for an entire day; at best, and at its most merciful, it left her so exhausted that somehow, sleep found her, and offered a brief reprieve from her misery.

Somewhere along the line, Briery stopped counting the minutes, the hours, the meals. Stopped counting the escalating number of times that she fell victim to fits of agony. Stopped thinking about Rycen and Lautim, and what they must be doing, and whether they were waiting for her miraculous escape, or if they had moved on. Stopped thinking of Hadwin, whom she’d wondered if she would ever see again. She even stopped thinking about Cwenha, who had been on her mind first and foremost these past months. Cwenha, who she knew would have fought tooth and nail at any man who would think to put his hands on her and throw her in a place like this. The beautiful Silver Fairy had always chastised herself for being weak; but the truth was, she had been the strong one. Stronger than any of them, because she refused to ever find herself in a situation where she would once again be a victim. Were Cwenha here, surely she’d have chided Briery for giving up. She would have given her an earful at the top of her lungs until she picked herself up and fought back…

But Cwenha wasn’t here, anymore. She wasn’t anywhere. For the first time in a long time, Briery Frealy was completely alone.

The guards never opened the door. At most, they’d slide open a slot from the other side to deliver meager amounts of questionable nourishment or water (which often spilled from their deliberate negligence). So when one day, the heavy iron door creaked open, startling Briery from a restless slumber on the floor, she couldn’t comprehend exactly what was happening when two guards hauled her off of the floor like she was a rag doll. What was going on? Were they through with her, taking up space as a worthless prisoner whose bail would not earn them more money, because it was a sum that her friends simply could not afford? What would happen to her, then? Maybe they are going to kill me. Make an example… An errant thought at the back of her mind mused, surprisingly calmly. But calm was all that Briery Frealy had left: not indifference, just calm. Just letting things unfold as they would, for she no longer had the strength to fight back or to manipulate events to her favour. 

They had her walk, though for the most part, dragged her down dark corridors when they found she was barely able to hold up her own meager weight, which had dropped dangerously since her incarceration. Briery had always been thin, an ectomorphic and lean, athletic body type that was hard pressed to store much fat, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had been… well, this. Bones jutting at every angle, her hands and feet appearing bigger just for the muscle mass she had lost in her arms and legs, her ribs showing through the entertainment garb that she had been wearing since they’d arrested her. There was so little left of the acrobat at this point, those tricks on the trapeze seemed as though they’d only been a dream; something that someone like her had done, but at this point, it was hard to believe she had ever been capable. So the broken acrobat dragged her feet, struggled to keep herself upright, and counted the steps to try and manage the pain so much sudden movement put her in. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred… four, five hundred… Where were they going? They wouldn’t tell her, and she didn’t have the strength to ask. But she never would have guessed that wherever the destination, it would bring her back into the fresh air.

It was night: for the first time in so long, Briery finally had the chance to become reacquainted with the passage of time. The threat of frost hung in the air, alerting her that while she had felt cold within the confines of that stone building, it was nothing compared to the raw, unrelenting onset of winter. Outside… why had they taken her outside? Execution to make room for more profitable prisoners was the only answer her tired mind could figure, which only opened the gates for more confusion when they appeared to be leading her away from the compound…

There was a carriage up ahead, and a figure propped up against the side. Were they taking her elsewhere to do away with her? To spare the affluent people of Essleau all of the gory details?

Briery didn’t realize who was waiting for her until she was in his arms. That familiar smell, a smile that she would recognize anywhere… Unbidden, tears sprung to her eyes, as she reached out to clasp his shoulders to offset her clear lack of balance. “...Hadwin.” She breathed his name. Her throat hurt, and her voice was weak from lack of use. It frankly surprised her that she could speak at all. “You… came here? For me?”

“You best get yourselves out of here and far away, fast.” One of the guards warned them. They were only following orders, and while the immediate release of a prisoner obviously confused them, they couldn’t care less what happened to Briery Frealy, so long as they continued to be paid. “Unheard of to manage the release of a prisoner without paying the bounty. You sure as hell won’t be welcome here for much longer.”

There was no time to waste, and this reunion with a reliable and beloved friend would have to wait. Without another word, Hadwin helped Briery into the large, immaculate carriage, while Lautim, who was sitting up at the front and acting as the driver, startled the horses into a quick trot out of the city--and for Night Steeds, quick was an understatement. Fortunately, the inside was spacious enough for not only Hadwin, Teselin, and Rycen, but for their new passenger, who hadn’t seen this much luxury in quite some time.

“Why… how are you here?” The ringleader asked, as Hadwin helped her recline across the seat opposite Teselin, intuitive to the fact she was clearly in pain--if it weren’t already obvious from her far less than glamorous state. Blood caked on her legs, coating the bottom of her soiled gown that had grown loose around her core and limbs. Her hair was in tangles, and the only colour on her pale skin was from the grime that had accumulated from her less than sanitary cell. It wasn’t even until now that she felt the need to feel embarrassed or self-conscious. “I wish… you shouldn’t be seeing me like this.” Somehow, she managed a weak smile through the obvious discomfort she must have been experiencing. “It ruins the magic… to see the performers backstage, when they aren’t making that magic. How… how are you here, Hadwin? How did you manage this?”

“Hadwin is resourceful. We found Rycen… and he filled us in. He and Lautim never gave up on you.” Teselin put on a reassuring smile for the acrobat, and nodded to a bundle of clothes tucked away in the corner. “We thought you could probably use some new clothes, as well… we’ll find a place to get you cleaned up. You’ll feel more like a person, again.” 

But it was with a sinking feeling that the young summoner suspected the brand new clothes they’d chosen for the ringleader might actually be too big, by the looks of her frighteningly diminished form. And the pallor to her skin, the laboured sound of her breathing… Being unclean was the least of Briery Frealy’s worries--and therefore, the least of their worries. “Briery, Rycen saved some of your tonic… it may help your pain.” But even as she spoke the words, Teselin had a feeling that the ringleader’s medical concerns had likely blossomed far beyond what her tonic was able to handle. A quick glance at Hadwin and Rycen suggested they were thinking the very same thing.

“Think you can hold out for just a bit, boss?” Rycen shrugged off a woolen vest he’d been wearing to ward off the cold and draped it over the acrobat’s bony form. She was shivering, though interestingly, sweat had beaded on her brow, and her eyes were feverbright. “We had to fuck over a few blokes in the nearby towns to make this possible. Next place we hit up can’t be one that has already seen us; but we’ll get you somewhere with a bath and a real bed. Can’t imagine that hell hole was very comfortable.”

“Why… why didn’t you move on, Rycen? The Missing Links… we…” She didn’t want to say it, but the words that hung in the air couldn’t be disputed: without their supplies, their caravan, their ringleader, without Cwenha… the Missing Links were little more than pieces of scrap metal on a once unbreakable chain.

“‘Course I did, bushy-tail,” he crooned in what was a departure from the cut-gravel tones he’d gurgled threateningly in Lord Declan’s ear. Apart from his calming, almost sweet-speaking cadence, the faoladh, gussied-up in a gold-threaded doublet with his usually unruly hair slicked neatly against his pate, could almost pass for princely. “Couldn’t just leave you to dry. Not like last time. It would be one tragic finale if it all ended like this, yeah?” 

He didn’t need to heed the guards’ warning; he was already ushering Briery inside the carriage, not only removing her from the cold, but from scrutiny. “Give Lord Melbereaux my regards,” he saluted to the guards. “The man would do anything for a Collcreaghian tweed coat. The cost of a prisoner pales in comparison to high-grade wool from the highlands. So the debt’s been paid, lads. Don’t freeze your arses off out here, you hear!?” With help from Teselin and Rycen, they carefully laid the fragile ringleader across the carriage’s plush cushions. Once secured, Hadwin hailed Lautim up front to start the steeds. Before the carriage lurched forward, he glanced behind one last time at the imposing structure on the mountainside, and then closed the door shut. 

Nobody in the enclosed compartment dared to break the silence until they were over the bridge and clear across town. After they sped through the final boundary marker denoting the borderlands of Essleau, everyone seemed to release a collective sigh of relief at once. Barring any disastrous turns in the weather, a possibility, considering their high-altitude geography in the beginnings of winter, they would reach the foothills by morning, hopefully making it through the main mountain pass before it closed with snow. 

“A legitimate question.” Hadwin, who’d moved to sit at Briery’s feet, removed the shreds and scraps of her ruined shoes and cupped her raw, frozen toes in his radiating hands. “To you, I must’ve come the fuck out of nowhere, huh? Thought you’d never see me again; hells, I thought the same. I guess the fates had other plans for us; Tes and I met the Rice-man at some backwoods tavern in the middle of nowhere. The chanciest of chance encounters. He informed us of what was going on, what had happened. Lautim practically camped out in the shadow of the prison for over a month, concocting plan after plan to strongarm his way into breaking you out--literally. Nope,” he pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and started to wipe the grime off her skin, starting with her feet. “No one would ever give up on their ringleader, despite what you fear. Because nothing’s really over, contrary to our initial beliefs. There’s just cycles. Neverending cycles. Since we’re caught in this repetitious loop, we gotta make the best of it, ideally among people who we don’t wanna strangle all the time. Might as well wind those loops together and make some links. Not saying I’m one of those folks,” he gave a dismissive chuckle. “I’m the outlier here...cuz I meandered right in, knowing nothing about anything. They fought harder for you, Brie. The Links aren’t the Links without you. You’re all pretty damn interwoven. Separated, it doesn’t look like any of you are much better.”

He splashed some water on one end of his handkerchief and worked between the webbing of her toes. At this point, he was talking mainly to distract her from the fever, the abdominal pain, the shallow, rattling gasps of breath, the sweat glistening off her forehead and the trembling of her chilled skin. “Psh, you think your makeup-less body turns me off? Please. I’m not as shallow as my roguish good looks would indicate,” he teased in return. “Really, you should’ve seen me last month, thereabouts. If you think you look bad, I was a pus-spewing scarecrow and now I’m back to being an immaculate beast. Quick turnaround, right? You’re Briery fucking Frealy; you do turnarounds better than anyone I know. Give yourself a month, maybe two. You’ll be doin’ flips and shit, like you do. And hey, there’s one less thing to worry about now; money. Cuz’ we’re swimming in the stuff; bags of it. When you’re up for it, I’ll have to regale you with possibly my greatest hustle to date, and believe me, I’ve organized some amazing ones in my day. But this one’s the best...cuz it got you out. Sure, it got us vast amounts of riches, too, and the satisfaction of sticking it to the absurdly wealthy and their corrupt system of bureaucracy and bullshit, but importantly,” he flicked her playfully on the nose, “it got you back, Brie.”

During their near nonstop flight through the night, Hadwin, Teselin, and Rycen took turns spot cleaning the loosest areas of grime, dirt, and caked blood off Briery’s body. They peeled off her filthy frock, discarded it to the side and swaddled her in the coats, cloaks, and vests of their winter outerwear. Though aware of its inefficacy, they enticed Briery into swallowing some of her tonic, along with plenty of swigs of water. And when Hadwin had finished chewing off the acrobat’s ear, he shrugged out of his fine clothes, a monumentally more difficult task than the simple construction of his usual jerkin and trousers outfit, and shook into his wolf skin. Climbing back on the seat beside Briery, he buried into the crevices of her body, conforming to her diminished shape and essentially encasing her in a heaving furry blanket of warmth. At signs of discomfort, he changed positions, keeping his ears erect and his nose aligned with her chest, ever conscientious of the vagaries of her compromised health. Together, they managed some measure of sleep, she, tired from the demands and stresses put on her beleaguered body and he, exhausted from the nonstop exploits of his high-octane scheming. Though worried for Briery, he also couldn’t help but feeling immensely satisfied by the outcome of their high-odds gamble. He’d always touted his luck before, but it was more than mere luck that carried him from beginning to end; it was his merit, his scoundrel-focused, wheeling and dealing skill-set and its contribution in saving a life dear to him. Contrary to what he thought of himself, he did not always inflict ruination on everyone he met. Well, he would always cause harm to someone--his crime-based attributes demanded so, and he was good at disturbing the peace--but it didn’t have to be at the expense of the people who mattered. He didn’t have to settle on a destructive path enacted on purpose. He didn’t always have to embody the nightmare.

But all his efforts would mean shit if Briery didn’t survive.

After taking a more southerly route from Essleau, ensuring better weather and new locales, their carriage pulled into a town of moderate size early that morning. Hadwin, who had since returned to his human form and dressed, joined Lautim up front to search for a respectable inn. Unrestricted in budget by their windfall of money, he chose the fanciest lodgings, an inn at the center of town that boasted an indoor bathhouse fed by hot springs, cozy accommodations, and high-end security to guard their assets. Its proximity to the main thoroughfare facilitated access to amenities--such as the apothecary and the physician’s shop just around the corner. Whilst Teselin helped Briery prepare for a thorough wash in the bathhouse, Hadwin, Rycen, and Lautim paid a visit to the town physician, who, with a little buttering up with extra coin, agreed to make a house call. By the time they reached Briery’s room at the inn, the acrobat was tucked in bed, scrubbed clean of the blood and grime, her tangle of hair removed of its knots and haloed around her pillow in radiating waves. As the physician examined her poor condition, doing well not to noisily demand why she looked to have fled from a labor camp, he revealed what they’d already suspected. Equipped with the knowledge they’d briefed him on prior to his visit, the physician pointed to her abdominal anomaly as the main agitator of the aches, the pains, and the shallow breathing in her chest. As these conditions were accompanied by her ague and her residual fit of chills, the physician determined her diagnosis as the onset of pneumonia, which, fortunately, they had caught early. To battle the aches and the rattling in her chest, the physician wrote a short list of medicines to purchase from the apothecary. Otherwise, Briery needed to recuperate in bed for the next few days, drink plenty of fluids, and sustain an all-liquid diet of marrow broth, to supplement the nutrients her body so desperately needed to replenish. Once she could palate solid foods, she could gradually shift to heartier foods, such as meats, breads, and stews. Disappointingly, he was unable to offer any broader insights as to her female reproductive organs--nothing beyond what other healers and doctors had offered as explanation. When they showed him the little that remained of her specially-made tonic, all he could suggest was to bring it to the apothecary to see if he would be able to replicate the formula. With promises to return to oversee her progress the following day, the physician took his leave, entrusting the group to carry out his orders as they saw fit. 

With Lautim volunteering to run the orders to the apothecary, Rycen to request the orders for marrow soup to the kitchens, and Teselin to purchase a smaller outfit for Briery to wear, along with a belt to cinch her tiny waist, some outerwear, and a new pair of boots, the trio slipped out of the doors, leaving Hadwin and Briery alone with each other. 

“Ah, I was hoping I didn’t have to fight them for Briery-duty. How nice of them,” he said, slipping on a conspiratory smile. Behind her, he drew the curtains halfway open, allowing for shafts of natural light to envelop the room--enough to brighten the space, but not enough to agitate someone in the throes of fever and whose eyes were still light-sensitive from living in darkness and squalor for the past month. He poured a cup of hot tea out of a kettle that Teselin brought in earlier and handed it to the ringleader.

“The kid and I have decided--the Links are on board, too. We’re taking you back to Galeyn,” he poured himself a cup of tea, half-wishing it were a tankard of ale. “Yeah, it’s still dangerous; murderous sister and a sorceress at large--same bullshit, different day, but it’ll be the best place for you to regain your strength. Plus, Al’s returned and he can do with your lady parts what he did last time, painful as all get-out as I imagine that procedure will be. Besides, we’ll get you more tonic from Eli the Red and Angry, and hey, now we’ve got a Master Alchemist among our ranks. Tes’ half-brother; healed up Elly’s heart through some kind of transfer of cells with her husband. Don’t know how it works but it seemed effective. A little too effective. She gained some of Serpent Lord’s magic and she hit me with some of that lightning. Square in the chest. It was fucking amazing. Ha, anyway,” he sat at the edge of Briery’s bed, “that alchemist bloke’s so desperate to help, just like Lord Rigas. No wonder they’ve hit it off as friends. I might’ve...broken poor Isidor shortly before departure, but psh, I’m sure he hasn’t been completely catatonic with fear the whole time we’ve been done. So, my point is--Galeyn will be good for you. Hard, yeah, I know...after all that’s happened. But,” he leaned across the sheets to meet with Briery’s hazel eyes, “you should see Cwenha’s rose bush now. It’s aggressively overgrown, and spiky in all the right places. Exactly what she’d have wanted for her botanical counterpart.” 

Unable to filibuster the conversation for much longer, he blew out a sigh, which blew off his smile, and he broke their gaze to stare at his tea. No more use delaying what he truly wanted to say. “Yeah...about what happened, between us. It...I had to get out of there in the worst way and I didn’t want anyone to change my mind and stop me, so I up and left Galeyn without a word. Because...well, because I was done. Eight years of flirting with death--it was about time, y’know. I was ready to meet it, head-on. To skip the foreplay and fuck it. There wasn’t much left of me to preserve, anyway. My mind was deteriorating faster than a Night steed can gallop. So that’s what I did, Briery. I left so I could die. And I got so damn close, too. The perfect orchestration. My life’s greatest works, summed up in one daring move. I fucked a Queen; of course I fucked a Queen.” His chuckle wasn’t even powerful enough to heave his shoulders up and down with mirth. “And I let the King’s guards arrest me, and torture me, and lock me away in the dungeons to rot. No food, no water, no light. Don’t know how long I was there for, but the madness took hold. Nothing was real to me anymore. I was seeing ghosts; ghosts of you, and Cwenha, my mam--always my mam--telling me death is what I deserved for being such a fuck-up. And it would’ve been my death for certain, but Tes found me, half-dead, covered in shit, piss, blood and ooze. Tes and,” he wrinkled his nose, “Bronwyn, of all people. Bronwyn showed up. Hilarious, right? It’s the damn Kavanagh family reunion. Waiting for my da to waltz in next. The bastard’ll do it, too, just to add to the fuckery. He hates being discluded. Anyway,” he stared at the brand-mark on his hand, “they got me out, only for me to wander off a cliff because I was too gone to care about anything but my own annihilation. Tes had to save me...again. She saved me and she snapped me out of it, but at a steep cost. It was bad, Briery. Bad. The sacrifices that had to be made so this piece of shit could live…”

He brought the tea to his lips and chugged the scalding water, reveling in the burn, wanting more, more pain to flush out that pain, the worse pain, the one he’d been smoking out with herbs and drowning with drink, but it never died. It played in his head, every night. The same nightmare, the same sentiment whispered in his ears: You’re the catalyst to humanity’s most catastrophic disasters. People are made worse by your company. You’re poison. You’re their fears. Nobody likes fear. Nobody likes nightmares. And that’s all you are. That’s all you’ll ever be.

To offset his trip into a downward spiral, he recalibrated himself and let loose a low, feral chuckle. “Pretty fucked up, how the world works. So, to speed this depressing story along--when the kid and I heard what became of you, it was my chance to make things right. Getting you out of prison, damning all the odds. Not that anything was made right. Just not made worse. Wouldn’t’ve happened at all if I hadn’t turned tail...if I hadn’t let Cwenha die.” And there, it all came out, in a raw stream of guilt. He’d let her down. He’d let down Briery Frealy, who rarely regarded him as anything less than wonderful. Who didn’t blame him for his fatal screw-up. Hells, she probably hailed him as a hero for scheming her out of prison. But one good deed didn’t negate a bad deed, and his bad deed was, ironically for him, inaction. Because he stood and gaped as Rowen tore Cwenha apart with her teeth. He stood and gaped as she ran off and repeated the process three more times. He practically raised Rowen when he had no business raising anyone--not with his unscrewed head and lack of integrity. No child under his care would turn out decent. In a sense, he’d been cultivating his youngest sister into her current, cutthroat persona. And it all unwittingly led to the death of his...his new pack. The Links. 

“Dammit.” In a burst of energy, he sprang out of the bed like an animal bitten on his flank. He slammed the empty teacup on the end table and paced away from Briery, clawing fingers through his hair as though to rip out his scalp. “Dammit. I need...to step out. Rycen will be right up with your food anyway. You’re in good hands, Brie. In even better hands if I keep my distance. We’ll get you to Galeyn, and you’ll be right as rain, yeah?” He curled a hand over the door-latch and clicked it open. “You don’t owe me anything. Your life is enough for me. Just get better.”

Briery wasn’t well; in so many ways, she wasn’t well, and that was a fact to which she had come to terms long before she’d given up in her closet-sized cell. Aside from the tearing pains in her abdomen, which had somehow migrated and spread to her chest, she wasn’t so foolish as not to realize the fever that struggled to keep her chilled body warm in that dank and freezing cell. As soon as it had descended upon her, as soon as she took note of what was happening with the rapid decline of her health, the ringleader began to doubt the information her senses gathered, because at this point, nothing but pain and misery could be real. Sometimes, at her absolute worst, when she drifted, she would imagine the days when she had been bedridden in her caravan, a prisoner not of Essleau, but of her own excruciating pain that had cancelled far too many performances than she was comfortable admitting. Somehow, those hallucinations were powerful enough to take her away from a cell and deposit her in a familiar place, with a familiar face. Cwenha was there, at her bedside, all beauty and fury at the sight of her bedridden ringleader.

Get up, the girl would chide her in that biting anger that was so characteristic of the Silver Fairy. You can’t give up, here. People are counting on you! Get up, Briery!

I wish it were that simple, Cwen, she would reply to what must have been an empty cell, but even an apparation of her lost companion was enough to stave off the loneliness and move her lips as if she were really speaking to a friend. Seeing that beautiful, familiar fury, those wide blue eyes and that halo of pale hair brought her so much comfort that she was happy to lean into the hallucination. Drink it up as if it was real; seeing Cwenha so angry at her had never made her so happy. I want it to be that simple. You were always stronger than me, Silver Fairy. I’m afraid I’ve finally fallen into a trap there is no way out of. 

Don’t feed me that bullshit. There’s nothing you can’t get out of. You’re invincible if you believe you can be. The seething apparition accused, looking as though she wanted to grab and shake the ringleader, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t reach forward, wouldn’t touch her, because she couldn’t; because Briery knew, through the fever, that Cwenha wasn’t really here. Get up, ringleader! The Missing Links are nothing without you.

No, Cwenha… no. It’s without you. Without you… Briery smiled sadly, and felt a tear trickle down her cheek. Without you, we’ve fallen apart… I can’t put us back together. I’m so sorry, Cwenha…

She had believed that, when she’d said it to the apparation in her feverish state of hallucination. She’d come to believe and accept that her darkest fears had reared their head, and that the Missing Links were no more. And it was only when she suddenly found herself in an elaborate carriage, surrounded by friendly, familiar faces, that she wondered if she had been wrong to commit to such a frame of mind as easily as she had. She heard Hadwin’s voice; she saw Rycen’s face, and felt Teselin’s ever-present warmth, but dreaming so frequently of Cwenha and their brief conversations had Briery Frealy doubting her senses. Even when she reached out with a frail hand to touch Hadwin, who had disappeared from her life just as quickly and tragically as Cwenha, she couldn’t be sure that any of this--the company, or the movement of the earth as the carriage picked up in speed at an uncharacteristically rapid pace--was real. Because it had all seemed so real to her before, when she’d imagined she was in another place that no longer existed, talking to a person who no longer existed. How could this be real? Her miraculous rescue from such a terrible place and hopeless situation?

“...I don’t know that any of this is real.” The afflicted ringleader breathed her confession, with a sad and apologetic smile. “I don’t know… but I’m willing to pretend. I’ll pretend it is. Because I have missed your faces, more than I can express…

So, just as she had done for days and weeks before, cooped up and all but forgotten in that rotten cell, Briery closed her eyes and let the scene and the voices unfold around her. Perhaps her sickness had reached a whole other level, one beyond the chance of recovery, because this time, she could feel this hallucination. She could feel the gentle pressure of Teselin, Rycen and Hadwin cleaning the grime from her shrunken body. She could feel the warmth of the faoladh when he’d shifted and curled around her in his wolfskin; it felt so real that it even staved off her incessant shivering for the time being. Her body even responded as if she were taking in fluids, when they helped her to drink: however elaborate this hallucination was, it came as such a relief and comfort to her that she didn’t even try to wake up. If she was to die, then this was how she wanted it to happen: surrounded, however fictitiously, by the people she loved the most, encased in their warmth and their care. And when she felt herself drift into a deeper slumber that shut them out of her consciousness, she thought that was exactly what was happening. Did you send this to me, Cwenha? She silently called out to her lost companion, whose face was not one among those who were helping her now. Is this your final gift? Because I couldn’t have asked for anything more… except to see you, too. We’re not complete without you…

It wasn’t until she was awoken by the carriage suddenly halting that Briery snapped out of her reverie and her deep slumber. Daylight was streaming through the curtains of the carriage, and people were moving about. Her body hurt; it still hurt, like it had before, and her chest still felt heavy, and though it was laboured, she was still breathing. Alive… she was still alive. And this--wherever she was now, it was not the prison in Essleau. And these faces surrounding her, these hands that helped her sit up, to stand, and to walk, they were all real. This was real, and she… she was hardly able to fathom what to make of it.

“Where am I…?” She managed when the door to the carriage opened, and Hadwin scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. It was such a relief; she wasn’t sure her thin legs could carry her very far, at this point.

“Just a resting point. Sorry it took us so long; we kinda had to fuck over a few places to see you to safety, boss,” Rycen replied, slipping a blanket around her body as Hadwin scooped her up to keep her warm in the transition from the carriage to wherever it was they were going. “So we had to scope out a place that wasn’t out for our blood. Just a heads up, I don’t think the Missing Links should eeeeever frequent this neck of the woods again.”

They brought her to an establishment that looked far beyond what any of them should be able to afford, and as soon as reservations were settled, brought her to a bathhouse whose warmth hit her like a wall and loosened the congestion in her lungs as soon as she entered it. Teselin gently helped her undress and cleaned her up with the utmost care as Briery relaxed into the hot waters that brought a wave of relief to the jutting pains in her abdomen. She didn’t so much as request that the acrobat lift a finger as she washed away the grime and blood caked on her legs, or eased the tangles out of her hair; she would have fallen asleep in the comfort of that bath were it not for the young summoner requesting apologetically that she try to move from the bath, because the girl obviously hadn’t the strength to carry her. Of course, Briery obliged, and didn’t protest as Teselin dried her off and clothed her in soft, warm wools that would shield her her trembling bones from the cold. From there, she helped the ringleader to a room with a bed ready and waiting for her. 

Warm and relaxed, Briery managed to doze for a while, before the others returned with a stranger who checked her over for injuries and to assess her current condition. Exhausted and malnourished, she did her best to answer his questions, but the others mercifully filled him in on her ongoing battle with her female organs so she didn’t need to repeat that long-winded tail with what little breath her lungs could hold. Of course, it came as little surprise that the physician declared there was nothing much he could do for her congenital disease, but he did prescribe medications, tonics, and ointments to treat the pneumonia she had contracted, otherwise suggesting plenty of bedrest and a liquid diet to help her recover her strength.

With all that said and done, the small group did not hesitate to act on Briery’s needs, fetching medicines, food, and more clothes for the ringleader, ultimately leaving her alone with Hadwin in the beautifully elaborate room. For that, she was grateful; not to be left alone, that is, on top of everything else they were doing for it. So much time spent with nothing but her thoughts had been precisely what had broken the ringleader of the Missing Links; she required this company, this support, to put herself back together. “This is really happening. All of you are real… I still can’t fathom how this came together,” she admitted as Hadwin drew the curtains just a fraction, to allow some of the warmth of the sun to seep into the room. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use, but it was already beginning to sound stronger than it had the night before. “But… I’m grateful. And indebted to you, in more ways than I can describe. I wouldn’t mind seeing Galeyn, again, dangerous as it might be. I’ve missed the company of friends and familiar faces. And… and Cwenha’s there. Eternally, now.” She smiled sadly, a wistful look gleaming in her feverbright hazel eyes. “She was so beautiful in life. I can only imagine whatever flora her ashes have nourished would reflect that beauty.”

She was about to ask what had become of the faoladh, when he’d fled Galeyn that tragic day, but Hadwin was open to liberally spilling the details of his own close brush with death, and the daring rescue by not only Teselin, but his sister. None of it came as any surprise; that he would be so wracked with guilt over Cwenha’s death, he would turn to self-destructive behaviours and eventually give up. In a way… she hadn’t been much different. It had been due to the collective negligence of the Missing Links that they had ended up being robbed, forcing them into a situation that had ultimately landed her in prison, and Rycen and Lautim with barely an ounce of hope to cling to. So much hope and resolve had died along with Cwenha, a girl who’d thought her life meant so little to the world and its people… “You know… I think that tells us something. That Teselin saved you from death; that you saved me from some uncertain fate. You’re right, Hadwin; we really are all links in a chain. And you… you have been part of that chain, all along.” Briery smiled and covered his hand with her bony fingers. “From the first time you put your neck on the line and stole for us, because I was too sick to perform, you’ve always been a part of the Missing Links. Not only that, but you are such a part of Teselin’s life that she refuses to go on without you. That we’ve survived these hardships against all odds… something in the universe refuses to tear us apart. Even… even if Cwenha is no longer a chain in this link…”

She’d known all along that the death of the Silver Fairy would be a sore spot in Hadwin’s psyche. For all the tension between him and Cwenha, he did care for her, the way he cared about all of the Missing Links. But she hadn’t realized just how much he would blame himself for her death, or how hard he would hold it against himself. But seeing the emotions flicker across his face, ranging from despair to anger to guilt and to longing, and all back again, the acrobat was quick to intuit Hadwin’s action before he made for the door. So she did what was possibly the most irresponsible thing in her condition and threw the covers off of her body, sprung from the bed with energy she didn’t have, and grabbed Hadwin’s free hand before he could disappear out the door.

“Please… don’t leave again.” Without the strength to stand for too long, the Missing Links ringleader eventually fell to her knees, but didn’t let go of his hand. Every ounce of her strength was focused on the grip in her fingers, afraid that if she let up, he would slip away, again. “When we left… Rycen asked why you had gone. Why you didn’t come with us. And I explained… to the best of my ability, what you told me. And you know what he said? ‘Sounds about right. That guy will take the fall for anything that happens to Cwenha’.” Her mouth shifted into some semblance of a smile, though it was broken by tears that gathered in her eyes and eventually spilled down her cheeks. “You never fooled any of us, Hadwin. We all knew how you cared about Cwenha, but the truth is, she’d been courting death since before any of us had known her. For all I had tried for years, to help her find a reason to turn away from death and to embrace life, I wasn’t able to change that… so I let her down as much as you did. We all did, but ultimately, I don’t think there was anything any of us could do aside from delay the inevitable. It was a path none of us could have changed.” 

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, spilling onto the hardwood floor and settling into the fibers of her warm clothes. At this point, Briery wasn’t even sure why she was crying: out of relief for being saved, out of grief for reliving Cwenha’s death all over again, or out of the chance that she would lose Hadwin again. Perhaps it was all three, but regardless, the ringleader let her body tremble and convulse with sobbing she hadn’t succumbed to in a very long time. “Cwenha… she is gone, Hadwin. Sometimes, when I was still incarcerated, I thought I saw her and heard her. Of course, she was berating me for giving up… like hell would she have ever given up, in that situation. You’re not the only one haunted by ghosts.” With her free hand, she wiped her face dry, but it was a futile effort; the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. “But you’re not gone. We’re not gone. The Missing Links… it is like you said; we can’t be pulled apart. Not now, not even, not even in the event that one of us is gone. But you… losing you at the same time I lost Cwenha, it was almost enough to do me in. So don’t make me beg, Hadwin. Don’t make me beg you to stay…” Given her current position, on her knees, clutching desperately at his hand, it appeared she had already succumbed to that position: and she couldn’t even feel ashamed. “I’ll do it. I will… if that is what it will take to get you to stay. But I hope you won’t make me resort to that.” She pressed his hand against her cheek, knowing from the pressure, the warmth, that it had to be real. If she stopped believing that this was real… she knew she would give up, all over again. “Because… you are part of us. Our family. Please… don’t make me suffer the loss of any more of the only family I have ever had. I’ve spent… I don’t know how long, alone in that cell, and I… don’t want to be alone, anymore.”

He should have seen it coming. Should have seen that Briery would interpret his departure as a challenge and bound out of bed as though vaulting from one trapeze to another--and it was to him she reached as her support pole. He read it in her face, her fears agitated into a whip of tireless energy. The frenzy he’d stirred, simply by turning to the door. Often, people were relieved to see him go, but not Briery. Never Briery. Never Teselin, either. He could demonize himself all he wanted; whether merited or not, they didn’t care, because they didn’t see a demon. They gave his ‘goodness’ far more credit than it deserved. Sure, he’d always been capable of benevolence, and for them, no request was too out of the question (at worst, a bit uncomfortable), but in comparing Briery’s terror in losing him to Teselin’s companion terror...it gave him pause to wonder if they’d both fallen into some shared delusion where he reigned as a figure to be lauded and loved and not feared or disgusted. Was his personality that infectious? That effective? They breathed in the spores of his deadly fungus, his deathcap, his destroying angel and now their minds had been irrevocably altered, such that his severance really would destroy them. And he was done destroying every single person who crossed paths with him. Every single person who gave a damn about him. 

He looked Briery in her tear-strewn, fearful eyes and felt a reflection of that fear in him, too. I don’t want to lose you, either. I don’t want to be alone…

Releasing his grip on the door-latch, Hadwin followed her descent to the floor, like a petal falling from a sunflower. The golden acrobat, resplendent in her paints and her glitter had plummeted to the horizon line, hands clasped in supplication for the fool before her. In her fortuneteller’s parlance, he would be The Fool, at once an arbiter of change and a victim of self-destruction. Two sides of the same coin. Was Briery also trying to anchor him from the cliff he’d still dreamed of flying from? Would she still hold tight if he let go? 

No, I’m not taking you down with me. Not again.

“Sssh, Brie. I was just gonna go downstairs. I wasn’t leaving.” As he cooed his assurances, he took his free hand and wiped away the tears that clung to her cheeks. “This isn’t the place for you. On the floor, begging for scraps like a dog. You’ve always been meant to stand high, above the ground, gliding on wires and rivaling the sun for its position in the sky. So let’s get you back up there.” With the utmost care, he lifted the sobbing acrobat and cradled her in his arms. In a few short strides, he returned her bedside, tucking her under the layers of wools and downy sheets and resting her head upon the pillow. “Mmm. That’s better. Y’know--it’s a big bed. Got any room for me?” With a wink, he slid in next to her, reclining above the sheets and propping his head upright by his elbow.

“So--you made your point, loud and clear. Truth is, I didn’t wanna distance myself from you, either. Just thought it might be better, considering how damn troublesome I am to keep around. Not only do I generate it on the regular, but now I’ve got it nipping at my heels. You and Rycen can say whatever the hell you want about Cwenha, though.” He rubbed his thumb across his knuckles, raring to apply pressure, to break his fingers and relieve the burden building up in his skin like air pockets demanding release. He couldn’t alleviate the pressure with alcohol or with his pipe, which he dare not smoke in Briery’s vicinity. Self-harm seemed like the third-best open. But he held off--for now. “You can say whatever the hell you like,” he repeated. “I know she courted death. Me and her, that’s what we had in common. We talked about it at length. Argued on if either of us would actually go through with it, and who’d be the first to weaken the chain. She was convinced it’d be her. I think we both tied for first place, wouldn’t you say?” He smiled on reflex, a twitch, a tic that faded as quickly as it had appeared. “So yeah, I know it’d find her. Thing is, she wasn’t looking for it that day. It was my sister looking for her. Looking for her because of me, Briery. Only reason she was taken down. It was because I cared. And I did nothing. I knew Cwenha was in danger. I ran to catch ‘em before anything could happen. And when I got there, I didn’t do shit. Didn’t step in, didn’t break them up, didn’t take the fall.” He growled the words, a grimaced rictus of pain. “So fuck no, this wasn’t something Cwenha did. This was done to bait me. She’d be alive, still, if I wasn’t involved. So if you insist you wanna have me here, with you, when we get to Galeyn...she’s gonna want you, too, Brie. And fuck it if I let her get you, or Tes. If she does, I won’t hesitate this time. No one’s gonna break this chain again.” 

I’ll...kill her. I’ll fucking kill her. 

The thought surprised him. That he’d resort to murdering his precious sister to prevent the carnage of his appropriated family, was something he’d never stop to consider. Hells, it wasn’t even on the table for discussion. He loved Rowen. He still loved Rowen. But his love for her was devastating and self-destructive. It would kill him and everyone he’d chosen in her absence. If necessary, he would take her out; no more second-guessing. No more doubt, or indecision. 

But his resolve was untenable. Unthinkable. It rattled at his convictions. He wanted to break every damn bone in his body! Kill Rowen!? He knew he’d do it, too. Because he was capable. And this bit of truth...sickened him.

“Brie,” he ground his teeth so hard, his jaw ached, “you’re gonna have to keep the demons at bay, too. The...the ghosts. I need to be liquored up. I need relief. I need fucking something right now. Last time I was like this around you, I jumped you. I can’t--” he removed himself from the bed and paced the floor, breaking some fingers along the way and biting his lip clean through. Blood dribbled down his chin. He bit down harder. “Distract me…”

His distraction arrived in the form of knocking at the door. Wiping the blood off his face with the back of his (now healed) hand, Hadwin answered the call. Rycen entered through the threshold, hands full with a tray containing a bowl of piping hot marrow broth.

“Ah, Rice-man, right on time! Come on in!” He stepped aside to allow the illusionist some space, adopting his most unruffled facade. “Is staff at capacity today? I mean, we’re paying for the service. Shouldn’t have to be you hauling ass, y’know. Eh, it’s a small bother, I suppose. So hey,” he jerked his head outside, “keep Brie company for a bit. I gotta take a quick refresher downstairs. But,” he called out to the ringleader from across the room, “I’m coming back. I promise. Nothing to fear. And besides, you and Rycen deserve some private catch-up, too. I’ll leave you to it!”

He swaggered out the door and headed downstairs, submerging his inner turmoil and managing his outward visage with all the poise befitting a confidence man. But if one were to observe how he sat at the bar, at the jittering of his legs, the impatient thrumming of his fingers on the counter, the occasional darting of his eyes and the mussing of his hair, his little tells told the story of a man on the brink of a breakdown. 

Hailing the bartender to bring him his strongest brew, and several of them at once, Hadwin’s vacillating stability was spared in time, with the downing of the first tankard. A welcome numbness slid over the vat of boiling water churning from within, lidding it before the water overflowed and made a mess. He was safe; he had made it. He got away from Briery before it got bad. Before he lost control. Before the fears exploited all his weaknesses to prove, once and for all, his unreliability and his ongoing battle with madness. He couldn’t stick around; couldn’t trust she would talk him down. Teselin did not succeed; it took the destruction of a city to open his eyes to reason. Only alcohol helped. Potent herbs, smoked from his pipe. Excruciating physical pain. Sex so intense, it squeezed every stray thought out of his brain like pimples and oozing pus from his ears.

He drank three tankards. Four. Five. Enough to lose count and enough to lose track of his ideations of murder. Of sororicide. Rowen Kavanagh fled into the dark woods. He lost sight of her. The spikes of flaring panic waned. Control was regained. A warm, mellow feeling replaced the dread and buoyed him to the surface, where he was better suited. Too many people were riding on his wellness to sink--so float he would, instead. 

And float, he did.

Not an hour after his self-dismissal, Hadwin returned to Briery’s bedchambers, full of spirits and high in spirits. He hailed Rycen, who sat at Briery’s bedside, chatting about something or another. “Told you I’d be back,” he exclaimed, his grin too wide to ignore. “Just a bit of a pick-me-up. And hells yeah do I feel up! There’s cause for celebration, after all. The lot of us are back together and we fucked over some powerful people t’get here! Ain’t no hiding what we did; I’m telling everyone in Galeyn about Mr. Dough-face! Ah, Briery,” he mock-collapsed on the other side of her bed and grabbed for her hands, “it’s one helluva satisfying story and you’re at the center of it. Sometimes I wonder if any of this is real, too. Or that we’re in hell. Makes sense we’d be in hell. We’re all linked; we all go down together--starting with Cwenha. She’s still attached to us, see? She never fell off; we never lost her. Holy fuck does she tug down hard, like a leaden ball on the end of a chain. But that’s ok; better to have the memory than to lose the weight, right?”

In the mind of a drunkard, subject changes and open-ended tangents were a commonplace occurrence. Soon after attempting to wax poetic about their lost comrade, he honed in on Briery’s rail-thin body, her sunken cheeks, the hollows of her eyes and the divots in her neck. His hands roved up her arms to rest on the deflated apples of those once-vibrant cheeks. He pinched them, ever-so-slightly, and a hint of color bloomed on either side. “Gods, you’re still gorgeous, Briery.” His eyes dilated with desire. “Filth and weight loss, sickness and those motherfuckers out there who control everything...they haven’t taken away what’s most important. You still smell like you; your essence mucks up my nostrils. Can’t catch a whiff without taking you in. And damn, did I miss it.” He leaned in, close enough so their noses touched. “If you still want me, fuck up and all, I’m yours.” Closing his eyes, he tilted his head and made contact with her lips, still plush and pliant, despite her diminished body mass. It was brief, a surface-level brush, a tease of a closed mouth, but it was meant to be brief. An invitation, should she want to reciprocate--either now, or later, when she recovered her health and energy. Pulling away from her orbit, he returned to the space and its surroundings, including the shafted third party, helpless but to observe the unwanted performance.

“Rye-bread; sorry to leave you hanging. Hate for you to feel left out.” His grin sharpened with mischief. “Want me to snog you, too? I’ve got you covered, whenever you tire of the lassies. Anyway, I call dibs on this side of your bed, Brie. Now, question is,” he gave her a flirtatious wink, “do you want me as a wolf, or as a man tonight?”

At any other point in time, and with any other person aside from her close-knit family, Briery Frealy would have cared about appearances and exactly how she came across to other people. As a performer, it was paramount not to break the spell she had over an audience, for if she exhibited even the faintest loss of confidence, it would show. But Hadwin was a different story.  He had already seen her at her worst, which was worse than even now. He’d seen her when she’d existed that prison as a grimy, bloody, fragile mess that didn’t even have the strength to clean herself up. He’d seen her at her most vulnerable, many a time, when her disease had left her incapacitated… and yet, that had never scared him away. He had never thought less of her for succumbing to pain and vulnerability when in the eyes of everyone else, it was paramount that she stand strong--even for the other Missing Links. But not Hadwin. Perhaps that was why she valued him so thoroughly: because with him, she could be real. And he took that real and accepted and loved it in exactly the same way she loved each and every aspect of his real. So if he intended to leave, again, without any indication as to whether she would see him again… she was not above begging, on her knees, with tears in her eyes. Cwenha’s loss had taken too huge a toll on her to tolerate losing any more of the people she cared about so deeply.

So Briery had no shame in voicing her reluctance to watch Hadwin walk away, again, and if it took begging and her own humiliation to convince him to stay, she was not beyond that. Evidently, however, she had overreacted; he wasn’t leaving, not for good, according to his word. But given the last time, how he disappeared without so much as a goodbye… could he really blame her? “Everything that goes up must eventually come down.” She replied with a despondent smile, swallowing her tears before they could continue to flood her eyes. “I am no exception. I’ll crawl along the ground like a worm if it is for the people I care about…”

But she should have known he wouldn’t let her, and did not put up a protest when he lifted her into his arms and brought her back to the bed, which was frankly the only place where someone in her condition belonged. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to overreact. I’ve come to learn that when you are left alone for too long… it does things to your mind.” When he climbed next to her in the luxury bed that must have been costing them a fortune (she could only vaguely remember the faoladh going on about the elaborate scheme that had won them a small fortune, the night before) she covered one of his hands with her own. “I’d rather keep you around, trouble and all, than never know if I am going to see you again; even… no. Especially after what happened to Cwenha. I realize, to you, it might not have seemed as such, but I felt as though the both of you had died: Cwenha, in body, and you, in spirit, when you disappeared. And I… I cannot deny that something in me died, too. Hope did. Rycen and Lautim would never admit it, but it showed in our performances. They haven’t been the same. We thought we could recover; and maybe, in time… maybe we can. But we cannot recover in isolation…” The frail acrobat shifted her body to face him and searched his face with her hazel eyes, which appeared much larger in comparison to her diminished form. “I couldn’t bounce back, knowing Cwenha was gone, and knowing that wherever you were, dead or alive, you would carry that burden with you for the rest of your life. And I’m still having a hard time believing in this: that this is real. That you are real, and you are here, because I was so given to defeat. But… it won’t last. I’ll come back to myself. And so can you: Cwenha left us both with wounds. But we can recover. I know we can.”

This had been more than Briery had said in any span of time for what must have been well over a month, and it left her feeling suddenly winded, such that she had to pause to catch her breath after a brief coughing fit. When the air in her lungs finally settled, she went on, noting the intensity in Hadwin’s golden eyes. “It was just that, Hadwin: you were baited. Fight, flight, or freeze, and… your sister found the perfect situation in which you would freeze. It isn’t your fault. At the end of the day… just know that what happened was not your fault.”

Even if she had the words to ease Hadwin’s concerns, to bring him back down to earth, Briery did not have the breath: and he was losing himself, again. Just like he had once before, when they were en route to Braighdath, with both Teselin and Chara aboard. But that time… it had been Cwenha who had somehow miraculously managed to bring him back, however unwillingly he went with her. The acrobat was just about to climb out of bed again, afraid that he might do something worse than break his fingers to find the catharsis he so sought, but it was around that time that Rycen returned with a wooden tray hot broth and a new pitcher of water to drink. “Oh thank the gods; I was so afraid I’d walk in on the two of you going at it or somethin’,” the illusionist sighed in exaggerated relief, and set the tray on a table next to the bed. “Figured it’d safest to skip out on delivery in case people start asking too many questions about our resident ringleader and her condition. It ain’t safe to let on that any of us ever set foot in Essleau.”

To his surprise, it seemed as though Hadwin was looking for a way out, which explained the suddenly concerned glimmer in Briery’s tired eyes. “Hadwin…” His name passed her lips, but he looked over his shoulder and responded with that ever reassuring smile of his and added that he intended to return. I wish I could help you… she wanted to say. Wanted nothing more than to be able to lift the darkness that plagued him, the same way he had spirited her away from the darkness of Essleau’s sophisticated prison. But, in her condition, she was no help to herself, let alone to anyone else. Please don’t hurt yourself.

In his absence, she sipped the broth that Rycen had brought as the illusionist filled her in on everything that had transpired since her arrest, from their futile bargaining for her release, to everything they had given up in a futile attempt to help her… including the caravan. He expected her to be angry, or react with sadness: they’d lost everything. Two caravans, all of their props and supplies, things that had taken the Missing Links years to accumulate. But Briery merely listened, without judgment, and responded with the very grace he should have given her credit for. “But we haven’t lost everything. You are still here, and so am I, and so is Rycen… and so is Hadwin. Don’t you see, Rycen?” She smiled with whatever strength her weak body could muster; the broth had helped restore a modicum of her vitality, at the very least. “We are the Missing Links. We, all of us, make the chain. Not the caravan or props or costumes--those can all be replaced. But we cannot, and because we’re still here… we are not undone. Set back, perhaps, but not undone. Remember, you and I started out with nothing. Together… all of us, we will rebuild.”

Approximately an hour later, when her bowl of broth was finally empty and Rycen had released all of his pent-up anxiety about breaking the sad news to his ringleader about the legacy they would need to rebuild from square one, Hadwin returned, looking (and smelling) very much like he had taken care of his troubles with liquor. Neither the acrobat nor the illusionist blamed or judged him for it: after the feat he’d pulled, reuniting what was left of this performing troupe, there was little Hadwin could do at this point that would shift their opinion of him. Briery, frankly, was just relieved to see that he was still in one piece, and hadn’t succumbed to his demons. She had nothing but smiles for him as he took her thin hands into his own. “I know you told me the story last night… at least, I thought you did, but I can’t be sure of much that has happened before today.” She confided. “Rycen filled me in on his part and Lautim’s, but I’m afraid you might have to refresh my memory of just how you managed to scam some of the most powerful people in one of the most affluent cities I have ever visited. Because even I am having a hard time believing that you managed to pull it all off, without a hitch...”

Truth be told, Briery couldn’t even be sure that she followed when he ventured to re-explain, with Rycen occasionally giving own ‘sober’ input on some of the details that Hadwin was clearly embellishing to make himself look good. If it weren’t for all of the tangents he took, often finding himself so far off topic that Rycen had to remind them about what they were actually talking about, her fever slowly but surely began to return since having broken that morning. It left her in a dreamlike state, unsure of what was actually happening around her, but she was comforted by the back and forth of two welcome and familiar voices: such a reprieve from the silence of the prison that had filled her head with voices and visions that weren’t really there. The feeling of his hands on her arms, on her cheeks, the warmth of his proximity finally brought her back to a state of semi-alertness, where she was reminded that she wasn’t, in fact, dreaming again. “I’m sorry… I couldn’t quite follow your story, Hadwin. I tried. The events didn’t quite make sense to me…”

He didn’t seem to care; not about anything but her, for a moment, as he kissed her as if she were still beautiful. As if she were something worth looking at, in her sickly and emaciated state. If she’d had the opportunity to see a mirror, she likely would’ve turned it down. “You know… I’m not so sure that I am the one having trouble keeping touch with reality.” She joked, her hazel eyes bright with fever, but not unaware. She reached out and touched his face with a flushed hand. “Without my costume, the glitter, the make-up… I’m afraid I am as ordinary as can be. It will be a while before I am on the trapeze again. But… if this is an offer, a promise… I’d like to hold on to it. And cash it in later. Can I do that?” And therein lay the real question: will you still be around?

“What? Really? Come on, you two, I can’t even tell you to get a room when you’re already in one!” Rycen complained rather loudly from across the room. “Hadwin, no matter how you care to spin it, I ain’t ever gonna desire your ass, friend. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have that much trouble with women…”

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.” Briery’s response to his question came delayed, but not without having given the question some thought. Ultimately, she’d made her decision. “I love you as a wolf, Hadwin. I love you as a man. I love you in whatever iteration you happen to be, and all that matters… the only thing that matters is that you are here. That’s all I want. I just want you here, in whatever way you choose to be, because I’ve missed you…”

“Maaan, this is a show I didn’t need to see.” Rycen audibly groaned and cracked his neck, making for the door. “Briery, if I weren’t so damn happy to see you again, alive and almost well, you’d be near making me sick, Boss. There’s way too much sentiment in this room. I’m not a pure enough human being to properly appreciate it.”

As if the room wasn’t already too crowded, Teselin was next to wander in on the rather awkward situation, with her arms full of pouches and jars of medicines that she’d retrieved from the apothecary on the physician’s request. The young summoner had to do a double take at first, seeing the acrobat and the faoladh cuddled together on the massive bed, but both were clearly clothed; and Hadwin, for better or worse, was clearly drunk. “I’m sorry it took me so long… there were a lot of ingredients to sort through. But they had everything you need, Briery.” Setting the bundle noisily on a desk across from the room, Teselin shed the winter frock she’d donned to ward off the cold. “I’m not sure that it will help, but I also found something that may ease your abdominal pain.”

“Got anything for a fever? ‘Cause our ringleader here isn’t looking so cool. And no offense, Hadwin, but you don’t have what it takes to make a heart so aflutter that it races to that degree of temperature.” The illusionist snorted and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I can practically see the heat coming off of ya, Boss. Why don’t ya disengage yourself from loverwolf long enough to knock that sickness out of ya. Hey kid,” he tapped Teselin on the shoulder prior to making his way out the door, “if you get sick of these two, feel free to shack up in the room next door. Two beds, and Lautim’s too big for ‘em, anyway. Promise I don’t snore too loud.”

Although Teselin was not nearly as bothered by the proximity of the two individual’s on Briery’s bed, she could understand, even at a cursory glance, why Rycen might suggest they be alone. Despite her fever, the way Briery looked at Hadwin, like he was something right out of a dream, and how he looked back like he wouldn’t be caught anywhere else right now, had something more to do than with the mere physical desire the illusionist was implying. Briery Frealy had been through hell; Hadwin had been through hell. And finally, both of them were finding their way out of it, and back to themselves, again. And back to each other.

“Rycen is right, Briery… you should take something for your fever.” The young summoner suggested, as she picked up a packet of seemingly colourless powder and emptied some of it into a cup which she then filled with water. “The rest… well, the herbalist at the apothecary wrote out the instructions. He said you should be well enough to travel in a few days if your lungs clear and your fever stops recurring.”

Bringing the cup to the acrobat, she helped Briery sit up to drink. “I’m going to go help Lautim tend to the Night Steeds; I won’t disturb you if you’re asleep by the time I get back.” And with that excuse, Teselin took her leave so as not to further interrupt what was otherwise a pleasant moment of relief for both parties, who, not long ago, had wondered if they’d ever see one another again. With the cup of medicated water in her hand, Briery dutifully sipped, and immediately grimaced at the taste. “I think I’d prefer whatever it was you were drinking…” She teased, and took a breath before downing the remainder of the bitter liquid and placing the cup to the side. “I’m sorry that we appeared to frighten everyone off… but I meant what I said. I do want you to stay.” Easing herself back down onto the pillows, the ringleader turned her body towards Hadwin clutched one of his hands in her own. They felt cool in comparison to her flushed palms. “This is real, right? Just keep reminding me this is real… when I’m grounded again, we’ll go to Galeyn, together. Things will get better. I don’t hope--I believe it. Thanks to you...” She smiled wearily and pressed his hand to her cheek. “The Missing Links are a chain, again. Whole. And we won’t be broken again, so easily.”

Hadwin was more than happy to expound on his end of his daring plan to recover Briery from Essleau’s infamous prison, and proceeded to do so with all the flourishes of a man who loved to spin tales, real, imagined, and exaggerated. As Rycen interjected, naysaying at the details he’d so exuberantly rendered into performance art--complete with wild gesticulations, voice changes to indicate different characters, and dramatic pauses--Hadwin paused his story to deliver the illusionist a dismissive puff of air. “Psssh, Rycen--you weren’t there! I’m telling you, I had the rich-folk charmed to bits. They fucking loved me cuz I laughed at their jokes and delighted all with my brilliant savoir-faire. Even my guard-mate was impressed by the fact they didn’t arrest me on the spot. So I don’t need to exaggerate, Rice-man! But, you’ll find I’m not at any deficit for bragging! And I’d say I earned it, so I’m gonna go on and on about it until you get sick of it, both of you!”

On and on he did go on about his invaluable contributions to their united cause, detailing not only the evening of the rigged card game, but the conversation with Lord Declan the following afternoon, including the acquisition of the Collcreaghan book now in his possession. “I’ll bring it with me tonight; use it as a bedtime story. There’s a chapter on faoladh! I gotta know what the priests have to say about us. Definitely nothing good; it was a priest who cursed us with Moonsight, so it’s probably a long passage on his fellow acolytes giving each other arsepats for a job well done. Can’t have beasts-turned-men infecting good ol’ innocent humans with their depravity now, do we?” But Briery was not paying apt attention to his and Rycen’s account--moreso to the former, for his tendency to go off on tangents and peripherally-related asides had compounded the flow of the narrative to a significant extent. 

“Ah, no need to apologize, Brie!” he closed in on her, but not too close, aware of her rising body temperature and its effect on her fever. “It means I’ll get to tell it again. And again. And every time, it’ll be like a brand new story, yeah?” After passing her a quick but sensual kiss, he erupted into an amused grin when her teasing comments brought his own sanity into question. “‘Course I’m not in touch with reality. I still believe I died and traveled straight to hell. But--whether I’m rightly mad or right as rain, I know what I like. There ain’t nothing you can hide from me, besides. I’ll see through it all; the make-up, your performance best, the flashy spins on the trapeze. Pah! Even like this, there’s no masking your extraordinary. So by all means, my flying squirrel, take your time, but I eagerly anticipate the day we can finish what we started. Don’t worry; I’ll wait.” In his seemingly offhanded final words held a promise, one that his eyes maintained as he drank in her hazel gaze. It’s a promise I’ll keep, Briery. I’ll stick around if you do.

Whatever shared trance Briery had encapsulated Hadwin in had worn off, at Rycen’s response to his one-sided flirtations about joining in on the fun. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on! But hey, your loss. Now, I’d love to set you up with my older sis to help you out n’shit, but something tells me you’re not her type. At all. And she’s inherited none of my ebullient charms or really anything that’ll spark into a cracklin’ flame. She’s wet wood, that one. Too bad for you; you’re gonna have to endure watching this shit play out between Briery and me ‘till you’re back among ladyfolk you can properly woo. Too bad you derive no pleasure outta watching--not that there’s much to watch, here, ‘cept the stickiest of declarations and dedications, which yes, I’ll admit, is nothing short of groanworthy. I get it, my long-suffering friend. I’m not gonna hold back, but I get it.”

Speaking of…

Hadwin shot his head back in Briery’s direction at her liberal and unapologetically bold mention of “love.” His bushy eyebrow raised inquiringly, along with the other one. “Not keeping that word close to your chest anymore, are you? You’ve waited ‘till now to tell me? Or it’s now you feel it, truly?” The ease of his buoyant countenance drooped on the sides, threatening to slide right off his face to reveal uncertainty, doubt...and fear. He quickly concealed the slow deconstruction with a spirited chuckle. “I’d tell you it’s a bad move. I’d tell you I’ll break your heart. But I already did...and you’re still here. We’re still here...wherever here is. So,” the residual worry lines softened, “sure, I’ll take your words of endorsement,” he pecked her on the lips, on last time, “and be here, mess and all. To be continued?” Drawing away from the ringleader, he rolled his eyes over to Rycen. “The heckler’s displeased by our set. Normally I’d say ‘who gives a shit?’ but he is our only audience member so his voice is pretty damn loud and harder to tune out than normal. But oh do I love to torture him so.”

Their audience soon obtained another member, as Teselin made an appearance, hands full with apothecary bottles and other medicines for Briery. The sight of emptying her burden on the table, coupled with Rycen’s words of warning about proximity, encouraged Hadwin to move much farther from Briery than his minuscule scoot of distance, which only accounted for a finger’s length. Not enough to spare the ringleader from his ring of fire. Alone, she was just fine generating a volcano’s worth of heat and lava without his physical encouragement egging her to a fevered eruption. “Yeesh; he ain’t kidding, Brie. You’re fucking melting.” Reaching out his arm to accept the solution Teselin had mixed for Briery to drink, he pressed the pungent-smelling medicine into her hot-coals for hands. “Better off I sleep on the floor--but only if that stuff doesn’t do its job. Cuz that’s no fun, being in the same room and sitting so far away. I’m used to close quarters, courtesy of our caravan--which, by the way, we still have. In Galeyn. The one you let Al borrow as he went gallivanting in search of Tes’s alchemist brother. Not much, but it’s something.” 

He turned his attention, briefly, to Teselin (Rycen had already vacated the room at the earliest opportunity), before she, too, headed out the door. “Nah kid, you’re never an imposition. There’s room for you, if you wanna spend the night with us. But you go on and check on those horses. You’ll know where to find me when you’re done, of course. I ain’t moving.” When Teselin took her leave, closing the door gently behind her, Hadwin retrained his glazed eyes on Briery’s glazed eyes. “And I mean it, Brie.” He playfully flicked at the glass bottle containing her tonic, its resulting cling a hollow answer in his ears. “That shit may not taste any good but I bet it’ll put you in a real state. You’ll be sloshed in no time, if the fever’s not doing enough to replicate the sensation for you. But--despite our less than stellar appearances, I can’t say, with any clarity, that this is real. I’ve,” he blew out a sigh, “been struggling, myself, still, with the notion that anything is real. There’s so much that doesn’t make sense, but life isn’t supposed to make sense, and it’s never stopped me before. So, even if I’m not in reality, as long as it feels real...well, I’m okay with that. And you,” he squeezed her hand, “feel pretty damn real to me. So you know what? Good enough for me. You, Tes, and the Missing Links, and what’s left of us...I’ve got enough to work with. We both do, Brie.” Cupping her chin in his hand, he licked her lips and delivered another surface-level kiss. “Blegh,” he made a face, “you’re right. That shit’s bitter as all get out. Let’s get you well, and on the quick, so I can taste something a tad more pleasurable than medicine.” 

In the month since Hadwin and Teselin’s departure, events in Galeyn had more or less stabilized into routine, with the greatest slice of drama pertaining to Bronwyn’s sudden disappearance. Searching the Night Garden and the palace yielded nothing, and Tivia’s unique star-tracking capabilities revealed little on her whereabouts, only that she still resided in Galeyn. “Is anyone surprised?” she muttered to the gathered-up members of the council the morning of her discovery. Before Queen Lilica, Lady Chara, Alster, Elespeth, Haraldur, and Vega, she added, in an opinionated jibe, “the woman is a Kavanagh. They all seem quite rotten.” 

“Not this one,” Alster argued. “She’s afraid of us, and mistrustful as a result of that fear.”

“Well, whatever the case,” Haraldur stepped out of his corner, equipped with a stimulant beverage that attributed to his wakefulness on most days, “she’s not in the Night Garden. Aside from spearheading that search, myself, there’s...a sense that she escaped, somehow.”

“Escaped?” Chara pursed her lips into a displeased line, not far off from her default expression of mild annoyance. “How do you mean?”

The Forbanne commander hesitated. “What I mean is that she’s no longer here, and if she’s not here, she found a breach in our defenses. The Night Garden is compromised, and we need to establish more guards in the Garden proper to account for this mishap.”

“You’re not suggesting she tunneled her way out of the Garden?” Alster tilted his head in concern.

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Queen Lilica,” he turned to the woman sitting at the head of the table, “allow me to post guards at the base of the sentinel tree. I suspect she escaped through a passageway beneath the tree. Its massive roots have caused some upheaval in the soil, and it’s enough space for an animal to burrow through--including a wolf...or two. Station us there, and we’ll investigate the hole--and plug it up.”

“With all due respect, Prince Sorde, your precaution comes from lack of evidence,” Chara said. “We could be expending our resources in the wrong section of the Garden, leaving us vulnerable to attack, or worse. Unless you have an argument supporting your claims, I’m afraid I cannot endorse more than one armed guard at the site. Of course, it is not I to whom you must appeal. Be that as it may, do humor me. If you have not discovered this hole, nor are certain of its existence, why are you so confident in your speculation?”

The hesitation made its resurgence, eliciting a frown on his bone-weary face, a reflexive jolt that quavered the mug in his hands. His cheeks paled, only slightly, but it was enough indication of his discomfort and malaise. “Because...the tree told me.” 

Chara’s eyebrow shot upward. “Come again?”

“It told me,” he repeated, but at a whisper. Shame threatened to turn his confidence completely over, like a flapjack into the mud. “I have a...connection to the tree. Ever since I awoke in the Garden after my...after my death. Communication is sparse. It’s in symbols. In runes. But I can understand the language. It announced to me its distress. Hagalaz. Something awry. Eihwaz. Something underground. Ehwaz. Something--someone familiar. Othala. Mannaz. In its home. Inside of itself.”

“This is not a lark, Lady Chara.” Tivia noticed the skepticism rising in her furrowed brow and in the way she thrummed her fingertips over the table with impatience. “Through my link to Haraldur’s star, I can confirm he is connected to the sentinel tree. As are his children. What he says is true.”

“It is true,” Alster supplied, rising from his chair to emphasize his point. “His children inherited the magic of his lifeblood. Mollengard might have stolen the magic, but they can’t steal away its essence, nor its inheritance. I’ve felt the energy from Kynnet and Klara. It’s unmistakably nature magic. Haraldur is a child of the forest, and his children, the progeny of his unique birthright.”

“Then it is true,” Chara sighed her dismissal. “You can commune with trees. Not the strangest of occurrences, I am sure. Then,” she roved her gem-cut eyes on the woman at her left-side, “it is up to you, Lilica. How do we proceed from here?”

After about twenty more minutes of deliberation, it was settled. Haraldur would post a few Forbanne guards at the base of the sentinel tree, along with a few Gardeners specializing in soil relocation, to help find and plug the hole. Meanwhile, they would conduct their search party outside the heart of Galeyn and double-down on locating not only Rowen (with the additional hopes of spotting Locque), but Bronwyn, who must be in some sort of peril. Elespeth, whose immune system levels had stabilized to the point where it was no longer required of her to recuperate at the sanctuary, volunteered for the search party anew. Though free of medicines and supervision, and was slowly rebuilding muscle mass and stamina, Alster’s concern held up the meeting for the bulk of those twenty deliberating minutes, until they’d reached something of a compromise. Haraldur would helm short missions in the mornings and Elespeth would join his small search unit, an excursion of a few hours--ensuring their return by supper. As a man whose obligation was first to his children and second to his troops, Haraldur never ventured far from his family. With Elespeth added to his team, she, too, would not be out of doors and out of the palace for longer than half a day.

As the meeting adjourned, Alster excused himself from Elespeth’s company to check on Isidor, who, as always, spent the majority of his time either in his suite or at his dungeon workshop. While he seldom overstayed his welcome, nor broached anything too emotionally complex, he was often afraid the alchemist plain sickened of his company, thinking it an obligatory visit to confirm he hadn’t caused injury or even death to himself. For that, Alster trod lightly, not wanting to completely erase whatever strained relationship remained between them.

En route to the alchemist’s chambers, Alster noticed someone else was accompanying him in the same direction. Someone who tried--and failed--to skitter from his periphery. 

“Tivia.” The star-seer jumped at the utterance of her name, almost dropping a covered pot she handled carefully in her hands. “Why the secrecy? If we’re going the same way, why not join me?” 

Slowly, she emerged into the light-strewn hallway, keeping her one eye trained downwards at the pot. “...are you going to see Isidor?” 

“Yes.” He gazed confusedly at the pot, and then to her. “...Are you?” 

“I...I thought he might need some nourishment; that is all.” She cradled the steaming pot close to her chest, as though to blame it on the sudden heat forming on her cheeks. “It’s...vegetable stew. You--you told me to be nicer to him, so that is what I’m doing.”

“I never questioned your motives, Tivia. On the contrary,” he drew a tired smile on his face, “I’m glad to see you exhibit such kindness. I’m sure he appreciates it. In fact,” he struggled to maintain his smile, “I’m sure he’s sick of seeing me, anyway. I’ll visit later. There’s a few matters I must attend to. Chara is holding me to my oath as Rigas Head. She’s lost the patience for my ‘dalliances,’ as she calls them. So by all means,” he waved forth his organic hand, “go and see Isidor.”

“Alster--you’re free to come with me.”

“Ah, no, it’s alright. I’m fine.” Backtracking in the direction whence he came, he teetered from the sudden spin, which pivoted on his unbalanced foot. “I’ve so much work to do. No more shirking my duties. Tell Isidor I wish him well.” Before Tivia could get in another word, he disappeared around the corner, and his smile fell apart.

It was going on almost a year, now, that Elespeth had stopped feeling like herself--if not for one reason, than another. Almost a year since a plan to corner and take down Captain Solveig of the Forbanne had gone painfully awry, and left her broken and useless… a state of body and mind that had led her down a path of further ruin, in her desperate attempt to regain some of her autonomy, and to feel strong again. It had started with her crippling injuries; from there, it had led to an unhealthy dependence on that cursed Mollengardian herb, which had then almost cost her her life, had Hadwin not found her when he did. Following that terrible, life-altering decision, her recovery had been shaky, stunted, and then rapidly declined when the new defects with her heart were found not to be benign, further robbing her of her autonomy and her desire to regain the strength she had lost. Only through the help of Alster and Isidor was she able to stand on her own two feet again, and even then… it was not without repercussions.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime in and of itself, the former knight had been discharged from the sanctuary and from the supervision of healers and Gardeners. She had long since ceased in taking the vials that suppressed her immune system while her body acclimatized to these new and unexpected ‘changes’, and now, she felt as ordinary as she had before… with the exception of one small fact: she was not adept and equipped with celestial magic.

It was not so volatile as she had feared it to be, it seemed. That fateful day in the Night Garden, when she had unwittingly separated the Kavanagh siblings from their fisticuffs with an errant spark of lightning, had not repeated itself. But that did not mean that she didn’t feel it in her blood. Elespeth would have been lying to herself to say that she did not feel ‘different’, like there was a certain energy in her that longed to be dispelled. An energy that sometimes kept her awake at night, tossing and turning, and that in turn sometimes kept her poor husband awake, as well. The two of them shared far more than sleepless nights in common, now. They were bound by blood, by magic, and by the stars… and it did not escape her that what was happening to her affected him, significantly. Not just her inheritance of his magic, however; far from it, in fact. It had not surpassed her attention that Alster had been effectively worrying about her for a year, if not for one reason, than for another, and it had finally come to a point where he appeared to be burning out.

And it was this small, albeit significant fact, that caused the once proud warrior to put her own petty concerns aside, and to choose not to think of herself. How long had she spent struggling with her own feelings? Avoiding mirrors, wondering who she was, who she had become, and whether or not she would ever be the Elespeth she used to know? And how long had that toxic introspection caused her to neglect Alster’s feelings--to the point where she had once suggested they separate?! Everyone knew how well that had gone down… and it hadn’t stopped there. Every decision she had made, from the moment she’d chosen to move on from Stella D’Mare with broken bones, had been entirely selfish… and it was time for that to change. The Kingdom of Galeyn, with peoples’ lives having been threatened, and more recently, with people going missing, had no room for such selfishness, and its strongest players needed to be at their prime to fight back when Locque finally chose to make herself known.

So no sooner had she regained her strength, her health, and her autonomy that Elespeth made the decision to stop turning her thoughts inward, and instead, to involve herself with the world and the people around her; anything that would finally make her less of a burden. She ate full meals to put more muscle back on her bones; she had begun to train again, occasionally, with the Dawn Guard. Roen himself had taken on the task of overseeing her gradual progress… likely out of grief for losing Sigrid, she figured. It gave him something to do, someone else to focus on, and even if she were a mere proxy of the one he really cared about, she couldn’t turn down the opportunity to train under a legend in the world of warriors.

It was nothing that she could not handle--Roen made certain of that--but in the short amount of time she’d taken up her sword again, she’d begun to see the difference in herself. Felt her body fall back into those all too familiar movements that made her feel like herself again, like she had something to offer… except, deep down, she knew that was not the case. Not with that foreign energy coursing through her veins, plaguing her with the threat of erupting, despite that it had not done so since breaking up a fight between Hadwin and Bronwyn. She was not Elespeth Tameris anymore; she was Elespeth Rigas, who also happened to now have magic. There was no use in pretending… and her sword was not the only thing she was not responsible for focusing on, now.

Along with everything else, she had done her best to simply put her magic out of her mind, and Alster himself hadn’t brought it up again since that day in the sanctuary. She couldn’t be sure, but… she wondered if her neglect of the topic had been contributing to his own distress, of which he never really spoke. The air between them was noticeably different, now; less intimate, and far more cautious. He was afraid of upsetting her, and she, afraid of hurting him… again. Perhaps, then, it wasn’t enough to simply pretend this unexpected change didn’t bother her. He needed to know she accepted it. Even if, well… even if it wasn’t entirely true.

It wasn’t until one morning, after Haradur disclosed a rather shocking revelation (to some) about his newfound ability to communicate with trees that the former knight finally came a decision to act on a gut feeling that had been keeping her up at night, time and again. Therein, she found her opportunity. “I know I have said this before, but… I would like to be a part of this search party. I am no longer ill or frail, and we need more bodies scouring the kingdom for threats. Haraldur clearly has more than just his sword to bring to the table, and…” She paused, as if to suss out a feel for the room. At this point, it was no mystery that many people had become suspect of her magic inheritance; enough Gardeners had witnessed the event to confirm. Yet, like Alster, no one else had brought it up, either; likely out of concern that it really wasn’t their place. “Perhaps the same goes for me. I won’t be a burden; and if you will allow me the opportunity… I can help. I can make a difference.”

Of course, she knew right away that that would not sit well with Alster. It didn’t matter her stability: he would always worry, and already did not seem to be in the state of mind to flirt with the possibility that she might be putting herself in danger again, particularly since Locque had successfully gotten to her once before. But this time around, her husband did not really put up too much of a fight against her involvement in the search party. After a mere reassurance on Haraldur’s part that she was best off in his company, since his shifts never took him far from his home and family, the Rigas lord offered his agreement, however reluctant it might have been. No sooner did Lilica call an end to the meeting that he quietly excused himself from the room before Elespeth had a chance to explain what was on her mind. Haraldur politely stayed behind, waiting for her to follow.

“Thank you, Haraldur. For your vote of confidence.” She told him in earnest. “I know I have let you down before, but… that won’t happen again. I’ve begun training again, with the Dawn Guard; under Sigrid’s mentor, in fact. I honestly thought that after a year, I’d lost my touch, but evidently, you need only regain your muscles for them to regain their memory. I’ve been wielding a sword for too long to forget. Maybe… maybe I can be of more help than you think.” Elespeth offered a shaky smile, but her attention wasn’t long for her companion. “I intend to accompany you, today; and I promise I will catch up in a few moments. But I need to do something else first.”

As soon as Haraldur explained he understood and informed her as to where she could meet him, the former knight left the council room to find her husband. Where Alster ever was, when he wasn’t with her, was anyone’s guess; since he’d regained his own health and autonomy, it hadn’t taken him long to resume his mantle as Rigas Head, and one of the leaders spearheading the protection of Galeyn and the people who inhabited it. Like her, he had kept himself busy, for better or for worse, but… that wasn’t working, for either of them. Alster had been the strong one for the past year: in light of her injury, her temporary disappearance, and the illness that followed… he had been the unshakable pillar in the wind. And it was high time she took up the mantle, herself.

Elespeth found him making his way down one of the corridors, headed in the opposite direction of where she thought he would be headed, which was Isidor’s chamber. He had been diligently checking in on the resident Master Alchemist since Hadwin had gotten his hands on him, and although his emotional stability appeared to have improved in the past month, the man kept so thoroughly to himself that no one would know if he were alive or dead unless they checked. “Alster--did you see Isidor? Is he well?” Her sudden appearance seemed to have startled him out of some less than pleasant thoughts. He struggled to put together a smile as he explained Tivia was checking on Isidor for the both of them. But his calm demeanor didn’t have her fooled.

“I’m going to scout the area with Haraldur, shortly, but I… wanted to ask you something. About… my magic.” My magic. Just saying the words made her feel uncomfortable in her own skin; but she would have to get over it. “I know we… haven’t really talked about it. But, well… it isn’t something that is just going to go away, is it? So, I figured… for my own benefit, and everyone else’s, maybe it is high time I familiarized myself with it. Enough that I can maybe… learn to use it.”

He made no response, not at first; probably because that was likely the last thing he had anticipated would come out of your mouth. “And, well, since this magic… it is, in essence, your magic, no one would be more capable of helping me learn to use it. Maybe… you can even help me learn to incorporate it in fighting. If it is possible to use it with my sword, as opposed to in lieu of what I am already equipped to fight with. Do you think… that would be possible?”

Still, he made no response, but merely gaped in astonishment. Elespeth might have felt better if he’d outright refused her, or told her it wasn’t possible. Had she made a mistake? Was this the wrong way to go about reaching out to him and repairing everything she had damaged between them in the past year? “You needn’t make a decision, now; think it over. If it isn’t a possibility, then I am sure I can find other ways to incorporate it in more meaningful ways than to let it keep me up at night… something I think you can appreciate, as well.” Hazarding an uncertain smile, she planted a kiss on his cheek. “There’s no rush; I know you’re busy, and Haraldur is waiting for me. We can talk later.”

Giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, the former knight turned and hurriedly retreated in the direction in which she’d come. If Alster agreed, and if this was possible, maybe this was the best course of action: a way to finally merge Elespeth Tameris with Elespeth Rigas, and to embody the most of what she valued in both.

Isidor hadn’t set foot outside in almost a month--and hardly outside either his chamber or his dungeon-turned-workshop, at that. For once, it wasn’t even out of fear of finding himself in socially awkward situations; none of that really mattered, anymore. It all seemed so petty in comparison to what had come to light since Hadwin had unleashed the full extent of his past, on him. While it largely began and ended with Arisza, a death that he realized now he’d never had the chance to properly mourn, it didn’t start there. Every day, mid-thought, more and more memories would surface. Names and faces of people who were now gone, as a result of his craft, to make him what he was today… and it wasn’t his fault. Not really, not logistically, but that didn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, he was the reason these people had seen an untimely end. He was the reason his own, wretched master had seen an untimely end, and no matter how he tried to justify it… he couldn’t see past it. Not even as a means to and end that might otherwise help people, the way he had helped Elespeth. Death was death, and were it not for him, were it not for Zenech’s nefarious plans and intentions… those people might still be alive. Arisza might still be alive. She might have found her way back to her family.

He was not one well-versed in the way of coping, so Isidor did what he knew to do best: keep busy. In the past month, he had met with Queen Lilica, at her request, to see how he might best be of use to her in the time he spent, there. So far, with the exception of making alchemical alterations to weapons for the Dawn Guard and the Forbanne to render them not only more easy to use, but more effective in combat, a lot was held up in the air until anyone knew exactly what they would be dealing with when it came to Locque. Aside from that, he had, as well, finally met with the D’Marian metallurgist, Glaucus, to discuss the matter of making modifications to Alster’s arm--a promise he assured the Rigas Head that he not only hadn’t forgotten, but insisted on keeping.

And then there was Tivia--which was, perhaps, the only case he had found himself reconsidering. What she asked of him was not merely a matter of increasing functionality, as was the case with the weapons or Alster’s arm; it required an eye for art, and perfect symmetry. Which, luckily, Isidor happened to be well-versed in, the perfectionist that he was. Part of his rigorous training heavily involved an eye for detail, and replicating that detail to a T. Anyone else with his skill in sketching out the outcome of an alchemical transformation using a quill and ink on paper could well have made a living as an artist, in fact. But skill aside… this was Tivia. And something about the way she had asked, however sincere (or otherwise) it might have been, made him so much more terrified of failure. She was investing more than just confidence in him; hell, she was investing the very future of her own self-confidence, when there was no actual guarantee he could make the other side of her face look precisely the way it had before. Freckles and moles, dimples, anything she might have had but of which he did not have a reference, could not be replicated; he could not make something out of nothing or imagine something that did not exist. So after a good deal of contemplation, and discussion, he had come to the compromise of performing this feat gradually, very gradually, over a period of time. Small changes that would eventually amount to a final project. It was far more time and energy consuming than what he was used to, despite that it would not put her life at risk; there was no risk similar to the procedure he had performed on Elespeth Rigas. But Tivia would have to go on to live with the partial face he crafted for her. And, well… why wouldn’t someone like her expect perfection? And would the end result even be good enough?

Regardless, he had already fully committed, and already, twice over the past two weeks, they had sat down together to begin. It wasn’t as inherently necessary to starve himself of food and water for days beforehand as it had been with Elespeth; the nature of this transformation was different than that. But he chose to fast anyway, for a day before each of their sessions, just to ensure nothing obstructed the delicate balance required when restructuring those damaged cells. On the bright side, it had yet to leave him incapacitated for days on end, but that didn’t stop her from checking in on his wellness, days after the fact.

Their second session had taken place just yesterday, and as of now, the difference was miniscule: a slight change in the charred colouration and a subtle smoothness to the raised and uneven texture. Miniscule, but a difference, nonetheless. Progress--though whether or not she was at all pleased with the extent of this progress, thus far, was lost on him. He was still terrible at reading people; and her kindness could be a result of simply hoping it would get better than it was.

He should have expected that knock on his door the next morning, just as it had come the following morning of their first venture into her transformation, but the Master Alchemist had been lost in the depths of his own mind for so long that he wondered how long she had been knocking and calling his name by the time he realized someone was at his door. Leaping up from his desk, he hurried across the room and opened the door, greeted by the young Rigas woman, and the smell of fresh. “Tivia… please accept my apologies if you’ve been here, long. I wasn’t… really paying attention to my surroundings.” Isidor pinched the bridge of his nose and stood aside. He looked tired, which was no oddity these days. Isidor had never had much of a healthy sleep schedule to begin with, and it was a wonder if he shut his eyes at all, these days. “Please… come in. Are you well? Have you experienced any discomfort since yesterday?”

Alster Rigas, the ever-enduring propagator of selfless acts and near-infinite patience, was rapidly losing the strength to uphold his facade. By the day, it was growing more difficult to keep his broken pieces adhered and steady so that no one would be aware of the fractures in his smile. As he could not thrive unless his friends and loved ones were also thriving at his side, it was only a matter of time before he went the way of Elespeth and Isidor, and unraveled until threadbare. By reaching his limit, he would over-exhaust his usefulness; by exhausting his usefulness, he’d fall even deeper into despair. Yet, he could not be useful if no one would allow him to help. Thus trapped in a circle without a catch, no tiny gap from which to escape, he swam in a maelstrom rife with his own turbulent thoughts, doomed to always turn corners, but never to bridge a pathway over rough seas. They were effectively shutting him out. Elespeth. Isidor. They did not trust him. And as someone who built his credo around the wellbeing of others, it hurt, to be excluded. While they did not reject him out of some personal vendetta or act of revenge, neither did they regard him as more than a familiar face, sympathetic to their plight, but ultimately unrelated to it.

Elespeth, in particular, steered herself in a direction so far from his line of sight, she may as well have crested the horizon and plummeted over the edge of the world. Out of fear that she didn’t want him to follow, he bobbed, unanchored in the ocean, drifting without a compass. To combat the threat of his barnacle-clinging and his routine overzealousness, he disengaged, and allowed her space, both physically and emotionally. In the large bed they shared within their private chambers, he slept on its edge, all too aware of her restless nights--and powerless to provide more than a controlled, regulated arm of comfort. To stave off his loneliness, a loneliness further compounded and complicated when the person you loved was present, but not available, he retreated into dreamscapes by himself, using them as a platform to air out his palatable grief where none would be privy. Some evenings, he didn’t return to their chambers until late, when Elespeth was already asleep. Other evenings, he didn’t return at all, choosing to retire in the now-empty sanctuary. While he abhorred sleeping alone, somehow, it was easier, more liberating to sleep without dissolving into worries so profound, he’d wake in the morning sick to his stomach and vomit in the chamberpot. It was far easier to focus on the avenues he could control, such as his Rigas Head duties, or various other tasks Chara had delineated to him, than to stew in a breeding ground of his own impacted and innumerable stresses, which only contributed to a parade of neverending illness. While he culled his ailments and often with Night Garden herbs, so no one would suspect just how weak of constitution he’d become, he resigned to taking frequent breaks throughout the day to combat the chills that raked through his undernourished body. 

He took some comfort in Elespeth’s progression, insofar as her outward health and training regimen were concerned. Every day, he remarked on the growth of her muscles as she slowly regained her mass, fighter’s stamina, and appetite. Part of him had hoped that her newfound active lifestyle would crack her fugue-state just enough to confide in him about something, about anything, be it magic-related or identity-related. Alas...she didn’t. And he was helpless but to watch her development from afar. Though delighted at the opportunities for her long-awaited reintegration into an able-bodied, autonomous existence full of purpose and promise, he reaped an outsider’s perspective, compiling a catalog of her successes, and celebrating them alone. 

Alster had no one else in whom to disclose his troubles. Chara and Lilica were too busy to humor his unimportant, existential trifles. Haraldur, and similarly Vega, faced the dual hurdles of parenthood and positions of high command. Isidor held him at arm’s length--quite literally, as he professed an almost manic interest in improving the composition of his prosthesis. Sigrid was missing. Cwenha was dead. He was on his own. Not that it mattered, what he endured; people dealt with real problems while he, on the other hand, merely felt too much. He always did, and he always would. There was no stopping the onslaught. Neither could he expect anyone to drop everything to coddle his needs. If simply living was too overwhelming for his fragile mind to process, then perhaps he deserved to founder from the pressure. To let the world pestle him to the ground, just as Hadwin had done to Isidor. People were allowed to walk their path without inviting him along as some meddlesome, tagalong guest out of pity. Elespeth didn’t need him constantly breathing down her neck; nor did Isidor. In the end...he was nothing more than a nuisance. So much so, in fact, he annoyed even himself. Stepping away was best. 

And so, he stepped away. He stepped away when Elespeth insisted on joining a search party. He stepped away and sent Tivia to Isidor’s chambers in his stead. The resulting isolation threatened to stifle him, but he chalked it up to overreaction. I’m fragile...that’s on me. It’s on no one else. 

Suddenly, he heard Elespeth’s voice calling his name. It sounded so real, he startled out of his invasive thoughts--only to find the voice was real. As was the woman, now standing before him in the hallway. When was the last time she sought him out? When was the last time they spoke more than five words to each other at any given time? 

“E...El,” he stammered as he straightened up his crooked posture and painted on a smile. “It looks like Tivia beat me to it; she’s with him as we speak. No need to clutter the poor man with more than one guest at once. She seems to be getting on with him, actually. I didn’t want to interrupt anything organic that would happen between them. He fancies her--or did. I’m unsure if he does, anymore, but...well, he’s tired of seeing my face, I’m sure. So it’s best to give him a break. And--what of you, Elespeth?” His smile peeled at the edges. “Is something the matter? What can I do to help?”

It turns out, she had come to him for help. Help with her magic. He stared at her for a long moment, wondering if he’d hallucinated her request. No. She had approached him, upfront, and asked for him to train her on all manners of her unorthodox celestial inheritance. A few weeks ago, it would have been a dream come true, but now...he knew better not to read too much into it. Eventually, she would have needed to ask for his assistance; magic gone unacknowledged shortly after its awakening was certain to have its side-effects--such as restless nights. 

Realizing he had not answered her question, and she was hurrying away from him in the hallway, he shook away the shock and followed after her. “Elespeth--wait!” She stopped. He shuffled to her side. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--of course I can help, El. I can always make time for you. This magic once belonged to me. Of course, it has shifted its essence to suit its new host, but the signature is the same. If this isn’t my area of expertise, then I revoke my rights as a caster. There’s no need for me to mull it over. After supper, tonight, meet me at the sanctuary. We’ll find a suitable place to train in the Night Garden. The nature of your magic requires we do this outdoors. I’ll see you then. Stay safe out there, alright?” He returned her kiss with the same measure of caution as she first delivered it to him, and let her go, his smile again breaking into cinders. It’s a start. Even if this is her way of trying to appease me…

After the meeting had adjourned and Elespeth had run off in likely pursuit of her husband, Haraldur decided to linger for a short while with his wife before she reprieved the nanny of her babysitting duties. Rarely did they spend a moment outside of their children. As it stood, their current moment tingled of its bittersweet flavor, as he’d soon have to say his farewells and venture away from her and his children for the day. Each temporary departure grew increasingly more difficult. Were he not saddled with the responsibility of commanding an army that required a commander to prevent listlessness, rebellion, or suicides, he’d spend the majority of his time with the twins and Vega, enjoying their nascent adventures and mishaps in parenthood. All the same...sometimes, a bit of physical distance helped combat his malaise as it related to his woodsy connections. Sitting in idle thought, separated by walls from the whispers of the forest, or the achingly familiar symbols etched in nature, drove him into restless spurts of energy that could not be resolved by remaining indoors. Divided by his desire to stay and his desire to go, intermixed by his uncomfortable revelations in the councilroom, Haraldur was left in a mercurial state of flux--and it didn’t sit well with his typically grounded, rooted demeanor. 

Before departing from his wife to rendezvous with his hand-picked Forbanne soldiers--plus Elespeth--he passed her a message, a mere mutter under his breath, as he wanted to draw no further attention on himself. “I found them. Their trees. Exactly where I thought I’d find them. Near the base of the sentinel tree. ...Near the escape hole. When it’s safe, I’ll take them there. We’ll all go together. Expect,” he refused to meet her eyes, afraid of seeing disappointment, “that I’ll arrive a little late, tonight. I’ll be assisting in securing the sentinel tree when I return. To protect the tree, I suspect, is protecting our children. A part of them, anyway. So I’ll do what’s needed to ensure no one breaches the Night Garden from its center, and that no one endangers those saplings.” 

With a quick kiss of farewell, Haraldur headed to the palace entrance and met with his soldiers. Not long after his arrival, Elespeth made an appearance, geared up with light armor, her sword, and an eager attitude. As they awaited the stableboys and attendants to saddle up their steeds and bring them to the front entrance, Haraldur positioned himself beside the ex-knight, routinely checking his sword in his scabbard in akin to a nervous habit. “There’s a reason I vouched for you, in the councilroom,” he began, dispensing with no preamble as he headed straight to his point. “A few reasons, actually. It’s another chance for us to do this right. For me to do this right, as I should have done all those months ago. If anything should happen...I have your back, Elespeth. Truly, this time. We freaks of nature have to stick together, right?” He offered her a shaky smile. “I don’t even know what I am, honestly. It sounds as though Alster has it figured out, but I don’t think I want to hear it, because it will only confirm what I’m still struggling to understand. That I’m not,” the sword clattered noisily from its hurried sheathing, “...all human. That I’m ‘other.’ As a matter of fact,” he covertly led them farther from the Forbanne, not trusting the information to any other set of ears, “I’m taking us on a path that will, according to the...to the tree,” he stumbled with the strange arrangement of words, “direct us to where Bronwyn allegedly emerged to the surface. It’s where one of the tree’s massive roots taper to an end. It’s too ridiculous.” He laughed, but it rang with as strained a pitch as his sword against its sheath. “A tree is giving me directions. I’m mad. I’ve lost my damn mind. But at least you know, now--that you’re taking orders from a madman. Or mad...not-man.”

Despite undergoing a mere two sessions in what would be many to come, Tivia felt a great deal pleased by the minuscule changes to her face. Admittedly, she couldn’t tell the difference, particularly because she never observed her ruined left side in a mirror, not since the incident. To her, any improvement at all was welcomed if it would finally encourage her to remove the sheet of protective hair from her unseemly bubbles and burns. For her part, she invested high hopes in the procedure’s success, because partial recovery was better than no recovery. And because...the sessions gave her an excuse to spend time with Isidor. Would he even bother to acquaintance with her outside his workshop, if not for her time-consuming and resource-hefty ask? She wasn’t certain he would. And if it were a possibility, she worried he’d discover how utterly repulsive she was, both inside and out, and refuse to associate with her ever again. With their current arrangement, at least, he would honor it until completion. In the interim, perhaps...perhaps their constant close-quarters would produce a spark, a glimmer of attraction. Whispered confessions. Lips on lips…

It was a far-flung fantasy, she realized. Living a hermetical existence certainly did not inspire bold declarations of love from the reserved alchemist. Ultimately, she would have to be the prime initiator. And if all went awry, if he rejected her, or she caused him intense discomfort, it was doubtful he’d resume reconstructing her face. Going forward, she had to take the tenderest of care in fear she would alienate the man, for good. And to take care not to ruin their working relationship, she couldn’t reveal her true feelings for him. Not yet. In an unlikely turn of events, there was a possibility, however slim, that he’d discover on his own that she fancied him. Alas, she couldn’t rely on ‘what-ifs,’ even with her star-seer ability to scry the future. 

It took a few minutes of knocking at Isidor’s door for the alchemist to realize he had a visitor. Sputtering apologies for his conduct, he guided her inside and asked after her wellbeing.

“No, I haven’t been waiting long,” she lied. “I’ve been well, Isidor. No discomfort, save for a bit of stinging on my cheeks and forehead. Nothing outright concerning.” Failing to discover an uncluttered area upon which to place the pot of hot stew, she carefully brushed aside from loose papers with her foot and set it on the floor. “I brought you some food. After yesterday, you must be famished. Do you mind if I clear this space to afford some room?” With his permission, she stacked his papers and books and neatly tucked them away from the perimeter of the pot and the threat of its dripping, stain-loving broth. Removing a bowl from the small sachel she carried, she lifted the pot’s lid, ladled some vegetable stew, and handed it over to him. “Regarding my procedure...if it is easier for you, it is not necessary to recreate the eye. I imagine the process would be intensely difficult, and I could always wear a glass eye, or failing that, an eyepatch. You’re already working so diligently. This is a delicate procedure, so I don’t mind if it’s imperfect, Isidor. Believe me, any result is preferable to what I have, presently. Thank you,” she dipped her head, “for what you’ve done, so far. I know you don’t want recompense, but if I could offer...and forgive me if this sounds rude, and you’re free to reject my offer, but if you’re in any way looking for an assistant, I’d be happy to...well, assist. Even in trivial matters. Despite my lofty title as a Rigas, I’m able to cook, clean, and organize. Whatever will make your life easier, it’s no trouble for me at all.”

Content with Alster’s agreement to help her later on that day, Elespeth was quick to don some light, flexible armor, and grab a sword--her sword, the one Alster had enchanted, and then de-enchanted for her--before rushing to meet Haraldur at the palace entrance. Although she made haste, she was understandably the last to arrive, and did not hesitate to spout apologies. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to cause you delay. I hope you believe me when I tell you I take this very seriously, and… I am more than grateful for what you did for me. To vouch for me, back there. I know… you didn’t have to. And you probably would have had good reason to argue against my plea.”

The Eyraillian Prince and Forbanne Commander then proceeded to explain precisely why he had done what he’d done: why he had spoken out in confidence and agreed to work with her again. Elespeth still didn’t think that his reasoning warranted giving her another chance… not insofar as he did it out of guilt. He had been right to treat her the way he had, a year ago; she didn’t even know that person she’d been, the decisions she had made, and the skewed motivations behind them. Had the roles been reversed, she couldn’t in confidence declare she’d have acted any differently than him, given the circumstances. “I’ll say it again--you did nothing wrong. I… everything that happened, that is on me. You were under a lot of pressure, and I am merely disappointed that I happened to let you down, Haraldur.”

But guilt was not the only thing on his mind. Her long time friend confided in her, something that had clearly been bothering him for quite some time. She recalled their chance encounter in the Night Garden, when she had considered spilling to him what had been on her chest, as well. At the time, it had seemed like a good opportunity to find empathy in someone experiencing a similar situation, but now… she wasn’t sure he needed empathy, and her magic was really no longer a secret. He needed reassurance. “You know, I once asked Alster if the Rigases, with all of their potent magic, pointed ears and ability to live four times as long as an average human, were entirely human. And he told me that he honestly doesn’t know. But, when you think about it… could a people who are so readily able to wield celestial magic really be something of the earth? If anything, whatever the composition of your existential make-up, Haraldur… you are connected to the earth. Moreso than most. So regardless of where you fall on the spectrum of what it means to be ‘human’, I daresay you are not only completely sane, but also far more attuned to what is happening around us than anyone else.”

She got it, though. She understood his discomfort; feeling so far removed from the person he thought he was… but change could be a good thing, couldn’t it? And it wasn’t as though he had become something entirely new. The Night Garden had merely awakened traits that had always been there. “I think… you are on the right path. Embracing your newfound abilities instead of resisting them. Accepting and making use of these changes. In fact… that is what I plan to do, as well. Make the most of this transformation that I never expected. I’ll find myself no further ahead, and by no means pacified, by resisting them. It doesn’t mean you are no longer who you think you are; it means you are more than you think you are.”

As the stablehands brought the horses around, all saddled up and ready to depart, Elespeth mounted the mare with such ease, it was as if she hadn’t been away from her duties as a warrior for a year. Funny, how some skills just could not be forgotten. “Now, where is that tree looking to lead you? The Night Garden has more eyes than we do, and if you are one of the only ones with whom it can communicate what it has seen, then your path is the one I choose to follow, Commander Sorde.”

Once upon a time--a time that seemed so long ago and farfetched, at this point--Isidor might have balked at the possibility of Tivia witnessing the sorry state of either of his workshops. While he was by no means a thoroughly messy or disorganized person, he did function within his own sense of organized chaos, to a certain extent, and having uprooted his lifelong practice from his tower to bring it all the way to Galeyn, he had yet to find a suitable system to organize his books, materials, and workspace in general. Prior to Hadwin’s unsolicited interference with his mind, the Master Alchemist had begun to achieve some semblance of organization, but sadly, those efforts had gone straight out the window with the return of his memories. As a result, his idea of “organized chaos” had expanded to the point that it looked as though a windstorm had swept through his room. Papers had migrated from his desk to find a place on the floor, among books, both opened and closed, and empty containers, jars, and other canisters. His bed clearly had not been used for its intended purpose in quite some time, and looked to have become an extension of his desk, housing piles of notes and dog-eared books, and other various and sundry tasks that he had intended to finish in his frenzy to keep busy, but likely would never see completion.

Anyone who happened to wander into the room would likely balk at the clutter--and rightfully so--but Tivia never did. Isidor realized, of course, that her lack of commentary about the state of his living quarters was more than likely her genuine effort to be nothing but polite and agreeable. After all, he was doing her a huge favour, and expected nothing in return… but he wasn’t such a fool as to think she might not have her own thoughts on the clutter. The difference between the Isidor of now and the Isidor of then was that he had simply stopped caring about an outsider’s view of him or his life. Whatever Tivia thought, privately or otherwise, changed nothing, because nothing mattered on the outside when so much was wrong inside of him, inside his head, his heart. No amount of organizing would stay the pain. “I understand; the stinging will not endure, rest assured. It is simply a response to the change in your cellular structure, but nothing permanent.” He replied, and absently rubbed the back of his neck. “Though… I do hope you realize you are under no obligation to bring me food, Tivia. Of course I appreciate your efforts, but rest assured, I meant it when I said I don’t require compensation.”

Though he hadn’t gone into detail about it, with Tivia or anyone else, the last thing the Master Alchemist wanted was gratitude in the form of any payment. What he felt about himself and his situation was far from acknowledging that he deserved repayment. No, if anything, this was his way of repaying those whose lives had been lost on his behalf. Not enough; nothing he ever did, no miracle he ever managed to perform, would be enough to justify Arisza’s death, let alone anyone else’s, but if he tried and kept on trying, maybe, just maybe, wherever her spirit lingered, it could find some forgiveness for the wretched Master Alchemist. Look, Arisza; I can help people. I will help them until the day I die… I won’t let your death be in vain. Wherever you are, please don’t hate me…

Despite his insistence, telling her over and over that she needn’t go out of her way for what he was doing on her behalf, Tivia chose to show her gratitude, nonetheless. It still felt strange, to him; such a far cry from how she had treated him upon their initial encounter: with a biting mix of disinterest and frustration. A demeanor he had tried so hard to convince himself that he would not let it get to him, and yet, it had, only making him want to try more and more, be kinder and kinder until she couldn’t possibly have a reason to continue to treat him like the dirt beneath her boots. Yet here she was, reaching out for help instead of pulling away, making and delivering meals to him… and he didn’t know how to feel. Perhaps the old Isidor would have been elated; he might have found his own personal euphoria that someone who he happened to fancy to an extent was reciprocating his kindness! But… that was not the case. Not anymore. Because even if Isidor knew how to respond to this newly-developed attention… something inside of him couldn’t quite bring about the will to acknowledge it. It doesn’t matter, some muted voice at the back of his mind made sure to remind him over and over. Nothing about what you want or what you’d like matters. Nothing will change what you are responsible for.

It wasn’t that he did not see Tivia in the same light as he had before: in his eyes, she was still something highly unattainable to him. But now, she was unattainable for entirely different reasons… and he did not have the strength nor the energy to reconcile any of it. “A new eye is nothing by any means beyond my capabilities; unfortunately, there is nothing ‘easy’ about this procedure, especially since I never bore witness to the other side of your face prior to your trauma. I can only transform what I can out of attention to symmetry, not so unlike a sculptor crafting from clay or stone, from scratch. The difference is, there is much more at stake when it comes to the outward appearance of a living being.” Isidor explained, and massaged his temple with a forefinger. Since having destroyed his spectacles, and spending long nights awake and restless, his tendency to suffer tension headaches had increased significantly. “But I don’t mind finishing what I have started. It will likely have to be another procedure in and of itself, of course, first with creating the eye, up to a certain extent, and then arranging it in your socket to finish its development and form correctly to your physiology. It will be the absolute last step, in this endeavor, however, and it is entirely up to you as to whether or not you would like to go forward with it. Whatever your decision, I respect it and am more than happy to oblige, whatever my involvement should be.”

She was so agreeable… and oddly enough, it put him on edge. Because everyone had been agreeable to him since he had boldly attempted to burn the runes from his hands in a mad, desperate desire to rid himself of the evil he had never asked for. They tiptoed around him like he was fragile: Tivia, Aslter, Elespeth, the Gardeners, the healers… and it was ridiculous. Weren’t they aware that he couldn’t do himself in, if not for cowardice, than for the fact he had no choice but to repent? For everyone who had died so that he might earn those wretched runes? Not to say that he preferred the cold, disinterested Tivia Rigas to the one who finally acknowledged (and seemed to appreciate) his existence… but he only wished it were genuine. Not out of some fear that cruelty would push him over the edge, or dissuade him from helping her.

But even if it were… it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would matter.

“An assistant?” He parroted the words before they truly registered. An assistant… something he had managed to live without, all his life. Something he hadn’t ever so much as considered, because to bring on the aid of another person meant dragging them into his world, involving them in something that, frankly, should be beyond the capabilities of any human being. Alchemy might not mercilessly bend matter to its will, as did magic, but that did not make its existence any more organic… or right. He did what he did because it was all he knew; and because, revisiting the details of his past, he could not continue living in ignorance. He had to make a difference; he owed it to Arisza. To everyone.

“That… that is kind of you to offer, Tivia. But if I am being honest, I am not sure I would know what to do with an assistant. Everything I have done, I’ve done on my own; I don’t know the first thing about delegating tasks, and if I tried, I would probably come to find I am more of a control freak than I’d care to admit.” Isidor smiled, or tried, but the corners of his mouth never actually managed to lift, and gave away the insincerity of feigned contentment. “Of course, I can understand your offer… this place is quite deplorable. My workshop in the palace dungeons is probably worse, if that is even possible. I apologize that you are seeing this at all…” He glanced at the spot where she had cleared books and papers to set aside the stew, and couldn’t blame her for making the offer. It was embarrassing enough to have completely upturned this suite that Queen Lilica had given to him for the duration of his stay… While she wouldn’t say it aloud, he could only imagine that Tivia was equally appalled. “All the same… I think it is something that I would rather deal with on my own. Perhaps not now, but when it is time to return to Nairit. Believe it or not, I have rather managed to work this organized chaos into a system that I can actually follow.”

Returning to his desk, he glanced over papers and diagrams that all detailed possible changes he could make to Alster’s prosthesis. It was a good way to use the time he spent in between his sessions with Tivia, while he recuperated from periodic fasting. Anything to keep him busy enough not to ruminate on his thoughts. “I do appreciate your offer. If I find there is any assistance I might need that is beyond my time and energy to manage… I will be sure to call on you. And thank you, again, for the meal.” This time, his smile, albeit weary beyond words, was real. “I appreciate the reminder that I do need to eat, from time to time.”

“With all due respect, Isidor, I’m not bringing you food out of obligation. I’m bringing you food because I want to bring you food. I’m not apt to do favors for people for no reason. Ask Alster, or Elespeth. They’ve helped me so much and I’ve hardly done a thing for them. So trust me, this is not compensation.” It was an outburst so akin to the old Tivia that she bit down on her tongue, mortified by its leaking of her unladylike, opinionated candor, an inadmissible faux pas to volley at the object of her affections. Unfortunately, she was unable to take back her opening statement, which, left unfinished, would also cast her in an unflattering light. “My arrangement with Vitali was different--my apologies for mentioning him at all,” she hurried. “But I can’t ignore what he has done for me. For the longest time, I thought he was the only one able to understand me, so I allied with him because I felt safe to be myself in his company--as ironic it is to use ‘safe’ and ‘Vitali’ under the same breath. The favors I did for him were mutually beneficial. We lived--we still live--under the same roof for nearly a year. I don’t regret it, either. I can’t regret it because truly, I was content for a while, in my idyll on the farm. Away from society but not doomed to loneliness. Our cohabitation was built out of confidence and I daresay, reciprocity. He cared about me, in his own way.” 

Realizing her rant had gone too far in the other direction, she hid her face, both sides of it, in the fall of her hair. “I say all this, Isidor, not to convince you of your brother’s rare moments of integrity, but because I don’t want you to misconstrue my actions. I am not dutiful. Everyone has been trying to get me to behave, to follow some code of conduct since I was a child and I’ve fought an internal battle to resist the expectations and parameters of obedience. And so I find that when I want to obey,” her heart raced to search for a placeholder term, “it is out of respect for that person.” She almost breathed a sigh of relief. Her cheeks were doing more than stinging; they were on fire. “I-I respect you. I am too selfish, too self-involved to do charity work so please, do not think I’m doing any of this out of pity.” She brushed her fingers over the pot lid’s handle. “Believe me when I say I abhor it when people pity me--and they have, because my face documents my tragedy for all to see. They can’t help but remark on it.” The lid clattered rather noisily at her indelicate placement on the grooves of the pot. She flinched from the noise. 

“They stare. I may only have one eye, but I see it. They whisper, too. D’Marians. Galeynians. They think they’re quiet but I am very sensitive to sound. I’ll likely lose my hearing in a few years, but I can still catch their every word. ‘How unfortunate.’ ‘She’s lost everything.’ As though my appearance is everything. They didn’t even know I was a star-seer at the time. Some didn’t even know what happened to my father. All they can see is the fire and how it twisted me. Imagine what they think of me now, aware I’ll be losing my sanity, my senses, my grip on this world. Imagine the rumors. The stories they’ll share. None of them will be untrue, either. That’s the worst part. They’re not untrue.” Beneath the protective shroud of her hair, she grimaced. Where the seared-off flesh of her lips didn’t divide her mouth in its natural symmetry, the grimace was gnarled and messy, like a slavering wolf. Ugliness incarnate. She was glad for the dividing curtain between herself and the man privy to her raw, unflattering vulnerability. She pinched away the tears that developed under her eye, and breathed herself into some semblance of calm.

“I don’t want to be a curiosity anymore. A walking figurehead of loss. Alster can pull it off. His disability is charming. It carries him with dignity. Shows his ability to adapt. He conquered the battle and didn’t allow his loss to defeat him. Meanwhile, I,” she tried to suck in the spittle dribbling out of her mouth but failed to be covert. She made a horrible slurping sound. Drool gathered on her chin; if only she accepted the handkerchief Isidor had kindly tried to return to her possession! “I’m just an eyesore. I don’t look like a survivor. Someone who nobly fought the odds. I look like a victim. Just…” she choked back the catch in her voice. “A victim.” 

“So…” she wiped off the residue on her chin with the back of her sleeve, “so really...anything you can do to reconstruct my face is...is indispensable to me, Isidor. Eye or no eye.” Before she actually began to sob liberally in his company, she rose to her feet from the floor, where she’d taken an almost guardian-like position beside the pot of stew. “I suppose I shall leave you to your work. I’ll return later to take the pot back to the kitchens. If you should change your mind about an assistant, you...you know where to find me.” She didn’t get far to the door, however, when something he said just earlier finally registered in her mind. ‘...When it is time to return to Nairit.’ 

He still wanted to return!? To hide away in his tower for the rest of his days? 

“So you plan on returning to Nairit.” She didn’t mean to say it out loud. “After...after everything that’s happened, you still want to go back to that accursed tower that caused you so much grief? It’s...no, it’s not my place to say anything more on the subject.” She hunched over the doorframe, her face, as usual, turned away from him. “It...it is your home, I understand. Oh,” she paused again, adding, as an afterthought, “I overheard Alster speaking with an artisan glass-maker who specializes in crafting spectacles. They are well on their way to fashioning you a replacement pair for your eyes. They should be visiting you in the next day or two to take measurements and to test your eye-strength. So rest assured; you will not have to keep squinting for long. I...well, I will leave you to your studies. My offer as your assistant still stands, if ever you find the need for one. Take care.” She opened the door and drifted out of it like an aimless wraith sapped of her strength. Even the way she closed the door behind her emitted no sound but for a wisp of depressed air. A sigh of wind, too spiritless to be mistaken for a wail. 

He wanted to return to Nairit. Of course he did! Her steps hurried out of his doorway. They flew down the hallway, fleeing her embarrassing show of conduct, her shameful representation. It didn’t matter, anyway. It didn’t matter to try, not if he intended on leaving. And who am I to think I’ll change his mind? 

And why do I always fall for the men I can never have? They don’t want me. They never want me.

No one wants me. No one but the stars. 

She shuffled into her bedchambers, locked the door, and threw herself on her bed, burying her head beneath a pillow to stifle her tears. 

They can have me, then. It’s better than not being wanted. If it hurts less not to resist the stars’ calling, then I won’t resist. 

I was never meant to have a different future. This is my purpose. Let them use me. Let me be of use...until they dry me out to nothing. 

While standing out of doors and breathing the fresh, wintry air mollified Haraldur’s tensions somewhat, he was high-strung enough to nearly rescind everything he confessed to Elespeth and abruptly change the subject to the mission at hand. But it was too late. She opened her mouth in consideration for how best to answer--and what she delivered was a sound, reasonable argument. Though it comforted him, in the way one felt reassurance in the presence and wisdom of a friend, he was not exactly swayed by her words. “I suppose that is true. It’s been argued that the majority of people who are magic-born have some connection to an otherworldly--or other-human--energy-source. I’m no exception. I was born with the gift. I vaguely recall being able to make flowers grow, and to extend their life beyond the normal range. Even when Mollengard drained my magic, I never felt at my peak unless I was out in the wilderness, or in a forest. But the difference between Alster and me is substantial. He was born into a family who taught him about his heritage. The Rigas family legacy is well-documented. Answers were never out of his reach. Me, on the other hand,” his fingernail picked at the carving of an arrow-shaped rune chiseled into the pommel of his sword, “my mother died before she could tell me anything. Even if were possible, I was too young to understand. Her necklace was my sole inheritance, and it’s gone, now. Buried in the dirt.” He briefly traced over the dendritic patterns of his wedding band where it weighed in the exact position of its predecessor; hanging on a chain against his breast. “I spent my whole life assuming one thing, an unassailable fact so basic I never considered to suspect otherwise, only to find that I’ve been dead wrong. That there’s a chance that half of me is something else. Not traces of a distant relation, but a significant portion. I’m not another race, either.” He stared at his hand, as though able to see scales of bark replacing the flesh. “I’m another species. And a tree!?” His whisper threatened to crack. “How do I get this far without knowing something so crucial? Now, I passed along this confusion of disparate, incompatible parts to my children--so what are they? What does it mean? And does it mean I have a tree somewhere? A tree bonded to my soul? Neglected, forgotten...dead?”

He rapidly shook his head, dislodging the beginnings of a rant before it overwhelmed him and his captive companion, an innocent bystander undeserving of his unfiltered existential rhetoric. Aware of the potential headache induced by his downward spiral, he muttered an apology. “I have no choice but to accept what I am, because now my children are involved. They’re entitled to the truth when they’re older. So I’ll learn what needs learning. But I can’t say it’s easy, let alone manageable. Not with everything else that’s going on. Being a father, commanding an army...” He trailed off as his head lowered to regard a strip of indigo hanging from his belt; a small, inadequate homage to his lost cousin. “...Wondering if Sigrid’s alright, or if I’ll ever see her again. Gone are the days where I can go off and have a drink to slake my nerves. I think it’s what we both need, Elespeth.” He smiled wistfully. “A nice, stiff drink. Maybe it’ll make the truth of our sudden ‘transformation’ easier to swallow. Or at least tolerable.” When the stablehands arrived with the outfitted Night steeds, he kicked his boots into some semblance of movement and motioned for Elespeth to follow. “I apologize for the assault, Elespeth. You’ve enough on your mind than to hear about whatever the hell’s going on with me. I haven’t even said as much to Vega, so you’re the unfortunate recipient of my identity crisis. Feel free to return the favor. I’ll bring the whiskey,” he teased, but only half so. Climbing up on a steed to her right, he took hold of the reins and eased the steed forward. “By my coordinates, we’re to travel approximately one league due south. We’ll use the deer trails to hone in on the forest while my ‘intuition’ guides us to the spot. We’ll look for clues while there. Scour the land for any other aberrations.  I don’t really know what I’m doing--so you’re either foolish or desperate for wanting to follow me, Elesepth. That said…” He looked over his shoulder and passed her a grateful smile, “glad to have you on board. Don’t tell the others their Commander has yet again gone completely batty. Better to keep it between us, for now.”

Haraldur’s ‘intuition’ was on the mark. Not an hour later, the search party of five, Elespeth included, discovered a large burrow as though dug out from beneath by a fox--or a wolf. Shining a lantern into the hole revealed a narrow tunnel weaved through with thick tendrils of roots belonging to the sentinel tree. After filing up the hole and further camouflaging its location with deadfall and forest detritus, they surveyed the area for wolf tracks, which mysteriously ended several yards away from the point of emergence. Neither did they unveil human tracks, disturbances in the forest, urine marks, snapped branches, fur patches, animal remains--nothing to indicate the residency of a predator. It was as though the wolf of Bronwyn...disappeared into mist. 

The trip was by no means a wasteful one, for they had all learned that whoever had spirited Bronwyn away was likely in league with Locque and Rowen. They took her. Or perhaps...she had joined them.

“We know nothing about the nature of Locque’s magic, but it’s best to assume she can manipulate not only the mind, but also her surroundings, and her place in them,” Haraldur briefed to his team as they prepared to mount up for their return to Galeyn’s palace. “The fact that she leaves no trace is evidence alone. Every living being leaves an imprint, however faint, in their environment. It presents more suspicion when we find nothing, or when an unmistakable something suddenly vanishes. It’s in these gaps we can begin to map out where she’s been.” After dismissing his soldiers to their steeds, he called Elespeth to her side. “She was here. The forest knows she was here,” he revealed to her ears alone, removing his hand from the cool, papery comfort of a towering birch tree. “But the forest is falling into dormancy. Even evergreens hunker down to rest for the winter. Portions of the Night Garden, especially those whose roots spread beyond the heart of Galeyn, will follow suit. Whatever connection I may be developing with the trees--it’s dampened, now. In slumber, I doubt they’re able to inform me of the sorceress and her whereabouts. On that vein, if I were to venture when Locque will strike again...it will be in the winter, when much is dead or hibernating. It would make sense, given what we know about her previous control of the Garden. It’s best to stage an attack when your target is significantly weakened. If this is the case...we have to inform Lilica immediately.”

“Well… yes. It has always been my intention to return to Nairit.” Isidor frowned at the confusion (and was that also… disappointment?) on Tivia’s face when she realized his intentions, once everything in Galeyn was settled away, and he had fulfilled all of his promises. “After all, it is only because of Queen Lilica’s kindness and hospitality that I am here, at all. Merely a guest, making a complete mess of the suite she so kindly offered me, and being a bother to her most valuable friends and allies…” His face fell, recalling the distress that he had put both Elespeth and Alster through when he’d made an intended attempt to harm himself. After everything they had done for him, and all of the kindness and friendship they had offered him… he only had grief to offer in return. He was not suited to friendship, it seemed; hell, he wasn’t suited to people, in general. It didn’t matter that facing his fears caused him to realize how insignificant were the opinions of others, when his presence was largely only a burden on those whom he intended to help--Tivia included, evidently, since she saw fit to take it upon herself to bring him food time and again. I don’t deserve this, whatever your intentions… why can’t you see that? Why can’t anyone seem to understand that?

“I know it might seem as though I’m returning to a prison, but… it has effectively been my home for as long as I remember. It is comfortable, there. Even… even in light of what I remember, now.” Without meaning to, he sighed quietly. “It is a place where terrible things have happened. A place of pain and loneliness and abundant sadness and regret… but it is still my home. The only one I have ever known. Perhaps… maybe it is wishful thinking, but I would like to believe that someday, I might be able to make it better. Turn the atmosphere into something else. Or… maybe only more pain awaits me when I return. It is hard to say how I will feel. But…” Isidor stared at the materials on his desk, the papers and glassware and various and sundry stones, without really seeing him. There wasn’t much light in his eyes, at all; his thoughts had ventured somewhere else completely. “I am not sure that there is anywhere else a person like me belongs. Or that… I frankly deserve anything better.”

He wasn’t sure she was listening or heard at all. By the time he finished, Tivia Rigas was already excusing herself in a hurry, and he could not be certain, but he thought he saw a glimmer of something in her eye, like a tear. And it left him far more perplexed and startled that before. Standing from his chair, the Master Alchemist knelt to pick up the hot bowl and its contents, his sensitive fingers registering not only the composition of the metal (it was silver mixed with the faintest bit of tin), as well as the soup itself. In seconds, he knew every vegetable, spice, and sliver of meat, as well as how much of each it contained. So much heartier than the gruel he had grown so used to growing up that it had somehow become a staple in his meager diet. In fact, the nutritional value of that one bowl was phenomenal--something that someone such as himself, who had frequently practiced fasting as a result of the alchemical work he was doing on humans, desperately required for all his own body was going through. So she had cared enough to bring him this… but why? What had incited this sudden shift in Tivia’s demeanor? Where was the sharp-tongued, no-nonsense girl who for the longest time hadn’t so much as hinted at acknowledging his existence, unless it was to insult him. And yet… and yet, mentioning his eventual return to Nairit had offended her. No, worse, it had seemed to hurt her.

He had done nothing--and yet, once again, by doing nothing, by saying the wrong thing, he had managed to hurt another person.

Carefully setting the soup on a single area of his desk that was not covered in papers and books, the Master Alchemist sighed deep and regretfully, once again feeling a weight he hadn’t realized he’d hefted bear down on his shoulders. “I really am no good at this,” he muttered, as he took a seat. “At people… no matter what I do, what I don’t do, someone will get hurt. Even if it no longer my alchemy that is hurting people…”

Though his appetite had been especially shaky since Hadwin had assaulted him with his fears and the worst of his past, Isidor could not let the food go to waste. Not only because he did not fancy himself a wasteful person, but because of the intent behind it. If he took Tivia by her word--and what reason would she have to lie?--she had brought it to him out of… what? Kindness? Consideration? But why? He had offered to help her, before… so how could this be a result of what he was doing for her now? Whatever the reason… the gesture was not lost on him. In fact, for all of the calamity he’d caused since arriving in Galeyn, Isidor Kristeva hadn’t known this sort of kindness since Arisza had been in his life. And he knew better than to take it for granted.

So he ate the soup--all of it, and with every spoonful, the flavour propelled him forward, briefly reminding him of what it was like to actually have an appetite. When he was finished, he set it aside with the intention to take it back to the kitchens later on. Tivia had offered to come and retrieve it herself, but considering the state in which she left, he wasn’t sure he would see her again that night, and frankly did not want her to have to bother herself further on his behalf. So later that day, when he found a moment to break from his thoughts, he was lucky enough to get directions from the right people as to where he might find the kitchen, and returned the empty dishes. But on his way back, he paused, just halfway to his chamber and outside of Tivia’s room. Could she be there, now? And… was it suitable to offer an apology, even if he did not quite understand what it was he had said or done to upset her? Teselin hates you, remember. Because you didn’t try. A voice at the back of his mind challenged, just as he was almost tempted to keep on walking. It doesn’t matter that you don’t understand. Feelings are real, and Tivia’s feelings are real. If you want to lose another ally, then walk away.

He didn’t. Against his better judgment, with his heart hammering against his ribcage, Isidor knocked once--twice, when there was no answer. Finally, a faint voice called permission to come in. Taking a final, steadying breath, Isidor opened the door and stepped inside. “I’m sorry to disturb you… if you are otherwise preoccupied, do not feel obligated to entertain my company.” The first thing he did was apologize--although apologies did not seem to get him very far, or to be particularly effective. It hadn’t won him any favours with Teselin… why should he expect it might be any different with Tivia? “I just wanted you to know I brought the dishes back to the kitchen--so you needn’t bother yourself with the task.”

And that was all he had. Isidor was quick to fall silent, once again at a deadly loss for words. What was worse? To say the wrong thing, or to say nothing at all…? I need to try. Even if I don’t get it right… I’ll have accepted failure by not trying. “Earlier… when you were so kind as to bring me something to eat, I was under the impression that I did something that upset you. Or said something, or perhaps it was something that I didn’t say… I am not very good with people, which goes without saying. Everything has been very touch and go since I arrived in this place. I’d never had a reason to try and understand how what I say or do can impact others, before, but… such is not the case, anymore. I’m trying very hard to understand, but it hasn’t been easy…”

Absently rubbing the back of his neck, he eyed a chair seated at an empty vanity. So this was what an average room looked like… not full of books and papers and oddities. It actually had room to live. “May I have a seat?” He asked, and waited for her permission before he sat down, suddenly looking very weary. Or perhaps it wasn’t so suddenly; he looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. “Please correct me if I am wrong, but… you seemed particularly distressed when I mentioned my imminent return to Nairit. Am I right to think that?” He paused for her to answer, but when she merely sat in what appeared to be stunned silence, he went on. “I feel the need clarify… as best I can, at least. You aren’t wrong: that tower is a horrible place. But it is yet the only place I have ever known or ever called home. Or the closest thing to a home I know. Because of what happened to me, as a child, I was never given the opportunity to belong; so as a man… I don’t belong anywhere, or to anyone. Sometimes, that fact is very lonely, and other times, it is liberating. But… it remains that that tower is the only place where I can find belonging, because it does not hold expectations. Like I said, Tivia… I am dreadfully bad with people. Enough that I have even caused my own sister to hate me.” He flashed a broken, guilty smile and shook his head, hunching over on the chair to rest his elbows on his knees. “Yes, I have achieve the impossible and managed to convince kind, caring Teselin to despise me. Because she reached out… and I pulled away, afraid of her. Afraid because she is not human. Without meaning to, I hurt her. Just as I… fear I might have hurt you, earlier. I am not sure I understand why, or how, but I want you to know that whatever the reason, I am sorry to have ever caused you distress. And I fully intend to uphold my promise to you.”

When his lower back began to ache, he righted his posture in the small seat and rolled his shoulders back. “We have a long way to go before I’ll be happy with the final result of your face--new eye included, if that is what you’d like. And I still have Alster’s prosthesis to improve, not to mention weapons for Queen Lilica, and… well whatever it is I can do for my sister, if I can in fact do anything at all.” He shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms face up. “So rest assured, I imagine it will be quite some time before I see my tower, again--and I will not return until I’ve come good on all of my promises. It’s…” He glanced at his hands, at those faint runes that would never go away. Just looking at them made him sick to his stomach, knowing the price so many had to pay for them… “I don’t deserve forgiveness… from any of those who lost their lives to make me what I am. The least I can do is improve lives with the capabilities I have. It isn’t enough--I know that it will never be enough, and I am prepared to live with that knowledge. But… it doesn’t mean I can’t try. To make something right, whether it is for Alster, for Galeyn, for my sister, or for you. So you have my word, Tivia,” he looked up, his tired eyes seeking her single-visioned gaze, “However you might feel, right now… I promise that I will not let you down.”

Elespeth had spent a good part of the day in the company of Haraldur and the Forbanne, searching for signs of Rowen, Locque, or Bronwyn, at that. Just as she had anticipated, nothing turned up, in the end, nothing more than what Haraldur gleaned from the forest... a skill that he was still struggling to digest, and she couldn’t blame him. Just like before, Elespeth had felt as though she’d let her friend down, today. He had opened up to her more thoroughly than his own wife, spilled thoughts and sentiments that he dared not reveal to anyone else, and she feared that any words of encouragement she might have offered had fallen stale and listless. And it was because she was struggling to believe them, herself: how could one possibly convince someone else to embrace their inevitable “change” when she had been struggling to come to terms with her own for weeks?

This could be an opportunity, she realized. Not only to rebuild the bridge of friendship between herself and Haraldur, but to find acceptance in her own new skin. And… to mend the damage she had caused between herself and Alster. Two birds with one stone, and the only thing she needed to do was find peace with Elespeth Rigas and put Elespeth Tameris behind her. It couldn’t be that difficult… she need only commit to the change.

So that evening, when they returned just after supper, Elespeth sought Alster in the Night Garden, where he’d said he would meet her. She was careful not to be late, lest he lose faith in her eagerness to learn to use her magic. He had been so enthusiastic upon learning that she now bore those very capabilities… perhaps if she could foster that excitement in him, again, she might finally be able to share in it. “You’re here… I’m so glad.” A smile lit up her face when she found her husband near the sentinel tree, and she quickly closed the distance between them to plant a kiss on his lips. “I was afraid you might not see that my request was in earnest… but I want this. I want to be useful, again, and if I can wield not only my sword, but magic as well, then I can be at my most productive for Galeyn.”

Taking his hand, she accompanied him to a more open area, where fewer flora were in danger of receiving the sharp brunt of her currently uncontrollable magic. “I’ve been thinking… I’ve been Elespeth Rigas for a while, now. Since the spring, and yet, I’ve never had the opportunity to really become her. Not when I was so sick, and then unconscious… so I’ve been clinging to Elespeth Tameris. But it is time I came to realize… Elespeth Tameris died back in Atvany. I can’t be her anymore; I haven’t been her for a long time, really. I’ve been no one. So this… being with you, this is my opportunity to be someone again. To put the past behind me and to pave a new path. And if that path involves magic, then so be it. Just know…” The former knight smiled sheepishly and regarded him with pleading green eyes. “I know you have no shortage of responsibilities on your shoulders, and I hate to be another burden. But I… I need your help, with this. With more than just the magic. I can’t be Elespeth Rigas without you, Alster.”

In midst of Tivia’s self-pity and gloom, stray wisps of reason shot across her consciousness like shooting stars; impossible to ignore, but ultimately fleeting. Within the meteor shower, she analyzed, over-analyzed all her interactions with Isidor thus far, determining the likelihood that she, in her initial treatment of him, had contributed in part to his decision to deny humanity and inter himself inside the sturdy walls of his safe and hidden tower for the rest of days. But that wasn’t true, those fleeting wisps of reason were quick to object, in pulses of illuminating light. Not entirely. She had little to do with his preferences for peace and solitude. For an involuntary-turned-voluntary hermit, there was little wonder he’d seek to reclaim a lifestyle he was best adapted to living. Why change his predilections for inner-harmony when he hardly benefited from the cruelty and harshness of his volatile environs? What did he hope to gain? Notoriety? Recognition? He wanted neither of those things. Similar to Alster, he wanted the opportunity to repent but, unlike Alster, once satisfied with his specialized contributions, he would disappear back into the mists of obscurity. Nothing, not friendship, self-acceptance, or romance seemed enough to sway him off course to his end-goal. 

Considering that she was not to blame but simply did not factor into his decision-making process at all was somehow a worse realization than bearing responsibility for his grief. Thus, her well-meaning stars of reason soon dimmed into little voids of depression. To mean so little as to have no real impact on anyone, no real purpose in anyone’s lives aside from serving as a thankless messenger to the fickle, cold-hearted heavens and their convoluted portents of doom…

What was the point? What was her point? 

It’s my connection to the stars that people want. Not me. Stars, why not possess me for good and dump this consciousness into the fire where the rest of me burned? You don’t need ‘me’. You only need the vessel. 

She couldn’t handle rejection anymore. Couldn’t handle subsisting on an existence half-lived because to desire a fully-realized life was not a feasible option for a star-seer. What would happen should she kill herself and in so doing, reject the destiny she never wanted? Could the stars foretell her betrayal? Would they even care, or would they replace her with some other hapless fool? 

A knock on the door jolted her out of bed. Groggy from crying and light-headed from rising too quickly, she flattened her feet on the floor and hunched over, arms behind her neck, to breathe and gain her bearings before she dared to tackle the world outside her door. Finally, she rustled out of bed, unlocked the door, and invited the caller to enter without caring to ask exactly who requested entrance. A servant, most-likely. An exchange of little significance. No one ever sought her aid on purpose. When anyone visited the farmhouse on the edge of Galeyn, it was never to see her. Always Vitali. Never her. Yes, Teselin had approached her palace chambers, once, (and later, Haraldur, sent on her behalf), and her expert handling of the situation ensured the summoner would never ask for aid again. 

Her surprise kettled out of her mouth like a low  steaming whistle when not a servant entered, but Isidor!

“Isidor...I,” she ducked her head, hiding the swatches of deep red igniting both sides of her face in fire. “To...to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” 

It was to announce that he returned the dishes to the kitchens. “O--oh,” she tried not to sound disappointed. “Is that all? Well, thank you.” She twirled her finger around the tassels hanging from her royal blue gown, keeping her eye awkwardly trained on the floor. Fortunately, Isidor resolved to fill the silence before the two of them succumbed to it and drowned in its waves. 

“Ah...ah, yes. Please, come in. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” She stepped aside to allow him entrance and closed the door. In contrast to Isidor’s living space, Tivia’s was absolutely bare in comparison. On top of not owning much aside from some outfits and essentials, the majority of her personal effects remained at the farmhouse. Her rooms at the palace reflected the Galeynian standard of simple elegance. Floral vases brightened each corner, and a motif of vine-like S-curves and the commas of half-spirals fringed the walls, repeating its pastel, inoffensive design on the seat-cushions, the bed-covers, and the oak-paneling of her headboard. All in all, vastly different than the garish luxury of a typical Rigas-furnished interior.

“No...you, you didn’t upset me. I upset myself. A commonplace behavior on my part. Nothing out of the ordinary.” She rested her hand over the unmarred half of her face, puffy from crying and therefore too unbecoming for the object of her desire to behold. He didn’t need to know that fruitlessly pining for him had reduced her to ugly weeping. 

“Is it so impossible to find belonging somewhere that is not so dreadfully drafty...and punishing?” She turned to her vanity, back to him, and carefully peered into the mirror, which was covered on the left side with a sheet. “Liberating it might sound, but it also sounds like a prison sentence. Why is it necessary to condemn yourself? Who does that help? Because Isidor…” she looked over her shoulder, at the dejected man sitting there, “who have you bothered? In fact, you can stand to bother people more. Isn’t that why Teselin lashed out at you? You prefer not to bother people so much that it creates a rift in whatever relationship others attempt to have with you. In doing so, people become bothered by you. I,” she hesitated, “that’s how I reacted to you, at first. You were so unassuming that it irked me, somehow. And I..,apologize for my behavior, sincerely, So, whatever you think you deserve, whatever you do or you don’t do...it won’t change how people feel when they’re in your company. You can’t tell anyone to stop caring. Or to stop hating. Like it or not, you’ve made an impact in the short time since you’ve left your tower. In leaving, you don’t just disappear. Memories don’t disappear. They hang around like ghosts, haunting those who are most affected. You’ll linger, in some form or another. And that’s….that’s why I’m upset, Isidor. Because,” she crossed the room and sat on the bed opposite his chair, “I don’t want you to go. Because...I want you to care, too. About others. About…”

About me. I want you to care about me.

Unbidden, she stretched her arms towards him and scooped up his hands in hers. They were cold to the touch. “Do...do you want me?” 

If nothing else mattered, if he were to leave, regardless of the face he reconstructed, the face she wanted to present to him, then she had no reason to hide her desperation. If he were to go, eventually, and leave behind the ghost of him in memory, then surely she would do the same as an act of revenge. As a man, even as a gentleman, could he pretend disaffection or disinterest, when he’d apparently had it for her, previously? 

So she went after him, carnally, to ensure her place in his thoughts. To implant a lasting memory, whether good or bad. It was not a sudden attack, not something akin to Hadwin’s forceful, fear-assaulting pounce. No, she resolved to act more subtly. With grace. She stroked her hands up his arms, held him by the shoulders, and gradually slid into his lap. Directing his hands to wrap around her waist, she leaned in, angling her face so only the plushest half of her lips interacted with his mouth, and kissed him. “Do you want me?” she withdrew, but only at a fingernail’s length, to reiterate her question in a husky whisper. “Because I want you.” Please say yes. I don’t know what else I’ll do...if no one wants me.

Busywork notwithstanding, Alster did not forget the appointment with his wife, no matter how exhausting or demanding his hours traveling back and forth from the palace to the D’Marian village; no matter how his eyes watered from lack of sleep, or how his body shivered from aches and pains induced by stress and his weakened immune system. As long as he could stand without bowing over from weariness and still exhibit uninhibited cognizant thought and reason, he could be of service. He could help. He could respond to Elespeth’s request. It had been a while since she expressed a need for him, a need for his guidance, a need for his presence, and he’d be damned if he squandered the opportunity by choosing sleep in her place. 

At first, he worried she would not make an appearance. Waiting outside the sanctuary, he settled down to sit on a protruding root, a makeshift bench courtesy of the sentinel tree, and stared at the night sky, counting the stars and matching their constellations to distract from her absence. She was waylaid. Intercepted by Locque. Or--there was a health emergency. Her heart seized. Her magic and her immune system tussled with each other, leaving her beaten and in need of the Night Garden’s healing touch. Anything could have happened! 

Impossible, he berated himself. If something befell Elespeth, he’d be one of the first to know. Through their manifold threads of fate tying them inextricably together, in body, mind, and spirit, in matrimony, by heaven and earth, and through the ether, he would sense her distress. And presently, she was not in distress. 

Regardless of his inner reassurances, he nearly breathed a huge sigh of relief when his wife finally emerged on the pathway, greeting him with a smile and a kiss. Rising to his feet, he met her with a smile and kiss in return. “Of course I’m here, El. Did you think I would not be?” His smile upended into a frown. “Honestly, I thought the same of you. That maybe, you were humoring me. But that is neither here nor there. How was your day? Did you produce anything fruitful in your search? How did you get on with Haraldur?” 

She gave him a vague, hurried answer, promising to elaborate later, as she was eager to begin her training as a mage. No--mage didn’t sound like the appropriate term. A student of magic? ...A Rigas?

“While I’m happy to see your earnest interest in becoming a Rigas, there is no transformation involved, I assure you. You’re merely donning a different outfit; it doesn’t fundamentally change who you are. You’re the same person under the clothes, albeit a little weathered and scarred.” He held up his steel prosthesis. “As am I. We’re learning magic, El. It’s a discipline, the same as swordplay. It’s better to think of these two discplines not as something disparate and disconnected, but as attached and whole.” In tandem with his prosthesis, he lifted his left arm. “See these two arms before you. Sure, one arm is inorganic, but it serves the same function as my left arm. Magic may not be natural, but for those of us magic-users, it is an essential limb that we can’t simply hack off and discard. Now, before we begin, I must emphasize, Elespeth--your arms must work with each other.” He wrapped his hands around her wrists. “One arm--your sword arm, for example,” he turned it over and inspected it, “is not a Tameris. But neither is your left arm a Rigas. You’re not unrelated parts. You’re both. You’re a whole.” 

He dropped her arms and took one step backwards to point at the sky; a dark void interspersed with stars. “As light and darkness are as one, you can’t pit the two against each other. That’s why it took me so long to master my chthonic magic; because I treated it as something separate from my celestial magic. They had to work in harmony. Whatever ‘harmony’ might mean for you, that is what we must discover. Otherwise, your magic won’t work optimally. Mindset, mindfulness, setting your intentions--they’re just as important as the more physically demanding and methodical aspects of magical-manipulation. Yes, we’ll have to learn proper breathing, control, endurance, its distinct shape, and determine its--and your--limit, but never should you forget your objective. So ask yourself,” he met her eyes, “what is your magic, to you? How will you use it? To become something else? Someone else? Or will you use it to embrace something new and to let it contribute to your personhood, however confused or lost she may be, presently? We’re in this together, El, but you’re not any less of a Rigas—or a person—without me. There’s nothing to become. But there’s plenty to learn.” With an encouraging smile, he squeezed her shoulder tenderly. “So let’s learn.” 

With his hands still wound around his wife’s arms, he closed his eyes and concentrated on getting a good, accurate read of her magical signature. “I can detect light energy. It’s jagged and volatile, but lively and playful. It’s fierce and exact, but hard to pin down. I’d say,” he opened one eye and grinned, “this magic suits you. It’s chosen to awaken as lightning, in part due to your frustration and anger, your fear that you lack control--for lightning is inherently unpredictable in its design--a wild force of nature. Funnily enough...this is the very magic that first awakened in me, as a child. I don’t believe you’ll be restricted to this one typing, but I will say your magic has chosen to function primarily as offensive--a good fit for a warrior.” 

As they moved to the crest of a grassy hill at the edge of the Garden, he stretched out a hand and cast an iridescent wall of protection around them. “For this--we’re standing in the perfect venue to practice. At night, we’ll be better able to see your magic at work. I’ve also taken the liberty of properly shielding the area--and myself. Your magic won’t escape my barrier, I promise. If there’s anyone who can contain this offset of my former magic, it’s me. So you are free to unleash to your heart’s content. In fact--I encourage it. The key to controlling your magic is to replicate what you did when it first manifested. Often, a strong emotional reaction will be the catalyst for summoning it forth. In the beginning, we’ll use that emotion as a launching point, but as you grow accustomed to how it feels, you’ll no longer need the catalyst. Through muscle memory, you should be able to summon your magic, independent of the inciting emotion, or of any emotion at all. And that is our goal. We want to shift your magic’s intent from emotion-motivated to needs-motivated. It’s imperative that we make this transition early-on, as emotion-motivated magic is dangerous. Look no further than Teselin. When magic is tied to your emotions, primarily to fear, control is tenuous at best, catastrophic at worst.” 

Affording a liberal swath of space between himself and Elespeth, he gestured towards her at his newfound position on the lee of the hill. “Let’s put these ideas into practice, El. Recover the memory of your magic; when you first used it. Remember your frustration as you stood between two feuding siblings, trying and failing to break up their fight. What other emotions were running through your mind? Any other memories bubble up during that moment? Peel back the restraints. Break through the barriers. Think of your magic. Its raw power. The smell of ozone. How it rattles and shakes and rumbles. How it dazzles and stabs and sizzles through your veins. It never goes in a straight path. There is no straight path. Lightning isn’t tame; neither are you. Let it loose.” He reinforced his magical barriers and the surrounding area. “Let yourself loose.”

She knew so much more than she let on… or perhaps she knew as much as any human being should about the nature of isolation, and it was he who was, as usual, the idiot who failed to understand these complexities. Tivia had never set foot in his quiet, isolated tower, and yet everything she said was spot on--particularly about its punishing nature. But that is just it, Tivia, he wanted to tell her, but smartly refrained, for fear he would only serve to upset her further--all over again. It is punishment that I deserve. You may not see it that way… you may not understand, but it’s the truth. Even if happiness or fulfillment among others were possible for me… it isn’t what I deserve. Not after everything I have done. Everything I am responsible for…

“Of course, you’re right; I am cowardly by nature, and so it is ultimately easier for me to withdraw instead of trying at all. Tivia… I completely understand your frustration with me, then and even now.” The Master Alchemist hazarded a weak smile and scratched the back of his neck. “You are a Rigas; you’ve grown and been raised among confident, affluent people. It comes as no surprise that my existence has gotten on your nerves. Or on Teselin’s nerves. Bless her, she was patient with me until… until I failed to be forthright with her. When I happened to tell Alster and confirm to Hadwin that she was not human before I divulged it to her. I made a terrible mistake that I am afraid cost me whatever relationship I might have formed with my sister. And, up until just recently, I had truly believed that there wasn’t a hope on this plain or any other that you would see me as anything but a waste of space.” He chuckled, then; self-deprecating, perhaps, but if he did not laugh then he would only hang his head in shame.

But what if this impact she spoke of? Aside from Alster, and perhaps Elespeth, who’s life could he have possibly impacted for the better? Teselin despised him; Hadwin had been forthright in telling him he had never liked him (he had to give the man credit for cutting out guessing games, he supposed). Queen Lilica, Lady Chara, and all of the others hardly acknowledged his existence, but Tivia… What had changed with Tivia? What had caused this rapid transformation in her disposition toward him, from cold to open and, dare he say, kind? “To be honest… and I must be honest, for the sake of it clarity, I do not understand why my intent on leaving has upset you so. Do you suspect I will not make good on my promise to you? Are you convinced that my desire to flee to what I know and what I am used to has trumped my desire to help you like I promised? Do you…”

Suddenly, she took his hands; they were so warm, and soft, and no one had held his hands before. Well, not in a very, very long time. He had vague memories of Arisza’s supportive touch, time and again… but that had been so very long ago. I want you to care. Was that what this was about? Was Tivia, too, so starved to be relevant in someone’s life, that he had been the closest thing to someone who cared for her in a very long time? But… that couldn’t be it. Alster cared; Elespeth clearly cared. Hells, even Vitali, who cared for no one but himself, still seemed to have an inkling of care for her. So why… why were her sights suddenly so honed in on him? Why did it matter that he made his care for her so obvious?

Before he could open his mouth again, ask for further clarification, Tivia was climbing into his lap, guiding his hands to her waist, resting her hands on his shoulders… and kissing him. He was tired--exhausted, and it wasn’t beyond him to wonder if he was hallucinating. But this… no, this was real. This kiss, the warmth of her body, her words, Do you want me? Was all too visceral not to be real. And it was then, at that moment, that Isidor finally understood everything. You don’t think you are beautiful. You can’t see that; you haven’t seen it for such a long time, but… but I did. I do. You know I do… and you need to feel wanted. By someone. By anyone. So here I am… It was so clear now--how could he have been such an idiot!? He was nothing special; he never would be, but right now, while Tivia still suffered her insecurities, he might not be what she wanted… but rather, what she needed. You need to feel beautiful, and you need to feel wanted. And you… you already know I want you. So here I am… and here we are.

He didn’t know much about people. He didn’t know much about feelings; not even his own. But when the young Rigas woman put herself out there, offering herself to him with no room for vagueness, only clarity, the Master Alchemist also came to understand his own sentiments toward her, and why he had been so drawn to her from the beginning. Of course he desired her--he might not understand feelings, but he certainly understood bodies, and there was no mistaking the way his own body reacted to her as she sat upon his lap, pressing her chest against his own. But… there was something beyond that. He was not a predator; and he had the good sense not to take advantage of a woman just because she felt the need to be ‘wanted’. Were his interest only on a carnal level, he was sure he’d have had it in him to gently turn her away. But this… what was happening right now was more than a desire to fulfill carnal needs--and he did care. He cared enough to recognize that. Tivia Rigas was not looking for a quick tryst; she was looking for assurance that he wanted her now, and would continue to want her. Because right now, that was what she needed: to be wanted. To be the object of someone’s affection. And… for that, he could oblige.

I do care. I do, Tivia. I only hope you do not come to regret your decision to show interest in the likes of me… He returned her kiss--and not with uncertainty, because this was not an act, and he had made up his mind, just as she had made up hers. He could feel her heartbeat pounding against her ribcage, and the way she so desperately clung to him, drinking in his desire like it was a tonic to remedy all of her aliments. As if he alone could make everything right. “Of course I do.” He breathed against her lips, desire and disbelief gathering in his dark eyes. “But… you already knew this.” Or else, we would not be here.

It did not seem to matter that he had no experience in this field; nowhere near it, not with women, with intimacy, or with caring for someone the way he cared for Tivia. She didn’t seem to care that he fumbled with both his clothes and her own, in a hurry to discard them all in a pile on her otherwise clean and tidy floor. Didn’t care that he had to let her take the lead, at least at first, too afraid that he would otherwise commit some unforgivable faux-pas and ruin a moment that meant so much to her. Slowly, but surely, they made their way back to her bed, both of them self-conscious for entirely different reasons, yet neither of them caring. How can you not see how beautiful you are? He wondered, almost asking her aloud on several occasions, now that he had this undeserved opportunity to witness the body beneath her fine gowns. Can’t you realize that you could have anyone, Tivia? If only you showed them the same interest, the same consideration you showed me… you could easily have anyone. You could do better--so much better...

Yet it wasn’t just anyone she wanted right now, because he was, for many reasons, the most attainable. The most likely to make her feel good about herself, to make her feel wanted… and so he did. Isidor, inexperienced as he was in intimacy and love-making, did not feign any such desire for the Rigas woman as their bodies connected. If this was what she wanted, and how he could do something right for once instead of leaving a terrible impression on those who mattered most, then he wanted to do it right, and leave her feeling beautiful. As it turned out, the act of coitus in and of itself was not particularly prolonged, but even long after it appeared that she’d climaxed, her body tensing briefly and then relaxing beneath him like a feather on the wind. A lot of it had been very touch and go--quite literally. He didn’t know how to please any woman, let alone Tivia, but he was fortunate in that she didn’t hesitate to guide him in this unfamiliar tango. She showed him what she liked, how she liked it, what she wanted from this union, and somehow at the end of it all, did not appear dissatisfied. In fact,  she clung to his naked form in the aftermath as if he were some sort of lifeline, reluctant to let him leave. As he had anticipated, this had little to do with her desire for a sexual encounter… and everything to do with feeling wanted. 

If we are to be caught, this could damage her reputation, he fretted for a good amount of time as the night grew on, and the palace beyond her chamber quieted. Not that she really seems to care about what others think… but I don’t want to be a stain on her virtue. All the same, he took the chance for servants to discover them in what must surely be a forbidden union (for weren’t Rigases intended to marry within their inner circle? Elespeth, as he understood, was an exception…). Would this cast a dark shadow on her future were it to become known that she lay with a commoner--and not only a commoner, but an abomination of humanity, responsible for so many unnecessary deaths? But if she did not care about the repercussions, then neither did he; well, not so terribly, at least. So Isidor remained in her company for some time after, waiting as she slowly, but surely fell asleep in his arms. Of course, he could not sleep, himself, lest he fall victim to dreams and memories. All of this left him feeling heavy with despondency: that he couldn’t even enjoy the one and only chance he might ever have of being with a woman this way, because it always came back to his own existential crisis. Would he ever be able to feel good, again? To find joy in a life that he really, truly did not deserve?

The sun had set, and Tivia had drifted into slumber some time ago, her chest slowly rising and falling in deep sleep. I understand, now. The responsibility I have… Peering through the darkness at the lovely form next to him, Isidor grazed her bare shoulder with his fingertips. One day, you aren’t going to need me. When you have the face that you need to restore your confidence, when you realize you turn heads and catch the eye of far more suitable than me, you’ll forget that you ever felt the need for me. But that’s alright; that is what I am here for. To help you. To help you find yourself again, and find your worth… “I’ll stay, Tivia. For as long as you need me.” His whisper was barely audible to his own ears. “And one day… you won’t. That is the day I’ll go.”

Afraid of any backlash that either of them might face should he be spotted leaving her room in the morning, Isidor carefully rose from her bed late into the night and dressed in the dark, planting a soft kiss on her brow before he just as quietly took his leave of her chambers. I didn’t deserve tonight. I didn’t deserve that attention… but it wasn’t for me. It was for her. And to think, just some weeks ago, prior to Hadwin’s interference… he might have been able to find joy in finally attaining Tivia’s interest. But now, with shadows dancing in his peripheral vision, with voices and faces popping up anew in his memory every day, there was no room for joy of that degree.

Everything he said, his every gesture and explanation, was meant to be reassuring. Of course her husband would not want to find her amidst an identity crisis. And she did not want to worry him with the errant, intrusive thoughts churning through her mind. Elespeth looked at her left hand, her right hand, at the sword at her hip. Remembered the face in the mirror that had told her to die. I can’t… I can’t be her. I can’t go back to being her, Alster… “Of course. I understand what you mean.” She smiled. “Whatever course of action you propose, Alster, I know I’m in good hands. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to help me find my way with these changes. I want to become adept with whatever it is I have inherited: I want to make use of it. In the end, it will make me more useful to everyone else. No longer a burden, as I know I have been, for the past year.”

She followed him further from the sentinel tree, to a grassy knoll that put a good deal of distance between any Night Garden flora that might end up being the recipient of the sharper bite of her magic, just as Hadwin and Bronwyn had. And for further insurance, he appeared to erect a bounded field that contained only the two of them--and her magic, however it might choose to manifest. “So this is safe? It won’t hurt anyone if it goes array? I’ve never used it intentionally… and when it last manifested, it did quite a number on the Kavanagh siblings. Is it really safe to let something so wild run wild out in the open? What if you get hurt, Alster?”

He assured her of his safety, explaining that he’d put his magical defenses up, but it did little to assuage her concerns. Lightning… something volatile, violent. Something that always chose its own path, a path that could never be predicted, not even by its user. If lightning was what she had to work with… then so be what it may. Everyone had to start somewhere, like her husband had explained. “Alright. I can’t quite recall what I felt, if I’m being honest… I was worried for Bronwyn and Hadwin’s safety. It was such an unnecessary altercation…”

Taking a breath, Elespeth focused on returning to that feeling; that brief moment of panic where she was afraid someone would get unnecessarily hurt. But just as she was sure she found it… nothing happened. No lightning, no buzzing in her veins. It wasn’t the right feeling. “Give me a moment,” she sighed and rolled her shoulders back, and once again tried to return to that moment. Still--nothing, and it frustrated her. She could feel the thrum beneath her skin, but it was as if the magic were trapped and she couldn’t find the right outlet… “I… don’t know why it isn’t working, Alster. I can’t recreate that feeling that incited it in the first place. Honestly, I was worried for Bronwyn…”

Bronwyn--who had rejected her, terrified of what she was capable of, and disappeared shortly after that event had gone down. She remembered her last ditch effort to reach out to the faoladh woman, toward whom she’d felt the budding of friendship before Hadwin had ruined it all. Or, really… when she had ruined it all. She couldn’t blame Hadwin for something that was inherently her own fault. Bronwyn had said it herself, accusatory and decisive: You’re a Rigas now. Just like you wanted to be.

But I’m still me, Bronwyn… it’s like Alster said, I’m the same person. I’m still me… you didn’t have to give up on me so fast! A knot formed in her stomach, a lump in her throat, and no sooner did Elespeth place a hand on the hilt of the sword at her hip that something white-hot traveled from her fingertips, into the steel of her sword, and effectively shocked its own host with its intensity. The former knight fell to her knees, more startled than she was hurt, but Alster was quick to run to her side, all the same. “It’s alright--it’s fine. I’m fine, Alster.” She flashed a shaky smile, complete with shaky hands and legs when her husband helped her to her feet. “It just startled me--it didn’t hurt me. I don’t think… it can hurt me. I just wasn’t anticipating it to erupt the way it did…” It hadn’t been until she’d touched the hilt of her sword--a gesture decidedly reminiscent of Elespeth Tameris--that that magic had found its path of destruction. But… I’m still me. I can be both--I can be whole, can’t I? She stared at her sword hand, which still trembled with the after-effects of her celestial blast. No… Elespeth Tameris has to be gone. I have to to accept this. There is no place for the both of us in this body.

She wished the stars would reveal to her the probability of her demise. For all the individual destinies and numerous pathways of possibility they bombarded her with, they did not deign to show her ultimate fate. Never did they so much as hint at her decision-making process as flawed, problematic, destructive, or even beneficial. Her far-seeing eye was just that; far-seeing, but it failed to acknowledge the up-close, the in-plain-sight. The obvious. 

It certainly crossed her mind that she was making a bad choice. A risky choice. How would her bold proclamation of kisses and whispered affirmations affect her relationship with Isidor, going forward? For, to accept her now did not mean he would accept her later. He could smear her name, call her out as promiscuous, a temptress, and renounce any and all associations with the mad and desperate star-seer. Yes, her brief moment of short-term gain, short-term pleasure, could end right where it began, and open her up to some long-term consequences. But she had been down this road, before. With Haraldur--another ill-advised decision that could have ended far worse than a beating from an irate Eyraillian princess. Her short-sightedness had led her to profess her love and admiration for the then-mercenary, failing to notice that in light of his recent heartbreak, he had viewed her as an opportunity to forget the pain, albeit temporarily. He told her as much and she yet she still accepted the proposal--because why? Because...however fleeting their tryst, however selfish the reasons, Haraldur had wanted her. His spark of desire was too irresistible for her to deny. In that moment, he found her worthy. Beautiful. He showed her how to love with her body and she enjoyed the power, because through her power, she could, like him, also forget the pain: the pain of her ugliness, of her bleak future, of losing it all, piece by agonizing piece.

So when Isidor moved his mouth against her own in response to her summons, she felt validation. He had accepted her. Some part of him had, anyhow; whether it was consciously linked to his cognizant thought, it didn’t matter. It looks like I’m finally good for something. I should have been doing this all along. I wouldn’t have their respect, but I would have their attention, and that counts for something. I don’t care. I’ll take it…

But it was different with Isidor. Any man could have their way with her, and do better. Haraldur, her only other example to date, was experienced, and knew what to do. Certainly, if she valued a proper ravishing, she would pursue the right channels, but she’d get little satisfaction out of it, aside from her body’s automatic response to the pleasure. Isidor, on the other hand, not only wanted her, but he liked her. He was invested in helping her--sure, out of some misplaced need to repent for past misdeeds, but she had a feeling he wasn’t investing his time and resources merely out of obligation. Unless she was misreading him horribly, and it was possible, in her whipped-up frenzy, he genuinely wanted to help, in whichever way he could. 

And Tivia, poor, selfish Tivia, was taking advantage of his kindness...in more ways than one. 

She realized he was doing it for her, primarily, and not because he expected anything out of it, himself. Excepting the reflexive jerks and jolts of a body that could not help but react to their physical intimacy, he, simply put, was not emotionally available to enjoy it. There was a distance too far for her to bridge. Not when they were an ocean apart. 

So she contended with what she did have of Isidor, and made use of it. Straddling his lap, she found a natural rhythm, swaying in tandem with her heady kisses. With his supportive hands locking her in place, she teetered and tottered like an intoxicated succubus, sucking on his earlobes and his neck and mussing up the thick tendrils of his inky hair. Gods, he resembled Vitali so strongly! Without his glasses, she could see it, in the shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the bend in his lips…

Whilst her mouth was busy probing, she also guided him through the disrobing process, stripping him of his overcoat and his undergarments, and placing his hands on the knots to untie the bodice of her gown. Together they stumbled, clumsily trying to include garment removal along with their foreplay, but somehow, they managed to succeed. Now naked, they tussled on the bed, determining the best method of attack. Ultimately, it was up to her to initiate the next stage of their intimacy, and it included climbing atop him anew, a position that brought her some measure of discomfort for its unflattering angle shining a light on everything she hated about herself. As Isidor was privy to her appearance from the underside, no manipulation of her hair curtain could conceal the misshapen, horrendous abomination of her face, nor the patches of severe burn-marks traveling from her chin to her left shoulder. To distract him from the sight, she overwhelmed him with kisses, all whilst her hands stroked his member, priming it, readying it, and gliding it through her hole. 

Of course, she had taken precautions. Preventative measures. Weaving a barrier of celestial magic around their entrance points, she assured the capture of unwanted materials. She would eliminate any risks that would dampen her enjoyment of their union--even if her union belonged only to Isidor’s outer shell. 

As they made contact and toppled together in a fit of gasps and tremors of released ecstasy, Tivia folded and rolled into a collapsed heap in the crooks of Isidor’s pale arms. In burying her head against his torso, she effectively prevented his escape. Though they had finished, she was not yet done with him. Not yet ready to release him. Not yet through with wanting him at her side. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, cuddling him with a grip she normally reserved for an oversized pillow, and not a person. “For… for…” She fell asleep before she could finish her thoughts, drifting into a cozy slumber, for once undisturbed by the high-keening of the stars. Nothing assaulted her. The universe, blessedly, allowed her to rest, unimpeded. 

When she awoke that morning, Isidor was gone. At first, she wondered if what had transpired was all but a dream, but the aftereffects still tingling in her nether-regions, coupled with her nakedness, told a different story. It was real. It actually happened.

And he was gone. 

For what reason? Out of respect? Did it matter? Alster was Rigas Head; if anyone would sanction their union, it would be him. Her attendants were free to gossip as they pleased; it made no difference what Galeynians would say about a D’Marian ally and her partnering preferences. It mattered not how Chara would react, or Lilica. He didn’t have to leave!

Alas, she couldn’t ask more than what he was willing to give, nor did she want to strip him bare of his charitable nature. She was well aware of how men of his ilk operated. If her experiences with Alster were of any indication…he was looking to sacrifice all of himself to pay what he considered to be an unpayable debt. With that weighty, impossible to fulfill, mindset, he would go the way of the martyr?

Then is he really mine to have? Will he ever be mine? Or am I chasing something impossible? Am I already chasing a ghost? 

I see. You still won’t let me in, Elespeth...because you won’t let her in…

The woman in the mirror; he knew about her. Aside from his own suspicions--the fact that she removed all reflective surfaces from the sanctuary, drew the curtains to conceal the windows, and repeated the process anew when they returned their dwelling in the palace--someone else had tipped him off regarding his wife’s mirror-phobia. And it was Elespeth, herself. At first, Alster wondered if her fear developed from what the mirror represented: an ongoing reminder of her attempted suicide. Ashamed by her dreadful impulse to die, she resolved to hide the burden that so led her astray. But it was more than a physical construct of her guilt and despair. She’d referenced it to him, briefly, back before he returned the conditions of her ailing heart in full and rendered her into a month-long coma. A voice she said, calling from the mirror, instructing her to die. The voice, the image--the woman was her. And, considering her present obsession of running headlong into her fledgling Rigas title, her trepidations about her mirror-image had not faded, but festered. She was not running towards something, no, but away from something. From the past--for the woman in the mirror was Elespeth Tameris. And Elespeth Tameris shared the same identity as the woman in the mirror. No wonder she so vehemently embraced the Rigas name as never before. Convinced that to accept her Tameris side was to die by the shards of her shame, it was a matter of survival that she not only cling to but transform into Elespeth Rigas. She’d drawn such a distinction between two essential aspects of her personality that she had induced a split, creating a scenario where one needed to die so that the other may thrive. Self-preservation versus the preservation of a legacy.

But she had it wrong. Elespeth Tameris served as her foundation. To destroy her was to destroy the self. To destroy the woman he fell in love with, and to further place her shaky identity into jeopardy. He couldn’t let that happen, but unfortunately, no amount of lecturing about wholeness and the marriage between light and darkness would knit the two torn halves of herself back together. The best way to understand was through practical experience, and the only instrument at their arsenal was, at the very least, something he could teach. 

Together, they relocated to the hill, the highest point in the Night Garden and thus, a desired spot for stargazers. Thus open to the sky, Elespeth, too, was open to the congregation of stars above. Aesthetically, they appeared as nothing more than a dusting of cosmic light, a tapestry of glitter as alluring to behold as the silver of Cwenha’s performer’s costume. But their prominence, high above the world and unobstructed by clouds or trees also served a practical purpose. Celestial-users drew power and inspiration from the heavens: from the sun, the moon, the vastness of space and the infinitude of nothingness--interspersed randomly by storms the size of planets and explosions the size of galaxies. Under their ever-watchful influence, the heavens lent their assistance in the form of pure energy. As every organism was made of star-stuff, so too were they connected to the stars--moreso in the case with celestial magic-users. While the magic and the power was inexplicably her own, Elespeth was unintentionally working in concordance to the universe. And when her magic erupted, manifesting as sparks traveling through the sword, he swore he could hear the sky rumble in response. A contract was invariably made, and the nature beyond earth, visibility or awareness...had answered. 

“Elespeth!” When the force of her magic startled her off her feet, he rushed up the hill and helped her upright. “Are you--?”

But she assured him that she was unhurt and their bond confirmed her truth. Relief washed over his face. If her magic had sought to target its user, as his chthonic magic had done with him, as his celestial magic would have continued to do if not for his pact with the Serpent, then they would be dealing with a much more dire issue than an electric shock richocheting off her lightning rod of a sword and biting her fingertips.

Wait…

His gaze immediately traveled to the sword. Something bubbled from within Alster. Something akin to the excitement that hearkened back to his initial discovery of her awakened magic.

“Elespeth--the sword!” The epiphany shone in his face like a star descended. He pointed to the aforementioned weapon on her hip but did not yet venture to explain his discovery. Not in words, at least. Emotions, though--they were on full display. 

“The sword is a catalyst! Don’t you see? The moment you placed your fingers on the hilt...it reacted. Now,” he cleared his throat, verbally backtracking, “one can make an argument and say that because metal is a conductor of electricity, the sword merely bolstered your already extant ability, but tell me: did you feel anything in your fingertips at all, prior to touching the sword? A tingle, or a burning sensation? I mean, of course I may be getting ahead of myself, as I must also ask if you had an emotional reaction concurrent to your magic’s emergence, but humor me for a minute, if you will.” 

As Elespeth did confirm the range of her emotions (but left out the details of its associated memory), Alster, nodding along rather exuberantly to her account of events, launched into his own explanation. “While I posit that, indeed, your emotional distress ignited the spark of your magic, I daresay touching your sword was what facilitated the transfer of your magic into a focused point. In other words, the sword channeled your magic. As some magic-users may use a staff or a wand to perform their spells, there is a class of mage who channel their abilities through their weapons. You’ve had practice with this, before, when I enchanted your sword to channel my magic through its blade. But what surprises me by your interaction between magic and sword is how seamlessly and effortlessly this occurred for you, despite having little previous experience with magic--apart from what you’ve borrowed from me. So, from my first impressions, I think you’re meant to wield them together. I won’t know for sure unless we do a few more runs with your magic, both with and without the sword on your person, but if I’m correct...this makes sense.” 

Because you’re a warrior. Because you’re still Elespeth Tameris, and your connections to Atvany, to your knighthood, remain unshakeable. 

“I,” he approached the subject with caution, aware of her sensitivity to matters concerning her identity, “you’re a knight. Remember--we plan to establish an Order, upon our return to Stella D’Mare, with you as our First Knight. This, I believe, is your calling. Magic will assist, but it won’t replace what you already have. Unless,” he cocked his head with concern, “have you changed your mind? Please, El,” he steadied her trembling body by scooping her into a hug--minding her sword’s residual shock-transference, “I’m right here. There’s nothing you need to hide from me. I already know. So tell me, in your own words--why do you want to kill Elespeth Tameris? Are you afraid she won’t let you live? Are you afraid you’ve already killed her? There’s only so much I can do to help you if you’re not honest with me...or with yourself. But,” his arms loosened their grip; he disengaged from their embrace, “I won’t push you into answering if it makes you uncomfortable. But in turn, I ask that you don’t push me away, either. We’re a team--and I’m always here to help you.” He pulled his lips into a reassuring smile and kissed her on the forehead. “Now--do you want to continue training, or do you want to retire for the evening? Tell me what you want. You know that I’ll happily oblige.”

Her sword… could that be true? Was her magic already so intent on marrying an art with which she was already so familiar? On one hand, if Alster was right, then that might make things infinitely easier in learning to wield the new power in her blood. She already knew how to use a sword--so it would only be a matter of incorporating the energy it unleashed into her preferred style of combat. And that should have been great news; she should have been as ecstatic as Alster! But.. something felt off. Was it because this wasn’t unfolding as she’d expected? Or because it wasn’t what she wanted… or felt that she could want?

“But, I wasn’t holding a sword when it happened the first time… I didn’t have a weapon on me.” She explained, though it very much sounded less like an observation, and more like an excuse. “So there could yet be other means, right? This may only have been a fluke… steel conducting electricity, as you said. I’m… I would be interested in finding out how else I might make use of these abilities. After all, there are times I find myself becoming unarmed in a battle--so I would need a contingency plan, wouldn’t I? This could be the perfect failsafe, if I can learn to work with it. So can we, then… maybe look at other avenues?”

She hadn’t thought her tells were so obvious, or the discomfort so tightly etched into her features enough to cause Alster to take a step back and ask questions… but maybe she wasn’t giving her husband enough credit. They shared more than a soul bond, at this point, but blood and magic and heart cells. They could not be any more literally two halves of one whole. Perhaps she was foolish in thinking she could present a strong front to the one person from whom she really could hide nothing… “I’m not a knight, Alster. Being a knight insinuates the involvement of some code of honour, and I have none. I haven’t had honour since Atvany cast me out… or at least, since I ran away. I might have been--I might be a warrior, but I am not a knight… it isn’t the same. And it is time I learned to know that difference and put my past behind me.”

Elespeth fell into his embrace, but wasn’t quite comforted by his reassuring words, or his insistence that she wasn’t fundamentally changed. He didn’t understand; he hadn’t seen that woman in the mirror. He didn’t suffer nightmares of Farran dying, again and again. He was Alster Rigas, regardless of what he said or did, but she… no. Bronwyn was right; brutal, but right, and her words were precisely what she’d needed to hear, however difficult or harsh they had been. “I’m not a knight anymore. And I’m not Elespeth Tameris anymore. I haven’t been for a very, very long time… long before our marriage. Long before I abused that Mollengardian herb. The truth is, I have been deviating from that person since before I met you… and it is time I let her go. So I don’t see her in the mirror anymore. So I don’t mourn something over which I have no control…”

Hands still trembling, she rested them on her husband’s shoulders and met his eyes. If honesty was what he wanted… then she would have to oblige. Secrets would only hurt him more. “Do you remember when you were under Vitali’s curse? Trapped in an ideal world from which you wouldn’t awaken? When I found you there, you couldn’t look at me the same way… because you already had your Elespeth. You had Elespeth Rigas. And I know it was only a dream, but you loved her, Alster. You were beside yourself when she died in that dream. So let me become her--your Elespeth Rigas. I’m tired of being haunted by my past and my past self, so… help me transform, Alster. Help me become something else.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, as if in desperation. “If I pursue a new path, then perhaps the nightmares will come to an end. Maybe nothing that happened to me, before you, will matter anymore. This magic… it can be a new beginning for me. You can help me shape that beginning. I cannot change my past, but I am in full control of my future. Will you help me embrace it?”

He didn’t need to say anything for Elespeth to know he was not in agreement. After all, hadn’t it been Elespeth Tameris--or who he perceived Elespeth Tameris to be--who he had fallen in love with? Of course he would make a case that she and Elespeth Rigas were not different people, but one and the same… and yet, she could not reconcile that. It was impossible to return to the person she once was, not with everything she had experienced since her first escape from Atvany. She had left her knighthood behind so long ago… to try and resume it, even in the name of Stella D’Mare, would only make a parody of such an honour. If she was to move forward, then it would have to be into a new pair of shoes, entirely. “It’s like you said: we are a team. I can’t do this without you… so will you help me? Help me become more than Elespeth Tameris--better than her. If it involves my sword, then so be it… but that doesn’t make me a knight. Alright?”

Alster was right: this really wasn’t something she had been ready or prepared to discuss, and it left her feeling far more raw and vulnerable than she’d have liked. Here, it had been her intent to show a stronger side to Alster: one that wasn’t afraid of this change, but in fact, cherished it for the gift it was. The gift to wipe the slate clean and start over. In the end, she hadn’t convinced anyone, especially not herself. “Maybe… let’s pick this up again tomorrow. I won’t bring my sword next time; we can see if there are other ways to channel my magic. Why don't we go back to the palace for now?  I'm restless, but... there's more than one remedy for that. Am I right?” With a half grin, she leaned in and captured Alster's lips in a kiss, to draw his mind away from her woes in the best way that she knew how.

You took advantage of her. You knew she was vulnerable, and yet to still obliged… It was difficult, in the day that followed, for Isidor not to feel the weight of further guilt on his shoulders for what had occurred between him and Tivia the night before. In the moment, he had justified it as extending care for her in the way that she needed most: to feel wanted, to feel beautiful and worthy of intimacy, in spite of the insecurities that arose from her facial deformity. He had told himself that it was better to oblige than to reject her, because he didn’t need to be Hadwin to understand that rejection was the catalyst of her fears, and that perhaps showing interest in the way she so desired would be enough to jumpstart her waning self-worth and confidence--to make her realize that she could have more, and could very well do better than the likes of him. But the Master Alchemist couldn’t deny that what he’d done wasn’t entirely altruistic. Hadn’t he fancied Tivia Rigas from the moment he’d run into her in the hallway? Had that encounter even hinted at surfacing in his conscious mind at least once--as some far-off fantasy that he never actually thought he would realize?

Overburdened with this unyielding guilt, the Master Alchemist spent the rest of the night sitting on his windowsill, with his eyes on the winter stars which he found so beautiful, and yet which he knew caused Tivia so much grief. Had he done the wrong thing? Added to his list of misdeeds, that already threatened to drown him in the re-emergence of his past? All the same… he couldn’t have declined her. Even if this was only her means of a temporary reprieve from feeling undesirable, he’d had the power, however briefly, to make her feel wanted and cared for. It might not have been right--in many ways, perhaps it had been completely amoral. But he had made a difference, for a short period of time… and wasn’t that what he wanted? To make a positive difference in the lives of others to atone for the lives he had taken?

Isidor didn’t sleep; but that was no oddity, of late. Time and again throughout the remainder of the night, he dozed with his head against the cool windowpane, jolting awake whenever he began to sink too deep into a dream that began to threaten him with further glimpses into memories he had long since left behind. The sight of blood, of bodies who had once been people, discarded after they had been mercilessly used up because Master Zenech needed another Master Alchemist if he were ever to achieve immortality. And yet, as much as he wanted to blame Zenech, he could not remove himself from the equation… and it was because of this that he hadn’t been able to relish in the fantasy come true, that had been his intimacy with Tivia. Recalling his fears had, perhaps in some ways, strengthened him, as Hadwin had likely intended. Allowed him to push aside trivial concerns that might otherwise hold him back. But what the faoladh hadn’t realize was that his interference had opened up a deep wound in the Master Alchemist, one that would not readily close when the memories kept tearing it open anew, just as the sinews would begin to mend. No, he had never really been worthy of Tivia Rigas’s affections… but now he knew that he was downright undeserving--which made his promise to her all the more painful. To be there for her, for as long as she needed him, all the while making sure not to overindulge in her attention, would certainly be a tenuous tightrope to walk. But… he had to do it. If it was what she wanted, however misguided her feelings and desires might have been, he would be the crutch she needed until she could stand tall, proud, and confident once again.

However, this did leave the Master Alchemist to wonder the next morning just how any subsequent encounters should be executed. Was he to acknowledge their intimate relations the next time he happened to see her, or would that be considered rude? On the other hand, would she misconstrue it as disinterest or regret for his actions if he did not acknowledge what had occurred between them? All of these unwritten rules of socialization and interaction left him baffled and with more headaches than he cared to admit… and it reminded him of why the tower, for all the blood in its history, was somehow a safe place. Because behind those stone walls, he could let his guard down, and there was no need to second-guess his each and every move. 

At one point, during his dozing, Isidor was startled to alertness in the late morning by an enthusiastic knock at his door. Tivia…? No, her knocks were hesitant and non-intrusive; whoever was on the other side was determined not to go away until they had words.

On opening the door, he was greeted by an unfamiliar face, which would have almost immediately put him off, were it not for Alster, who stood not far behind with a patient smile on his face. “Alster. Ah, to what do I owe… this?” As it turned out, Tivia had been right: the man accompanying the Rigas head happened to be one of Galeyn’s eyeglass specialists, and had come to fit the Master Alchemist for new lenses. Isidor had never requested such a service, and had instead chosen to suffer eyestrain headaches in silence… yet here they were. “Oh… this really isn’t necessary. I can craft my own lenses, in fact; I simply haven’t found the time to do so, yet.”

Yet both the specialist and Alster seemed to insist on saving him time, so the exhausted alchemist obliged and spent the better part of an hour peering through dozens of different lenses at various distances to determine which were best suited to his eyes. Since his lenses had only ever been intended for reading for long periods of time (which was a frequent occurrence), he was at least able to narrow the options down quickly to something better suited for magnifying words, and before too long, had settled on a lens that felt comfortable. The specialist crafter reassured him that he would fashion a new pair for him in the exact style of his own broken spectacles and have them finished within the week, before packing up the other lenses and offering a cheery goodbye, leaving the Master Alchemist alone with Alster. The sigh of relief that accompanied actual familiar company rushed out of his lungs. “I appreciate the thought, Alster… I didn’t mean to be a bother to anyone. I really could have made the lenses, myself; my time management hasn’t been the best, of late…”

And speaking of time management… Isidor glanced over his shoulder at a pile of open books on his bed, and back at the Rigas lord’s prosthesis. “Oh--I meant to tell you, but it kept slipping my mind… I met with Glaucus not long ago, to learn more about the composition of your arm. I’ve written and drawn up some drafts that I suspect will yield a good deal of improvements, in terms of comfort and efficacy. If, of course, you’re still interested. Here--tell me what you think.” Crossing the room, he reached across his desk to a bound sketch pad full of paper, some partially used while other sheets were clean. The diagram that had been expertly drawn out was labeled with the small improvements the Master Alchemist saw fit to make to not only ease the burden on Alster, but to make the appendage more functional as a whole; less like an add-on, and more a part of the caster, himself. As Alster took the sketch from him, Isidor noted that the papers quavered in his shaking hand, at which point he could only think to apologize and brush it off with a smile. No need to dwell on the symptoms of his trauma-induced insomnia. “Truth be told, I just woke up not all that long ago… nothing to worry about. Hot tea will fix it right away. Tell me, what do you think of my suggestions? I wouldn’t make any modifications that you don’t agree with, but I’m happy to explain my thoughts on the changes--to your port, as well.” He nodded at Alster’s arm, fixing his eyes particularly on the spot where the prosthesis connected to raw flesh. “In fact… I’d have more to do with that than the prosthesis, itself. You experience pain because the steel, flesh and bone are not compatible materials. Fortunately, I am able to change that.”

As before, all signs of enthusiasm fizzled out of him, like water droplets disintegrating in a hot cloud of pluming smoke. The requisite exhaustion, which he’d forgotten still encroached on his person, returned with a vengeance to crouch behind his eyes. He half-closed them in a failed attempt to fight off the piercing migraine threatening to descend. “You’re not wrong, Elespeth. It is entirely possible to manipulate your magic without the use of an additional component through which to channel your energy,” Alster supplied, though he approached the subject with the same level of caution he’d been exhibiting towards his wife, as of late. “Of course there are other means. I’m merely posing the most compatible forms of execution through my observable lens. Some magic simply works better as a companion to another tool. It does not weaken your connection, or paint you as any less of a mage. It has to do with personal preference; nothing more or less. If you close your eyes to listen, your magic will tell you what it wants, and it’s often concurrent with the user’s strengths and attributes. To counter your attributes, or to dispute them in pursuit of a disingenuous source may set back your progress. Therefore, I would not discount the potential of your sword as a conduit this early-on, Elespeth. As your magic develops and matures, we must remain open-minded to its specific calling, whether or not that calling requires you to wield a physical construct to augment its power. Yes, we’ll obviously experiment with it in various ways, in order to isolate the range of its potential, but I would advise not to eliminate the variables from our formula. The variables are to be tested thoroughly before written off as inconclusive or unverifiable. And the fact remains that your sword and your magic together produced a powerful reaction. Again, it could be a fluke, but it’s certainly worth investigating. But,” following his verbose explanation, he conceded, albeit with a hesitant nod, “we’ll proceed, in future trials, without the weapon and try to replicate the sensation you felt. But I would like for us not to set aside the possibility that you may possess channeling as your core magical strength. Does this sound like a fair assessment, going forward?”

She had her doubts, doubts her face could no longer conceal, not even in the darkness. The strained, uneasy twang in her voice, as well as the tension in her shoulders as he held her close to his body, betrayed her unconvincing facade. Fortunately, she had the sense not to keep feigning ignorance, or pretending he was mistaken to ask about her shaken identity. “So you have changed your mind,” came the answer to his own question. While Elespeth did not answer it, not directly, he gained all the clues necessary to reach the conclusion. “So there is no honor as a Rigas? No honor in our love, our bond, our marriage? Do we not stand together, united by a code to uphold our community, our alliances, and reclaim a lost homeland forcibly wrenched from our hands? Is there no honor in our struggle? Our survival?” The tiny crystallizations that hardened his voice into rock-hard resolve, a sentiment that manifested as sharp facets in his diamond eyes did not last before they fell to the ground and shattered like glass. “No--that is unfair of me to ask. This past year has been especially hard on you, and if that weren’t enough, you’re suddenly thrust with an inheritance of magic you never asked for, no thanks to me. It’s left you understandably shaken. I’m sure it’s led you to second-guess a great deal about your place of belonging. But Elespeth...”

He drew away from her embrace, the previous diamond-hardness of his blue eyes having melted into a fathomless ocean, into which weariness and sorrow emptied its colorless gray waters. “You were there when I wrestled with my identity as Alster Rigas. I lost myself, if you remember. I retreated from this world and invited the Serpent to inhabit my consciousness, because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone else with my weakness. Because I had failed you. Because it was enticing to run away. To sleep. To escape responsibility and this neverending weariness that threatens to drown me every. Single. Day. But you called me back here, and life is livable again. It’s tolerable. Barely, but I manage, because you believe in me. You need me, and I need you.” He reconnected his arms with hers, creating a loop, an infinity knot, ignoring the crushing pressure of Elespeth’s fingers digging into the inflamed flesh around his prosthesis. “It’s admirable that you’re so determinably seeking self-improvement, and I’m more than happy to support and guide you, to the best of my ability. But if the reason you’re doing it is to escape, like I foolishly did in my short-sighted efforts to ‘improve,’ then it’s not transformation you’re seeking. Not the kind that builds upon itself, at least. You’re running away from the reminder in the mirror because it’s fear that drives you forward--and I’m sure our resident scoundrel faoladh could corroborate my suspicions. You’re desperate to erase something precious, to destroy what doesn’t need to be destroyed...and I’m afraid I can’t condone such unconstructive destruction.” Gently, he massaged his wife’s fingers free of the tender, raw patch of flesh she unwittingly attacked. 

“Elespeth Rigas, the one in my dream...she’s an impossibility. She never knew hardship. You can’t become her, nor would I want you to, because she’s not you. We don’t have to fundamentally contort ourselves into an approximation of the ideal form, especially if doing so requires us to ignore our own flaws. That’s not a method of enlightenment; that’s a method of disassociation. We reach beyond the self and in so doing, lose the concept of the self. Believe me, I’ve tried to achieve perfection. I continue to try. But I know I’ll never reach it because to reach it means to surrender my place as Alster Rigas and my place by your side.” He sandwiched her trembling hand in between flesh and steel. “I know it hurts, El. I know you want to stop hurting. I want to stop hurting, too. I hurt far more than I let on, and I’m sure you’re aware of it…” Fresh tears rimmed the dark bags lining his eyes, but he made no move to conceal its manifestation from view. It was also time for him to be honest about his feelings. “It won’t stop. It’ll never stop. But we can make it bearable. Let’s help each other. There’s less destructive ways to seek new beginnings. Ones that don’t require total erasure.”

Whether she was on board with his proposition or not was not made apparent right away, as she made a different proposition of a far more suggestive nature. Rubbing away his tears, he drew a tired, half-hearted smile at her attempts to distract him with her enticing offer, one that he so badly wanted to accept. “Would that I could, El. But I...I’ve had a long day. I’m barely able to stand. Unless you want to make love to a corpse… I won’t hold it against you, but I’m afraid it’ll leave you supremely unsatisfied. If it’s the only way you’re able to sleep tonight, though,” he paused, considering, “perhaps I can muster the energy. I’m always able to find time for you, so I suppose it won’t be any trouble.” If it makes you happy. I just want you to be happy again. Without losing yourself…

Although he had intended to make good on his promise to please her, by the time they reached their chambers and he slipped out of his day’s attire in preparation for the evening, his exhaustion was so profound, he sagged into sleep the moment his body made contact with the bed. But it was anything but a restorative slumber. Riddled with nightmares ranging from the Serpent’s whispered promises of full-consciousness domination, to Elespeth’s disappearance in a dark, impenetrable wood, to Isidor’s internment within the walls of his tower, alone and forgotten, any search for a silver lining yielded only more uncertainty.

How do I help you!? How can I help you, without falling apart? He shouted into the void, into the dark room of his childhood, Debine’s punishing cell for petulant children who refused to learn the lesson. In confinement, in isolation, he invited the punishment, shriveling into his corner, knees curled to his chest, entertaining the company of those ever-watchful acerbic eyes, which waited for a breaking point, a way to slither safely inside the cracks of its host and feast. 

You’re too weak to help anyone, the voice of his mother and the Serpent hissed in unison. Too weak too weak too weak…

Then how do I get stronger!? 

You were born to suffer, Alster Rigas. The twin voices were so thick, they threatened to congeal in his blood, to clot his arteries, to stop his heart. So suffer. Suffer for your sins. Suffer, and suffocate. Tear away your limbs. Tear away everything. Sacrifice sacrifice sacrifice. Bleed yourself try. That’s how you’ll save them. That’s the only way…

You must fall apart, Alster Rigas.

That’s the only way…

No! 

He shot upright in bed, shocked awake and reduced to a fit of gasps and chills. He glanced over to Elespeth, who he’d managed not to rouse from her rest--though by her troubled brow, she did not find peace there, either. Judging by the hazy light peeking from behind the curtains, dawn was about to break, giving him a more than adequate reason to push out of bed and place distance between himself and his self-destructive subconsciousness. 

Suffering for the sake of suffering...it’s not productive. Not for anyone. Before crawling out of bed, he planted a gentle kiss on Elespeth’s forehead. Not for her. She’ll suffer the most. There’s no easy solution. Put one foot in front of the other...and do what you can. Just do what you can…

So he did. After dressing and breaking his fast with a simple meal of herbal tea and a bowl of mixed vegetables, he set off to begin his day as Rigas Head. But first, to make a few stops…

Later that morning, Alster, accompanied by the Galeynian eyeglass craftsman, appeared at Isidor’s residence, knocking to gain entry. The Master Alchemist answered the summons, but not without apprehension as his eyes roved over to the stranger who presented himself front and center. Alster, stepping forward, entered Isidor’s line of sight to help put the startled man at ease.

“Isidor, good morning.” He gave the alchemist his best, most untroubled smile. “I’m so sorry to intrude. This is Klein,” he indicated the strange man beside him. “He is going to fit you for a new pair of spectacles. I said I would replace your pair, back when they first broke, but you probably don’t remember that exchange; for that, I apologize for this surprise visit. I understand you have the means to craft yourself a replacement pair, but sometimes we can get caught up in the moment and forget to take care of ourselves. Time simply escapes our grasp. I myself am guilty of this. There is no shame in outsourcing the task to someone equally as capable, so that we do not have to stop focusing on more relevant matters. May we come in? We’ll try not to take too much of your time.”

At the better end of the hour, Isidor selected a pair of lenses most suitable to his needs, impelling the craftsman, who nodded his satisfaction with the choice, to pack up his supplies. With promises to deliver the finished product in little less than a week, Klein wished both Isidor and Alster well and took his leave. 

“Again, I apologize,” Alster turned to Isidor, folding his flesh and steel hands together in mild supplication. “I should have given you ample warning. But this was no bother, I assure you. Compared to the slog of responsibilities I have to endure every day, having an excuse to visit you is a reprieve. Please don’t forget my role as your benefactor; it’s my job to make sure you have everything you need to live and work comfortably. If you see us as nothing more than employer and employee, or specialist and client--which I certainly don’t--then please be aware it’s not in my best interests to leave you alone, or to ignore your most immediate needs. Whether you regard them as ‘needs’ or not. As Rigas Head, it does me no good to be a poor host. Even if this is not my kingdom, I still have a responsibility to it and the people who are under my care.” 

Having at least mollified the alchemist long enough for him to cease questioning his unsolicited gifts, Isidor shifted his focus to a sketchpad sitting on his desk. Sifting through the pages, he came to a detailed sketch and offered the pad for Alster to observe. It was a near-exact rendering, in charcoal, of his prosthesis, complete with a listing of modifications to improve and streamline its composition. “This is certainly an ambitious design,” he mused, clucking his tongue in approval as he further studied the diagram. “Not that I am in any doubt of your skill in this endeavor. Essentially, when all is finalized, it will behave as a proper arm rather than a bunch of constituent parts built to resemble one. And you are still able to outfit it with a sensory component? I’ll be able to feel--or I daresay--perform more complex motor functions, as in writing and spellcasting, with this arm? That will be a relief; I’m finding I’m not as ambidextrous as I originally thought. Also,” he twisted the diagram to view at a more favorable angle, “I’m rather curious as to how you’ll smooth together the disparity of flesh and steel between the connective ports. I can’t imagine that’ll be a very pleasant sensation for me to withstand, once you begin the procedure,” he issued something of a nervous laugh. “Not if this ring of stubborn inflammation is anything to go by.”

Suffer, the twin voices slithered sinuously in his head. Suffer, to pay for your sins. Suffer, so that others may not. 

“But...but that’s a non-issue,” he added, propping up his manufactured mirth lines before they dropped into strained, frowning wrinkles. “Nothing I haven’t felt before. It’s a perfectly serviceable design, Isidor, and I approve of it one hundred percent.” He passed the sketchbook back into the alchemist’s trembling hands. “Only...sometimes I wonder,” a shadow cast itself over his eyes, “...this is a burden I’ve carried for a while. It’s a burden I’ve willingly carried, an excruciating agony I’ve welcomed as a consequence of my undeserving survival. Without that pain, without that burden...am I cheating my punishment? Is this sort of relief something I should be allowed to have? Will I become something less if I shed away this weighty reminder of all that I lost, the horrors I’ve seen and inflicted to get where I am? ...I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll be without it. Without the pain...”

Realizing he’d devolved into a rant without acknowledging his one-person audience, he shook away the residual gloom from his person and smiled apologetically. “That was uncalled for, Isidor. You did not ask for an existential treatise on what we believe we owe to ourselves. So...if we are in mutual agreement about my arm, then I’ll expect you to be at peak health to perform the procedure. If you need something to help you sleep, then I am more than happy to deliver you the tonics I’ve been using. They come straight from the Night Garden and are quite effective. No need to brew your own, not if you are facing trouble in managing your time. One less thing to worry about. So let me provide this service to you, however small. As for food...I see that Tivia has taken it upon herself to deliver your meals.” He paused at seeing Isidor’s visceral reaction to the utterance of the star-seer’s name. “Should I...dismiss her, and pass on the honors to a palace attendant? It is quite a strange task for her to be doing. How,” he approached the subject carefully, “how are you two getting on?”

“No… no, there isn’t any need to apologize, Alster. At this point it is really up to me to expect strangers to be knocking on my door. After all, I did come to Galeyn to lend my services.” Isidor assured him, though appeared no less grateful that Alster seemed to understand his need and desire for solitude more often than not. He wasn’t like Hadwin, who would blatantly and unapologetically break into his wide berth of personal space and force himself on him, and he frankly could not fault the Rigas head for wanting to see to his comfort during his stay in Galeyn. “To be honest… with everything I’ve got going on, at this moment in time, I am not sure I’d have found the time to craft a new set of lenses for my eyes. I’ve been growing used to the minor headaches… and it isn’t as though I need them to see clearly, so much as I do to read comfortably. But there are far more pressing matters to which I must attend, comfort aside.”

Alster’s arm, evidently, was one of those very matters that he deemed precedent over his comfort. Though weary, his face lit up with relief when Alster approved both the suggested re-design of his prosthesis, and the ambition to go through with it. “The framework is already there; I wouldn’t be rebuilding your arm from scratch, simply modifying its design as it stands. Changing the composition of some of the metals, especially in terms of its weight and how it drags down your shoulder. It is twice as heavy as an organ arm, as it is at present; and it is within my capability to have it weigh no more than an ordinary arm. As for the sensory component,” he smiled in such a way that suggested both confidence and pride--not something that the Master Alchemist often displayed to anyone. “That is certainly not beyond the realm of possibility. It is a matter of having your body accept this prosthesis as its own, as opposed to maintaining its inorganic “otherness”. It would be the very last step, and it may require some fine-tuning, but yes, Alster, I believe I can instill sensation in the metals as if they are flesh. That alone will grant you more dexterity, with the sensory feedback and awareness of pressure, texture, and temperature. I’ve been doing some reading, and this very feat has been done before, with a great measure of success.”

The Master Alchemist gestured with his body to the ever growing pile of books off to the side of his desk, before turning back to the Rigas mage. “If I am being honest, I am not sure how the experience will unfold for you during such a procedure. I can say that more often than not, alchemical change of organic materials on a human isn’t all that painful. Uncomfortable, perhaps, but if the alchemist knows what they are doing and are well versed in their craft, pain is not usually part of the ordeal. However, in this case… where we will be establishing sensation in a prosthesis that otherwise should not be able to feel anything, I cannot promise that pain to some degree might become part of the task. After all, I will need your input into whether or not you are feeling anything at all as we proceed--in which case, pain would be a very favourable occurrence. But…”

Isidor furrowed his brow and turned to face the mage, his face a mask of confusion. “I’m sorry to say… I don’t understand your reasoning for wishing this pain to endure. Are you referring to the Serpent attack on Stella D’Mare? Do you suffer survivor’s guilt because not everyone survived the assault?” He had heard of this phenomena, in passing, where survivors of tragedy did not feel deserving of their favourable outcome, when others had lost their lives. From time to time, in the past month, he wondered if he suffered something similar. After all, didn’t he mourn and regret each and every life that had been lost? Was that not what kept him up at night? But it… it wasn’t the same. He and Alster were not the same. Survivor’s guilt was for the innocent; condemnation was for the guilty. And he was the guilty, no matter how the tale was spun. “But I recall you explaining to me on our trip from Nairit that it was, in fact, both you and Elespeth who felled the Serpent, and who fought against Prince Messino to ensure the liberation of D’Marians. And it was you who led the exodus from Stella D’Mare and established a safe haven for your people first in Braighdath, and now, here… so how is it you can cling so tightly to our guilt? To me, you seem nothing less of a hero. And you have already suffered, as most heroes do, so… why continue to hold on to that?”

Taking the sketch pad from Alster and setting it back on the desk, the Master Alchemist massaged one of his aching temples with his index and middle finger. His hands felt so lost of late, without his spectacles to toy with… perhaps this visit from the lens crafter was more of a blessing than it was an annoyance. Foreseeing fewer headaches in the near future was a rather pleasant thought… “Take what I say with a grain of salt, for I am not much of a philosopher of human nature, but I do not believe that anyone is really defined by pain… nor will it make you any more noble to continue to endure it when it is not necessary--when we do have the means to eradicate it. You want to continue to help your people, do you not? You’ve expressed your desire to be a strong leader, but how can you reach your full potential if you are always distracted by your pain? Given what you have told me of your desires to be what you need for your people, your wife, and the people you care about… you cannot make yourself so disposable as to remain a victim of the burden of your arm. You are a Rigas, slated to live a long life, and unless you hole up in a tower for the remainder of your years like I have, I daresay you will yet experience your fair share of pain.” As would he. No, Isidor Kristeva was by no means interested in taking his life to punish himself for surviving and thriving off of lives lost by unnecessary means. All he could do in his unique case would be to atone, in whatever way he could. By saving Elespeth’s life. By restructuring part of Tivia’s face. By improving Alster’s prosthesis. By modifying the weapons of Galeyn’s dedicated soldiers so that they might wield them more easily in defending their beloved kingdom against a wicked sorceress. And it would never be enough--he knew it would never be enough. Not even if he attained the immortality that Zenech had so desperately sought. Because all human life was priceless. Arisza’s life… that had been priceless.

There was no light at the end of the tunnel for Isidor Kristeva. But Alster Rigas was a different story, and if he could see that… perhaps he would realize just how valuable and indispensable he was.

“In any case,” he smiled reassuringly, accentuating the bags that folded beneath his eyes from obvious lack of sleep, “I am certainly no sadist, and I would not put you through anything excruciating--certainly not as painful as it must have been to apply your prosthetic in the first place… We will maintain open communication and work on creating sensation in your prosthesis over a period of time. Slow and steady progress, as is the case with…”

Isidor hesitated before making mention of Tivia. He wasn’t sure why; perhaps it had to do with the fact that he hadn’t mentioned to anyone that he’d taken on the task of restoring Tivia’s face to what it had once been--or as close as he could possible get to her former visage. There was certainly no shame in it… When Alster saw fit to bring up his cousin, however, the Master Alchemist figured there was no sense in maintaining secrecy. “Tivia approached me with the request that I restore her face to its former health and vibrancy. So I have begun to work on that--just a little at a time. It is a demanding project that requires a good deal of concentration and energy, but I… suppose that of late she has felt the need to show me kindness. Because I am helping her, you see. And because she is remorseful of her behaviour towards me when we first met… though it is entirely unnecessary, and I’ve told her as such, she insists on being of help to me however she is able.”

When Alster offered to ask his cousin to cease and desist her involvement, however, Isidor was quick to jump up in protest. “No! No, I… I mean…” He didn’t have to glance in the mirror across the room to know he was flushing bright red from the neck up, and there was nothing that could be done about it. “I mean… what I mean is… she is not a bother, Alster. Not at all. I am more than happy to help her, and I-I think that performing these small acts of kindness has given her a sense of purpose--something we can both relate to, I’m sure. I insisted I do not require repayment for my services, but I can understand why she feels the need to reciprocate in… in some way…”

If it weren’t already obvious that something particularly stimulating had crossed his mind, Isidor’s palms began to sweat, and he hastily wiped them on the front of his trousers. It was too late to backpedal at this point, as Alster patiently waited for him to elaborate, likely aware that something more than what Isidor claimed had occurred between the two of them. There was no way, in any dimension or existence, that he could divulge to the Rigas lord what had transpired between him and Tivia the night before! “Tivia is… she is quite a bold girl, but with compromised self-worth. She is on the brink of giving up on herself because of her face, and because of her abilities as a star seer… and all that entails. She does not realize that she needn’t change her face, however much it displeases her, to be beautiful, because she already is. But… it causes her distress. So if I can make a difference, then I want to try.” He rubbed the back of his neck, pointedly turning away from Alster until he could feel the heat begin to drain from his otherwise pale visage. “I want there to be a day when she can look in the mirror and take pride in herself, again. If I can make that happen for her, then I would like to. She… Tivia is more fragile than she lets on. I want her to have hope for a brighter future, and that hope begins with what she perceives in the mirror. But… Alster?”

Turning back to the Rigas mage, the residual redness only a faint flush on his cheeks at this point, Isidor’s lips curled upward in a hopeful smile. “She is your kin, yes? Would you continue to look out for her? There is only so much I can do with my skills, and… well, I am sure that our favourable relations are only temporary, and will change as soon as she realizes that I am hardly deserving of her company.” He chuckled, to hide the pain of the truth he foresaw when she could stand to look at herself again. “But… well, you are not so beyond her realm. Would you and Elespeth keep an eye on her wellbeing when all is said and done? I’ll rest easier knowing that people who care for her will be there to lend a hand whenever she encounters hardship. She… she deserves that. And she wants it, I think, however much she might seem to push you away.”

Rolling his shoulders back in an awkward shrug, the alchemist cleared his throat and took the opportunity to change the subject before Alster pried any more for details that Isidor could not for the life of himself admit. “But… as for your arm, Alster--you needn’t worry about my health. Believe it or not, that task will be far less taxing on my body than restoring your wife’s heart. You’d be surprised what I can endure; a little less sleep won’t do me in or inhibit my performance. You have my word, I won’t let you down.”

When Alster politely excused himself and took his leave, looking about as exhausted as he accused Isidor of being, the Master Alchemist took a heavy seat upon his bed and let all of the air out of his lungs in a huge sigh. He wondered how much longer he would be able to sustain this lie that he could function without adequate sleep. That he could continue on suffering in silence whilst trying to reduce suffering in the world around him… How long would Alster continue to buy in that he was impermeable to stress? How long until Tivia realized how he was able to smooth the scarring of her face, seemingly absent of equivalent exchange, by replacing swapping the health of his own cells at the back of his shoulder? It had just so happened, that upon examining Tivia’s blood, he had discovered biological compatibility between the two of them; so who better to exchange damaged cells for healthy ones than the Master Alchemist himself? At this point, the change was negligible; where Tivia’s face was smoother, faintly less red, the back of his left shoulder had just begun to take on the quality of having been burnt--as if he had been the one to suffer that fire, and not Tivia. It wasn’t as though it would make any difference to him, marring skin that never saw the light of day, anyway. Fortunately, it had been too dark the night before for the Rigas woman to take any notice in his back, anyway, particularly when their engagement had primarily been front-to-front…

Yet another knock on the door startled Isidor from his thoughts and to his feet. Thinking it was probably Alster, who might have forgotten to mention something during their previous visit, he hurriedly opened the door--only to find himself face to face with the very woman who had been on his mind… “Tivia.” Yet again, she had not come empty-handed, but with a lidded bowl of what was probably more soup, and a plate of bread and cheese. It was almost as if she knew, at this point, he would simply forget to eat if someone didn’t put food directly in his face… “I… come in. Are you well?” She certainly seemed so, but something dulled the edges of her contentedness… and he had an inkling of what that might be.

“I am… I feel I should apologize. For… well, if it just so happens you are upset that I… left.” Despite that the door was firmly shut, and the walls were pretty well soundproof in this palace, Isidor felt the need to lower his voice. “I didn’t know… I’m not familiar with the etiquette that follows… what we… what happened with…” Feeling his face grow warm again, he cleared his throat and gratefully took the tray from her. “I hope I did not upset you. I merely thought to respect your privacy, and your reputation, lest you rather others not know that we… well, that we were… together.” 

If it will make you happy…

Certainly, to make use of his alchemical gifts borne from a cruel man and a cursed beginning would likely aid Isidor in finding acceptance in his conflicting associations with his blood-stained art. That unabashed look of pride for his meticulous craftsmanship and in the range of his abilities to turn Alster’s suggestion into reality said it all. While brief, its appearance was warming to the Rigas Head, and he couldn’t help but validate the long-suffering alchemist by smiling in turn. There was no way he’d be able to reject Isidor’s design now, not when he was so adamant about finishing what he’d started. It was his opportunity to prove his discipline’s capacity for good. Better yet, if stacking and completing his exhaustive list of beneficial projects would provide him with the building blocks to construct a proper tower reinforced by happiness and personal fulfillment, (and not isolation and punishment), then Alster would lend nothing but his backing and support--starting with his right arm. 

But first--he needed to release his warped and unsustainable position on the nature of suffering; not to convince himself of his worthiness to live pain-free (for he knew he never would be worthy), but to convince himself of his willingness to temporarily depart from his deeply-ingrained narrative for the interests of another in dire need of a silver lining. You must suffer, Alster Rigas, the twin serpents spat their vitriolic advice into his ears. That is the only way forward. 

It can’t be the only way, he snapped his retort. To admit my way is most noble is to admit that Isidor must follow in my shadow. I can’t let my story inspire him. I can’t let him see that we must suffer to survive our mistakes. For Isidor to be happy, I will accept his help with grace. May that inspire him, instead...

“Well,” he mentally prepared to answer Isidor’s question with a detailed answer, forcing out a breath to still the disquietude mucking around in his headspace. “I suppose you could call it survivor’s guilt, if it’s the survivor’s fault, but there’s more to it than that. More like if one built an entire philosophy around the concept of blame and invested in its teachings for over half a century. I’ve lived these decades sincerely believing I must suffer to atone for my involvement in disturbing the sleeping beast that remained dormant beneath Stella D’Mare for thousands of years. My selfish contributions have caused a chain reaction that, over fifty years later, will not cease. What I’ve misguidedly started as a child has taken lives and livelihoods and reputations--and yes, I am to blame. So,” he stared at the low glow of his prosthesis in the flickering lantern light, I’ve resolved to do whatever possible to lessen the blow of my most malicious act--barring the deaths of my parents, of course. But the path to forgiveness is a long and arduous road, rife with stinging nettles and the heckling cries of carrion birds who follow you past the trees, waiting for a fatal misstep so they may swarm you and tear our your liver, your heart, your intestines...to feast on your failures and folly. The path to forgiveness is taken by one who isn’t certain they’ll reach the end in one piece, or if they’ll even reach it alive. They’re aware of the pain, but plow ahead regardless.”

Using the thumb of his left hand, he traced the faded scars on his palm like a relief map cataloging those very failures: magic-related mishaps, ritual-runes, gone awry, self-inflicted wisps carved from self-hatred and loathing. “This is how I regarded my life; as an ever-punishing uphill climb. The more it hurt to ascend, the more confidence I had in its course, certain it would lead to redemption. But redemption was always meant to end in my death, my sacrifice. Last year, due to Elespeth’s efforts, the bond I forged with her, I did not die when facing against the Serpent. I lost only this arm.” The metal digits of his prosthesis clanked as they folded over his palm, in a mirror to his left hand. He cradled the weighty appendage against his chest, relieved to feel the burning scratches aligned around the attachment of flesh and steel. “Nothing more. I was...I was supposed to perish. That was the final component of my redemption. The most meaningful contribution I could possibly make. I would pay for the endless grief I caused my family, the city, the people who died to support me, Elespeth...with my life. It would not be enough, not after what my damaging existence had wrought upon the city, but I hoped it would serve as an adequate offering.”

“Obviously,” he closed his eyes and smiled wanly, “I’m still here...but my right arm, and the anguish obtained through the searing pain of having steel and wire grafted and melted into my skin--it was the next best step. It would act as my ball and chain, my willing burden, a physical representation of my sacrifice. It pales in comparison to my death, but it’s much of a stigma as it is a message to my people: that Alster Rigas, while alive, will not hesitate to sacrifice whatever is necessary to atone for the past. That is why I’m hesitant to part with my arm--with its heft. I’m..I’m not a hero, Isidor,” he opened his eyes and trained them on the floor. “I’m merely cleaning up a mess I contributed in creating. I can’t give back what I took, but I can look ahead and prevent future disasters. I have the influence; I have the power; I have the means. And I can continue to do so; I can continue to clean and heal and provide, and I can do it while seized with the pain I fully deserve.”

“But,” he bobbed his head, weary from his confessions, weary from giving them voice when he’d been silent for so long, “I’ll be first to admit my reasoning is flawed. I can’t continue to help if I’m dead, or at best, severely compromised. I’ve since lost my opportunity for my death to hold any meaning to my Rigas brethren. I’m no longer disposable. Now, I’m Rigas Head, and I’m needed, as I am, to lead using my full strength and wits. As is, I hardly have the energy to function to capacity on a good day.” Wasn’t that the truth? He couldn’t even spare enough energy to satisfy his wife, and they hadn’t been intimate with each other since departing Stella D’Mare. So when a golden opportunity presented itself last night, what did he do? He fell asleep! “So...it’s not necessary to shackle my usefulness to an outdated principle. Not anymore. And on that note, Isidor,” he gripped the alchemist’s organic fingers with his steel digits in an approximation of a handshake, “yes, we will proceed with the modifications for my prosthesis, as scheduled. With you on board as my alchemical engineer, I know I’m in good hands--no pun intended. Frankly,” a sliver of cautious excitement slipped from the reserves of his carefully molded expression, “I haven’t had much to look forward to. This may be just what I need to feel...I don’t know, to feel whole, again. There hasn’t been much good in my life, lately—really, not since you showed up in it—so the prospect of a sleeker, better functioning arm is, I daresay, another strong contender for good. And I mean that, Isidor.” Releasing his handshake, he relocated his arm just above the alchemist’s shoulder, delivering him a friendly pat of gratitude. “You’ve been nothing but helpful to me and my family. It certainly counts as heroism. But I understand. Just as I don’t consider myself a hero due to the blood on my hands, you can’t see yourself as one, either. I hope you will at least take comfort in knowing that some people will never see you as anything less. Myself included.” 

Not that his words would have any effect on Isidor. He could be eloquence incarnate, pontificating beauty in every word he expertly crafted, and no amount of lecturing would make any difference. Didn’t he learn that last night, when his attempts to sway Elespeth, or at least provide her a small measure of comfort, did not but upset her further? Why not admit it out loud, as well? He’d exhausted the limits of his help. Now, he subsisted as little more than a bag of air, good for handling superficial matters, but falling short on the emotional crux of everyone’s suffering. Nothing he did was strong enough to help…

So suffer, Alster Rigas. You must…

Do you think I’m not suffering!? He snapped at the voices. What do you think this is? Go away--and if you won’t, tell me something I’m not already feeling! You’re extraneous--both of you!

The voices ceased, and the slithering subsided into silence. 

Despite achieving the longed-for silence in his head, he was still thankful for the subject change, even though broaching it had reduced Isidor into a fit of highly-suspect fidgeting and blushing--more so than usual. So...it appeared the reserved alchemist still harbored feelings for her, after all. And Tivia...did she feel similarly, or were her feelings out of obligation to his charity? “Ah, so that is why Tivia has chosen to spend more of her time at the palace instead of the farmhouse. You must have made quite the impression if she’s willing to entrust you with the restoration of her face. She wouldn’t let the Gardeners near and I...well,” he slipped his hand behind his neck and sighed, “I let her down. It’s good that she’s opening up and trusting others beyond just Vitali. I can find her in no better company than one so invested in her wellness. So very well; Isidor; I won’t disrupt the arrangement the two of you have together. However, I do have one caveat.” 

He gestured to a shelf, one lined up with amber vials filled with tinctures, solutions, and crushed mineral powders. “We’re not impervious to damage. We’re not gods. If I can’t operate to my full capacity saddled with the pain of my prosthesis, then neither can you take on a demanding project that requires concentration and deny yourself sleep. This is how I will look out for Tivia, Isidor. While I trust you can complete the job regardless of your sleep ethic, as I’ve been able to shoulder burdensome tasks compromised by my physical limitations, just because we can do it does not mean we should do it. I’m sure we can agree not to put Tivia through any preventable dangers caused by oversight. So, I will pass along those sleep tonics and have her deliver them to you. I’m sure she’ll be in agreement with me. They will induce deep, dreamless sleep, so--no nightmares. Once I’m satisfied you’ve received adequate rest...then we’ll proceed with the procedure for my arm, Isidor. Until then,” he wandered to the door and quirked a smile of farewell, “please take care of yourself.” He lifted the latch. “And I’ll do the same, in turn.” If possible. Like you, Isidor, my exhaustion is something I can’t shake…

Not long after Alster’s egress, another knock sounded on the door to Isidor’s chambers; a fresh one, muted in quality and a tad on the faltering side. When Isidor answered, Tivia appeared to shrivel in form on the receiving end, her face resembling two burnt halves in place of one. Though her hair still concealed the ravaged left side, it no longer hovered before her like a curtain. For the first time since growing out her hair, she had done something different with it, weaving its wavey blonde locks into an elaborate side braid, which hung over her shoulder. 

“M-morning, Isidor,” she squeaked. In furthering the animal motif, she skittered inside the alchemist’s dark chambers, holding her hands--and the tray of food she carried-close to her cheeks like little, fidgeting mouse paws. “Ah, yes, I’m well. I have food,” she said, stupidly. Of bloody course he could see that she had food! “I’ll...set it over here for you.” As though anticipating her food drop-off, he’d proactively cleared papers off his table, affording just enough room for a tray and its various food-related accoutrements. Such a small gesture, but for some reason, it warmed her with sentiment. “I saw Alster in the hallway, before. He told me to start bringing you tonics for sleep. I think that’s wise. I’m afraid I’m partially to blame for...for disrupting your slumber last night. I...I may have dozed off just fine, but I can’t say the same for you. I apologize.”

She uttered the apology concurrently with Isidor. Taken aback by their synchronicity, she unconsciously moved farther from him, twiddling with the tailed ends of her hair. “N-no, it’s fine, Isidor. But you needn’t worry about my reputation. The Rigas legacy stopped mattering long ago. Even if it did--well, Alster is the one you would need to appease, and you really could do no wrong, in his eyes. Anyway,” she hurried, “it’s I who should apologize. About...about last night.” She brushed her shoulders against the wall, a small, tactile comfort holding her aloft in case she teetered and fell towards the continued object of her affections. “I realize I might have pressured you into something you didn’t particularly want. Or, well...something you weren’t ready to receive, at least. And if that’s true, I’ll go slow next time. If you-if you want a next time, that is,” she muttered, almost inaudibly. “I’m...I’m not too familiar with how to proceed, either. But if I caused you discomfort, please let me know. I also feel like I should warn you--this is unrelated.” She not so covertly scraped a piece of dried blood from the rim of her ear, “...through Vitali, I have a connection, via the stars, to him, and to people who are related to him by blood.” It was not a lie, but what she hadn’t mentioned was that her connection to Isidor was no longer through peripheral relations. Their...intimacy had thus widened her channels, attracting his star to her, independent of his half-brother. “This means you. There are things I may become privy to, involving you. Nothing yet, so...rest assured. If I can at all help it, I’ll try not to pry. I want to respect your privacy, but sometimes, the stars are not so considerate and like to lob their information at me like an iron ball to my face. What I do know, though, is neither about you or Vitali, but about Teselin.” She pointed in a vague direction, a direction whence the summoner was traveling. “She approaches Galeyn...with the mongrel, naturally. ..A week. They’ll arrive in a week. And somehow I can sense,” her one eye squinted with effort, “they bear you no ill-will. Nonetheless, prepare yourself accordingly. Even the best of their combined intentions attract mad, chaotic energy.” And what will that mean for us? Will I lose even more of you, Isidor? Your attention, your...whatever is forming between us? I can’t have that happen; not so soon. 

“Well,” she smiled unconvincingly. “I’ll leave you alone…” I don’t want to be alone. “You’ve a lot of work to do--and you had better sleep before the storms return and whip around their winds of change. Oh,” she laid her fist against her palm, “one more thing. Check your inventory. I believe your alchemist stone is missing.”