Finding a ‘window’ in a crowded room, ever filling with more and more colourful, eager bodies, was certainly easier said than done. And even if Nia had come upon a receptacle of fresh air to clear the tightness building in her chest, she wasn’t at all convinced that it would be enough to put her at ease. In part, her flustered state, complete with flushed cheeks and a racing heart, had to do with frustration not at the situation in which she found herself, but in the way she reacted… knowing full well that Chara was likely acting at her most disagreeable with the intention of creating an even more stifling atmosphere in which the Master Alchemist simply could not thrive. You’re an idiot; you played right into that. Walked away, knowing full well she wants to make you uncomfortable! She grumbled to herself, as she picked up her skirts and sought corner after corner, whatever space appeared to be the least congested, and drew the least attention.
Unfortunately, for a party boasting at least a hundred guests, some D’Marian and others Galeynian, Nia was doomed to fail to find a safe place to break down, as she feared was to happen with each passing minute. Just as Ari had promised, some serving staff now circulated the room with pretty little hors d’oeuvres that smelled beyond amazing, as a small orchestra quartet began to fill the room with merry, albeit elegant tunes. Under very, very different circumstances, Nia would have been all over those hors d'oeuvres, and tipping the merry band for their jubilant contribution to a fantastic evening. But the bright sounds piping from woodwind and resonating from strings made a vein throb in her temples, and the appetizing smells of freshly cooking delicacies made her empty stomach churn instead of growl. Wasn’t there a way out of here? Where was the door in which she’d come it? Around this corner? Past this throng of loudly laughing people? Feeling suddenly wobbly on her feet, Nia worried the pendant at her throat, struggling to take in a few shaky breaths to steady herself. Just as she worried she wasn’t going to find her bearing, a tap in her shoulder had her spinning around, only to come face to face with a stranger--one who vaguely bore Ari’s features, at that.
“I… excuse me?” Her voice sounded as choked as it felt. Sparkles danced in the corner of her vision, and it had nothing to do with the glimmering, elaborate gowns that surrounded her. “How do you… know who I am?”
Before she could get an answer, this stranger--a girl who looked to have not quite graduated from her teenage years, took her by the hand and began to lead her through the throng of people to… gods only knew where. She didn’t have it in her to ask questions or resist, so Nia simply followed and allowed herself to be dragged along, out through the door and back into the courtyard, down corridors that she did not recognize, until, at last, they came upon a nondescript door. The girl opened the latch and pushed the door open, revealing to Nia an empty room, comfortably decorated and furnished with everything a guest could possibly need. A bed and dresser, wash basin and mirror in the far corner. Quiet and empty, and exactly what she needed right now.
“...thank you.” Moving inside, the Master Alchemist took a seat on the bed. She hadn’t realized how shaky her knees were until they all but buckled beneath the elaborate skirts of her gown, upon lowering herself to the bed. “I suppose I really must be out of my element if you are able to pick out exactly who I am in a crowd. But, you got me; this is a first for me. A party of this caliber, I mean. I… I didn’t think it would be quite so draining, but, here I am, with a pounding headache and short of breath. I guess you really do learn a lot about yourself when you are thrust into unfamiliar situations.”
Nia gleaned that the girl must have been related to Ari before she referred to the kind Canaveris lord as her uncle. Not only did they share the same beautifully burnished skin tone and inky dark hair, but the helpful stranger had that very same glimmer of kindness in her eyes. It must have been a Canaveris trait, insofar as Nia could tell, but she’d only officially met two people within that family, aside from learning Ari’s fond account of his late brother. “Sylvie. Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sylvie. You look absolutely lovely, might I add.” Nia grinned her signature welcome grin and nodded. There would be no curtseying from where she sat upon the bed, too afraid to rise to her feet lest her legs give out on her. “You referred to Ari as your uncle. Am I to understand you are his late brother’s daughter? And… six brothers, you say?” She whistled her astonishment, and tucking an errant tress of hair behind her ear. “Here I only ever had a single younger sister, for a short while. I can’t imagine what it must be like to mind six younger brothers. That takes some skill. And that alone tells me you must be an infinitely capable person, Miss Sylvie.”
Had Ari instructed her to keep an eye on her well being, she wondered? While the Canaveris lord had been nothing but kind to her, and she had never detected an ounce of any ingenuine intent as far as any of their interactions went, the Master Alchemist did have to bear in mind that Ari knew precisely who she was and who she was working for, and the implications of what it might mean for her to have a negative experience at his grand event. It didn’t matter if she promised him time and again that she would never use her own discomfort to put him in a dangerous position with Locque. This was the sad reality of her position in contrast to his. After all, they had first met on political grounds; there was no reason to think that that had changed in any regard. And in fact, learning of his curse… it had probably only made it worse. But, all that aside, she couldn’t deny that Syvlie had provided her with exactly what she needed right about now: room to breathe.
“Thank you for your offers, too. I never thought I would find myself refusing the opportunity to eat; that’s kind of my favourite hobby.” She joked with a wink. “But, right now, I think I just need a little bit of space. Maybe a nap, but I wouldn’t want to wrinkle this gown or mess up my hair that one Chara Rigas so painstakingly took the time to set. Just a few minutes away from people, and I should be as good as new. Although…” As much as she was loathe to ask, the pounding in her temples was as good a hint as any that she hadn’t consumed enough water this evening, and being dehydrated did nothing to help her already anxious state. “I hate to bother you for this… but might I have a glass of water? I should be good as new after a nice, clean drink and a few minutes alone. I appreciate your help and kindness, Sylvie.”
Nia watched the girl as she departed, with the promise to return with a pitcher of cold water posthaste. How old would Palla be, now, if she was still around? Would she have been around that age, with the same bright, optimistic smile, and a penchant to want to help? She clutched the pendant at her neck and breathed out on a sigh. If she had made her little sister a good luck charm, just like Celene had made for her… would Palla still be here? If she’d believed in the youngest Ardane, just as their eldest sister had believed in her? I let her down. I let you down, Palla, and I’m sorry. Ari had been right: Celene had been her pillar of support and giver of wisdom, to an extent, but the trouble was, Nia had never deserved her support. Just as she hadn’t deserved to be the last Ardane standing. It was never supposed to have been her…
Considering things couldn’t have gone much worse, as she’d already run away from the party, at risk of offending Ari, the Master Alchemist reached up with a shaky hand and turned the mirror perched behind the wash basin so that its reflective surface faced her. She let out whatever breath she had been holding with a whoosh of a sigh. It wasn’t her; it wasn’t Celene’s face staring back at her. Though neither was it her, the Nia she was used to seeing. Looking back at her was the face of some lost and overwhelmed princess, with green pigments beautifully complementing the warm brown of her irises, a natural flush to her cheeks, and her lips tinted a faint rouge to make them appear fuller at a glance. It wasn’t Celene, because Celene had always known how to carry herself with confidence, and she… well, she’d left her confidence behind at the castle, in her chambers, as soon as she’d donned that gown.
See, Celene? I can’t be you. I can’t replace you. I don’t know what I am doing, here…
True to her word, sweet Sylvie Canaveris returned just moments later with a pitcher of water and a glass, which she filled and handed to the winded Master Alchemist. “Ah, you’re an angel, Sylvie. Thank you.” Nia took a slow slip from the glass, feeling marginally better as the icy liquid trickled down her throat. “Looking out for six brothers, and also looking out for your uncle’s guests? You must be downright exhausted, yourself. Worn out without even knowing it. But you know what? I have a feeling each and every one of your brothers is going to remember you fondly for what you do for them. They might be too young to recognize or acknowledge it, now, but just give them a little time. You’ll come to find you are more valuable to them than they ever knew.”
Finishing her glass, she set it on the table next to the washbasin, and folded her hands in her lap. “I was one of the middle-children, myself. Both an older and a younger sister. Sadly, there wasn’t much that I could do for my own little sister, but my older one… I’ll never forget her. She was invaluable to me, in ways that I’m not sure she realized, and that I’m not sure I ever made clear to her. So as exhausting as what you’re doing must seem to you, now, I guarantee you’re nigh irreplaceable to your family. Don’t forget that, alright?”
As much as she’d hoped her words would hold true, and in a few moments she would be ready to return to the festivities, fresh and new, the heaviness weighing on Nia’s shoulders hadn’t lifted. And her knees didn’t feel any stronger. “Damn, I really hate to admit defeat, but I… I think I might need a bit of a rest, after all. I didn’t think I was so tired, but all of this was more than I bargained for, and if I want to make an appearance again sometime this evening, I think I’ll have to close my eyes for thirty minutes or so. Thank you, though, for saving me among the masses.”
Shifting her position on the bed, her head still throbbing just enough to be a nuisance, Nia carefully pressed her back and her neck against the array of pillows so as not to upset the gown or her hair. “I think I know how to find my way back when I’m ready, so no need to sit around and wait for me. Thank you, though, for everything. I do appreciate it, Sylvie.”
Flashing a reassuring smile, Nia closed her eyes and tried to sink into a dark space where cloying thoughts could not intrude. A half hour, that was all she needed, and then she’d be fine; it was not as though she was recovering for a particularly ambitious alchemical pursuit or anything. She was just a little overwhelmed, a little dehydrated--nothing a quick nap couldn’t fix! Except, it was unreal just how quickly thirty minutes could pass, and how it felt like no time at all when the Master Alchemist opened her eyes again several hours later. Sylvie was gone, and the disoriented Nia righted herself, sitting up and taking in her surroundings as it all came back to her. A quick nap… she’d just taken a quick nap, right? And, lo and behold, she did feel better! Ready to face the throng of bodies in the great hall, where Ari was probably wondering where the hell she had gotten to (and hopefully wasn’t too offended that she’d disappeared). So after taking a moment to check her appearance in the mirror--which was still passable, and her dress still free of wrinkles--Nia took her leave of the quiet guest room, and headed back down the corridor, through the courtyard, and into the great hall where she’d expected to see dancing, at this point. Well, dancing certainly looked as though it had happened, but it was with a pang of horror and disappointment that Nia realized she had missed the better part of this soiree, and now, all that was left was for it to wind down, and for the last handful of guests to decide they’ve had enough and take their leave.
Chara Rigas was nowhere in sight, which made Nia wonder with a hint of panic if the haughty blonde woman had tired of waiting for her return, and had already taken the carriage back to the castle. Not the worst case scenario, as there was no real shortage of inns if she could not find a Night Steed, but all the same, she was eager to find out whether or not finding a room above a tavern would be necessary or not.
In her focused search for Chara, her one track mind was startled out of its groove when a familiar voice called her name from behind. Nia spun on her heel to find none other than Ari asking after her, his face painted with concern. “Ari! I take it the party is over, huh?” She nodded to the sparse handful of guests left, many of them too drunk to do more than lounge and chat noisily, at this point in the evening. The minstrels were gone, and empty plates and glasses littered the premises. Her smile faded at the edges under her a shroud of guilt.
“...I’m sorry. Looks like I missed the better part of this shindig, huh? I didn’t mean to. I met your lovely niece, Sylvie, who offered me some water and a quiet place to sit down, but before I knew it… a half-hour nap to recuperate obviously turned into far more than that. I really didn’t mean for that to happen. I was rather looking forward to the dancing!”
Rubbing the back of her neck, Nia averted her gaze to her feet, too ashamed to look her generous host in the eye. “I don’t blame you if you’re disappointed in me. I really thought I could see this through, but… well, it seems as though there are still some things about myself that I didn’t realize. Like that grandiose soirees make me too nervous to function.” Looking up, she resumed her survey of the room, keeping her eyes open for a certain blonde Rigas who was nowhere in sight. “You don’t happen to know if Lady Chara has left already, do you? Well, no worries, if she has. I can shack up in an inn and worry about getting back to the palace in the morning if no Night Steeds remain. I don’t suppose there is anything I can do to make it up to you, though? My utter failure to enjoy all of the hard work you put into this evening, I mean. If you need help tidying up empty dishes or cleaning any spills, I’d be happy to help out your serving staff.” She smiled somewhat sadly, and worried the pendant at her neck. “It’s really the least I can do for insulting all your efforts to make sure I felt welcome here, tonight.”
To confirm the identity that Nia elaborated on, Sylvie Canaveris nodded and curtsied a second time. “Indeed! My father is—was—“ her hospitable smile blurred around the edges, but it held firm, “Casimiro Canaveris. There is an enormous statue of him erected in the Great Hall; you cannot possibly miss it! A grand sight it is, but—and please do not tell Uncle Ari for I still believe the statue is a lovely rendering of my late father—I sometimes giggle when I see it because at home, he was nothing but a goofball and I am half-convinced I shall look up one day to see the stone split and a foolish grin set upon his features in place of the self-important pomp he has been trying far too hard to endure. I imagine even statues grow exhausted carrying a front for so long. I wish I can drape a blanket over his head so he may relax his face and take a long reprieve from all the constant scrutiny. I assure you, Miss Nia, parties can tire even the most outgoing of people. Uncle Ari also understands. It is why he has reserved empty rooms for his guests to sit down and breathe in private. Everyone requires a little space—sometimes,” she finished with a conspiratorial wink.
Adhering to Nia’s request for water, the eldest daughter of Casimiro Canaveris headed off on her errand, promising to return promptly with a pitcher of the iciest water she could procure. During her quest, she took a quick detour to inform Ari concerning Nia’s whereabouts. When she returned, she was balancing a pitcher shiny with condensation and fine pewter cups on a platter. “Delivery for you, Miss Nia!” She called through the crack of the partially-open door and sailed inside once given the permission to do so.
“I for one am very glad for this detour,” she chatted, carefully placing the platter on top of the vanity where the Master Alchemist was seated. “Not to make light of your anxieties, oh no, but it is a refreshing turn in my evening, not to contend in the grand hall—which can be quite stifling—and engage in infuriating small talk where the same questions are always asked: “Oh, Miss Sylvie, how fares your brothers? What are they up to, these days?” She released an exaggerated snort. “I almost want to retort thusly: ‘Why thank you, Lady Marino, for your kind expressions of concern. And what an apt question to ask, to which I will answer: I am not my brothers’ minders; go on and ask them for yourself. I shan’t spoil the surprise. Now, how would you like to know of my wellbeing? For, you will receive the same droll response from me as you will of them: I am fine.’ I tell you, all of this inane politesse gives me a case of the eyerolls. See?” Sure enough, her eyes were in midst of making upward revolutions, towards her skull. “You are quite fortunate to have removed yourself from the evening’s festivities—though I suppose it is not as fun when you are legitimately so overwhelmed that it takes the utmost effort to stand straight and smile. Me? Well, I’ve learned to perfect a fainting spell when the mood strikes—for example, when I am trapped in an inescapable conversation with the aforementioned Lady Marino as she prattles on about her purebred dogs. She sounds like her dogs, all right: ‘yip-yap yip-yap!’ Years and years of parties and one never gets used to the trite and unchanging rigmarole of narcissistic windbags. Oh!” Suddenly aware of her endless rambling, she bit down smartly on her tongue. “Well—I’ve gone and done it, haven’t I? Here I am, poking fun of garrulous Lady Marino when I am living by her example.” She bowed her head in shame and forgiveness. “How uncouth of me—and unconscientious! You’ve escaped the crowd for some peace and quiet; not to wander right into another gabbing nightmare from which there is no conceivable exit point, save through the window. I will leave you to your nap, Miss Nia!”
Before she scooted out of the room and closed the door to let the overwhelmed guest enjoy a stint of quietude, she was halted in place by the woman’s kind, bolstering words of validation. In place of her usual talkative reactions, she had lapsed into speechlessness. “That is a perspective I’ve never quite considered,” she managed after a span of a pause. “My brothers are a range of ages, but the majority are still rather young and too self-involved to understand how their antics affect the people who care for them. It may be a while yet before I hear any words of appreciation utter from their lips, but if that ever happens, you can be assured I will harvest their thank yous and use the energy to power my magic for the rest of my life! Of course, this does not mean I will cease devising every opportunity to flee the scene, should they rise to rambunctious levels of spunk. Though we have only met, you certainly have a high opinion of me as a sister. For that, well,” she spun around to face Nia once more, “I thank you for your vote of confidence. If we are sharing our first impressions, then, Miss Nia, Uncle Ari was right about you. Exceedingly pleasant company. You have the bearings of a good sister, and I am sure your own sisters thought so, as well.” With her hand to the door, she spread her lips into one last, parting smile. “It was wonderful to meet you. Many blessings on your nap, Miss Nia. May it be exactly what you need.” On that pleasant note, Sylvie Canaveris nodded a fond farewell and closed the door gently shut behind her, her carpet-muffled footfalls slowly thudding away and out of earshot.
Meanwhile, Ari, who since disengaged with Chara, busily attended to his other guests and their needs, breaking from his host duties only when his niece approached and reported on Nia’s current status. “No need to disrupt her slumber,” he told Sylvie when asked if they should periodically check on her. “She will return whenever she is ready.”
At the end of the first hour, hors d'oeuvres were exchanged for dances; music filtered the air in euphonic blends of strings and winds, combined to create bold boleros, wispy waltzes, and frisky foxtrots. Among the revelers who swept across the improvised ballroom floor, Ari participated, mainly in group dances; however, he had taken Nia’s counsel and asked for the young Elida’s (symbolic) hand in an upbeat waltz, modified to account for his preferences towards touch. The blushing girl responded with a demure downturn of her eyes and a graceful, albeit stiff, sway, but when the dance had ended, he caught her beam of a smile as she retreated and rejoined her mother.
About halfway into the evening, Chara hustled over to Ari, impatience in her steps. “It has been an hour since anyone has seen Nia. Where is she?”
“I believe she is resting and in no condition to be disturbed,” Ari said, bending over to pick a discarded rag from the floor. “Doubtless she is still recovering from the noisome spews that emanated from your caustic maw. Perhaps you should invest in a sprig of mint lest you impact some other poor soul in your path.”
“Hilarious,” she propped her hands on her hips. “I thought hosts weren’t supposed to insult their honored guests.”
“I’ve created a new clause; I call it the Chara clause.” He handed the rag to a passing servant. “I needn’t explain what it entails.”
Something approaching an amused smirk threatened to spread on her face, but she coughed away the niggling reaction and feigned interest in the twirling revelers instead. “I inquire because I plan on an early departure and if you are insistent upon leaving her undisturbed, then I shall be on my way, alone. I will send the carriage to return to your villa once I arrive at the palace, so not to worry about your preferred guest; Nia will have safe transport back—without my offensive breath stinking up the back seat, might I add.”
Before the Rigas woman’s departure—to which Ari thought, ‘Good riddance,’ she reminded him to send a message via resonance stone whenever he was ready to meet with Alster, adding that Lilica would not open his ‘gift’ unless he established face-to-face contact with the former D’Marian leader in the farmlands. “This is all a matter of trust,” she whispered, her words nearly lost under the mellifluous medley of tones drifting from the minstrels’ instruments. “By leaving early, I am choosing to trust you with Nia. At any rate,” she faltered, clamping her jaw to prevent any spill of unnecessary emotion, “please disregard...my conduct. From before.” She neither elaborated nor waited for a reply as she turned around and quietly exited the great hall, refusing to stop or to look over her shoulder at the man who she slighted too many times to count. Mystified, Ari stared after her, but mute acknowledgment was all he could grant. Nothing between them had changed, nor would change if she continuously attacked him, only then to rescind her behavior after she laid all her arguments bare. With this strategy, she was able to say what she wanted and reap the feel-good morality after taking the high road and admitting her wrongs. For the manipulative and selfish Chara Rigas, she threw a classic ploy at him, one she had been utilizing for decades. She could spout her lack of trust all she cared, but never did she ask if he trusted her.
Because he didn’t. Not one ounce.
Another hour elapsed. The dancing slowly petered out in favor of the trays of pastries carried aloft by servants. The Farroways, including a young Elida, said their farewells and headed home. Most of his guests followed their model, reducing the party’s attendees to a scattered handful, whose uncoordinated movements suggested their preoccupations with the drink impaired their awareness of the time, or the fact that the event had effectively ended.
Amid lending his aid in cleaning the tables of their pastry remains, food detritus, and wine spills, Ari caught the brilliant hues of green and gold from his periphery. Two hours later, Nia had emerged, wandering around the empty hall in a daze of confusion. Setting aside the cleaning rag, Ari took several long strides and shortened the distance between himself and his long-absent guest, gently calling her name to gain her attention.
"Ah, forgive me,” he bowed his head, realizing he’d startled her into a frenzied jolt. “Unfortunately...yes, the party has reached its terminus. But do not shoulder the blame on yourself. It is my failure as a host not to have ensured your comfort and happiness. You expressed your anxieties regarding your attendance and I should have respected your demurral. Instead, I exerted my pressure by milking a verbal agreement from you and sending over that gown to hold you to your word. On my account, you endured this tempestuous affair for little reason. I do offer my deepest regrets, Nia, for assuming you would derive any enjoyment from this gathering of strangers.”
Despite his dialogue implying otherwise, Ari felt disappointed; not in Nia, no, but in himself. Notwithstanding his pride as a host, why else had he cared so deeply on whether or not she enjoyed the evening? While he could heap the blame squarely on Chara, both times, for derailing an otherwise civil and lighthearted social function into a spite-driven, venomous pit of scorpions, even if the surly Rigas advisor hadn’t interfered, would it have mattered to Nia, who seemed pre-determined to dread nearly everything about his piddling little celebration? And why did he want it to matter to Nia?
Could Chara be correct? You are too friendly with her…
He banished the thought and focused on the now. “Lady Chara left about an hour ago, but she sent for transport. A palace carriage awaits you outside. As you are a guest here, Nia, I wouldn’t ask anything of you. We’ve more than enough hands for cleaning. I thank you for the offer, but it is not necessary.” At mention of the eldest daughter of Casimiro, Ari reserved a thin smile and nodded. “Ah, yes, Sylvie told me she accommodated your needs. We did not wish to awaken you so we collectively decided to give you the time and space to rest. Although the dancing has ended and the minstrels have retired for the evening, I don’t suppose…” he cocked his head to one side, trying to gauge her interest, “if you would fancy a dance?” What was he saying?! Hands busied over smoothing the wrinkles in his cravat, concealing any nervous tics that would manifest on his face. “It would be a shame if you left my villa without having the experience. And since I did share a waltz with sweet Miss Elida, at your suggestion, I would like to provide you a small sampling of what you missed, before you depart for the palace. At your discretion, of course.”
Before she could give her response, a servant popped in from the kitchens, carrying a sizeable tray filled to the brim with a variety of hors d’oeuvres: salt-cooked blackened salmon on a bed of spinach, oil-drizzled grape leaves stuffed with rice, cut triangles of flaky, buttery crust oozing a three-cheese melt, and, as alluded to earlier, perfectly-crimped cream tarts lined around the edges with winter berries. “My gratitude to the Night Garden, as always, for contributing to this bounty,” he gestured for the servant to set the tray at the nearest table. “As promised, Nia, we saved you some of this evening’s spread. Do help yourself. You’ve not eaten all night, and I’m certain your impromptu nap has whipped up quite an appetite!”
Leave it to Ari, Nia thought, to take the blame for her absence that evening onto himself as some failure to provide some basic need. This struck her a little harder than flat-out disappointment would have; had he simply pushed the blame onto her for failing to comply with the social expectations of a grant event such as this, then she could easily brush it off as her own inability to adapt to a very unfamiliar situation (which, frankly, did not surprise her all that much). But like the good host that he was, the Canaveris lord was loathe to make her feel out of place or like she had committed some social atrocity. He was too kind, and too accommodating to call it as it was, and ultimately… it veered her from feeling disappointed to something of a guilty failure. “Nah; it was nothing you did or didn’t do, Ari. Don’t think for even a second that you weren’t an upstanding host!” The Master Alchemist insisted. “Come on, I think we both know that a certain blonde Rigas woman was rather dedicated to ensuring I did not find my comfort zone, here. I mean, sheesh… I knew she wasn’t exactly fond of me, although it didn’t cross my mind that she’d have nothing better to do here, herself, than to give me a hard time--and you, for that matter.”
Nia’s expression softened, then,and she added quietly, “It was her, wasn’t it? The woman who broke your heart. I knew her face looked familiar when I finally met her… it is because you sculpted her likeness, time and again. And I obviously wasn’t her only target, tonight. I’m sorry if she tried to make you feel uncomfortable in your own home as well, Ari. And… I am doubly sorry for not doing a better job of deflecting her bullshit.” She managed a shaky smile and folded her arms across her chest. “Yeah, tonight was… hard, for me, I guess. But for you to put up such an infallible front! You kept it professional all the way. I can’t imagine that was easy for you. Hells, I’m proud of you! Not in a patronizing way, I mean; genuinely. You didn’t let her walk all over you like I did. Kudos to that!”
The Master Alchemist brightened when Ari confirmed that he had taken her advice and asked his young admirer, Elida, for a dance. Something about the man’s unyielding kindness made her feel unmistakably warm inside. “Well I bet you made that girl’s night. First you give her a gift, and then ask her for a dance… she won’t forget that anytime soon, I daresay. Careful you don’t lead her on too much, or you’ll never be able to shake her! Puppy love is one hard fall, let me tell you. I am sorry I missed the dancing, though.” She dropped her arms to her sides and breathed a heavy sigh. “I’ve seen it enough, I think I might have been able to do it without stepping on any toes! Ah, well. I suppose there will be other parties, won’t there? I promise you, next time I won’t be so hopeless. I’ll be much better prepared!”
While she was fully ready to accept that the party was, in fact, largely over (with the exception of a few drink and oblivious stragglers), it did come as something of a shock to Nia when Ari offered her a dance, should she so desire. No more music, and no one else partaking in fancy footwork, but… well, she had to admit, it would leave her feeling slightly less like a failure if she could at least leave the place, saying she’d danced for the first time. “You’re serious, Ari? I thought you said you weren’t really one for dancing. I hope you’re not just offering out of obligation… because I’m kind of inclined to take you up on it. I’m curious to see if I can put my money where my mouth is. I mean, dancing doesn’t look hard, but you never know. We don’t need music to find a good rhythm, huh?”
A broad smile stretched her lips from ear to ear, and without a second thought, the Master Alchemist held out a hand to him. Predictably, Ari hesitated, and stared at her hand as if he had no idea what to do with it. “Oh, I know you’re all about hands off, but I want a real dance, Ari. Come on; it took a lot for me to get the courage to put on this gown and show up, tonight. I felt like I could crawl out of my skin, surrounded by people glaring at me over their shoulders! I was pushed out of my comfort zone big time--but I still did it. So how about we even the score a little, hm?” She didn’t drop her hand, but her eager smile softened and turned comforting. “Now is an opportune time. There’s practically no one here, and everyone who hasn’t left is too drunk to care. Plus… it’s just me. If we run into any… technical difficulties, then you can count on me to help you sort that out before I leave.”
Nia knew better than to push the generous Canaveris lord too far, so she stopped short of insisting, and simply kept her hand extended, until either he would turn away in refusal, or take it. It took a while; probably close to a full moment, while conflicting emotions crossed his face, but just when the Master Alchemist was certain he would apologize and then turn away… he took her hand. A brand new smile lit up her face. “I knew you could do it,” came her encouraging words, as she guided his hand to her waist, placed her own upon his shoulder, and then gently took his other hand. “Can you step in the shape of a square? Because that’s all you need to know for ballroom dancing. We can start slow. You can start your lead by stepping to the side.”
With neither of them having any particular amount of practice dancing in close quarters with another person, the duo started off quite stiff--which was also a result of Ari’s anxiety, no doubt. You’d think she’d asked him to walk on hot coals! “Are you holding your breath?” She leaned in and asked quietly in his ear. It was already clear to her that his heart was racing. “Relax, Ari. Breathe. We’re just dancing. No one else cares if we look clumsy. And, while I don’t have anything to really judge you against… You’re not half bad on your feet.”
She smiled and gave his shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. To live as long a life as his with such an aversion to touch that he so seldom experienced what it was like to dance with another person… it struck a cord of melancholy in Nia. Not so much as she pitied him, but rather, she felt for him in a sense that she could hardly grasp the number of life experiences he had passed up in order to keep his secret. Surely, he had danced with Chara, at one point, but that did not necessarily make it any easier for him, especially if it dredged up memories he’d rather forget. And on that front, Nia could empathize. The gown, her elaborate make-up, and the great hall as it had been filled with colourful, high-standing figures… it all made her think of Celene. Of how she never should have been chosen to fill her sister’s shoes, and how no matter how she tried, or what she achieved, she would never come close to matching the eldest Ardane daughter’s graceful and regal presence. Those thoughts had threatened to choke Nia, to steal the very air from her lungs and kick the world out from under her feet in a wave of vertigo… which was precisely why she was motivated to do something about it. To face those feelings, to be in this moment, and to make it mean something different.
And, with any luck… so, too, would Ari find the same catharsis. Facing a frightening situation with the intent of colouring it a different shade from what he remembered. If he could learn to let go, to find a new meaning in the moment, then perhaps he would discover he was more in control than he thought. Just one dance with no mishaps, then another at a later point in time, and sooner or later, he would not to be so afraid. It wouldn’t stop those dreaded flare-ups indefinitely, but given what she knew, she was convinced it would allow him some semblance of control.
After a few moments, and several squares carefully stepped across the dance floor, Nia let her hands drop and put distance between the two of them again. “What do you know? I got a dance, after all; and, better yet… you’re perfectly alright.” She was, of course, referring to the fact that not a fraction of him had turned to stone. He’d found his footing, gotten a grip on the rhythm, and focused on the steps instead of dwelling on what could possibly go wrong. “If I’m being honest, Ari, I don’t think I’d have been anything but nervous to dance in a room full of people, either. I think this was good for the both of us. Now that I know I’m not apt to step on anyone’s toes… hopefully, this won’t be my last time on the dance floor. So--thank you.”
With a broad grin, her eyes followed the trajectory of the tray of hors d’oeuvres that the kind Canaveris lord had set aside for her while she had been embarrassingly out of commission. “Well… at risk of making a total glutton of myself, I sure as heck can’t leave without trying some of your delicacies. How’d you know I have a thing for leftovers?” Nia winked and picked up a flaky, cheese-filled pastry and popped it into her mouth. She was right; it was no old fashioned home-cooked meal like she’d often enjoyed at Osric’s tavern, but damn, you couldn’t really compare anything to food fashioned with ingredients from the Night Garden. Ilandria’s unique spices were suddenly faced with fierce competition! “You know, not that I’d particularly recommend enduring everything it takes to become a Master Alchemist, but if you love food, you really can’t beat the metabolism it gives you. Problem with me is I love cheese way too much. In any other profession… I would easily be twice my size!”
After helping herself to a few more ‘respectable’ (and not entirely gluttonous) bites of food that had been set aside for her, Nia eyed a single pair of wine glasses on one of the tables, half-filled with a peach-pink substance that hadn’t yet been touched. She reached for them and handed one to her generous host. “Last of the drinks; let’s see the last vestiges of this party off, hm?” Taking a sip, she walked alongside the Canaveris lord as they perused the view of his small courtyard outside the wide panes of the viewing windows. It was amazing how much easier it was to breathe with exactly ninety percent fewer bodies in the room. Why couldn’t she have felt this at ease from the get-go!? Leave it to fate and fortune that only when the party was over, did she feel like she could manage it! “I hope you don’t regret inviting me, Ari. Contrary to my… disappearance, I’m honestly really glad that I came, tonight. You’re pretty decent company; and your niece is absolutely sweet. I’d be kicking myself to know what I’d missed out on if I’d stood you up like a coward.” Finishing the last inch of wine in her glass, she rolled her shoulders back and caught sight of her reflection in one of the window panes. She didn’t shy away from it; and she couldn’t understand, in hindsight, how she had been so terrified of it, before!
She wasn’t Celene; she was Nia. If she had only embraced that the moment she had donned her borrowed dress, she might have saved herself a lot of grief.
“Well… I suppose I should give you the space to tidy up in the aftermath. I don’t want to be one of them; I hope you have a good plan to get them the heck out when they’re sober enough to walk.” The Master Alchemist chuckled, and nodded to the handful of stragglers draped over furniture toward the front of the room. “It was kind of Chara to send a carriage back for me. Here I thought she would jump on the opportunity to get rid of me… although, perhaps not at your expense, huh? Say…” She furrowed her brow and looked off to the side. “What’s that over there?”
Just as Ari turned his head to try and glimpse at what had caught her attention that Nia leaned in and placed a quick, playful peck on his cheek. It was innocent enough, barely enough to brush the skin, but evidently enough to bring a russet flush to her startled host’s cheeks. “Ari… I’m sorry, Ari, but you just fell for the oldest trick in the book!” The Master Alchemist’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. But it was a warm, affectionate laughter, not one intended to make an individual feel less than what they are. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again--you’re cute, Ari. And charming as heck… thanks for the dance.”
Spinning on her heel, she made her way to the front of the room, where her traveling cloak hung from one of the ornate racks situated off to the side. “Let your sister in law know I’ll have her dress back to her in a snap--and still all in one piece!” She called, and with a parting wave, took her leave of the grand party.
After a swift ride back in the carriage driven by Night Steeds, for all her evening had ended on a higher note than on which it had begun, Nia could not get out of that gown and into more comfortable clothes fast enough. Donning her familiar, worn leathers lined with cotton, she felt as though her lung capacity had increased tenfold. But just because she had retired from one party did not mean the night was over; in fact, it was still young, and she wasn’t anywhere near ready to turn in for the night. Fortunately, she was not the only night owl prowling at that late hour.
“Hey--wolf boy!” Spotting a familiar face in the corridor after changing back into more ‘human’ attire, Nia waved Hadwin down. “That offer from earlier still on the table? I’m up for a drink--or ten. And I’m not opposed to some company.”
There was no question as to Hadwin’s willingness to drink and shoot the shit; not an hour later, the faoladh and the Master Alchemist were seated at a nearby tavern in the town proper. Not even ten minutes in, and Nia, who appeared to be letting off steam by the second, was already on her second ale. Her hair fell over her shoulders in relaxed curls, from where she’d let it down from the elaborate up-do that Chara had arranged hours earlier, and the ghost of rouge still remained on her cheeks, no matter how she’d scrubbed. “What a night… thanks for that vote of confidence, by the way. Wish I could say a pat on the back was all I needed, but that would be a bold-faced lie.” Tipping her tankard back, she took a long swing of ale, racing toward that feeling of relaxation that only alcohol could bring at this point in the night. “I love parties, don’t get me wrong, but I was not cut out for that kind of party. The pomp and circumstance was suffocating. I’ve got no one to blame but myself; Ari was as sweet as can be, but… guess I’ve got more reservations about fancy events than I thought. Ah, well. Can’t get any worse than the first time, right? At least next time I’ll know what to expect of myself.”
Considering the proliferation of Chara Rigas statuettes and busts which populated his villa not several weeks ago, anyone privy to Ari’s collection could make the connection from his previous subject of obsession to the haughty blonde Rigas guest of honor. Nonetheless, Nia’s deduction took him aback, enough to divert his gaze to the opposite end of the great hall, where his petrified brother quietly lent his support. Without the reassuring presence of Casimiro Canaveris, Ari would have succumbed to Chara’s casual cruelty several times over, before the night had reached its end.
“I...yes,” he admitted. No use concealing a secret so obvious, or protecting the name of a woman too high-profile to shield from already suspicious eyes. “Breaking my heart is putting it far too lightly, Nia, and implies a romance--but I will not expound further on the grisly details at this time. You are to be working closely with her, after all, and any incriminating details may exacerbate or complicate your relations to her and, by default, Queen Lilica. Much as you feel like you failed to stand ground against her, I thank you for your restraint. If I may solicit some advice; it is unwise to anger her. Therefore, your conduct from earlier was genuinely appreciated. Contrary to Lady Chara, you honored and practiced the concept of frith; a diplomatic exchange and a hospitable determination towards maintaining peaceful ties. You respected the wishes of the host--a far cry from my most persistent agitator. She is never easy to handle.” Though spoken with a clap of dismissal, his brows knit together over his brown eyes, revealing a glimpse, however fleeting, of the toll his dealings with Chara Rigas had exacted on his physical bearing. Through sheer force of will, he didn’t experience a flare-up, but the concentrated, almost transcendent state he adopted as a necessity to not falter in her presence had drained his irises of their warmth and ushered in the beginnings of a headache. In spite of the early signs of exhaustion settling in, under Nia’s company, it was as if he breathed a second wind and reawakened. Why? Why did she always manage to generate such calm in him? You’re too friendly with her, Chara’s words echoed. Too friendly...
...No. He was acting as a good host. Nothing more.
“Correction, Nia; I possess the capability to dance a passable, albeit, modified, waltz, but choose to limit my interactions on the floor in the event of an accidental brush-up or expression of full-bodied contact. You needn’t instruct me on the steps; I know them well. Without music, I can provide the meter and rhythm by leading.” What stymied him into inactivity, however, was her suggestion that they waltz as intended—with physical touch engaged. “There exists plenty of ‘real’ dances that do not include touch. Are you actually expecting me to bridge the gap and...position my hands about your waist?” That was exactly what she was expecting. “Need I remind you of my personal preferences? Nia, on this matter, I cannot bend to compromise. Please understand.” Anticipating his rejection, Nia cited her discomfort in attending his soirée, thus trapping him into an agreement. Under the stringent rules of hosting to which he held himself accountable, he was obligated to accept. The satisfaction of his guests was paramount and he, by persuading her into an RSVP, violated the sacred rule of the invitation; never cajole. Only offer. His well-meaning but pushy invite resulted in a negative experience for Nia, which he was responsible for perpetrating. If accepting an all-touch waltz would balance out the scales, then by all means...he would oblige.
She is manipulating you, Chara’s smug, knowing voice keened through his ears, like steel scritching against steel. Don’t you see? You let her learn your weaknesses: now, she knows how to exploit them. You are compromised. Will you do everything she asks of you?
Before Nia, his gloved hand vacillated, in conflict between the ever-present influence of Chara Rigas running amuck in his head and the integrity of his host duties.
But wasn’t he also experiencing a third, more prominent struggle? The urge to agree—to follow her brave example and dominate the one fear that had sidelined him for the majority of his life. If she could address her setbacks, then why not him? Why couldn’t he draw inspiration from the woman who advised his enemy?
“I...concede,” he agreed, inching his fingers forward and gently cupping her hand in a mere graze of gloved fabric against skin. His hand lay limp in her grasp as she transferred it to the curves of her waist. Weakly, it attached to the raised bundles of vine embroidery that decorated her bodice. To distract from the configuration—one arm cradling her body, free hand snugly tied with her own—he stared at the details stitched into the fine couture that had flattered her shape so well, but no matter of following the whorls of golden threading and rose-shaped bouquets could distract him from the gentle, rippling undulations of her hips. Its pliant, springy material sponged against his palm, and the lack of stone-firmness was at turns both alarming and...provocative. He hadn’t noticed his body’s complete shutdown, breathing included, until Nia broke through the petrifaction, her voice an encouraging chime of bell-tones that cracked the top-layer of slate stiffness, impelling him to shake free and slide to the side, as instructed.
In his preoccupations, he had forgotten the basic steps to a waltz. Did he start with his left foot? Did he push forward, or veer to the right? Helpless, he listened to Nia’s verbal guidance, unaware of their accuracy, unaware if the dance they shared was, indeed, a waltz, or some bastardization that he, in his anxiety to perform, had provoked. Concentrating on the basic square formation, he jerked about the floor like a veritable golem come to life. No fluidity fueled his stiff-jointed caper, and his botched attempts to lead were undermined by the stimulus of sensation assailing him at several contact points at once. Nia’s encroaching presence further complicated his ability to exist in the moment; her hot breath stirred the fine strands of hair against his ear as she whispered, its soft bellows too tantalizing to partition from the ego who, desperate to exert control over his surroundings, found himself succumbing, surrendering...silencing. And once he ceased caring about worldly matters, about his stone malady, about Chara Rigas’ iron-tight hold on his unconsciousness, about his responsibilities as a host and D’Marian leader, about Locque’s tyranny and the fate of the village, he reclaimed the inner-rhythm, and his footfalls broadened, buoyed by a burst of confidence that sent him and his partner sailing across the room in wide, circular patterns. With each revolution, his armor-clad shoulders relaxed, shedding the invisible pauldrons that had inappropriately armed him for defense. While their brief stint on the ballroom floor hadn’t quite alleviated the textural discomforts of touch and proximity, neither was the experience akin to preparing for battle. With Nia, he felt better able to manage the stress. For the first time since Chara’s decades’ long reign of terror, his aversion to establishing a physical connection felt...conquerable.
At the conclusion of their brief, music-deprived jaunt, the duo disengaged at the same time, and Ari, despite their refreshingly untroublesome union, let out a long, rehabilitating breath. In moments, his shoulders filled up and his stance straightened to its full, presentable height. No longer was he Ari the diminished and uninitiated, but Lord Canaveris the unflappable, overseer of his domain.
“I thank you for indulging this old fool in what was, undoubtedly, a travesty of a waltz. My humblest apologies,” he tucked in his arm and dipped into a flourishing bow, bending forward at the waist. “I must commend you for efforts. Most partners, I wager, would have lost their patience with my debauched and perverted attempt to engage in a simple series of footing, but you faltered not once. I am typically not so bereft of movement! If it is any consolation, Miss Elida did not suffer such injustices. Granted, I eliminated the variable of close contact altogether, which is for the best; for, even if I regularly danced a proper waltz, I would not take advantage of the poor young woman’s feelings by ‘leading her on,’ as you say. Nonetheless,” he rose from his bow, “I can tell that you possess a natural rhythm. Even with the various...complications involved in our pas de deux, you navigated the steps admirably. And...yes. Contrary to my stilted ministrations upon the ballroom floor, I am not afflicted by any chronic ‘stiffness’ of the sort,” he patted his leg for emphasis. “I suppose I’ve you to thank, Nia. For...your supportive candor.”
Thankful that the arrival of hors d’oeuvres interrupted his gushing compliments and the sentiments they suggested, Ari followed the Master Alchemist to the table where the servants had placed the tray of goods. He half-turned from Nia and her interactions involving the tidbits of food, providing her the space to eat with impunity in case she desired to cram full-sized bites into her mouth at a time. “It sounds difficult, to so often forgo sustenance for hours or even several days in a row. For that, I do not blame you for your borderline gluttonous indulgences. Please, you needn’t show restraint on my account. As you’ve said,” he jerked his head to the inebriated guests sprawled out on a divan, cackling their discordant laughter in uncoordinated rounds and not for any observable reason, such as a response to a joke, “no one else remains to judge you.”
And oh, how she had done a marvelous job in clearing out the platter on her own! He suspected she would have consumed the entire tray, but at risk of committing some social faux pas, she seemed to withhold from contributing to its complete annihilation. Finishing her last bite, she reached over and snagged the final two goblets of the sunset-orange beverage and passed one into his hand. “Ah, yes. I shall trip my drink to that sentiment. To the last vestiges of the party,” he seconded, and took a dainty sip of the lemon-peach swill, never one for downing anything down his gullet with unwarranted speed. While they each nursed their drinks, he joined her for a leisurely stroll along the scuffed floors of the great hall in its aftermath. “I regret nothing, Nia. Honestly, you are a breath of fresh air, especially among certain blonde upstarts who little respect the sanctity of a jubilation held partially in their honor. Aside from its rocky beginning, I am gladdened to hear you’ve derived some enjoyment out of the affair--and that you were able to meet my niece. She has a tendency to gab, but evidently, you seem unaffected by her waggling tongue! Anyway, if I do hold another gala in the future, I shall do better to respect your wishes, should you choose not to attend.”
When the Master Alchemist suddenly pointed and exclaimed at something out of his range of sight, he immediately turned his head to the area she had marked with her finger. “I see nothing, Nia. What are you--” He froze in place as a small pocket of heat skimmed over his cheek. A tingle of touch, ever fleeting, ebbed away as soon as it landed, its innocence as soft as a tickle. Regardless of the innocuous gesture, his face erupted in response, looking like, he could only assume, a sunburn had lashed his cheeks.
Cute. It was the second time she had called him ‘cute.’ In considering her uttered term of endearment, he was left wondering: what had been her intent behind her kiss? Beyond gratitude, beyond a standard greeting practiced often in Stella D’Mare--a kiss peppered on each cheek--did the tiny press of her lips foment...affection? If affection, affection of which kind?
You are too friendly with her, Chara’s words warned anew. And now, look at what has happened. In your attempts not to lead on Elida Farroway, you led on Nia Ardane. She misconstrued your friendly demeanor--because you were too kind. How can you defeat a tyrant if you fancy the tyrant’s advocate? Disengage now, Ari. Before it is too late.
Recovering from Nia’s unexpected peck, Ari fashioned his best host’s smile: a veneer of politesse, buffing away the rose bushes that had bloomed across his face. “Well, I did not envision my hospitality would be that well-received, Nia. But thank you, all the same. Please have a safe ride home. I shall accompany you to your carriage. It is no trouble,” he gestured to the drunken gaggle in the corner, “they will fare just fine without my peripheral attention for a few moments.”
Once he saw her to the carriage and waved his farewells as the driver pulled away from the villa’s entrance, Night steed hooves whipping up a wind in the quiet night, Ari, alone among the sea of emblazoned rock lanterns, landed his fingers upon the cheek she had branded. Even after her departure, it still tingled with warmth.
Hadwin was closeby when Nia caught him in the corridor later that evening, to collect his offer to grab a few drinks at the local tavern. Happily, he obliged, and, dipping out for a moment to grab a cloak and his pipe, set off to the same locale where he and Elespeth had started a singing revolution among the dispirited patrons. Tonight, the bar area was filled to half-capacity, a slow night among slow nights, as had been the case since Locque’s “joint” takeover over a week ago. Galeynians, in fear of the new regime, kept to their homes for safety, and of those who braved the trek to the tavern, were knackered to the point of stupor. Morale needed a serious boost-up, but no one, not even the local lute player, seemed to be in any kind of sporting mood. He couldn’t blame them; neither was he. Not lately. Not since Rowen moved to the palace and effectively sent him into hiding. No need for her to see what levels of darkness currently weighed on his mind.
“Nah, if every nerve could be settled with a good ol’ pat on the back, then I’d have nothing to work with anymore.” Hadwin, on his third ale, took turns upturning his tankard and puffing on his pipe. “But I figured, ‘what the hell?’ Shame I couldn’t’ve popped in. Hey, maybe next time, he’ll invite some commonfolk. If he’s all for being about the ‘people,’ then he should expand his roster to include more than the hoity-toity D’Marian elite. At least then, it’d be a ‘real’ party. None of that sterile, mannered bullshit. How’s anyone who’s not grossly wealthy or privileged ever gonna weave their way through that social nightmare? Lost opportunity on his part, but whatever.” Slugging down the last of his ale, he hailed the barkeep for a refill. “So--tell me, aside from knocking yourself out of commission for a few hours to bite off a panic attack, how did it go? I fucking bet Lady Chara smeared some shit on the evening before she begged off. More importantly, though, I wanna know how it went with you and fancypants.” Hand on chin, he leaned forward, toothy grin exposing his canines. “C’mon, spill! I gotta know all the juicy tidbits.”
“Well, I’ll put in a good word for you next time--if there is a next time. I’m not entirely convinced I’ll be invited again, considering I spent the better part of the evening hiding. But it was not a panic attack, thank you very much! Come on, you really think I’m going to panic because I showed up at a party?” She snorted and tipped her tankard to her lips again, knowing full well that she wasn’t acquainted enough with panic to know if she were having a panic attack. Was that really what it felt like? “I was just tired. And… uncomfortable. Felt like I couldn’t breathe in that place, in that gown. The air was all thick and it was too hot. Probably just the vast number of drunkn bodies mulling about, or whatnot. I’ll just have to remember to get plenty of rest beforehand if there is a next time. If you want an invitation, yourself… might I suggest you don’t bring up a certain someone’s very particular and situational fear of stone?” Nia arched an eyebrow and set her tankard down. It was empty… again. “He’s obviously touchy about it and doesn’t feel particularly comfortable, knowing that others are also in the know. Although… that said, I guess I kind of committed a pretty bad faux-pas, this evening. I got him to dance.”
Signaling for the barkeep to refill her empty pewter vessel as well, a look of satisfied guilt crossed the Master Alchemist’s features, and her shoulders stooped a little. “I mean, in all fairness, he did offer, first! He obviously felt bad that I was reduced to needing a time-out for… the majority of the event. But what he had in mind definitely wasn’t what I wanted. Whatever happened between him and Chara Rigas in the past left him very averse to touch of any kind, but in my opinion, dancing isn’t really dancing if you aren’t touching. So.... I maaay have guilted him into stepping way out of his comfort zone… when I knew full well he didn’t really want to do it.” Though it hadn’t shown at the time, the more Nia ruminated on her decision to shamelessly cajole Ari into a hands-on dance, the more she felt like a heartless fool. After all, she, of all people, should have known and respected the reason for his preference for contactless waltzing. And yet… she had drawn on her own discomfort in a such a way as to make him feel guilty enough to concede. What kind of person did that to their host? Particularly one who had been nothing but kind and accommodating? You’ll be lucky if he ever invites you back, a voice at the back of her mind cautioned. That was Nia’s problem: she was too friendly, too trusting, and as such, she often expected too much of the people she liked, in return. But Ari was under no obligation to concede to any of her wishes.
And yet… he had, anyway. “Yeah, I’ll admit it, I took advantage of the situation to suit my own needs, regardless of what would have made Ari feel more comfortable. I... may or may not have played a pity party for myself and told him that if I had to veer way out of my comfort zone to attend his little gala, then hell, so should he. And I’ve gotta give him credit--he did! Not only that, but there were no ‘rocky’ mishaps, if you know what I mean.” Her shoulders shook in a quiet chuckle, but it was short-lived, and the smile faltered at the corners of her mouth. “I dunno, though. It was fun, and I don’t regret it, but I’m kinda having second thoughts about being the instigator of everything that man fears. Do you think I should’ve laid off when he said no? Damn, I feel like I’m better at burning bridges when all I’m trying to do is build them. I mean, he didn’t seem particularly angry; in fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was a little proud of himself. For facing his fears, and all. But that was still a real asshole move on my part. Sure, I was uncomfortable waltzing into a party where I didn’t really belong, but there’s a huge difference between discomfort and fear. It doesn’t really compare. I think I was wrong to ask for too much from him. Guess I just don’t know when to lay off, and I don’t learn. Hells, no wonder his giant clay-borne bodyguard hates my guts so much!”
Despite Hadwin’s agreement that she had, in fact, helped Ari of sorts, hindsight was such a bloody burden. “Ah, well… guess I need to count my blessings. He didn’t kick me out!” She let out a brief laugh and twirled a tress of hair around her finger. “To his credit, he did take it all very well. Hells… he didn’t turn to stone when I kissed his cheek! Oh, yeah, I went there, too. Because it wasn’t enough to make the poor guy dance. In my defense, though… he fell for the oldest trick in the book. Oh my, what’s that over there?’” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder in a dramatization of the harmless trick. “Yes, that prank. He fell for it and sure as hell didn’t see what was coming. His gullibility is kind of endearing sometimes. Maybe that’s why it’s so tempting to tease him. All in good nature, of course.”
Nia swished the ale around in her mug, her thoughts going somewhat sour upon recalling Chara’s behaviour at what was supposed to have been a fun and lighthearted event. “Yeah… Chara did stir up some shit. Honestly, I don’t want to dislike her. I don’t want to dislike anyone, because that doesn’t behoove peace and all that, but damn, does she make it hard to see her in a favourable light. She gave Ari kind of a hard time over the whole Alster Rigas business, and although she was kind enough to do up my face tonight… I kinda feel like she was just as intent to make sure I was as uncomfortable as she could make me. I don’t blame Ari for smashing the dozens of likeness he’d sculpted of her face. If she’s that bitter to me, who knows what she did to him?” It was something she hadn’t considered until just tonight. Something that Ari had said when she’d accused Chara of breaking his heart. It was more than that; more than a romance failed. She didn’t know how, but whatever had transpired between the Rigas lady and the Canaveris lord had left Ari scarred in some ways that were obvious, and others, more discreet.
“I really do wonder. I thought his aversion to touch had only to do with his… little secret. But he’s already aware that I know, and you’d think I’d asked him to chop off both of his own hands just asking him to dance. Even though he was fully aware that he was literally in the best company, in case any such appendages became petrified.” The heaviness of the thought coaxed her to put her tankard down, that everpresent smile dwindling to nothing. “You can see fears. It’s more than just that ‘curse’, isn’t it? He hates being touched because he’s been hurt--and not just emotionally. I’m right, aren’t I…? Wait, don’t tell me the details. That’s not your place or responsibility.” She waved off the inquiry with a flippant hand gesture. “If he feels like telling me, he will, but unless it comes to that, I don’t want to know. It’s not my business, what happened with him and past love affairs. But it does make me feel like more of an asshole than before. I think I owe the man an apology. That can wait, though.”
Reaching for her ale again, the Master Alchemist resumed her startling drinking pace and downed another mug. And she wasn’t nearly drunk enough, yet. “That task is for sober Nia, but sober Nia has already maxed out her tolerance after tonight. Right now, I’m only interested in being drunk Nia. Thanks for coming out, by the way! I really needed to let loose after hours of keeping myself ‘properly contained’. Those kinds of parties really aren’t for me! Hey,” she nodded to the other side of the room, and the target drawn on the wall that Hadwin would have found familiar. “You any good at throwing knives? I’m absolute shit at it--unless I’m drunk. Let’s give it a go!”
Since Locque’s takeover, whatever was occurring at the palace and its occupants were largely unknown to the new inhabitants of the farmhouse, in the outskirts of Galeyn. Alster and Elespeth hadn’t seen or heard from Lilica or Chara since the sorceress had first assumed power in sharing the throne. They had promised to keep in touch to the best of their ability, but as Lilica had prefaced upon her last visit, it wasn’t safe for her to be kept in the know of anything that was transpiring below the surface, so it came as little surprise as, in the days that passed, the only person they heard from was Isidor. And his messages were brief and fleeting, offering little insight into what was going on at the heart of Galeyn, because even he himself remained largely in the dark. There was merely a couple brief messages informing Alster and Elespeth that Chara was attending a party hosted by none other than Aristide Canaveris, and that should it ever become necessary for anyone to ‘forget’ pertinent information that would lead to the sorceress’s downfall, he had a way of making that happen.
But aside from those brief and detached updates, Alster and Elespeth were left in the dark, awaiting an opportunity to act on something--anything that might help bring about an end to the nightmare they were all living. But without a safe way to reach out to Lilica or Chara, or anyone without being detected by either Locque or, indirectly, Rowen, the best that they could do was keep alert and look out for signs that someone was reaching out. Though he’d tried, Alster hadn’t yet managed to find a way to connect through dreams, simply given the fact that no one’s sleep schedule was synchronized--and they both imagined that those inhabiting the palace were probably lucky to get any sleep, under the stress they were currently enduring.
Neither one of them, however, expected that sign to come in the form of a resonance stone message, inquiring about the possibility of meeting with the current leader of D’Marian affairs: Lord Aristide Canaveris, himself. The message had come a little over a week since they had spoken to Lilica and Chara in person, and Alster had been the one to receive it. Elespeth, who had just returned from a lengthy run, had returned home to catch the aftermath of her husband’s wary and perplexed reaction to such an unexpected message. “Alster? Is something wrong? What’s happening?” Out of breath and sweaty from bundling up against the lingering chill of early spring, the former knight kicked off her boots and shed a few layers of fabric to cool down. She noticed the resonance stone in Alster’s hand, and furrowed her brows. “Who have you been speaking with?”
As it turned out, Aristide was understandably not the one who had bothered to make the request; after all, they did not have a reciprocal resonance stone to get into contact with the man. It was through Chara that the request was made regarding the following day, asking that Alster visit the D’Marian settlement for a parlay--of course, under Canaveris protection. No harm would come to the controversial Rigas lord, but that was not enough to make it sit well with Elespeth. “So he wants to talk. About what? He has what he wants: the entirety of Stella D’Mare’s respect. What else could he possibly want with you, Alster? Also--funny how he requested you, and you alone. Guess I must have hit a nerve by calling him a pitifully sad artist, last we spoke.” The ex-Atvanian snorted, and moved to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water from a pitcher. “Frankly, I couldn’t care less about what he thinks of me… but I remember what he said, Alster. When you vanished, he was ready and willing to find you and hand you over to Locque, if it meant that the D’Marian settlement would be spared. Needless to say, I don’t feel comfortable letting you go alone. If he wants to talk--then he can come here. That shouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience on his part. If it is, then clearly, what he has to say isn’t that important.”
Alster was readily in agreement, particularly when, as possibly the least devoted citizen to Locque’s rule, it was always something of a danger for him to leave the neutral safety of the farmlands. So, on that decision, Alster forwarded the message to Chara, who then promised to pass it on to the Canaveris lord posthaste. Neither of them heard another buzz from the resonance stone that evening; whether or not Aristide chose to accept their conditions, or if the thought of congregating in a farmhouse ruffled his aristocratic feathers too much, the couple decided that they would be ready to receive him on the morrow, regardless. If he wanted to talk, they would be there, ready and waiting.
Given that the Canaveris lord had bothered to send a message at all was enough to suggest that this meeting was, in fact, of some import, and the Rigas couple was not wrong to assume as much. Just a little after lunchtime the following day, the footfalls of horses and the squeak of carriage wheels disrupted the otherwise tranquil scenery just outside of their house. And who should dismount but Aristide, himself, chaperoned by the giant whom he kept as manservant and bodyguard. Despite that Elespeth had witnessed their arrival through the window, she waited for a knock at the door before acknowledging their presence.
“Aristide. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to have you venture from the comfort of your home.” Elespeth did not greet them with a smile, nor did she sound particularly regretful that they’d traveled ‘all this way’. On the contrary, the former knight had chosen to dress in her leathers and battle gear, complete with a shortsword within reach at her hip. Not that she intended to use it, but the message was clear: whatever Aristide had come to discuss, she and her husband would not be threatened or intimidated in their own home. Not if she could help it. That, and the noticeable muscle definition in her arms and legs from passing the days training to keep herself busy, was enough to deter any reasonable person from picking a fight. “Your giant can wait for you outside,” she added, hesitating to step to the side to let her barely welcome guest inside. “I’m afraid that the ceilings in this humble abode won’t accommodate his height, even if he could fit comfortably through the doorframe. Of course, I’m sure you understand.”
It was not up for negotiation, and albeit regretfully, Aristide agreed to speak with the Rigas couple alone. Elespeth did not miss the wary look of discontent that Lazarus flashed in her direction, just prior to shutting the door in the giant’s face, once his master was inside. Alster was also ready and waiting, sitting patiently in what had once been Vitali’s favourite chair. Though a little less intense, even he had begun to put on some lean muscle since taking up residence outside of the city proper. Along with his training Elespeth in magic, so, too, had the former knight been helping him gradually reach a healthy state of physical fitness using her own expertise. That said, neither of them appeared particularly ‘defeated’, despite their self-imposed exile.
“You’ll have to forgive us; we haven’t anything extravagant to offer you.” Elespeth mentioned, motioning for Aristide to take a seat wherever he liked. “There’s tea, if you’re interested. And some fresh bread, but I’ll warn you, my domestic skills are severely lacking, so it’s likely barely passable. Maybe I should get Hadwin to give me some tips toward more palatable baking. So,” she took a seat on a nearby windowsill and folded her arms. “What, exactly, prompted you to reach out to my husband, Aristide? We are both very interested in hearing what it is you have to say.”
“Hm...by that description alone, sounds like the beginnings of a panic attack to me. And if you still don’t believe me,” Hadwin pointed to his temple, to the golden eyes that reflected like coins in the soft lantern lights lined along the bar counter, “I mean, fear doesn’t lie. I could regale you with the facts; tell you your latest enterprise was in part financed by comparing your worth to your late and great eldest sister, which arrested your ability to calm the fuck down and relax, but,” he rolled his shoulders; an exaggerative gesture that shared the same energy as a big cat yawning, “we’re here to drink, not to analyze your family dynamic. Though, gotta say,” a sideways smirk revealed one glinting eyetooth, “glad I’m not the only one who has glaring sister issues. Kinda refreshing, actually. Though your big sis is gone, death clings; hells, eight years later, I’m still haunted by the shade of my mam, so I get it.” He raised his tankard to the ever-present shadow in the corner and drank in her unbanishable memory.
“Psh,” he balked at the mere suggestion of sparing his probing of peoples’ personal and innermost affairs, “yeah, I could lay off the meddling, but what for? The way I see it, I either use my Sight or let my Sight use me. You’ve had a firsthand glimpse of how well the latter is working for my sisters.” The comment, though offhanded, impelled him to swish down another tankard of ale, relishing each wash with thirsty glugs and gulps. “So,” he set down the empty vessel and wiped the lingering froth off his mouth, “even if it makes me an unpopular figure among certain aristocratic D’Marian lords and kills my chances for an invitation to a fancypants jubilee, you can’t deny the simple efficacy of forcing folks to address their shit. Does it always work? Nope; more often than not, it can supercharge tensions, but when it does, it’s a fucking thing of beauty to behold. Therefore,” a sinuous trail of white-smoke sailed from his pipe bowl to the beams of the latticed ceiling, dispersing into a haze, “I’m the wrong person to ask if you’re looking for a dissenting opinion on your frisk and gambol with Ari. You know I’m gonna agree with your tactics, because it’s the same damn tactics I use on the regular. Push first, second-guess your tack later. In the end, you got the results you wanted, and he’s better for the positive, tactile experience. Sounds like a win-win. But don’t sell yourself short!” He barked a laugh and flung an arm around her shoulder. “You were pretty terrified about this party, c’mon; fess up. It went beyond ‘discomfort.’ Cuz you were about ready to shit all over your expensive gown and book it back to your room. That’s full-blown fear, Nia. Sure, your front-facing reaction’s not as long-standing and enduring as the complicated history of fancypants and his touch-borne phobia, but hey, rejoice; you ain’t immune to having some deep-seated hang-ups about your self-worth, cuz that definitely played a part in tonight’s kerfuffle. Congrats!” He bumped his empty tankard against hers in a one-sided toast. “But hey, I know you’re afraid to show your fear, so we’ll just keep this between us, yeah?”
Withdrawing his arm, he leaned back on the stool and quietened so she could relay the rest of the evening’s events to him, uninterrupted. A bushy eyebrow shot upward in approval of the kiss she pecked on his cheek. “Oh fuck, Nia! That’s brilliant!” He slammed his hand on the counter and howled in delight. It turned out, he didn’t need to egg on a relationship between the two; their rapport was happening at a swift clip, and organically, at that! “You know how he’s gonna interpret your wee smooch, right? The bloke’s an artist and big into expressions of grandeur. Watch he doesn’t spin the scene into an attempted gesture of romantic intent. He’s had a time of navigating through a mire of loaded and muddled signals in his youth--no thanks to our resident blonde--and a chaste kiss, especially to the touch-averse, could imply that you’re making a move. Which is great--if that’s what you want. If not...well, best to talk to him and make your stance clear.” Setting down his pipe, he grabbed his tankard, newly filled, and dumped its contents into his mouth, emptying it in seconds. The faster he swigged, the easier he overwhelmed his faoladh regeneration from healing the damage to his liver, and the longer he remained drunk.
“I’ll give you this.” he waggled the ale-depleted tankard in his hand. “No one likes Chara at first, and she likes no one, either. Some lucky few manage to break the ice, so if you’re not Lilica, Alster, or her da, you’re on her shit list by default. Best you can do is earn her tolerance. Hells, I saved her fucking life, looked after her, and got ‘er to safety; she still only tolerates me. If we get into it, sometimes she thinks I’m her dog to command. That’s just her personality. She’s getting better about it, but as a rule, people are her underlings. Which brings me to her history with Lord fancypants. A vague outline, of course--outta respect for his valued privacy and all.” Depositing the tankard on the counter, he swerved in his stool and propped his elbows on the wood top, absently scanning the dwindling crowd of patrons chatting quietly among themselves.
“His family stopped touching him after the curse was modified to the manageable levels we see today, convincing young Ari early-on that he should cover-up out of fear that others would react in disgust or decry about catching his malady by proximity or direct contact. Then Chara came along and...shit got complicated. From what I’ve seen--and per your request, I’m sparing the gritty details--he learned to fear her touch in particular. Take that bit of knowledge however you will. So in short,” he ran a finger over his teeth, “you’re right. But even without her lovely contributions, he’d still be pretty touch-averse cuz folks just kept a wide berth for most of his life. But she didn’t help matters, oh no. She made shit worse. Speculation, here, but,” he brought the finger to his chin in thought, “I’m wondering if he got into sculpting as a surrogate to genuine human contact. He had a tactile pastime, and the stone he chiseled into simulated skin was probably a coping mechanism or something, seeing as he was relating more to his cursed rock self than his fleshy human bits.”
As the barkeep slid him another brimming tankard of ale (he lost track of how many he’d consumed), he pushed his elbows off the counter and swung it back in one fell swoop. “Sounds like a plan! Fuck, Nia, we need a party of our own. It was a rollicking good time in here a few weeks back. Elly and I stirred the crowd into bursts of song and dance. Shit’s a lot quieter, now. Folks don’t wanna step on the new co-monarch’s toes, y’know. But,” he raised his limbs overhead and stretched them to the point of cracking, “don’t sweat it. Honestly, you’re doing me a favor, too. Gotta get out of that palace whenever possible. I mean, I’ll get to, but not really by choice. I’m stuck with Bron babysitting duty. We’re letting her out of her cage for a shopping excursion and Brie roped me into it. Apparently, it was Bron’s idea to invite me, and Brie’s making me promise to behave. I’m already shuddering at the prospect. So fuck yeah!” He launched from the stool, “I’m all for flinging blunt projectiles at a wooden target. A great distraction from the slog of tomorrow! Let’s do this.” He bounded to the corner of the bar and grabbed the knives jutting out of the painted wall. He divvied out three of the six dull blades to Nia. “Not gonna exaggerate, I’m good at this game both drunk and sober. Could I beat Rycen of the Missing Links or Papa Sorde? Not a chance! They’re expert marksmen. But I know my way around a blade.” For emphasis, he spun the handle overhand and underhand, balancing the blade across his knuckles and palm before lobbing it at the target. The shaft, vibrating from the throw, embedded itself just a tick away from the bullseye. “Wanna bet on this game’s outcome?”
Over a week had elapsed since Alster and Elespeth’s strategic move-out from the palace and, despite the distance complicating plans to coordinate their forces—made more difficult by the fact that no one residing at Galeyn’s center could afford to hold treasonous thoughts against their newest overseer—Alster preferred their remote location. Without scrutiny from Rowen Kavanagh or even an accidental run-in from Locque herself, he and Elespeth had the freedom to discuss matters at length. Unfortunately, bereft of overt support from the others, their strategy meetings amounted to little more than strength, endurance, and magical training. True to his word, the former Rigas Head guided his wife through proper channeling techniques via her sword, a gradual process, given how her magic had remained dormant for a while and required special attention to coax it back out. But he had his methods, and those methods involved a little bedroom play, a resounding—and explosive—success. Accounting for the damage they incurred in the vacant palace room, Alster would always bubble them inside a protective shield, a highly effective deterrent against any rogue magic, considering Elespeth’s essence existed as an offset of his own and, in taking up residence with its new host, acted as his complement. Whatever they cast, together, sparked and entwined in a powerful convergence of compatible energies. Among the solemn stretches of their self-imposed exile and his occasional cloying feelings of helplessness and trauma associated with Locque’s forceful banishment of him into the deepest layers of the ether-realms, their experimentations always brought him some measure of joy and fulfillment amid their shared uncertainty for the future. It was a bittersweet week for the reunited lovers, happy for the time spent together, but cautious and apprehensive of the inevitable war that they, in their false domestic bliss, were delaying.
On one afternoon—he was beginning to lose track of the days—Alster, relaxing from Elespeth’s relentless exercise regimen (it boggled him how she could head out for a run after such an intense workout!) received a flash and a buzz from the resonance stone in his pocket. By the time his wife returned to the farmhouse, he had ended his correspondence on the stone and, at her inquiry, explained that he’d been speaking to Chara in regards to arranging a meeting with Lord Canaveris, who specifically asked for him.
“Going off Isidor’s report about Lord Canaveris’s party, and Chara’s attendance at said party, I wager that my name came up in conversation,” Alster said, in response to Elespeth’s question. He shifted in his preferred chair, once Vitali’s favorite (a disdainful observation) and rolled the nondescript resonance stone in his fingers. “Chara must have threatened him to take action. As far as our meeting point goes, I forwarded the same complaint to her; I won’t leave the farmhouse. If Lord Canaveris wishes for an audience, then he will meet my terms. The D’Marian village isn’t safe; not just for me, but for whatever secretive exchanges we may or may not have.” He brushed a hand through his hair, which underwent a secondary and far neater trim. “If he cannot comply, then neither can I. No compromises.”
Neither Alster nor Elespeth were informed of Aristide’s decision until he arrived in person the following afternoon, the clatter of hooves and wheels jerking to a stop before the front door. At the D’Marian leader’s knock, Elespeth was first to answer the call, decked out in full battle regalia. “Elespeth Rigas. A pleasure to see you again.” Aristide, dressed rather modestly in a brown tweed coat, hair unbound and falling to his shoulders, lowered into a respectful bow. “I assure you, there is no war to fight.” He gestured to her armor. “I am merely here to talk.” When her eyes shifted to Lazarus, who loomed intimidatingly from behind, Aristide’s mouth soured into a frown. “If we are frank, Elespeth, I have much more to fear from your husband than he has to fear from me and Lazarus combined. But if it should put you at ease, then I will have him wait outside.” With a nod from his master, the muscular golem snorted in distaste, but dutifully stepped aside.
“You needn’t worry about ‘extravagances,’” Ari wandered inside, hanging his overcoat on a hook by the door. “While I require nothing substantial, I shall happily accept your offer of tea and bread. Thank you.” As the she-warrior wandered off to fetch his requested items, his eyes met the slight but undiminished figure of Alster Rigas, who, garbed in a simple tunic, perched upon a chair with quiet dignity.
“Good afternoon, Lord Canaveris. I take it you were able to find the farmhouse without any trouble?” He nodded to the closest available chair for his guest to take.
“Ah, Lord Rigas,” Ari bowed and took a seat. “Yes, yes; it was a most enjoyable tour through the rolling Galeynian countryside. I can only imagine how it will appear come springtime. You’ve an orchard and a handsome field outside your house; a perfect little territory for cultivating Night Garden quality comestibles. A quaint idyll and an ideal subject for a painting.”
“With all due respect, Lord Canaveris,” Alster sipped from the tea he had perched on his knee, “let us dispense of the polite conversation. As we well know, the last time we spoke, you roasted me on a spit before an irate crowd.”
“Yes, I remember. And you summoned the Serpent,” he stated, warily. Successfully dropping the small talk, he was hesitant to remove all traces of politesse from his candor. He gratefully accepted a saucer of tea and a plate of sliced bread from Elespeth, which he set on the kitchen table behind his chair.
“That I did. I heard that you were immediate in calling for my capture and arrest to curry favor with Locque.” Ari opened his mouth to counter, but Alster threw out his hand to halt his speech. “Please know, I don’t hold it against you. At the time, I intentionally made myself into an enemy of the people. It would be hypocritical of me to criticize your manhunt. After all, I cannot pull a stunt of that magnitude and not expect a reprisal. You reacted to a threat and took the appropriate measures to protect the D’Marians. I don’t fault you, Lord Canaveris. Though, however you thought you could catch someone who dropped the Serpent on a village is another story. But I digress.” Alster finished the last of the tea and set it on the floor beside his chair. “Now,” he steepled his fingers over his lap, “what can I do for you? Don’t worry about discretion; I called you to the farmhouse specifically because it’s safe to talk, here. I’ve warded the property from eavesdroppers, remote or otherwise.”
“Well, it seems you have seen through me.” Ari overturned his hands, exposing his gloved, and empty, palms in a symbolic gesture of peace. “Then, you must forgive me but I have arrived under false pretenses. While I would love to discuss reinstating you and clearing your name among the Rigases and D’Marians, we cannot afford to risk a civil war between two central powers: the Canaverises and the Rigases. The village is only placated because Locque’s rule prevents them from revolting in fear of involving her wrath. No, I’ve come to speak to you about another matter entirely.” The Canaveris lord lifted the hot cup of tea and blew across the steeped water to cool the steam.
“At the soirée I hosted two nights ago, I met with Lady Chara and handed her a gift to deliver to Queen Lilica. Inside contains a paperweight. Nothing of magical value. Artistic value, yes, but that is not its purpose. There is a secret compartment carved into its bottom. Within contains a minuscule collection of pebbles, imbued with negligible amounts of magic that activates only at my command. In actuality, they are tiny golems, capable of traveling under cracks and crevices. Due to their size and weak magical output, they can escape detection from even the keenest eye and most energy-sensitive of mages...and summoners. As they share a psychic link with their creator,” he pointed to his chest, “they are able to report their findings to me, remotely. They’ve the ability to see and hear, move on their own, and deactivate or self destruct to harmless detritus at my discretion. Lady Chara and Majesty Lilica need only to seed the pebble golems in areas most frequented by Locque and her retinue and we shall have established surveillance over their secret goings-on and such.” He broke off a corner piece of bread and dunked it into the tea. “This is but one of my contributions, given in good faith to your cause. Let us work to overthrow this tyrant before she overwhelms this good country and its people.”
“Pfft, it wasn’t a panic attack. I don’t panic, wolf boy. How do you think I’ve managed to survive for so long? You can’t outrun death like I have if you have a tendency to panic.” Nia absently traced a smear of condensation from her tankard onto the table in random patterns. “I just didn’t know what to expect, is all. Fancy dress and fancy set up… I was just out of my element. It took me a little while to find my rhythm. So you can save your keen observations about my sister.” The Master Alchemist brought the pewter to her lips again and took a far longer swig of ale than before. “My older sister is long dead, and there’s no point in clinging to the dead. This is all that’s left of her,” she tugged on the pendant at her neck, “and if nothing else, it makes me braver. Last thing I remember her saying to me before I never saw her again was ‘Be strong, and survive’. It’s weird, like… almost like she knew what was coming. That one day, I’d end up literally being the last of us.”
Nia’s brows furrowed in thought as she toyed with the tarnished star pendant, and her smile flattened to a single line. Funny, how she had never considered it before: what an awful, terrible coincidence it had been, that Celene told her she had to survive, not long before she, herself, had succumbed to death. While there was certainly nothing magical about the eyesore excuse for jewelry she never took off, it had led the Master Alchemist to become very much attached to it, as a symbol of luck. Sometimes, she wondered if it was somehow responsible for her continued survival. Like Celene, wherever her spirit existed, continued to watch over and protect her. Of course, those were thoughts that Nia very much kept to herself. After all, just as her mother had so strongly believed, the more you acknowledge death and the dead, the more open you become to its dark and exterminating energies.
“But anyway… that’s neither here nor there. I had a moment of weakness tonight, didn’t quite know how to recover quickly enough, but now that I know what I’m getting into, it won’t happen again. Like I said: discomfort, not fear. Being nervous doesn’t mean I was scared out of my mind, wolf-boy. But, I can’t dictate how you choose to interpret your Sight, as you say.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled away whatever concerns continued to linger in her mind. “And, yeah… as much as I get your stance, and to an extent, I do agree with it, I’m just a little concerned that I might’ve gone a little too far, too fast. I had a second wind after that extra-long nap and got a little carried away. And… hell, honestly, that didn’t even occur to me. How he might have interpreted that little peck…”
Once again, the Master Alchemist’s smile faltered a little. Damn… she really hadn’t thought things through! Under any other circumstances, and were it any other person, surely the recipient could’ve brushed it off as mere playfulness--which, in her case, had been the only intention. But for someone who was so unaccustomed to being touched… it stood to reason that Ari might have taken that more seriously than she’d intended. Really, what had she been thinking when she’d pulled what she’d thought to be a harmless prank? She’d already hauled the man far out of his comfort zone by all but forcing him to dance. And she couldn’t even blame her behaviour on the fact that she was drunk, because she hadn’t been! Something had come over her, a feeling of relief when she’d finally found herself capable of having fun, and she’d run away with that feeling. She’d grown comfortable, maybe too comfortable with Ari… and overstepped her bounds. “Damn. You really think he read that much into a little peck on the cheek? A little prank? I mean… I guess it might’ve been a little but ambiguous.” She twirled a tress of hair thoughtfully and leaned back in her seat.
“Well, the good thing about me is that I’m a rampant flirt, but my feelings aren’t easily hurt. So… a little kiss like that can mean as much or as little to our Lord Canaveris as he sees fit. I mean, I wouldn’t mind going a little further. Or a lot further.” Her smile turned into a cheeky, knowing grin. “He’s not a bad looking guy. And we already know my stance on virgins. Buuuut, let’s be honest, here: the guy’s probably gonna be headed back to Stella D’Mare by the time he so much as becomes vaguely comfortable with the idea of sex, of all things. Or even long, long after the fact. Something tells me that I probably won’t be in the picture by the time he’s ready to get down and dirty… especially if everything you’re saying is accurate.”
Nia swished the ale in her tankard and stared at the swirling amber. She didn’t want to think poorly of Chara Rigas; it really wasn’t in her best interests to think poorly of anyone, for that matter. But Hadwin did not need to divulge details for her to pain enough of a picture of what he had endured. The way he went stiff at any kind of touch, how he’d covered his side when she’d playfully (and very lightly) elbowed him in the Night Garden. Chara had left her mark, alright; and it reflected in everything Ari did, from the way he moved to the way he avoided getting too close. It was none of her business, what had happened between the two, but… well, wasn’t it? She liked Ari. He was a good guy, and something told her he had not deserved what had happened to him.
But did that really make it her place to push him out of his comfort zone? To force him into a dance that involved human contact? To innocently, playfully, kiss his cheek when he likely had no idea how to interpret it? “...I dunno, Hadwin. The more I think about it, the more I think I fucked up.” Nia sighed and downed her third glass of ale, then pushed her tankard to the end of the table to make it more readily available to be refilled. “He’s had it rough in a lot of ways. I don’t think forcing him to deal with being touched was the right move, on my part. I made him uncomfortable and confused as hell because I kissed his cheek. And all he could do was grin and bear it because he didn’t want to be a bad host. Well, fuck.”
With her tankard refilled just in time, Nia grabbed the pewter handle and tipped the beverage into her mouth. It was far from the best ale she’d ever drunk, but the more of it she had, the less disappointing it tasted. “You’re right, I’ve really gotta set the record straight. Or at least apologize for making him uncomfortable. He hooked me up with that ridiculously gorgeous gown and everything, and what do I do? All but completely bail out on his party, and when I do show up, I don’t respect boundaries. In hindsight… I dunno what made me think any of it was a good idea. Hells, it’s no wonder I can count my amount of actual friends on my fingers!”
She let out a remorseful laugh and downed at least half of what the pewter held. And she would continue to drink, and drink, and drink, until she felt a little less guilty. “Well, any advice as to how I can fix a major fuck-up like that would be appreciated. I can’t start alienating one of the only two people who will tolerate me… But I’ll sleep on it. Come up with something when I’ve got a clear head.” And in one, final gulp, she drained the remainder of her ale. And she wasn’t done, yet. “So shopping is on the list for tomorrow, huh? Well that sounds like a good time! I can’t remember the last time I flitted through shops for fun or bought anything frivolous. The idea kinda makes my head spin; too many options, not enough time! Not sure it’s my idea of a good time, but hey--good on you for being there for your sister.” Nia nudged him with her elbow and grinned. “Even if you don’t get along that well, it’s sweet that you guys are there for her. Sounds like she’s gone through quite the ordeal with her trust issues and all.”
Extending her hand, she took the knives he offered as they made their way toward the target on the wall. “Oh, I’m not betting shit on this game, friend. I can hardly hold a knife to cut a slice of bread. You really think I’m gonna hit that target?” She snorted, took up a stance, and flicked the knife toward the wall. It didn’t even embed, and instead, bounced off of the wood, landing noisily to the floor. The Master Alchemist laughed out loud. “Why did I think this was a good idea? Hell… I’m really full of god-awful judgment, tonight.”
Even if what Aristide said was right--that Alster was a greater threat than he and his giant manservant were, combined--it was a non-negotiable condition. And nothing he said could have made her change her mind. Elespeth’s cool, grey-green eyes and the firm set of her mouth did not budge. “If we are being frank, Aristide, that my husband and I have agreed to meet with you at all is, at this point, about the greatest compromise you can expect from us. Your manservant stays outside, or you can get back in that carriage and return to the D’Marian village, posthaste.”
The Canaveris lord knew better than to press his luck, however, and Elespeth couldn’t help but flash a satisfied smirk at the giant who had at one point tried to prevent her from entering Aristide’s villa. Petty revenge was sometimes a very sweet delight. Stepping aside, she let the earth mage inside, and shut the door firmly. It rather took her by surprise that he agreed to what meager refreshments she could offer, but upon recalling how offended he had looked when she had declined to partake in that dinner that had involved Lilica and Chara, it became clear to her that he was likely just playing it safe and did not want to offend. She hadn’t so much as tried her bread, yet; for all she knew, it probably tasted terrible. Oh, well… that was his funeral, if he wanted to take the risk.
“You already know full well why Alster summoned the Serpent, that day; we’ve been over it.” She reminded Ari when he so saw fit to bring it up again, and handed him a mug of tea and a slice of bread, slathered with a peach jam that Tivia had made the previous summer and then left behind. “And Alster might not hold what you against you, because he is a far better person than I could ever be, but know that you are treading thin ice. So if whatever you have to say is important, then I suggest you get it out.”
It did not surprise her at all to hear that he had not come to clear the Rigas name of the false assumptions Aristide had led the people of Stella D’Mare to believe; there was simply no way that he would have come all the way out from the D’Marian village, out of his own comfort zone and onto tenuous territory, to extend a hand of apology or friendship. But, like her husband, Elespeth was intrigued as to what would bring Aristide Canaveris this far from his comfortable home, and it was because of that that the two of them had agreed to this meeting, at all. But what the man really had to say… well, that took her by surprise.
“Wait. So… you are telling us that you effectively have a way to spy on the happenings in the castle. To gain information on Locque and the people working for her. Well, what does that have to do with us? The gift is for Lilica, and Alster and I cannot become too involved. It is within everyone’s best interests that we steer clear as much as possible. I don’t understand why you’re putting us in the know when we aren’t the ones with your golems, or inhabiting the palace.” Elespeth watched as a faint, uncomfortable flush crossed the Canaveris lord’s cheeks as he explained Chara’s condition for giving the present to Lilica. Well, she had to credit the haught Rigas woman for her forward thinking. “...huh. So Lilica doesn’t even have the gift, as of yet. Not until Chara is sure she can actually trust you. And that’s why she sent you to us: so that we can contact her and vouch for your genuine interest in the safety of not only your own people, but this entire kingdom. My question to you, then,” the former leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, eyeing the Canaveris lord warily. “Is how are we to know you are trustworthy, Aristide? You speak of wanting to create amicable relations with Queen Lilica, but you are not yet ready to admit that what Alster did in summoning the Serpent was actually within the best interests of the D’Marians. And Chara has made mention of how you keep the company of that Master Alchemist. How are we to be assured that you aren’t, in fact, acting in Locque’s favour? If you are the only one who can see and hear what these little golems report, then we are helpless but to take your word for everything.”
Aristide shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but after a pause, he insisted that his relations with one Nia Ardane were entirely political, and neutral, at best. And if they wanted proof that he would keep his distance, then he could hold himself to that promise, so long as it did not compromise him and his position in Locque’s eyes. “You know, you’re a lot of things, Canaveris. In my mind, not many of them are positive things. But… I don’t peg you as much of a liar. An opportunist, maybe, and someone who is apt to inflate and twist truths to his benefit, but not a liar. And for the sake of this kingdom, and all of our friends and loved ones… I want to believe that you are being sincere, right now. But I’m not the one you have impacted the most.” Elespeth turned her head to her husband. “It is your call, Alster. You know I’ll support whatever you decide.”
After some careful thought, following her discussion with Hadwin, Nia at last came to the conclusion that, yes, she had been far too disrespectful toward Ari, and couldn’t justify putting him in a position of such discomfort. And with the few connections she had in this kingdom who actually tolerated her presence (aside from Locque, of course, but the sorceress wasn’t the best company), she knew she couldn’t afford to burn bridges before they’d even been built and stabilized! Hadwin wasn’t wrong: sometimes, it was necessary to face your fears, but… it hadn’t been the most appropriate opportunity. And she still couldn’t help but feel like a jerk in the aftermath.
So the day that Ari had departed with his manservant to visit one Alster Rigas just happened to be the same day and time that Nia decided to pay a visit to his villa, only to be informed by a very confused and nervous servant that the Master of the house was not present. Damn; just her luck, the one time she thought up a real good apology, he wasn’t there to receive it. She could have come back at another time, but… well, she was already there, apology gift in hand. “Huh. Guess I’ve got bad timing.” The Master Alchemist chuckled to herself and shook her head. “No worries, I guess. Hey, would you mind passing on a little gift to your lord, then? I promise you, it’s nothing dangerous; not a prank, I’m not that uncouth! Here, I’ll show you.”
Taking a small, lace-lined pouch attached to her belt, a small, perfectly oval-shaped stone dropped into her palm. “Ari himself can tell you this is literally just a rock; not magical or alchemically altered or anything. But it’s got a special use. See, it’s a worry stone. The groove in the center is a perfect shape for a thumbprint. You just rub your thumb over the groove when you feel like you’re losing your cool. It’s good for grounding yourself when you’re afraid you might lose control… don’t get me wrong, your lord is a calm guy on the outside, but everyone’s got their moments of weakness. I thought he could use something like it.” With a grin, she replaced the stone in the pouch and handed it to the nervous servant. “Honestly, it’s an apology gift. In case I took him waaaay too far out of his comfort zone the other night. If you see him, tell him that kiss doesn’t have to mean anything… if he doesn’t want it to.”
Before the perplexed woman could ask any follow up questions, Nia turned tail and left the Canaveris grounds. She hadn’t spoken to him directly, but she did feel a little lighter. After all, that servant had no reason not to give him such a harmless gift, and maybe, just maybe, it was enough to compensate for offending him, if she had done so. But, above all, if she wasn’t around to help him deal with his… condition, whenever it flared up, maybe keeping that little trinket on him would marginally deflect the severity of any future ‘stiffness’. So even if it didn’t buy her way back into his good graces, at the very least, she took comfort in knowing that maybe life would become a little more manageable for him. The guy deserved a break!
“What does it have to do with you?” Ari echoed Elespeth’s question, brow quirked in incredulity. “Lady Chara directed me to you and Lord Rigas for two reasons; one explicitly stated and the other implied. Explicitly, she does not trust Queen Lilica to open my gift until I present my argument to Lord Rigas’ perusal. She must desire his opinion for a reason. Implicitly, she has hinted as to her unaffordability organizing a counterinsurgency of any sort. If Lady Chara and Queen Lilica cannot risk involvement, and if you are echoing their sentiments, then praytell, how do you intend on deposing Locque? Who is de facto in charge of this attempted uprising, if no one chooses to share responsibility? Further,” he bit into the jam-covered and tea-dampened bread, reserving his reaction to the former’s texture—too crumbly and dry—“you can trust me because I am effectively giving myself away. At any moment, you can approach Locque and reveal my treacherous plans. Should you utilize my golems, then I stand to reap the worst punishment by default of having the evidence both to prosecute me and void the elements of the truce. I would not place myself in such a compromised position, endangering D’Marian lives, only to turn around and betray you in the end. What do I gain? Rather, I would argue that you, Lord Rigas, stand to benefit from informing on me. Running unopposed, you could reclaim the D’Marian village under the Rigas banner. By allying with you, it is I who am leaving myself open and vulnerable to any acts of revenge you might conceivably inflict. As for Miss Nia Ardane,” he sighed, reflexively touching the cheek she had kissed the other night, before wrenching it away in favor of setting aside his plate of nibbled bread, “friendly correspondences with her are of a strategic and political bent. In the event I am detained, she may have the swaying power to vouchsafe and lessen my charge, ultimately sparing D’Marian lives for their leader’s ‘mishaps.’”
Taking advantage of the pause Ari had created by sipping his tea, Alster leaned forward in his seat, a physical gesture to represent his willingness to meet the D’Marian leader halfway. “You’ve made your cogent argument; now allow me to express my concerns, point for point, as you have done. Though you say you have nothing to gain by betraying us to Locque, tell me, what do you actually gain by helping us? While I can’t verify that she is good as her word, Locque intends on honoring her truce to the D’Marian village. Why ruin your paper-thin treaty if your wish was to end D’Marian hostilities? If you are caught by Locque, no one, not even Nia Ardane, will be enough to spare you or the D’Marians from the sorceress’s wrath. As it stands,” he slid his hands, flesh and steel, over his chair’s cushioned armrests, “those of us who are opposing Locque cannot afford a united front right now. It’s too dangerous. We must see ourselves as individuals working towards a common goal; that way, in the event one of us is discovered by the witch, she will trace no other associations, cohorts, or co-conspirators to the deed, and will hopefully write it off as an isolated incident. The more who are vocally and connectedly in league against her, the worse she will retaliate.”
“I see.” The Canaveris lord drained the rest of his tea and placed the empty vessel beside the bread dish. “I have an answer and a question. First, to answer your question. It should come as no surprise, Lord Rigas, that I vehemently oppose tyranny in all facets. After all, the Canaverises stood with the Rigases against Prince Messino during the war. We, too, lost a great deal of men and women—my brother, included.” He picked at his coat collar; it belonged to Casimiro, given as a posthumous gift by his sister-in-law. Aside from a few articles of clothing, Ari had precious little of his brother’s personal effects, forced to leave the remainder behind in crumbling Stella D’Mare. “I do not decry the loss of those brave individuals, not when they fought to free our fair city from the talons of Andalarian occupation, who appropriated our ancestral lands and denied us our claim. Centuries later, we earned our bittersweet freedom, but our victories were denied, stolen by the new oppressor: Mollengard. Now, though we are disinterred from our lands, this most recent battle involves our adopted home.” The flat of his palm smacked its emphasizing thump against his chest. Despite being seated, his legs spread wide and pressed to the floor, his footing resembling a soldier who refused to be toppled. “I will not have what has plagued Stella D’Mare repeat here in Galeyn. I will not yield to the same fate, and neither will the good people of Stella D’Mare. Not when we must kowtow to our oppressors for the right to survive.”
“Say what you will of my usurpation, Lord Rigas,” he cocked his head to his predecessor, “but I did not wrench leadership from you by force. The people had spoken their outrage against you; in exchange, you responded with a most radical form of resignation, effectively shattering the relationship with your remaining supporters.” He cast a side-eye to Elespeth. “Contrary to your beliefs, I do not deny to admit the reasoning behind Lord Rigas and his Serpent-related exploits. Alas, I cannot give the act any public applause, for what he did was exceedingly controversial in D’Marian society and must be condemned before it is celebrated as a ‘protective measure’ or whatever else you wish to call it. However I choose to approach a pro-Alster narrative, not one villager can nor will forget that he summoned the one being who once destroyed the brunt of our seaside city and which your husband is responsible for coaxing out of Its slumber, fifty years ago. To support him is to support the monster he deliberately manipulated with the express purpose of yielding a baseless end result. Whether or not it was for the ‘good’ of the people is beside the point when his ‘good’ invoked more psychological harm upon the D’Marians than a family’s cold-blooded murder.”
“Enough, Lord Canaveris,” though he whispered the statement, Alster’s request carried a warning air of authority--a strong breeze that preluded a cyclone. “Save your energy for when--for if--” he corrected, “we discuss reinstating my citizenship and exonerating my crimes. You needn’t browbeat the matter; I am well-aware of the damaging breach of trust my Serpent summoning has caused. I am interested in working with you, Lord Canaveris, not against you. Please do not make me regret my decision. Now,” he waved a hand for the raven-haired aristocrat to continue, “what is your question?”
“Ah, forgive me; I suppose I carried myself off the well-worn path, as it were.” Clearing his throat, he slipped a hand into his pockets and returned with what appeared as a nondescript pile of gravel layered on his palm in a pyramid formation. “If we are not operating as a collective, then what will you have me do with the pebble golems?”
Alster brought forth his prosthetic hand, cupping it in Ari’s direction. “May I have a look at them?” With a compliant nod, the Canaveris Lord carefully poured the tiny specimens for Alster’s inspection, allowing enough space in between to prevent their hands from touching. “And they are currently not activated by your magic?” Ari responded in the negative. Plucking one pebble from the pile, he presented it before his eyes, closing one and squinting the other to make out the nearly missable shape of...a humanoid figure, hewn from the stone. “These aren’t pebbles. They’re...statues. Microminiature statues.” He returned his gaze to Ari, trying, and failing, to shield his amazement. “Did you create these?”
“Yes.” A hint of pride tugged across Ari’s mouth. “See, a golem cannot take form unless it is given a shape and a purpose. For instance, a rock in my hands does not automatically become a golem just because I imbued magic into its composition. I must combine magic and skilled artisanry to physically chip away at the material and reveal its intended form. Depending on the golem, it can achieve perambulation, sight, or hearing--to list a few common examples--but more sophisticated golems can simulate speech, intelligence, and sensory information. Lazarus is one such golem; practically human in his construction,” he glanced over his shoulder at the door, wondering how the giant manservant was faring outside. “Allow me a demonstration.” Lowering his head, the Canaveris lord concentrated on his connection to the loose pile of pebbles in Alster’s hand. Within moments, the pile dispersed as though disturbed by a faint tremor, and each individual pebble traveled to different areas on Alster’s steel hand. One traversed to the mounts of his thumb, while others journeyed out to the capes and peninsulas of his outstretched forefingers. Out of pure fascination, he watched the crumb-sized statues rove and explore, mesmerized and thus unable to clear his growing levels of delight. “Lord Rigas,” Ari gently interrupted, “you are well-versed in reading energy patterns. Do you feel magic radiating from the golems?”
Alster’s brow furrowed. “It’s...incredibly faint--which takes me aback. Every life, even a simulated one, as per golems, should emit some kind of signature, but...operating on that logic, I’d be able to sense every fly, ant, and spider within my radius, and I cannot. Seeing as your ‘pebble golems’ are akin to insects--dismissed and ignored-- I do see the validity of using them as apt and able spies. But that does bring me to another concern.” He dropped the one golem trapped between his thumb and forefinger; it immediately rolled around the grooves and divots of his prosthetic’s segmented, steel digits. “How will you report your findings to us? It’s not safe via resonance stone, and I’ve had no end of trouble connecting to Chara and Lilica through the realms of dream.”
“Luckily, I have anticipated this question.” From his coat pockets, he withdrew two volcanic stones, shiny-black and smooth to touch on one side; on each stone’s opposing side, chalk-gray etchings surrounded the surface in a multitude of runic symbols, linked together by staves. “These stones are a prototype; while I haven’t had the opportunity to test them properly, I am confident in their ability to transmit messages with accuracy.” He placed the two palm-sized stones under the scrutiny of the diffused hearth firelight. “They differ from resonance stones in that they do not operate through sound-waves, but through psychic waves. The sender need only place their hand upon the runic stave-form and compose a message inside their mindscape. The recipient will be notified of the delivery through an illuminated flesh and a buzz, to which, if they touch the stone in turn, will receive the message telepathically. For lack of better terminology, I suppose we can call them ‘telepath stones,’ as a reference.” He handed the stone’s twin to Alster, who accepted the offering and turned it around in his flesh and blood fingers. “This is how we can report to each other, virtually undetected. Granted, you and Elespeth decide to trust me and collaborate--in a minimal capacity, of course. I am not keen on jeopardizing your neutrality clause with Locque, nor am I. For that reason, I will not set foot within the palace grounds, or in the Night Garden, until our ‘threat’ is safely eliminated. So,” he extended a hand, not to shake--the touch-averse Canaveris lord would do no such thing--but to sever the still-active pebble golems from access to their whirring hive-mind; instantly, the collective ceased all movement, reduced to the sheddings of rocks they, by themselves, comprised, “are we in agreement with each other?” He waved an inclusionary arm at Elespeth. “Your wife has cast her vote of confidence in my favor, and your out-loud musings have affirmed your interest in an alliance. What then, is your decision, Lord Rigas?”
Gathering up the errant pebbles into their original formation, Alster redelivered the petrified scouts to Ari’s keeping. “Lord Canaveris, we are in agreement,” he affirmed with a head bow, in lieu of a handshake; Ari reciprocated the action. “I’ll inform Chara and Lilica of the decision to open your gift and follow-through with the instructions to scatter them across Locque, Rowen, Nia, and Sigrid’s most frequented locales. Given the delicacy of their mission, they will have to consume the forgetfulness tablets they received from Isidor, so do not make any mention of your golems. You will speak only to me--or to Elespeth--about them, through our newest form of correspondence,” he waggled the runic stone in his hand. “Now, if we have nothing more to discuss, Lord Canaveris, let us adjourn our meeting. I don’t want to dirty up our alliance by referencing our past quarrels, and I fear the longer we are in each other’s company, the more likely we are to engage.”
Nodding his assent, Aristide rose from his chair, retrieved his overcoat from the hook by the door, thanked the couple for their hospitality and willingness to work with him, and gratefully took his leave. Upon returning to the carriage, Lazarus was waiting for him inside, an almost comical misfit with his head grazing the ceiling and his ponderous body severely hunched forward.
“Hm. Laz, if ever you are uncomfortable with your current body, please don’t hesitate to inform me,” Ari said as he tucked into his side of the carriage, settling in his seat before closing the door. “I shall reform you to your desired appearance.”
The giant golem shook his head from side to side. “It suits you better, that I look suitable in my role as your shield.”
“Pish-posh. That doesn’t matter to me.” He hailed the driver; the carriage lurched forward, picking up momentum by each spirited pull of the steeds up front. “Your happiness is paramount. Do not feed entirely off my own wishes. Remember, Laz,” he trained his soil-brown eyes on the mountain of muscle, “you are beyond a golem. You are free-thinking, complete being, unbound by a master’s will. What do you want?”
Lazarus looked down at his overlarge hands, capable of crushing one’s neck in one five-fingered grapple. “Presently, I prefer this state.”
Ari smiled his approval. “Good. I’m glad. Do let me know if you change your mind.”
“How did your meeting with Lord Rigas go?”
The Canaveris Lord gazed out the window, watching the farmhouse gradually drift out of view. “When he is not summoning serpents, he is a far more pleasant entity than Chara Rigas. Further, he enjoyed my work. Perhaps there is a future in collaborating with him…”
By the time they pulled in front of the Canaveris villa, darkness had fallen, and the supper hour was upon them. As he entered, Lazarus in tow, a servant approached, a small pouch in her hand. “Ari, Lord, a woman paid you a visit earlier today. A Miss Nia. She told me to give you this,” she presented the laced pouch to him. “As an apology gift. She mentioned--dear me--she mentioned something about a kiss? It is not my place to say,” a deep-wine blush colored her cheeks as she backed away and retreated.
An apology? Exchanging a look with Lazarus, the Canaveris lord unbound the pouch and plucked out a curious stone, a thumbprint-sized dimple carved into its middle. “A worry stone. How very considerate of her.” Lazarus, however, huffed at the trinket, thoroughly unimpressed.
“There is an abundance of worry stones at your disposal, Ari. Why bother with this one?”
“Because it is a gift.” He inserted his thumb into the hole; a near perfect fit. “Heavens, Laz, she was driven to gift me this worry-stone out of guilt for her perceived misconduct.”
“Perceived? She ran away from your gala, took a nap, forced you into a hands-on dance, and then kissed you.” The big man snorted and crossed his arms. “Perceived? No. Misconduct? Definitely. A gift won’t clear her faux pas. She insulted you, gravely. Why are you not offended?”
“Because I’m not.” He tucked the rock into its pouch and cinched the top shut. “I will have to extend my gratitude. Perhaps send her a thank you gift, or--” he paused in his out-loud planning. A kiss...followed by a gift. In many a situation, that trajectory of events implied...her interest. Was she trying to court him?! If that were true...what should he do?
Friendly correspondences with her are of a strategic and political bent. That was what he told Alster and Elespeth Rigas.
He might as well make good on his statement.
I am sorry, Nia. I’ve led you on…
A thank you. He would message her a curt thank you and promptly end the conversation. It was time he followed everyone’s advice--and place the Master Alchemist at arm’s length.
Following Alster and Elespeth’s discussion with Aristide Canaveris, Alster took to the twin glyph that Isidor had given him, and wrote a brief message, signed with his initials at the bottom: Tell Chara that all is well. And while the Master Alchemist was not entirely privy to what his friend could have meant (and for good reason; he would not want to be in the know, and more than he already was), he discreetly passed on the message to Chara later that evening, via a note slid beneath her door. Even if it were found, he only really regurgitated Alster’s message, a simple Alster says all is well, which could be taken as naught but benign correspondence. Far less risky than using the resonance stones, which Chara had decided should only be used if no other options were available, and a message needed to be conveyed posthaste.
Fortunately, Chara knew precisely what Isidor meant by Alster’s words, and late that night, when just before she and Lilica were ready to retire, she withdrew Aristide’s gift where it had been hidden away under clothes, and presented the belated present to her. Of course, Lilica’s first reaction was that of confusion, when a simple paperweight fell into her palm. “It’s… well, it’s well crafted, I suppose.” The dark mage spoke in hushed tones and furrowed her eyebrows and turned it over in her hand. “He must really want to be on good terms with… wait, what is this?”
The very bottom of the ornate decoration felt... loose, somehow. And it sounded as though there was something akin to beads inside of it. What in the world would be the purpose of that? Curious, Lilica twisted the bottom, which came off with ease, and into her hand tumbled what looked to be many tiny pebbles, and a small slip of paper. “...I don’t understand,” the Galeynian monarch wrinkled her nose as Chara took the piece of paper to read what was written on it. Her eyes grew wide, and as soon as she was finished, she held it out for Lilica to read for herself. It was… instructions. Brief, but… very, very crucial to the seemingly useless objects she held in her hand. So this was Aristide’s plea; his show of trust, and how he could be of help. And if Chara saw fit to trust the Canaveris lord… then Lilica would follow suit.
“We must distribute these as soon as possible… and then forget what we have done.” She whispered under her breath to Chara, as she poured the tiny pebbles back into the hollow paperweight, along with the paper. “And now that we’ve read what we must do, we need to act now. Isidor’s tablets only muddle short term memory… the longer we have it on our minds, the less likely we will be to forget. If you see fit to trust Canaveris, then right now… right now, this really is our only advantage.”
Due in part to discretion, and also in part to luck, Aristide Canaveris’s action that could well be perceived as treachery at least did not appear to reach the awareness of Locque and those working directly for her. Since the pebbles themselves were discreet, it was relatively effortless to carry a handful each in their pockets as Lilica and Chara split up and sprinkled the tiny golems under the cracks beneath doors. Of primary interest was the council chamber, the bedrooms where the sorceress, the necromancer, Rowen Kavanagh, and Nia Ardane all respectively slept, as well as what had previously been Isidor’s workshop located in the dungeon, along with an observatory for stargazing at the topmost floor of the palace (that latter two of which Nia tended to spend a great deal of time when she wasn’t flitting about outside the palace). In the days, which turned to a handful of weeks that followed, no one, not even Rowen was privy to the rightful Queen and her advisor’s deceit, for they themselves had forgotten about the tiny pebbles hidden in the otherwise harmless gift bestowed by Aristide Canaveris. Any information that the new leader of Stella D’Mare learned did not directly go to them, either, as a direct measure to keep them safe. It would be Alster who would receive the news if anything of import were to crop up, and only dire, pertinent information would be shared, in the event that someone was in danger, and Lilica and Chara needed to know.
Despite whatever havoc they had been expecting with Locque’s ascension, however, the weeks that followed were nothing less of quiet. Winter was finally beginning to yield to spring; the snow melting away left the grounds soggy, but there was no longer need for heavy furs to stave off the cold. In fact, less was happening in the palace, as more and more often, Locque was spending her time in the Night Garden, or sending the necromancer and her own Master Alchemist to tend to whatever business she was up to in there. Though if Ari were listening and looking through his golems, he’d only collect scant pieces of information. Locque was apparently interested in reclaiming control of the Garden; by having it recognize her as a Gardener, as she had once been. But the why of that motive was left relatively unanswered, to the extent where it seemed like even Vitali, Nia, and Rowen didn’t quite know.
As far as Nia went, she knew better than to ask questions when it came to Locque’s motives, and frankly, the less she knew, the happier she was. The sorceress had kept her busy enough in the coming weeks that she hadn’t much time to spare a thought about Aristide’s party, and how she feared her actions had left a foul taste in his mouth. True to his upstanding nature, she had received a particularly vague “thank you” in response to her small gift, but whether he was thanking her for the gift itself, or for the apology was unclear. Nonetheless, her actions in hindsight still didn’t sit well with her, and she figured it might probably be best to give him his space than to show up at an ungodly hour with any more poorly crafted alcohol. Perhaps at some point, he would reach out for help regarding his curse, but she wasn’t holding her breath, and she couldn’t afford to lie in wait for him to realize he did need help, lest that curse someday be the death of him.
All in all, the Master Alchemist did not feel particularly slighted by his lack of correspondence, in part because she did not have the time to think too much on it, but also for the fact that he was not the only one in Galeyn willing (seemingly willing) to tolerate her bombastic presence. Following a handful of days that she had forgone food to conduct some alchemical research in the Night Garden on Locque’s request, Nia could think of no better reason to treat herself to a giant meal at what was still her favorite place to eat in Galeyn: Osric’s humble but oh so satisfying public house. It must have been almost a month since she had last eaten at the place; before Locque’s ascension to the throne, at least. It had crossed her mind more than once to play her favourite tavern owner a visit, but mild anxiety had held her back. Would things be different, now that she was a recognizable name and face in Galeyn? Would the kind man still welcome her with open arms? Something that Ari said to her had stuck, however. Something about being in control of her own narrative, and the way that she was perceived by the public. If she hid away like her reclusive monarch, then people would have to come up with their own suppositions about her character. It was up to her to take control of it before the kingdom’s imaginations ran away with them.
So, after hesitating outside the door for a good ten minutes, the Master Alchemist took a breath and pushed her way inside. Familiarity descended on her like a warm blanket: the familiar smells that made her mouth water, the soft lighting from sconces on the wall, and her favourite seat in the far corner, which was, to her relief, not occupied! Why had she been so afraid to set foot inside? It all seemed foolish, in hindsight. Osric’s tavern was still very much home to her as it had always been. “Hey; long time no see.” Sliding onto a stool at the bar, Nia’s mouth pulled into a wide grin as she greeted the big man behind the counter. “It’s been way too long, Osric. I should’ve stopped by sooner. Damn, have I missed you and your wife’s cooking. What’s on the menu today? I’ll have three of whatever you’ve got in the oven.”
But the look that the big man gave her when their eyes met was not the usual, jolly glint that she’d expected. On the contrary, Osric looked… startled. Afraid. “Nia.” The way he spoke her name was not the way she was used to hearing it. Cautious… disappointed. “What are you doing here?”
“...you really have to ask, big guy? I’m starving, and there nowhere else I’d rather be, and no other food I’d rather be eating than yours.” She cocked her head to the side curiously. She was the man’s best customer; surely he was not averse to her presence… “But, hey, there’s no rush. I wanted to see you, too. I missed your company. I missed this place; you once told me that I could call this a home, of sorts. Does the offer still stand?”
“Miss Nia… listen. You… I don’t mean to offend you, but you shouldn’t be here, now. Or anytime in the future. I’m… I’m sorry.” He ran a hand over his balding head and looked away from the Master Alchemist. “People started to get to know your face around here, you know. They knew you, and they knew I liked you, but… Nia, you have to understand. Everyone--everyone knows where you stand, now. Who you’re working for. And I took a lot of heat for it. Folks around here accused me and my family of being in league with the sorceress all this time. Since Locque ascended the throne… since people discovered who you are, who you’re working for, my village almost wanted to run me out of business. It’s taken a lot to rebuild that trust, to keep providing for my family… I’m sorry, Nia. I’m sorry.” Osric shook his head. “I can’t afford to have you here. You should find another tavern.”
“Wait… your village punished you because of me?” Nia’s smile faded completely. This news was beyond startling; it was devastating. She lowered her voice and leaned in. “Osric… how bad off are you? Whatever you lost because of me, I’ve got you covered. Money isn’t an object. Just tell me what you and your family needs--”
“We need you to leave, Nia. Please.” The barkeep raised his voice--enough for the patrons to hear. Enough for them to be reassured that he was on their side… and not on Nia’s. Not on Locque. “Please… leave us in peace.”
A punch to the gut would have been less painful. Was this really happening? Just about a month ago, Osric had opened his doors to her. Opened his home to her. And now… now, she was a curse on his family. On his name, his business. Another, very well loved bridge had been burned and now and had been completely reduced to ashes, and she hadn’t taken the time to notice. The best thing that she could do now was not overstay a welcome that she didn’t have. Slowly, her body feeling heavy and sluggish with every eye in the room on her, the Master Alchemist slid off the stool and reached into a leather pouch on her side. “You don’t have to believe me… I don’t expect you to. But I wish only the best for you and your family, Osric.” Opening a fist, she deposited an entire handful of silver coins onto the counter. “This probably doesn’t cover your losses, but… I hope it will help. Please take care, okay?”
Nia left the tavern in a fraction of the time that it had taken her to decide to step inside. She forgot about how hungry she was, or how much she’d been looking forward to eating; when she mounted her Night Steed, she barely felt the warmth of the beast’s body. How… did this happen? Ari had once offered to call his place her home; Osric had offered the same. Now, one of those offers appeared to hang in some untouchable purgatory, and the other had been entirely rescinded. In Ari’s case, she didn’t blame him; she’d pushed him too far. But where it came to Osric… she had done nothing. Nothing to hurt the man or his family. And if she had known how terribly his associations with her would affect him and his business, she’d have high-tailed it down to that tavern to set the record straight in a heartbeat. But it was too late: that bridge wasn’t just in pieces, it had been incinerated. Not even her prowess in Master Alchemist could reassemble it and expect it to be exactly the same as it had before.
Ari’s vague and somewhat too formal ‘thank you’ hadn’t upset her; it had just confirmed what she’d already suspected in having overstepped bounds. But Osric’s rejection… it all but broke her heart. What now? What do I have left?
Negative emotions did not sit particularly well with Nia. Sadness and anger and disappointment went straight to her head, giving her a pounding headache, or to her stomach, causing it to churn with nausea. She had to deal with both on the ride back to the palace, and she would have retired directly to her room, were it not for the fact she had forgotten to check in with Locque about her time spent in the Night Garden earlier--which, in and of itself, did not bode well. Fortunately for her, the sorceress was not alone in the council chamber, but was in fact already engaged in a conversation with the resident necromancer.
“I don’t know what to tell you; the dead just aren’t talking.” Vitali, clad in an indigo longcoat, clasped his hands together behind his back and shrugged. “The mysteries of your sought-after Night Garden likely aren’t known to them. We don’t know how open my father was with the magical mechanics of it.”
Locque frowned, resting her chin on one hand. “You are a necromancer. And you cannot glean information from hundreds of thousands of the dead?”
“Indeed, I am but a single necromancer, with one single pair of ears. Just as every soul is in and of itself is individual. So, no--those which I managed to contact cannot as of yet tell me why the Garden refuses to recognize you. On the bright side,” he removed one of his hands from behind his back to examine his fingernails, as if he was growing bored with the conversation. “If you are still so reluctant to speak to my sister about it directly, you and I both have quite an extensive lifespan and a lot of time on our hands. Some day--week, year, decade, what have you… I might find just the right ghost to give you the answers you are looking for.”
Far from amused with Vitali’s snide remark, the sorceress turned her attention to the lone figure who lingered in the doorway. “Nia. I was beginning to wonder if I would see you tonight.” Her tone was not angry, per se, but most definitely impatient. Vitali had likely used up the majority of patience available to her. “You’ve spent the past few days in the Night Garden. Is there anything at all you can tell me? Anything about why it does not recognize who I am--who I once was to it?”
“No. Unfortunately, I’ve spent the past three days wasting everyone’s time--including my own.” The Master Alchemist shook her head, ignoring the quiet growling in her stomach. “It’s like I told you--that shit is almost pure magic, Locque. And I’m not a mage. Now, if you’re interested in the different properties of plants? That, I can help you with.”
“If you are trying to be humorous, Nia, I’m afraid it is lost on me.”
“I’m not, actually. I’m anything but humorous. Because I spent the past three days starving myself to try and get a read on a Garden that is way out of my league, since I don’t deal in magic. And I just want to feel a little bit human again, and eat at my favourite tavern, but apparently, that’s a luxury I can’t afford since I no longer have anonymity, so that you largey can. You know…” She scratched the back of her neck, too sore, too sick, too hungry to care that she was using such a tone with the most dangerous person in Galeyn. “You really should have gone to that stupid party. It shouldn’t have been me. Because the longer you hide in this council room, the more people are going to speculate… and the fewer people will trust me, by proxy. So I’m sorry, Locque, but no, I have nothing useful for you. I don’t have anything for me, for that matter.”
Dropping her hands to her side, Nia shook her head, weary and hungry and wholly unable to think about how she was going to proceed in a place that was supposed to be her new home when no one would trust her beyond the threshold of their door. She couldn’t put all her eggs in one basket with Hadwin; he was a good guy. A fun friend. But… he saw too much. And there was too much about the Master Alchemist that she wished to keep to herself. “I’m sorry.” She lowered her voice, sounding both defeated and vaguely remorseful. She didn’t lift her eyes to either figure in the room. “I don’t feel well. I’m going to turn in for the night.”
Both Locque and Vitali watched the Master Alchemist retreat after her entirely uncharacteristic outburst, and while the necromancer was particularly nonplussed, the sorceress appeared… confused. “She is clearly upset. But I cannot understand why.”
“You don’t say.” Vitali raised an eyebrow, but said no more about stating the obvious. “Could very well be she’s just tired and cranky. Or that she had a falling out with a friend--if she actually has any of those.”
“Friend.” Locque furrowed her eyebrows. “She has reached out across the kingdom to others on my behalf… are you saying she desires companionship, above positive political relations?”
Vitali sighed. Perhaps he should have stormed out while he’d had the chance… “With all respect, Your Majesty, do you know anything about those who have chosen to willingly work for you? Why do you think the Master Alchemist has been so willing to reach out on your behalf? She’s an aspiring social butterfly. Evidently, that doesn’t seem to be working out for her… can’t imagine why.”
“...then she’s lonely. You are right--I knew this, and I failed to acknowledge it when I should have.”
“Right. Well, hindsight is everything, isn’t it?” Vitali turned away, in an attempt to make for the door before the sorceress kept him for longer. He wasn’t fast enough.
Locque spoke up. “Necromancer. There is something I need you ro do.”
“...of course there is.” It was all Vitali could do not to groan. “If it involves the annoying Ardane woman--”
“It does. But, in fact, you’ll be happy to know I am asking very little of you, so listen carefully.”
After swiping some day-old bread from the kitchen to stave off the sickening hunger pangs, Nia did, in fact, retire to her room, and wrapped herself up in blankets before falling into a deep, well-needed slumber. But it wasn’t nearly long enough, before something--a sound, far-away but definitely present, stirred her awake. In the darkness, she could make out the shape of another figure in her room, and instantly startled into a sitting position. “What the actual hell--”
“I’ve been saying your name for five minutes.” Vitali spoke in the darkness, somehow knowing exactly where she was despite his blindfold. “You wouldn’t answer a knock. It’s your own fault you’re startled.”
“What are you doing here?” Nia demanded, throwing the covers off of her. “If you’re looking for a romp, I’m sorry to say, I’m not in the mood, tonight. And I only fuck virgins, and you…” She squinted and frowned. “Virgin or not, I am not taking my chances with you.”
“You disgust me, Ardane. Come on.” Turning away, the necromancer headed toward the door, which was open on a crack. “I’m only going to show you this once. Do not waste my time.”
Confused, and disoriented from startling awake, Nia got to her feet before she really knew what she was doing. Vitali Kristeva, not so unlike his brother, made it no mystery that he despised her. So whatever drove him to seek her out in the middle of the night… it had to be of dire import. Rubbing her eyes, she followed the necromancer through the shadowed hallways, then up one, two, three flights of stairs… where was he taking her? “If you’re trying to lure me into some dark corner to off me, you should be less obvious about it.” She said, to try and break the uneasy silence. He didn’t respond, but stopped in front of a pair of familiar, dark oak doors. The Master Alchemist frowned. “What’s in the observatory? It’s a little cloudy for stargazing tonight.”
“The more you talk, the more I want to shove you out a window. But that would be too obvious.” Vitali pushed one of the doors open and waited for Nia to step inside. He shoved a hand into the pocket of his long coat; the moonlight caught a lick of sharp steel. “Give me your hand.”
“Oh hell no. I don’t know what you want with me right now--”
It wasn’t a request. With feline quick reflexes, Vitali grabbed Nia’s hand and tore a gash down one of her fingers. Her blood dripped onto a deep, burgundy gemstone in his palm. Nia hissed and backed away, against one of the walls. “Fuck this! I am not in any mood for whatever horseshit you’re planning--”
The necromancer said nothing, and crossed the room to a beam of moonlight that had snuck out from behind the clouds. Then he knelt and placed the strange, bloodsoaked gemstone directly in the moonlight. What happened next left Nia breathless… and beyond belief.
Something--someone--materialized, as if from mist. A deep indigo dress that glimmered like starlight. Rich, brown hair pinned up in curls, and a smile… a smile she knew so well, eyes she knew so well… “... Celene… Celene? It’s… h-how…” Nia’s throat went dry. She turned to Vitali, too afraid to step away from the wall, lest the shaking in her knees cause her to topple. “What is this? What did you do?”
“I’m a medium by birth and a necromancer by trade. What do you think I do? Listen, your little tirade earlier this evening could have very well cost the both of us very dearly. I’m sure you’ve already born witness to what the sorceress is capable of when she is angry. So if this will bandage that bleeding heart of yours, then congratulations. You can see your sister whenever you want. Or, any of your departed kin, I should say. Who you see depends on who calls to you the most. Unfortunately, this little loophole will only work in the moonlight, and with that gemstone, but it’s the best I can do for you.”
“I-it’s… it’s really her? This is… Celene? It’s you?” She reached out to touch the apparition. It--She, Celene, reached back. And a tear trickled down Nia’s cheek. “Vitali… how? You know nothing of my family.”
Vitali shrugged his shoulders and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t need to. Kin are connected by virtue of their own souls; all I needed was your blood, that little trinket, and my skill set. Regretfully, they cannot speak to you; only hear you. There is only so much I am able to accomplish with limited materials and time.”
“...what do you want? In return. What is the cost?” Though she still spoke to him, she refused to take her eyes off of her sister.
“What do I want? To hear and to see as little of you as possible. And to get yourself together; no more emotional break-downs in front of our Majesty. Oh,” he turned toward the door, appearing as eager to leave as Nia was to stay. “And for you to keep your mouth shut. I mean tell no one of this. The last thing I need is for it to get out that I’m performing selfless acts. It doesn’t look good for my image. Are we clear?”
Nia didn’t respond, so he decided to take her silence as agreement, and with his patience for the Master Alchemist already stretched thin, he left the woman to be dazzled by the grand illusion that took the form of her elder sister.
The morning after carousing in the pub with Nia, Hadwin, as a wolf, jolted awake at the foot of Teselin’s bed, a typical experience for the fear-touched faoladh. Nightmares were so commonplace, they rarely disturbed him anymore; a minor nuisance at best, relying on the element of surprise and adrenaline scares rather than actual disturbing content. Lately, though, every dream revolved around Rowen and Bronwyn. As wolves, they encircled him, reflective eyes trained for the kill. Who would be the first to tear into his tender human flesh bag and rend open the seams? They bickered for the opportunity, breaking delicate formation and redirecting their arrow focus from him to each other. Transferring weight to their back haunches, they launched in unison, stretching open their jowls, razor-canines brandished and snapping for the kill spot; the neck, the underbelly, the spine. Together, they foxtrotted, capered, and waltzed in a counterbalanced dance of death. Standing in the veritable center, Hadwin followed his sisters’ virulent movements--from Bronwyn to Rowen, to Bronwyn to Rowen--oscillating back and forth in a dizzying attempt to discern which one had the upper-hand, or in this case, the upper-paw. At an even match, both wolves ripped out chunks of fur, littering the ground in tufts of black and chestnut brown intermixed with the glossy shine of blood. As they struck and struck and struck, each blow gorier than the last, the same question assaulted his head in a nauseating torrent, a neverending loop, which rooted his feet and rendered him unable to move unless he could answer:
Who do I save?
Who do I save?
Who do I save?
In this rare instance, Hadwin’s nightmare-induced wake-up call was earned. Jerking to his feet from the recoil, he quickly gained his bearings by scanning the room. All was dark, save for narrow shafts of morning sunlight aggressively slicing through the spaces of the drawn, velvet curtains like an avenging angel swiftly hacking away all traces of night with help from their flaming sword. Shaking his ruff of fur, the faoladh bounded from the bed to escape the persistent sun, for he knew what awaited him outside, and if he could just delay the inevitable a wee longer, that would be grand. Today was his rendezvous with Bronwyn. Though supervised by Briery and a Forbanne guard, the prospect of a shopping excursion, any at all, that prominently featured his eldest sister as company drove him to gnash his teeth and grumble-growl his frustrations to the wall.
Mid-morning, he finally summoned the care to shake into human skin, wash up, dress, and smoke a pipe in lieu of breakfast. By the time he joined the small gathering awaiting his arrival near the west entrance to the palace, Hadwin was soundly blitzed. Attacking Briery’s face with a hungry kiss as a greeting, he swerved to Bronwyn, whose twisted countenance already expressed numerous regrets over inviting him on the outing. “Hey, Brownling!” Grinning ear to ear, he slapped her heartily on the shoulder. She shivered and shook from his grip, retreating closer to the Forbanne guard assigned to oversee her behavior during her first venture outside in over a week. Unfazed, Hadwin kept talking as though she hadn’t rejected his handsy salutation. “Lookie you, raring to go! Ready to race on outta here and lope around the village square, I bet! I don’t blame you. I ain’t even in a cage and I’m frothing at the mouth to explore a few shops with my favorite acrobat,” he landed a playful punch on Briery’s arm, “and my second favorite sister, eh?”
Bronwyn ignored the brunt of his exuberant speech “I’m only ‘raring to go’ because you’re late,” she said, an austere tone to offset his drug-manufactured bliss. “But I can clearly see where your priorities are aligned. If you’re going to be disruptive today, you’re free to leave. I wish you all the happiness in your debauched love affair with your booze and herbs.”
“Aw, Bron, that ain’t fair,” he clicked his tongue in a loud tsk. “Better I’m lively than cranky. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor!”
Unconvinced, she shook her head before heading towards the door. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”
Together, the trio (plus the Forbanne guard) set off to the town marketplace, a short, easy walk from the palace. While winter’s foreboding chill could transform any jaunt, no matter how pleasant in execution, into a bitter nightmare of frost-tipped fingers, runny noses, raw, red skin, and general misery, this particular day, sun-dappled and fair of wind and temperature, yielded hope that winter was finally abdicating its icy throne to spring. Rife with sundries ranging from spices, Night Garden produce, jewelry, knickknacks, and clothes, the town’s open-air marketplace, though bereft of many customers--complements of Locque’s rule--was open and eager for business. Not accustomed to shopping nonessentials for herself, as Briery’s tailored clothes fit and suited her just fine, Bronwyn wandered into the market in an aimless stupor, uncertain of where to begin or what she was even entitled to have.
Since following Rowen into the mists some months ago, clothesless and penniless, she maintained her wolf form in an attempt not to consume resources that her human state required, too wary of Locque to bother her with unnecessary complaints. As a wolf, she could fend for herself. Besides, it was presumptuous to believe that she, as an individual, mattered. Alongside Rowen, she was a member and element of a team, a pack. Always a subordinate, she kept her head down and deferred to the superior—Locque—and her senior members—Rowen, Nia, and even Vitali and the compelled Sigrid. If she behaved, if she did as was told, maybe she would earn a boon: a tender cut of meat, or warm shelter from the snow and frost. Instead, they discarded her, leaving her no choice but to depend on another group of people who could also do the same, whenever they grew bored of her. Despite Rowen’s promises to return, Bronwyn’s loyalties, battered by so much confusion and contradictory statements, no longer knew who to trust. Her ever unreliable Sight led her further astray, revealing nothing of one’s level of trustworthiness, but focusing on whether or not they acted out of love, be it love of life, love of kin, love of country, love of the chase, or love of the loved. Hadwin, she found, was a lover of many things, often to the point of lust and grandiose selfishness, while Rowen loved nothing. Nothing at all. Least of all...her.
“Whoa, there.” Bronwyn shook out of her thoughts as Hadwin reached out and secured his fingers around her arm, jerking her free from her unwitting trajectory towards a deep gully full of snowmelt in the side of the road. “Too early in the day to shout, ‘Wolf overboard!’”
“There isn’t enough water here to merit shouting anything to that nature,” she grumbled, separating from her brother’s supportive hold and taking a wide detour around the gully.
“Go ahead and deconstruct my joke, Bron; I’ve got a million more,” he cooed good naturedly, following her—rather, herding her—back to the marketplace proper. “Say, you feeling peckish? There’s a crepe vendor down the ways who always packs way too much good shit inside, you can almost forget it’s filled almost entirely with vegetables! There’s cheese and caramelized onions, mushrooms, olives—the works! I’m gonna go out there and buy him clean out of his stash. C’mon!” As she mutely took his lead, helpless but to heed his directions if she wanted to gain her freedom and not incur the wrath of the Forbanne guard stalking after them and worrying the customers out of his path, she glanced again at the gully she skirted. In the past, he’d let her fall, howl with laughter, and only then, if he felt charitable, would offer a helping hand.
He wants to win my favor. That’s all, she dismissed, keeping her sight ahead and not behind.
But what would he gain by winning her favor at all? The old Hadwin didn’t give a damn about building a relationship with her, preferring ridicule over civility, claiming the glass-fragility of the latter would shatter before they so much as made a lick of conversational progress, reducing any attempt at getting along as, in his words, ‘bullshit.’ Something faint, however, had changed in his bearing. A recent change, yes, but it didn’t escape her notice. Whether too high to recognize Bronwyn as the sister he openly despised or not, she could not deny that his attempts at decency seemed genuine. Self-serving, perhaps, but...genuine.
Her stance was further solidified when Hadwin, upon realizing the crepe vendor had injured his hand and was forced to close shop prematurely, happily volunteered to assist in handling the frying pan and contributed his bread, pastry, and confection-making know-how to the task of smoothing the batter across the pan and flipping paper-thin concoctions in unbroken, uniform circles. He stayed for an hour, quickly and accurately fulfilling order after order and donating his wages and commission in full to the grateful crepe vendor, asking for nothing but the ability to make four orders, free of charge. In finishing his stint at the creperie, he caught up to Bronwyn, Briery, and the Forbanne guard, hands full with steaming crepes, folded delicately in, funnily enough, crepe paper. Each identical, savory pocket was near to bursting and smelled of a delectable combination of rosemary, thyme, melted cheese, truffle oil, mushrooms, and onions cooked in their natural sugar juices. He first handed one to Bronwyn before distributing the other two to Briery and the Forbanne soldier, who seemed perplexed by the inclusion when he was ordered to guard and not to eat on duty. Nonetheless, he, too, partook in the meal, averse to wasting food when offered.
“I thought you had run off to start your own crepe business,” Bronwyn scoffed, staring at the mouth-watering creation in her hands, hesitant to bite into it with any indication of eagerness and gusto, so as not to appear desperate for his cooking—but loud stomach rumbles betrayed her manufactured disinterest.
“Psh, that’s honest work. I don’t do honest work for a living. Whenever the mood strikes—and the mood definitely struck because I was fucking hungry.” To demonstrate, he opened his jaw so wide, she wondered if he’d purposely dislocated it, like a snake, to shovel in the food in one mega-swallow. In two bites, he devoured the crepe, dripping oil and onion residue over his hands from the aftermath. As an open defiance against her brother’s sloppiness, she nibbled on the folded end of her crepe; the impact of its flavor punched her mouth open and impelled her to rival Hadwin’s unparalleled, gobbling speed.
“Way to wolf it down!” Hadwin cheered, wiping his hands and mouth with the remains of the crepe paper. “Make our ancestors proud, Bron!”
Hadwin was a criminal. He left trails of wanted posters and upheaval wherever he tread. Be it directly or indirectly, he did horrible things, exploiting others’ fears for gain, thieving, cheating, manipulating, and killing for convenience or revenge. For the privilege of saving his life, thousands fell into an open chasm, engulfed by tempest, flame, and rubble, involuntary sacrifices, stripped of their chance to grow and die in a natural span. In their place, one faoladh had, though not by choice, stolen the dreams of Apelrade. Conversely, Rowen knowingly killed. Murdered. Innocents. While her death toll did not pile as high, she harbored no regrets for the people she silenced by teeth and blade.
By further contrast, Hadwin had, between criminal stints, also achieved wonderful things. Saved lives at risk of his own safety, contributed his multifaceted skillsets to the benefit of his allies and friends, doted on the haunted summoner like a long-lost sister, and, as she just witnessed, engaged in small acts of kindness, for no conceivable benefit. For all of his faults, he, too, touted as many virtues, a list she was privy to, and which she had conveniently ignored to suit her narrative. Teselin, Briery, and Elespeth hadn’t spun falsehoods. Her son of a bitch brother, at turns, displayed far more compassion than depravity and delinquency. He was loyal, courageous, and convivial to a contagious degree, a severe departure from Rowen, whose hatred stultified everyone she touched. Knowing how much he meant to others, Bronwyn couldn’t condone him to suffer a fate worse than death. He didn’t deserve it. Why had she agreed with Rowen’s plan? Why did she ever believe his demise would remove the hardened miasma cocooning her sister’s dark, damaged soul?
That evening, after exploring the marketplace scene, and allowing Hadwin to purchase a pair of suede boots from the cobbler, a necessary addition as the pair she wore are on loan from Briery, she returned to her ‘prison’ chambers, feeling oddly...content and reassured. But they were fleeting and short-lived when a shadow, accompanied by a distinct smell, blotted the corner of the low-lanterned room, startling her to round on the source. Rowen.
“R-Rowen,” Bronwyn exclaimed, not sure if she was real or a figment of her imagination. “What...are you doing here?”
The youngest Kavanagh sibling lit the lantern sitting on the table to her right, illuminating the corner in faint, guttural flickers, as though the scope of her presence caused fire to flee from the vacuum-like aura she exuded. “As promised, I’ve returned to fetch you, Bronwyn. Aren’t you relieved to see me again? You were so distraught when we handed you over to Galeyn, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that we up and abandoned one of our own. But that’s not the case, Bronwyn. You are an asset, and I need you.”
Bronwyn stiffened, reflexively lowering her head, submitting. “What do you need me to do?”
Rowen crossed her legs over the chair she occupied, waving a hand over the rippling heat waves emanating from the tableside lantern. “Hadwin is skilled in avoiding me, but he can’t avoid me forever. In the meantime, I’ll step aside, give him his space. All I need from you is to get close, watch him carefully, convince him you’re ready to settle your differences. That’s all. Make him comfortable in your presence so he’ll drop the need for caution. When the time is right, you’ll lead him to a place of my choosing, away from the palace, and together, we’ll ambush him. Locque will give us back up and magical support. No one will be able to interfere. After the deed is done,” her fawn-like eyes softened at Bronwyn, “we’ll go home to Chief and the others, you and I.”
“I…” she stared at her feet, clicking the heels of the boots Hadwin gifted her. Throughout their shopping trip, he put forth a concentrated effort to bury the hatchet by keeping their engagements affable, without a hint of belligerence or mean-spiritedness. He asked nothing of her, only that he shared the day in her proximity.
Scanning her reaction, Rowen’s reddish eyes immediately turned cold, like a wine-dark, arctic sea. “He worked at you, Bronwyn. And you fell for it, didn’t you? His false charms? His, ‘I’m a changed man’ performance? He’s a con-artist, Bronwyn, and you’re his mark.”
“He doesn’t deserve to die, Rowen,” she said, summing up the courage to look towards her sister—not for direct eye contact, but to replicate the confidence that it simulated. “I won’t have a hand in it. I...won’t let it happen.”
“Do you hear yourself? You’re going against Chief’s orders,” her mouth twisted into a caustic smile. “My conditions were clear. I can’t return unless he is dead—and you can’t return without me. You’re directly violating your vows, and for what?” She barked a laugh. “For a substance-abusing fuck-up who plays people like chess pieces and sleeps with anything that moves? That’s your upstanding champion of humanity?”
“A lie,” her dark amber eyes squinted as she caught grazes, glimpses, of Rowen’s virtues—and the glaring absence of some. “You were never intending to come home with me. What’s more,” her brow lowered into a glare, “it’s not for me to judge who is and who isn’t deserving of death”
“Really, Bronwyn? You? Who judges and condemns all the livelong day? Hypocrite!” She slapped her knee and tittered, a false sound that induced shivers up Bronwyn’s spine. “I always knew you were a cunt. A wishy-washy, bloodless cunt. You lack conviction and integrity. You don’t even know what you stand for, Chief’s Pet. Tool; you’re a tool, and he fucking discarded you! And why? Because you’re nothing but kindling to toss into the fire. Nothing but a block of wood, ready to burn and crumble to ashes.” She flew out of her chair, throwing it to the floor in a clatter of redirected rage. “I’m done, you colossal waste of space.” Without another word, she stormed out of the door, leaving Bronwyn alone to stew on her parting and cutting words. Unbidden, tears trickled down her cheeks as she lowered to her knees and clutched her abdomen, pushing against the flood. Hypocrite. Tool. Waste of space. A discard. Discardable.
Nothing stung more...than the truth.
Understandably, Teselin had not accompanied Bronwyn, Briery, and Hadwin a couple of weeks ago during their excursion to the village. As fun as it had sounded, there was no place for her in that outing when it was only in part intended to acquire new clothes for the wary faoladh woman. Because nothing had yet to change the fact that Bronwyn was frightened of her--frightened of any and all who happened to wield magic, however well-meaning they might have been. It was hard not to take it personally, when the young summoner was well aware that it had been her direct destruction of an entire city and its innocent people that had triggered such a ire fear in the woman who had a penchant to only see the very best in people, but she took just a bit of solace in knowing that Bronwyn also refused to interact with Chara and Lilica--both whom had not displayed any traces of offensive magic in well over a year. Nonetheless, this necessary distancing for the faoladh woman’s sake did not sit entirely well with Teselin, especially considering that she cared for the woman and how she was progressing in terms of her recovery and rehabilitation. After all, she was Hadwin’s sister, and for all he tried to play it off like he cared so little for his eldest sibling, it wasn’t lost on the young summoner that he cared for Bronwyn’s wellbeing. It only stood to reason that Teselin would, in turn, care about the wellbeing of those who directly or indirectly affected Hadwin. And yet, despite that both Briery and Hadwin had reported their little shopping excursion to be successful… Browyn hadn’t seemed particularly uplifted. The faoladh woman still never left her room, and if it were possible, she had become more withdrawn than before. And as counterproductive as the effort might turn out to be, it concerned Teselin enough to go and check on Bronwyn, herself. In the rare event that something had changed, and she wasn’t, in fact, terrified of the small girl anymore.
So one afternoon, a couple of weeks after Hadwin and Briery had successfully outfitted Bronwyn with several new clothes, Teselin ventured to the room to which Alster had once been confined during a very strange recovery in coming back to his full self. As always, it was guarded by a silent Forbanne soldier, but to her knowledge, he had not been ordered to turn away potential guests. Not when Bronwyn needed all of the positive relationships she could possibly get. “May I step in and speak with Bronwyn?” The young summoner asked in her meek, careful tone. “Or… well, it might be better for me to just stand in the doorway. She’d probably be more comfortable with some distance between us, since that room is designed to only stifle Rigas magic. Nonetheless, I’d like to talk to her… if that is alright.”
The Forbanne soldier nodded and stepped to the side, enough for Teselin to knock once and call out. “Bronwyn? Is it alright if we talk? I promise I won’t come inside. The Forbanne guard can stand between me and the door…”
It didn’t come as much of a surprise when the faoladh woman did not answer. Exchanging a pleading look with the soldier, the man opened the door anway, allowing Teselin a glimpse inside. Bronwyn was sitting on her bed, her back to the wall, and a book on her lap. She only looked up briefly as the door opened, but otherwise, did not acknowledge Teselin. “I won’t come in--I respect your boundaries, and you probably want space between us…” The young summoner said, and flashed a somewhat nervous smile. Bronwyn didn’t respond. “I heard that you and Hadwin and Briery went shopping a couple of weeks ago. It looks like you got some lovely new outfits… both Biery and Hadwin said you enjoyed yourself, even if only just a little bit. You didn’t find it overwhelming, did you? I just wonder, because you haven’t really spoken much since then. You know,” she leaned against the doorframe, “you are allowed to leave this room whenever you wish. It’s been several weeks; no one sees much of a reason to keep you so heavily guarded--Hadwin included. We just want you to be alright, and… it doesn’t seem like you have been.”
Like she’d expected, her concern was met with silence. That was fine; in a way, it confirmed that she’d suspected--that Bronwyn wasn’t exactly alright. And there was no need to force her to confide in someone she wasn’t comfortable talking to. “I know… we aren’t exactly friends. I’d like us to be, honestly, but I realize that might not be possible for you. You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but… will you talk to someone? Hadwin, or even Briery? You’re among people who care about you, Bronwyn. I just want you to know that. If something is wrong, you don’t have to sit with it alone.”
For fear that her presence, however well-intended, would make things worse instead of better, Teselin stepped away from the door, which the Forbanne guard then closed quietly. Too bothered by the faoladh woman’s quiet melancholy, she couldn’t just let the issue go unaddressed, and so she went in search of Hadwin; who was actually easier to track down than one would’ve thought. She knew he had grown accustomed to perusing the Night Garden for new things to put in his pipe, and while such a habit was not one she particularly approved of, how Hadwin chose to manage his Sight was his own business, and it wasn’t a topic ever brought up between them. Besides, it made his whereabouts more predictable.
Sure enough, during that mild afternoon, Teselin found him collecting some blue-tinted leaves from a Night Garden bush that she could not identify. Hadwin had his own names for a lot of the different plants, but it seemed as though only the Gardeners and Head Gardener knew of each and every specimen the Garden produced. “Find anything interesting today?” She asked casually, but her struggling smile gave her away, if his Sight didn’t. “Hadwin… did anything happen with Bronwyn when you and Briery took her shopping a couple of weeks ago? I don’t think she’s left her room much since then. I just went to see her and… she seemed sad. Have you or Briery spoken to her, or is there any word on when everyone will agree that she no longer needs to be supervised?” She shifted her feet to avoid stepping on what seemed to be a snail… with a vibrant pink shell. Even the insects in the Night Garden were extraordinary. “I don’t think feeling like a prisoner is helping her. She won’t talk to me, obviously, but maybe you can get through to her.”
“Ah! I was so hoping to run into someone familiar in this phenomenal Garden. Find anything worth noting lately?” Their thoughts were interrupted by a familiar, chipper voice, followed by a presence that refused to be ignored. Nia, clad in her leathers, and with a delicate Night Garden wildflower tucked behind her ear, greeted the two with her winning smile. “I mean, I guess everything in here is worth noting--it’s the freaking Night Garden. I feel like every time I go exploring, I find something new. Like this; check it out.” She took the flower from behind her ear and held it out to Hadwin and Teselin. “Smell it. Am I just really hungry, or does it smell like a pie? Like, straight out of the oven. How do the flowers do this?”
“Good afternoon, Nia.” Contrary to the majority of palace occupants, Teselin had no qualms with Nia; not particularly. There was nothing feigned in her smile when she greeted her. “I honestly don’t spend enough time in the Night Garden to really get to know it… maybe I should. Though, maybe Hadwin can give a more accurate answer, but… I think you might just be hungry. It just smells like springtime, to me.”
The Master Alchemist pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose, bringing the flower close enough to smell again, then shrugged her shoulders and tucked it back behind her ear. “Huh. Well, you’re probably right. But, really, what else is new!”
“Could be that you’re craving pie? Have you paid a visit to your favourite tavern, lately? The one where I first met you? I seem to recall you really loved the pies, there.”
Something in Nia’s smile seemed to falter. She shrugged her shoulders, but didn’t offer an answer. “Listen, contrary to my rude interruption, I’m not actually flower-gazing, today. I’m looking for a certain Eyraillian Prince, Forbanne Commander, father of twins… you know the one. You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him, do you?”
Since Hadwin’s sensitive nose had yet to have picked up on Haraldur’s scent earlier, he suggested the man might have been taking a day off and could well still be in his room. Which, to Nia, was a far more unfortunate circumstance that pulling him away from a task. Especially if he was spending time with his family. But… it couldn’t be helped. “Hah. I suppose that should have been the first place I checked, right? Ah, well, that’s just my scattered thoughts, for you. Thanks for the heads up!”
Giving them a mock salute, the grinning Master Alchemist turned on her heels and headed out of the Night Garden. Meanwhile, Teselin slowly digested that encounter. “She seemed… did she seem really happy just now? I mean, happier than usual. I’ll admit, that’s kind of refreshing, considering the collective mood around here hasn’t been to bright in over a month…”
Sure enough, given the pair of Forbanne guards standing outside the doors of Haraldur’s chambers, it would appear that someone was home. Especially considering they looked none too happy to see her. “Gentlemen: I need to speak with your commander. Or, rather, her Majesty Locque does. Kindly don’t shoot the messenger.”
After exchanging wary looks, the soldiers stepped aside, allowing her to knock on the door. It was not Haraldur who answered, but instead, his copper-haired wife, alight with that recognizable Eyraillian fire in her eyes. In one arm, she held one of her two children; the little girl named Klara, who at this point would have been about half a year old. “Your Highness, Vega Sorde. I don’t believe we’ve formally met.”
“I know who you are. I know where you are from, and why you fled.” Vega instantly did away with the niceties, instead opting to assuming that very foreboding, intimidating presence that the Eyraillian monarchy was so good at. Somehow, seeing her not only as a princess and Skynight, but as a mother with her child in her arms, made her all the more fierce. After all, there was nothing more dangerous than a mother protecting her children. “What do you want, Anetania Ardane?”
“Really, Nia is just fine. And I must say, your daughter is adorable! She’s got your red hair--”
“If you have business, then please state it, or leave me and my family in peace.”
So much for trying to be civil. Nia pushed air out of her lungs and clasped her hands in front of her. “I need your husband to come with me. Upon Locque’s summons.”
“What does the wi--what does your Lady want with Haraldur?”
“I wish I could answer that, but I am only the messenger. The sooner he comes with me, the sooner he can return to you and your children. In fact, I’ll personally mention that to Locque, myself. Family time is important.”
Vega said nothing, but turned away from the door and headed deeper into her room. After some hushed whispers that Nia could not make out, a few moments later, the tall Forbanne Commander himself filled the doorway, looking perhaps even less pleased than his wife, if that was at all possible. “Prince Haraldur Sorde. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you face to face.” The Master Alchemist offered something of a half-bow; there was no curtseying in her leathers. “I hope you don’t mind coming with me for a moment. It was either going to be me or the necromancer sent for you, but… Locque is aware that you don’t have the warmest feelings toward Vitali Kristeva. I do hope I’m the lesser of the two evils.”
Wordlessly, Haraldur followed her down the corridor, around corners, and all the way to the council chambers. Inside, Locque sat at the head of the table, but she was not alone. Standing to her right was a face all too familiar to Haraldur, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight braid, her blue eyes both seeing and yet sightless. The former Dawn Warrior did not move or speak, but stood statuelike next to the very person who was controlling her.
“Haraldur Sorde, upon your request.” Nia announced. “Upon his wife’s request, though, she’d like for this not to take long, if possible. They do have a family to look after, together.”
“Thank you, Nia. I will see to it that our discussion is quick and to the point.”
Taking the hint that she was dismissed, Nia took her leave of the room, and closed the doors behind her. “I know how this must look to you. But please be assured, Prince Sorde, I do intend to honour my promise to return your cousin to you when I feel my place here is secure. In fact, I was wondering if you could help me with what I currently need.” Locque sat forward in her seat and clasped her hands in front of her on the table. “It is my understanding that you have a certain connection with the Night Garden, Prince Sorde. To its sentinel tree, if I am not mistaken. Your children also have their own saplings that have sprouted as a result of their birth. For one who has never before set foot in Galeyn until last year, you are indeed intertwined with the Garden’s roots. Which makes me wonder if you can do some investigating for me.”
Unclasping her hands, the sorceress lay her palms flat upon the table. “The Garden once recognized me, too, a long time ago. But alas, that is no longer the case. I wonder if you are able to discern why; and better yet, to discern how I might reconnect with it. You answer to the tree, and it, in turn, answers to you. Haraldur Sorde, if you can help me understand how I might reclaim what is mine… then what is yours will be returned to you, as well, and sooner than later. No further strings attached.” She nodded to the Dawn Warrior standing next to her. “What do you say? Can I depend on your assistance?”
For all that he dodged well-traversed corridors and pathways, shifted his regular operations during inactive hours, and ventured outside the palace grounds more than he stayed within its boundaries, Hadwin hadn’t made himself entirely scarce. Always on the move? Yes. Always ready to drop everything and scamper off to his many secret hide-outs, locales he revealed to no one, not even Briery or Teselin? No doubt. Over the last several weeks, his strategy had been simple, if not a little cowardly: avoid Rowen. Given her palace residency, her keen wolf senses, and whatever augmentations she received from Locque, it presented a challenge to constantly prepare for an impromptu disappearing act, insofar as his “disappearance” meant they would not lock eyes. Much as he wrestled with the idea to scrap his cautionary side-stepping and meet her head-on, laying low was, presently, his best option, for the fewer interactions he initiated with his youngest sister, the less agitated she’d grow by his presence and the less likely he’d incite her wrath prematurely. He wasn’t ready to jump in and kickstart their inevitable showdown to the death; not yet. Perhaps he’d never be ready, but as of now, he was content to adopt the “Wait and See” method. However, accounting for his latest interaction with Bronwyn in her bedroom, his time for idle observation was wearing to a threadbare end. He would have to face Rowen, soon, and do what he did best: push and provoke her to the edge. In fact, he suspected that she, anticipating his tendency to weaponize his Fearsight, was also avoiding him, preferring to enlist others to spy on and watch him in her stead. It was why he seldom discussed his personal life with Nia; not that anything he blustered on about in a tavern would compromise his safety or implicate him, nor did the Master Alchemist seem keen on ratting him out his whereabouts or routines to Rowen. Nonetheless, as a precaution, he tried not to fall into any one pattern, and he achieved this by rolling a pair of dice, leaving each day’s activities to random chance as dictated by the number of dominoed pips that appeared face-up. And, seeing as it was too “predictable” to visit Bronwyn often, he limited visits--and she was grateful for them. To her, he was an acquired taste.
Unfortunately, Teselin had predicted one of his “routines” as she spotted him away from Night Garden path, picking the glossiest batch of leaves to pestle into a potent “powder” for mixing into his pipe. So much for the random roll of a dice. The summoner knew him and his vice-like habits too well!
“You got me, squirt! Guess it’s time for me to say, ‘Tag, you’re it’!” Hadwin, turning from the bush of blue leaves that he dubbed “octopus legs” for their resemblance to the long, tentacled appendages and protruding, suction cup-like stalks peppering the surface, he clapped Teselin on the shoulder to simulate the game she’d unknowingly initiated with him. “Yup, these’ll do it. I’ve had ‘em before and they pack a punch, so I’m all set!” At noticing the newest spate of anxieties drift across his vision, the grip on her shoulder loosened and the smiling crinkles in his eyes faded. “Paid a visit to Bron, eh?” But he said nothing more on the subject as he, sensing Nia’s arrival, turned to meet her at the same time she opened her mouth to speak.
“Indeed I did, oh hungry one!” The faoladh playfully lashed at Nia’s arm with the bushel of ‘octopus legs’ he collected. They writhed in his hold like an oceanic cat o’ nine-tails, hitting her one at a time with all the force of a limp noodle. “Tentacle plants! Kinky, no?” At her suggestion, he aimed his nose at the crimped, papery flower she presented and took an analyzing sniff. “Honestly? I could describe it to you, but most of the shit I smell on the regular can’t be translated to the limited scent profile of the average human nose. But to give your inferior sniffer some credit, I’m catching hints of buttery, flakey crust and cardamom. So, pie elements. Why don’t you try eating it?” his lips stretched into a sideways smirk, revealing one sharp eyetooth. “Could do a few turns more than a good smell, if you’re looking for a good trip.”
After pointing out the likely location of Haraldur Sorde (oh was he going to be in for a rude awakening this morning), and seeing her off with a wave of the uncoordinated bushel of octopus plants, Hadwin’s grin switched to a suspicious frown the moment she left their vicinity. “Hmm. She’s touting the kind of happiness that doesn’t give me a whole lot of confidence to see. It’s fishy, and a bit too sudden, ‘specially so soon after Osric ousted her from his pub. Oh yeah, I read the rejection on her face, clear as day; she’s still reeling from the boot he gave her. All the same, she’s not faking her cheer, far as I can grasp. Eh,” he dismissed the case with a shrug, for now, “I’ll pop in on her later, see what’s going on. ‘Least I can rule out that she’s not drunk or blazed on Night Garden herbs--unless you count sniffing flowers as a drug. Anyway, to answer your question about Bron,” he cricked his neck from side to side and rested a palm on his nape. “She doesn’t wanna leave her chambers. In fact, it was her idea to call for more guards at her door. On the night of our shopping trip, a certain stowaway snuck in between the guards’ shift change and left Bron a right mess.” He didn’t have to say her name aloud for Teselin to deduce the identity of the ‘stowaway’ in question.
“I mean it. Bron’s all shook up. Terrified. Thinks it’s better she’s not roaming free because she doesn’t trust herself not to get picked off for defying Ro’s grand fratricide scheme. She’s got it in her head that she’s useless and only good as a pawn in a game she doesn’t wanna play. Now that she’s flipped her piece off the board, she’s a lost lamb, wondering what she can do--if anything. Did I try and break her out of her doldrums?” He crouched to the ground, opening up his satchel and tucking away the octopus leg stalks. “Sure, but the darkness winds her tight. Courtesy of Ro’s barbed rebuke. Damn. She learned that from me, didn’t she? How to weaponize your Sight and eviscerate with words.” Liberated of his bulk, both of his hands clawed into the loam and dirt; were he a wolf, he’d be digging holes for no reason other than to occupy his paws. To do something, however pointless the action, was far more desirable than sitting with the feeling for too long, and frankly, he didn’t know how Bronwyn could do it without going mad. “Well fuck, everything’s coming up shit-stained roses, huh? Sure we can find those in the Night Garden.” Though he chuckled at the imagery—hells, he saw and smelled worse than fecal flowers—the rest of his body did not react. No wide grin or jubilant tossing of his shoulders. No belly laugh or loud, spirited tones. When one hand suddenly grabbed at Teselin’s oversized sleeve and urgently tugged her groundwards, to his level, he was no longer laughing.
“Scamp, listen carefully, ok?” He hissed into her ear, his warning as sharp as glass. “Don’t get involved with Rowen. Don’t even entertain her bullshit. Stay away if you can, alright? Just...stay away. We’ll try for Bron again, you and I. As of now, I think she has the right idea. If you hole away, you can’t cross Ro’s path by mistake. She’ll suss out your weaknesses, feast on em. I know, cuz I created her. So I’ll deal with the fallout.” His brow softened as he released her. “Got it?”
Over the past month of Locque’s joint rule, Haraldur Sorde largely kept to himself and his family, half to take advantage of the downtime as a father, and half as a deliberate attempt not to overmilitarize the Forbanne in anticipation for an overthrow. If he wasn’t in the public eye, he wouldn’t stumble upon the likes of Rowen, killer of Naimah and scryer of one’s innermost darkness, who drove him to suicide; he wouldn’t encounter Vitali, who, for the most part, appeared only at night. But most importantly, he wouldn’t see Sigrid, a mindless thrall, stripped so callously of her autonomy and reduced to little more than a reanimated corpse. In full avoidance of a run-in with the former Dawn Warrior, he, aside from handling his share of fatherly duties, occupied his time aiding in Forbanne rehabilitation...and in rehabilitating himself.
During their retrieval of Bronwyn Kavanagh some weeks ago, the woman’s rankling brother called him out for his minor drug habits, allegations which he vehemently denied. He wasn’t about to own up to adding a small--and regulated--dosage of stimulant herb into his tea every morning, least of all to Hadwin, because admitting as much would reveal his failure to manage double duty as a Commander and a father without relying on uplifting properties of the controversial drug, the same drug that nearly killed Elespeth. He could have consulted the Gardeners for a prescription to a healthier herb, or better yet, turned to the sentinel tree for advice on how to channel restorative energy through his exhausted muscles and bones. Alas, the more he focused on the problem, the bigger a problem it would become, and routinely sprinkling crumbs of the powerful herb was not a problem, not even noteworthy--until Hadwin opened his big mouth and hinted at the possibility of sharing details of Haraldur’s newfound reliance on the stimulant. It wasn’t a problem; he stood by his assertion--but others would view it as one and for that reason, he needed to stop before they began asking questions.
Hence, he had entered week two of the stimulant weening process, and every day since then, he felt like he repeatedly was getting run over by a carriage. Bleary-eyed and uncoordinated, he often struggled to produce a coherent thought or sentence, an issue he combatted by lapsing into reticence, saying little unless necessary. On this particular morning, he had guzzled a jug of water to slake his monstrous thirst, a condition that seldom changed, no matter how much he imbibed. Dry mouth had sucked all moisture from his tongue, rendering it a mummified, inoperative lump. Today was the last day he wanted to welcome guests, let alone one of Locque’s coterie, so when Vega stepped in between his play session with little Kynnet and informed him of the sorceress’s request to see him in particular, it was as though the illusory carriage had run him completely aground, scattering his entrails across the road. More than ever, he wished for the energizing effects of the stimulant to overcome the dread of meeting Locque, her odious proposition, and whoever might be in her court.
Setting his chubby-faced, brown-haired son into the crib, Haraldur regrettably left the room to meet the insufferable Master Alchemist in the doorway. “Nia,” he punctuated, dipping his head in acknowledgment, but forgoing a return bow. “We’ve met before, briefly--as I’m sure this will also be brief.”
Silently, he followed Nia down the corridor. To prepare for the likelihood of encountering Sigrid, he schooled his expression into Forbanne calm, betraying nothing of his emotions, and assuming an impregnable front of steel and stone. Sure enough, upon entering the council chambers, the plain-faced and the plain-clothed Locque was accompanied by the blonde warrior, too rigid of stance and gone of mind to register as the woman he once knew, his cousin, guardian to Klara, and the sole person he most wanted to save from her onerous fate. Gaolithe and Locque’s crew had robbed her of everything: happiness, a life, free-will, and shaped her into a mere instrument, be it as a destructive weapon or a bargaining tool. Such gross depersonalization of one’s human existence rankled Haraldur to the point of murderous intent. He wanted to wrestle Gaolithe out of her bare hands and shatter it against Locque’s skull and dissolving them into nothing, nevermind the fact that he couldn’t.
Against his better judgement, his eyes drifted to Sigrid, but she, removed from all pride and personhood, stared blankly on, unresponsive as a statue. Gone. Unreachable. Behind his back, his hands curled into fists as he quickly redirected his attention to Locque, and bowed his head. “Majesty Locque,” he said, investing in a curt, professional, soldier’s bearing. “What can I do for you?” Listening to her proposal, he knew it was neither negotiable nor voluntary. Whether he desired it or not, she would have him cooperate with the Night Garden’s investigations---and dangled Sigrid over his head to force his compliance. He was given no choice.
“You will have my assistance, Majesty Locque, but supposing I can’t grant you the answers that you seek, will you still honor your promise to return Sigrid ‘sooner than later,’ as you say? I’m a messenger; I can only offer you a translation of the sentinel tree’s will. What it chooses to reveal is up to its discretion. Granted,” his uncurled hands emerged from behind his back, “it’s permitted me to use its power, before, so I’ll see what I’m able to do. As I can only imagine the shift of energy the transference would cause--your power is far greater than Majesty Lilica, after all--I must ask, your Majesty, that you please take care not to disturb the saplings of my children in the process. It’s imperative they receive as much growth and nourishment as possible during this formative and delicate time. I hope you can understand the plea of a parent. If this is all you ask of me, then,” he saluted, fist to chest, “I’ll take my leave. Expect my report in a few days’ time. Your Majesty.” At Locque’s former dismissal, Haraldur gave one last peripheral look at Sigrid before turning around and exiting the council chambers, heart thudding around in his ribcage in equal turns anger, fear, and hatred. Anger for the position Locque thrust him in. Fear of retribution, should he lie, withhold information, or deliver bad news. And hatred...the hatred was on behalf of Sigrid. In her place, he gathered the rage, the frustration, the pain--everything she no doubt felt, deep down inside, but could not express. I’ll carry it for you...until you can reclaim it as your own.
For as much as Hadwin warned Teselin not to engage Rowen, Rowen very much planned on engaging her. Weeks following the mishandled conversation with Bronwyn, she was finally ready to strike again, and waited for the perfect opportunity to ambush her, alone, in the hallway. The summoner, en route to her private chambers, encountered an obstacle in the form of the dark-seeing faoladh, who greeted her...with a disarming smile.
“Hey, Teselin,” came her casual response. Pushing away from the wall where she loitered for the past handful of minutes, she stuck her hands in her pockets and strolled over to meet the cornered girl. “I thought we could chat, just me and you. Nothing in particular, really.” She tossed her head of dark, shaggy hair towards the dining hall. “Interested in grabbing some supper? I think we could both use a little meat on our bones.”
Just as Haraldur had listened patiently while Locque detailed her request and precisely what she desired of him, so too did the sorceress lend an open ear when the Forbanne commander explained his willingness to help, along with the limitations of whatever help he could provide… and, predictably, concern for his family. Which was not limited to his wife and children. Sitting back in her seat, Locque nodded her understanding, and in no way seemed disappointed that there was a chance that he, just like the necromancer and her own Master Alchemist, might come back empty-handed, anyway.
“I first asked the necromancer to consult the dead and suss out whatever secrets of the Night Garden that we may not yet know-- including why it no longer recognizes me.” She ventured to explain, running a finger along the woodgrain of the chair. It was interesting, how that like any given palace of any given monarch, Galeyn, too, had a throne room, neither of this kingdom’s monarchs had ever been witnessed taking a seat on that throne, and instead how both chose to hold an audience in the council chambers. In Lilica’s case, she had once mentioned this particular preference for that fact that it was not her, alone, creating and developing these decisions that directly affected her rightful home and its people. Although, many, including Chara, suspected it was also born of the feeling that she continued to feel undeserving of taking a seat upon that throne… especially when one of her first impulsive actions taken as monarch had been to aggressively target the Night Garden. But as far as Locque’s decision to avoid the throne went… well, it was anyone’s guess. The sorceress herself might have claimed something along the lines of avoiding the grand seat as a symbol of her solidarity in sharing the role of monarch with Lilica Tenebris, and that to take up the throne with only her presence was in poor taste. Really, though, even Nia would have admitted that the sorceress was simply trying to emulate Lilica in her stance that no kingdom was truly ruled alone by one governing body. When one was unsure about the path to being accepted, it only stood to reason to mimic those who were already accepted.
“As I am sure you have already gleaned from my summoning you here, neither of them were able to provide me with any useful insights. However, I am sure that you have also taken note that I have not seen fit to ‘punish’ them when the information I seek is clearly beyond their control.” Locque went on smoothly, in a tone that was supposed to be reassuring. “The both of them continue to live in peace under my protection, and in fact, they are consistently rewarded for their dedication. Prince Haraldur, if nothing else, I want you to leave this room with the reassurance that regardless of what you can or cannot glean from the Sentinel tree, your family in its entirety will remain unharmed. I simply see no benefit in punishing the messenger.” Leaning forward in her seat again, she spread her hands, palms up. “I am well aware of the saplings that sprouted at the birth of your beautiful children, and of their whereabouts. Know that I have already made it very clear to those working under me that no harm is to befall them, or to befall any of your family directly, regardless of whether or not you are in fact able to help me. It is not my intention to hold their safety over your head as a threat, because you are a man of honour, and I have faith that you will do exactly as you say you will.”
Of course, it did not surpass her attention the way he viewed Sigrid in his peripheral vision. It was not just the well-being of his children and wife that he feared. And in fact, he made a point to ask about Sigrid’s imminent return to them. “It was never my intention to keep the Dawn Warrior enthralled forever, Prince Sorde. I know what she means to you as someone who so values his family. When I first encountered her, she did in fact appear to be very lost and broken. I could understand why, considering the burden she must bear to wield Gaolithe… yes, I am aware of its lore.” Her eyes wandered to the sword, which was wrapped expertly and tucked away in a sheath across Sigrid’s back. “On top of being burdened with such a dark and sad fate, she then lost the woman she loved, someone she had seen as a brand new chance at a possible future. She was not able to cope with the extent of that burden. Haraldur…”
Locque’s expression smoothed ever so slightly, and she refocused her attention on the commander in front of her. “When I did encounter the Dawn Warrior face to face, she was already gone. Gone insofar as she had chosen to accept the fate that Gaolithe had in store, for her. She felt she had lost too much, and that if she could not protect the life of the one person who was supposed to have been her future, then she might as well lay down her life to whatever cause her cursed sword saw fit for her sacrifice. As she is, now…” She glanced briefly at the stoic blonde soldier, who appeared more akin to a statue than to a living being. You had to look closely to even realize she was breathing. “I think we can all agree, myself included, that it is far from ideal. But, in a sense, her current state is buying her time. You and yours were not able to reach her, before. When she returns to you… perhaps you will have another chance, at that.”
Something that vaguely resembled a smile played on the tyrant Queen’s lips. She probably intended it to be reassuring, but it was too unnatural. “Your agreement to help is appreciated, Commander Sorde. I am not looking for you to work miracles; I expect no such thing of anyone. Your genuine assistance where you can lend it, and… and your honesty. That is all that I desire.”
The way she left a pause of emphasis before that last statement was loaded with meaning--that being that if he were to try and deceive her, she had a way of knowing through Rowen Kavanagh’s Sight. And while she had promised not to punish him or his family in any way should he find himself unable to deliver favourable news… deceit would not be tolerated.
Vega was waiting with bated breath, Kynnet now in her arms with Klara having gone down for a nap. The little boy hadn’t taken kindly to the interruption in time spent with his father, and given the tears on his red cheeks, it seemed as though the Skyknight had only recently managed to calm him down. Such was the life of the two parents, raising twins: when one slept, the other often didn’t. When one was hungry, the other wasn’t. Anyone who encountered either of them in a particularly foul mood did not spend much time wondering why. “What did she want from you?” Vega was on her feet the moment the door opened again. It was little wonder it had taken her so long to calm Kynnet when she, herself, was anxious and on edge. “What did she say?”
Haraldur sat down and took the time to explain. Something about the Night Garden… Locque wanted him to consult the Sentinel tree. But what could he glean from the Garden that she could not? Hadn’t she once been a Gardener, herself? “...what are you going to do?” She asked him quietly. “Are you… going to help her? Even if it means that what you tell her could jeopardize Galeyn?”
Of course, she knew the answer before he said anything at all: that he would do whatever it took to protect his family. And if procuring information from the Sentinel tree and relating it back to the sorceress would keep his family safe… then there was no debate. “Do you… do you really think she will release Sigrid from her thrall? Whether or not you are able to tell her what she wants to hear? Sigrid has been a threat to hold over all of our heads from the very beginning. Without her, she won’t have as much power over us… and I am sure she knows this.”
Kynnet began to whine again in her arms, and with a sigh, she gently placed the 6-month-old in his father’s arms, at which point he almost immediately began to calm. “He’s wanted you this entire time. Wasn’t ready to give you up when you left.” A soft smile played on her lips, to see the amount of love in Haraldur’s eyes for one of the children they had brought into this world, together. But behind it was also a hint of sadness. “..are you ready to talk to me about what has been going on?” Her tone was soft, not at all accusatory--in fact, the exact opposite of the tone she had used when addressing Nia Ardane. “You’ve been off, lately. You seem more exhausted… irritable. I don’t think it is solely a result of this kingdom’s new rule. I’m not looking for a fight, Haraldur, I just want to be in the know. So that I can help… you’re my husband.” Reaching with one hand, she cupped the side of his face, prickly with stubble that he had been too tired to shave. “You’re my family. And if we don’t have family, right now, in these times… then we have nothing. Please talk to me.”
“Wait--are you sure?” It didn’t come as any surprise to Teselin that Hadwin was so easily able to read the Master Alchemist’s micro expressions, but what he said… it didn’t seem to make any sense. If he was right, and she was devastated to be kicked out of what had to be one of her favourite places in all of Galeyn, then wouldn’t it have pushed her mood in the opposite direction? She wasn’t acting like someone who felt down and hurting. In fact, the young summoner had never seen her so… alive, and high on life. “But that doesn’t check out. Why would she be happy to completely lose access to her favourite eatery? I mean, I’m sure it isn’t any of our business, and I would never begrudge someone their happiness. It just seems… strange. Especially when the rest of this kingdom certainly cannot relate to such a sentiment.”
Whatever it was that had the Master Alchemist on top of the world, she trusted that Hadwin would learn about it sooner or later, especially given that Nia had something of a penchant for endless chatting. One way or another, he would be in the know, but when they returned to her initial inquiry involving Bronwyn… evidently, Hadwin knew exactly what was the matter with the faoladh woman. “So… Rowen. Did Rowen say something to Bronwyn? Did she threaten her? You really think she would harm her just because she did not agree to harm you?”
While this was by no means good news, in a way, Teselin was a little heartened at the notion that Bronwyn had truly come around to realizing that she wanted Hadwin alive more than she wanted him dead. Perhaps Rowen had been counting on the opposite, ever since she had lured her into Locque’s clutches, but… well, whatever the intent of that shopping trip, it had changed her for the better. Or at the very least, it had changed her perspective. And yet, Rowen had to crash that party before it had really started, instilling fear and doubt in Hadwin’s eldest sister. No wonder she had looked so sad and hopeless: were she in Brownyn’s situation, Teselin wasn’t convinced that she wouldn’t do the exact same.
At least she could trust Hadwin to take it seriously. For all he had once harped on his sister for her penchant for harsh judgement, there was no way he could deny that he cared for Bronwyn. There was still a future for them; a chance to mend whatever havoc their past had wreaked on their relationship. As for Rowen… it didn’t sound as though he had much hope for her rehabilitation. Not when she was so secure with Locque. “Alright, Hadwin. Believe me, I know. I fell for her… for her deceit, just once. And it almost got you killed. Never again--I won’t be taken by her again, I promise.” She squeezed his arm and smiled. “She can’t get to me. But… promise me you will reach out to Bronwyn. She shouldn’t have to live in fear of Rowen like that. I… I don’t know that it would be a good idea to have me in the picture.” She downcast her gaze. “She’s afraid of me. But she knows you, and if she won’t reach out to anyone else… you are all she has.”
In truth, Teselin had every intention to heed Hadwin’s advice and to keep her promise to him that she would not get involved with his bloodthirsty younger sister--but Rowen, as it turned out, had other plans. One evening, as she was headed back to her chambers where she would undoubtedly find Hadwin curled up at the end of the bed as a wolf, she was intercepted by yet another wolf. One she wasn’t expecting to see… or hoping to see, for that matter.
“...Rowen.” Teselin immediately stiffened and paused in her step. There was no way she could return to her chambers, now. Not if it would lead Rowen right to Hadwin… although, the younger faoladh likely already knew he was there, and that was why she’d had known where to intercept her.
Taking a slow breath, the young summoner tried to release some of the tension from her limbs. “Rowen. The last time we spoke… you got me to lead you to Hadwin. So that you could try to kill him.” How could she stand there and act like that had never happened?! Like it was water under the bridge? “What is it you would like to talk about? We can chat right here. There’s no one else around, and I’ve actually already eaten.”
Locque’s thinly-veiled warning didn’t escape Haraldur’s attention. No thicket of his exhaustion was impassive enough to prevent the witch’s penetrative pike from slashing through its overgrowth with the tenacity of her message. And her message was clear: Dishonesty will not be tolerated. He had far too much to lose than to spin falsehoods or misleading content, not when the emphasis on his family’s safety, including the known--and secret--whereabouts of his children’s’ saplings, served as a stark reminder to fall in line or else pay the penalty. As a parent, his vulnerabilities were glaringly noticeable, and distancing or downplaying any association with his family was nothing short of an absurd tactic. No one would believe his apathy and lack of care. Besides, hadn’t he chosen isolation as a protective measure, only to succumb to Rowen Kavanagh’s fatal persuasions in the end?
Considering everything he had to lose, caution dictated that he maintain transparency with the demi-monarch, who lorded too much over him to oppose. She didn’t make his decision to submit an easy feat, however, when she, in some perverse attempt to reassure him, launched into a lengthy explanation implying how she saved Sigrid from heartbreak and self-surrender by casting her into forced subservience, and then having the audacity to compare mind-enslavement to a time-out. To reclaim control of his body, Haraldur closed his eyes and filled his lungs with regulated breaths, calming whatever rebellious flares threatened to jerk at his limbs and overcome his practiced, steadfast stature. Locque lacked the understanding to operate under a moral framework; it showed in her mannerisms, her wording. Keeping those shortcomings in mind, his lashing out in anger would only hinder the possibility, however slim, of Sigrid’s release.
“If you view Sigrid’s thrall as a kindness, Majesty Locque, it’s fortunate you’ve ceased using her to slaughter families,” he said, choosing his words, and his tone, carefully, lest she interpret the comment as sarcastic. “The Forbanne are often deployed to carry out various atrocities, conditioned or even psychically compelled to obey their commander’s will, else they suffer agonizing torture or death. Speaking from my own perspective, when you ‘awaken’ to the things you’ve done, even if you had no choice but to follow a superior’s orders, it’s difficult, sometimes impossible, to separate the killer from the penitent. After all,” he stared at his open palm, “it was your hand that delivered the blow; no one else’s, no matter who forced you to do it. If you’re serious about sparing Sigrid further hardship, hardship that stems from--and this is a fact--Rowen Kavanagh’s slaughter of the lover who promised her said bright and happy future, the result of which, we can’t deny, benefited you, then I beg you cease sending her on missions that will add more scars to her already embattled soul. What she’s been made to do...it goes against everything she stands for. If this persists, no one will be able to reach her at all.”
As a sign of his willingness to comply with Locque’s demands, the proud Eyraillian Prince lowered to one knee, and bowed his head, chin to chest, glad for the fact that no Forbanne was present to witness his tasteless deference. But it was what he excelled at; kneeling. Groveling. No title of “prince” automatically erased his origins as a filthy commoner who was kidnapped and served an endless chain of demonic officials as an even filthier sub-human. Breaking his bonds to his overseers changed nothing. Freedom was an illusory concept. Always...he would kneel to someone, or something. But there was no mistaking the reason behind his subordination. He didn’t kneel for Locque; he kneeled for his family. For Vega, Klara, Kynnet...and for Sigrid. “In sparing my family, you have my word, not as a prince or a commander, but as Haraldur the Nameless, that I’ll report, to the best of my ability, whatever you wish to know from the tree.”
After exiting the council chambers, he dragged his hand against the wall to stabilize his teetering legs. Malaise, which first originated in his stomach, spread to affect his back, his chest, his throat, and eyes in nauseating throbs, as though the act of kneeling before his enemy had released the built-up toxins he’d absorbed from his months’ long stimulant dependency. But the lingering aftereffects of the addictive herb was not responsible for the visceral response affecting him so profoundly. To see Locque’s command of the lifeless Sigrid, to hear her justification for maintaining it, sickened him with an incurable rage, a plague too fast-acting to curb and expel from his wounded organs. He was infected.
Two passing Forbanne guards, upon seeing their commander’s condition, rushed to his side and offered to support and accompany him to his suite, but Haraldur shook his head and dismissed their aid. Honoring his request, the soldiers saluted and resumed their patrol duties.
By willpower alone, he plowed through the corridors, breathing placebos to trick his body into cooperating. No way he’d let Vega or their children see him in such a state, not when he worked so hard to banish any outside stressors from entering through the door and impacting the nursery’s nurturing atmosphere.
Get it together, he admonished. Slapping his cheeks and stilling his tremulous hands, Haraldur, appropriately reassembled, turned the corner and strode into the family suite, where Vega anxiously awaited his return. Since his departure, she had exchanged Klara for Kynnet, whose little red cheeks were wet with residual tears. To conceal his bodily difficulties, he wandered to the closest chair and took a seat, almost sighing aloud at the instant relief it brought him. At Vega’s inquiry, he briefly explained Locque’s request that he confer with the sentinel tree about the probability of an ownership transference.
“I have my doubts that she’ll succeed in getting what she wants,” he said, keeping his voice to a low-rumbling murmur. “The sentinel tree shares a particularly strong link with Lilica and can’t so easily be severed. I warned Locque, vaguely, that this might be the case, and she’s assured me whatever news I deliver, good or bad, won’t affect my standing with her...as long as I’m honest. So,” he sank into his chair, hanging his arms over his lap, “I’ll be honest. What other choice has she given me, when she has Sigrid under her control and knows the location of our children's saplings? I have little confidence she’ll return Sigrid anytime soon...or ever," he almost shuddered from the thought, "but if I displease her…” He was interrupted by the complaining gargle of Kynnet, who, stirring in his mother’s arms, revived to the sound of his father’s voice. Haraldur welcomed the squirming bundle from Vega, raising the boy to eye level.
“Is that so?” He perched Kynnet on his knees, supporting him on two tiny feet. “Have you been giving your mother a hard time?” Scooping the baby close, he lifted the tyke’s shirt and blew a raspberry against his tummy, eliciting riotous laughter. “Now I’ll give you a hard time!” On and on he played the raspberry game until Kynnet, tuckered out, began to calm. Only after the child was lulled to sleep in the crook of one supportive arm did Haraldur finally look up at Vega to address the question he ignored for the better part of a half-hour, in favor of ladling all the attention on his son. “I am more exhausted and irritable...but isn’t that how everyone is feeling?” She didn’t buy it; of course she wouldn’t buy his weak dismissal. She knew him too well to believe in his half-truths when he’d been hiding the details of his well-being since the day they met. By now, she had wisened up as to how he operated. Around her, she wouldn’t let him suffer in silence.
“You...won’t like it,” he finally managed to admit, learning into her warm touch and closing his bleary eyes. “But I’ve been working on it—so you don’t have to. For...for the last few months, I’ve been taking the stimulant,” he blurted, taking care not to tense his shoulders lest Kynnet sense his father’s stress and reawaken. “Just a little in my tea every morning, to get me going. It’s how I’ve been able to forgo sleep.” With his free hand, he gestured to the table behind them, which he populated with too many wood-carved toys to count. “How I’ve balanced life as a Forbanne commander and life as a father while still having the time to train, go on walks, and carve. It was the damn faoladh who suggested I may have a dependency problem; I don’t,” he huffed in emphasis. “So for the past two weeks, I’ve been weaning myself off the herb. I’m stimulant-free, but...all those months of cheating sleep are catching up to me, and,” he pressed a palm against his forehead; it came away hot and perspiring, “and I can’t keep up. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t know how you’d respond to my using the same herb that almost destroyed Elespeth. I never would have let that happen, but...I didn’t think you’d believe me. But it’s alright now.” Lifting her hand, he gently stroked the tops of her knuckles with his thumb. “I’ll find a different method. A better one. I’m...sorry for worrying you. It’s all I seem to do, lately.”
“Well, this isn’t the most ideal place for chit-chat, but if you don’t want to keep me company in the dining hall, it’s not like I can begrudge you your caution,” Rowen said breezily. By her casual mannerisms and casual speech, she was emulating Hadwin in an attempt to put the on-edge summoner at ease. “I know there’s a lot I need to answer for,” she manufactured a convincingly remorseful sigh, “but I hoped you’d be at the forefront of all people to give me another chance. Look at how you view Locque, for instance; everyone associates her with darkness incarnate, but not you. She plunged your Rigas friend into a fate worse than death. Ensnared the Sorenson woman under her thrall and ordered her to kill an innocent family. Similarly, ordered the Rigas leader’s wife to take down the spouse of a high-ranking official. Recruited me specifically so that I would kill for her benefit. Yet, despite her deeds, you’re still willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. It’s a good quality, Teselin. A rare one. All I’m asking is for the same amount of clemency.”
In a similar gesture to her brother, Rowen clapped Teselin’s shoulder, an ostensibly chummy move that, if one read the deeper context, betokened a more sinister motivation. You don’t want to toss me aside, the message warned. You don’t want to ignore me. Do it, and you’ll regret it. “See, killing Hadwin isn’t what I want. I love my brother. He raised me. Rather, I feel driven to kill him. It’s hard to explain, Teselin, just exactly how my Sight twists and corrupts my worldview, but in my eyes...everyone is an enemy. Moreso the people I love. I had hoped the Night Garden could heal my darkness, but it’s been little over a month and...I’ve noticed little difference. Maybe,” the fingers over Teselin’s shoulder pulsed, replicating the beat and meter of the girl’s frenzied heartbeat, “you can help me? I miss him, but I can’t even be near him without this urge to destroy bubble up from inside of me. Why else have I steered clear of Hadwin for this long, despite our close residency? I don’t want to hurt him...but my curse is too strong, too dominating, and,” a soft plea shone in her fawn eyes, “I’m unsure of what to do.”
That night, Haraldur fell into a delirious slumber, a nightmarish distortion inspired by the day’s events. He saw Sigrid, the insidious Gaolithe in hand, embedding the blade into his children’s delicate breasts, Eyes sightless, she thrust the weapon in so deep, they fell apart at her touch, forming blood slicks on the floor. A fire emerged from the blood pool, shooting up angry red flames and consuming the Dawn Warrior in hellfire, erasing her, and the remains of his children, from existence. Meanwhile, Haraldur tried running to them, but his feet were fused to the ground by gnarled roots and he couldn’t move. No, not fused; they were roots. He was no man, but a tree, and the fire crept ever-closer, igniting his branches and gutting him from the inside; a towering inferno, severing all connections to life, to earth, as it dragged him, down, down, into the chthonic depths of the netherworld.
Darkness swept its absolutes over his senses. Where was he? What was he? Dead or alive? Man or tree?
A symbol etched across his vision, inked in, if possible, an even deeper black. A stave with a bent nose on the top and a bent foot at the bottom. He knew this symbol; had drawn it once, in the ground, with human fingers.
Eihwaz. The root system in the abstract. It traveled deep, deep, deep, through rot and stench and decomposing things. To death—linking the below with the above, foundation with the firmament. That which possessed roots, held firm against the rocking and breaking of the world.
Endure, it said. Endure.
The rune accompanied him out of his dream state, into the mundane. On the morning he set out to make contact with the sentinel tree, the double-ended crook followed, manifesting in branches, etchings on rocks, and disturbed patches in the dirt.
Endure...Endure…
But how? He’d been enduring all of his life, one day at a time. How was he to interpret a message and its embedded lesson when he already learned the meaning a long, long time ago?
Whatever the answer, he couldn’t allow it to distract him from the task Locque had instructed him to do. Putting his curiosities on hold, Haraldur approached the tree’s massive trunk, touched the coarse bark and hardened sap, and concentrated.
Its response was exactly as he expected.
“Majesty Locque.” He entered the council chambers later that morning. Today, the tyrant queen was surrounded by her entire court, sans Vitali, a small grace, considering how the presence of Rowen Kavanagh exacerbated the aches and chills already assaulting his beleaguered body.
“I won’t waste much of your time,” he bowed his head, a deliberate gesture to obfuscate his line of sight from Rowen and from Sigrid. “I’ve spoken with the tree. I’ll be the first to admit that I am no expert in deciphering its code. It communicates in symbols and in images, and I’m far from imaginative. There might be a mistranslation. But I’ve been able to glean this much.” Forgive me, Lilica. “Presently, it recognizes Majesty Lilica as the sole heir to the Night Garden and accepts no alternatives at this time. The tree also says that your energy has changed since you last commanded the Garden. As it stands, it’s...incompatible.” In other words, Locque and her magic had fallen too far into the darkness to wield the Night Garden’s strong healing-based frequencies, but Haraldur omitted the last bit, concerned it would come off as a condemnation and not a fact. “If you’re not satisfied with this answer, I’ll contact the tree a second and third time, that I may ensure the accuracy of my translation.”
Over the past weeks, Vega had had her suspicions. Something wasn’t right with Haraldur, and it was abundantly obvious in his behaviour and mannerisms. Beyond his unpredictable moods, in particular those ‘good’ moods that appeared more feigned than genuine, she couldn’t help but notice just how little he slept. At first, it made perfect sense as to why he avoided slumber. Extra shifts taken to direct and keep an eye on his Forbanne guards now that Locque had come into power was enough to make anyone restless, and even if he’d felt it were particularly safe to sleep, apprehension would have stolen away any potential for shut-eye. She could relate; sometimes, she, too, chose to to engage in busy tasks late at night when sleep eluded her. A dangerous thing when she knew she would have to be awake for the entirety of the day to tend to the twins… but sometimes, it couldn’t be helped.
Haraldur had taken it so much further, though. The amount of wooden toys he’d carved in whatever downtime he could find, the way he was up before dawn and sometimes did not return to her until long after she’d gone to bed… it was as though he were literally running on nothing, and yet feeling no consequence for his lack of rest. Of late, though, things had begun to take a turn. Completely contrary to his previous habits, it was as if all of a sudden the late nights, early mornings, and lack of sleep were finally catching up with the Forbanne Commander. He struggled to wake up, and when he did sleep, Vega noticed it was fitful, where he tossed and turned, assailed by restless dreams that she could not see. When he was awake, the effort it took him to stand and carry out his duties were not lost on the Eyraillian princess. Everything was suddenly so much harder for him, including merely taking the time to lift his children from their bassinets and lavish them with attention. He still did it all--he made the effort, he carried himself tall, but Haraldur… he wasn’t well. And she couldn’t figure why…
...but his explanation, somehow, did not surprise her. Not in the slightest. “That stimulant. The same one that Elespeth had been taking? That almost… killed her? Haraldur… but you saw, firsthand, what that was doing to her. How it rendered her so near death, there would have been no hope for her by typical medical means.” Of course, while this news was not surprising, it still frightened her. Months… he said he had been taking that awful stimulant for months! Even Elespeth hadn’t been consuming it for more than a single month before she had nearly lost her life to it the first time. Although the former knight had no doubt been taking it in larger quantities and far more frequently than her husband, there was still a chance that he had sustained some damage from his reliance on its effects. He said that he did not have a dependency problem… but if that were really the case, then he would not be suffering this withdrawal in the aftermath. His face felt warm and clammy, he looked beyond exhausted, and whatever he had intended for that herb, it had already gone too far.
“No. No more… ‘methods’, Haraldur. This is not a matter of finding another way to cheat your body out of what it needs.” Vega’s voice was gentle, but firm. She held his face in her hands as she searched his eyes for understanding. “Believe me… I know what it is like. Being a parent and a soldier, and wanting to be the best at both. But the truth is, life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes, especially in times like these, we are occasionally going to have to forsake doting on our children every moment in order to do what is necessary to protect them. And other times, we are going to have to forsake our place on the front lines or commanding others in favour of taking care of our family. It is not about having it all and doing it all and being the best at it all. It is about doing what we can, and working with what we’ve got. If that means occasionally taking a day off from both, leaving the Forbanne to themselves and having a nanny tend to the children… then that is what we do. Perhaps sooner than later, because… you are not well.”
Dropping her hands from his face, she took his one free hand in her own, careful not to wake the sleeping boy in the crook of his arm. “I trust that everything you do is for the protection of this family. If cooperating with Locque is the soundest plan of action, then I will support you in that. But what I do ask, Haraldur, is that you in turn look out for yourself. What will any of this matter if you aren’t around anymore to protect us? Whatever else you have planned today, I want you to forego it. I want you to rest. Leave the children to me, and just take the time you need. You don’t have to go this alone; what else is marriage for, if I cannot be there for you?”
As gently and deftly as possible, the Eyraillian princess lifted Kynnet from his father’s arm and carefully placed him in his bassinet, all miraculously without waking him. “I’m going to speak with some healers; perhaps the Gardeners can prescribe you something to take the edge off of your withdrawal.” She said as she straightened and returned to Haraldur’s side. “And you’re going to listen to them… and to me. Alright? No more going this alone. Because turning away from help is precisely what almost killed Elespeth. Haraldur, I came so close to almost losing a dear friend… and I refuse to lose my husband.”
At either end, both in front of her and behind her, was an expansive corridor. Escape should have been easy… and yet, Teselin had never felt more cornered in her entire life. She had listened to Hadwin’s warning the other day, when he had not only cautioned her not to get involved with Rowen Kavanagh, but not to give her the time of day--not so much as to listen to a word she had to say. Yet it did not feel safe to turn her back on the dangerous and unpredictable faoladh right now. If she ran, if she told her she had no interest in talking and just turned away, if Rowen did not pursue her directly, then there was no telling who else she might take out her frustrations on. The young summoner had no intention of going back on her word to Hadwin; but at the moment, she had no choice but to hear Rowen out.
“You’re right; I do think there is hope for Locque. At least, I want to believe there is.” Teselin spoke slowly, carefully. All she could offer was honesty; should she lie, Rowen would see her deceit. “She is responsible for the death of a lot of innocent people. Of making a lot of innocent people kill, such as Elespeth and… and now Sigrid. However, since taking the throne, she had honoured her promises to everyone. No one has died; no one has been hurt, and she has sworn that it is not her intention to see any more needless bloodshed. It is because of that, because I think that deep down she wants to find her humanity again, that i believe it is not too late for her. However… however…” She lowered her voice and let out a small sigh. “Your vision is not the same as hers, Rowen; she has said as much. For whatever reason, whether because you want to, or because you feel compelled and otherwise helpless not to heed that urge, you want to spill blood. You see it as the only option and the only answer to whatever weighs on your mind. I don’t have your Sight, so I can only imagine secondhand what that must be like for you. To see violence as your only solution… I imagine that it must be exhausting, Rowen. And I am sure that at the very least, a small part of you means what you are saying, right now.”
Teselin clasped her hands in front of her to steady and ground herself. To keep them from shaking. She had to tread carefully--so carefully. There was no telling what would set Rowen off, or what she would do if she did not get what she wanted. “I want to help you, Rowen. I want everything to be right between you, and Hadwin, and Bronwyn… you know I am telling the truth. You’d see my deceit, otherwise. But if I am being honest, I don’t know… how to help you. Or if I am even the best person for the job. If you ask me, though… if you really are turning to the Night Garden for help, then I think you are on the right path; you just don’t know what that path means, yet. The Garden alone might not be able to heal your heart and mind, but I am positive the Gardeners might be able to direct you toward the direct avenue.” Unclasping her hands, she even managed a little bit of a smile.
“But it isn’t just about Hadwin. I’ve been led to believe that you might have said something to Brownyn, recently… which had caused her to withdraw. We’ve been working so hard on trying to get her to connect with others, not to shy away, and I’m afraid what whatever you have said to her has impeded her progress. So why not start there? That is damage that can be undone. If you really want me to help you… then let’s approach the Garden and the Gardeners in the right way, and find out what needs to be done. Then start with Bronwyn--show me that you can show her kindness, and I will help you heal the bridge that has been burned between you and your brother. Does that sound fair?” Hadwin is going to be livid, a voice at the back of her mind cautioned, but what choice did she really have?
“Take it one step at a time, Rowen. I have to go, now, but we will talk again, okay? You are right; I am of the opinion that everyone deserves a second chance, and that no one is lost. There is no reason why you must be an exception to the rule.”
Mustering another smile, she nodded her goodbye to the dangerous young girl, before slipping into her chambers--and locking the door behind her. Her heart was racing, and she felt hot and uncomfortable in her skin. What had she just agreed to? Surely, Rowen was leading her into a trap. There was no other explanation… if the girl had really wanted to change, she would not have tried to convince Bronwyn to help her kill Hadwin. That conversation, that plea for help, had been nothing but a farce.
As she’d expected, Hadwin was curled up on the foot of her bed in his wolfskin, and looked up upon her arrival. She didn’t peel the smile off of her face; nor did she proceed to tell him what had just happened in the hallway. It wasn’t safe, especially if Rowen was still nearby. But she knew that his Sight would tell him all that he needed to see; all that he needed to know. “I think I’m going to turn in early, tonight; it’s been a long day.” She said simply, kneeling by the bed as she buried her hands in the fur near his neck and deliberately met his yellow eyes, beseeching him to realize what had just happened--whom she had just encountered. “I hope you don’t mind a little company.”
Trusting the Forbanne commander to keep his word, Locque waited patiently the next day for Haraldur to return with word straight from the Sentinel tree. Once again with Sigrid standing at her side--just a gentle reminder as to why he did not defy her--she took up her usual seat in the council chambers, a room which had once been full of his allies as they contemplated and discussed plans to move forward, to save Galeyn, to save themselves… As of now, Lilica rarely set foot in it, anymore. Nor did anyone else, unless Locque summoned them personally. No one felt secure with what the room stood for, anymore; once a haven for friends, but now the lair of an enemy.
“Prince Sorde.” The sorceress greeted him as he asked permission to enter later that morning. She was not alone with Sigrid, this time; both Rowen and Nia also occupied the room, the former likely so as to suss out whether what he had to say was truthful, and the latter...well, Nia never really needed a reason to be where she was. More likely than not, she was just bored. “I am elated to see you returning with news so quickly. Do tell, what did you glean from the Sentinel Tree?”
But she knew the answer long before he said the words outright: incompatible. It recognized only Lilica because it no longer knew who she was. All those years of serving it, tending to it, tending to the sick that it healed… and it did not remember her. “I see.” Locque shifted in her seat and folded her hands beneath her chin. Since Rowen did not jump in to decry any falsehoods, she had no choice but to believe that what Haraldur said was true. “So it will answer to none but Lilica. I suppose I should not be surprised…”
“Wait a sec--I don’t think all is lost, here.” The Master Alchemist cut in, twirling a tress of hair around her finger. “So it doesn't recognize you at present, Locque. It knows who you were, but not who you currently are… I think the answer is obvious. You need to reconnect with the energy of the person you once were. Spend some time in the Garden, think back on you who used to be, and maybe it will start to open up. Our Eyraillian Prince is on to something, here!”
Locque blinked once. She could not deny Nia’s logic; the trouble was… how difficult would it be to find the person the Night Garden wanted to see? That pitiful girl had died a long, long time ago. Locque, as she currently stood, was all there was left. “...that is most definitely food for thought. Haraldur,” Locque looked up and nodded once. “I appreciate your help. For now, bear in mind I might call on you again. You are dismissed.”
Like before, Vega was ready and waiting for Haraldur’s return--but this time, she was not alone with the children, awaiting him in their chambers. Senyiah was there as well, the Head Gardener currently cradling one of the children in her arms when Haraldur entered… or rather, stumbled in, temporarily losing his footing. Perhaps it was at the confusion of Vega’s company.
“Haraldur… I’ve spoken with Senyiah on what has been ailing you.” The Eyraillian princess explained gently. She held Klara to one of her shoulders as she approached her husband, feeling his forehead with her free hand. He felt as though he was burning up. “I think you should go with her to the Night Garden. Remember… we agreed you can’t go about this alone. She can help you manage the worst of your symptoms. Your Forbanne will do just fine on their own for a little while.”
“It is as she says, Your Highness. Your condition was caused by an herb… fortunately, that makes it all the more likely that the damage can be reversed with herbs, as well.” Senyiah explained matter-of-factly. “We can start treatments today. Within a week, I think you will start feeling more like yourself, again… if you will agree to my help.”
Once the secret spilled from his lips--that he had been using stimulant, and for quite some time--Haraldur regretted sharing the news, for how much it plied Vega’s brow in upset and worry. While he had been combatting the symptoms of withdrawal over the last fortnight and missing the beneficial effects the dried sprigs would offer, neither was he fighting the urge to resume his regular, daily dosages. Unlike Elespeth, he grew up familiar with the stimulant’s range of gains and losses; he’d experienced the highs and lows, well-accustomed to the cycle, the wheel, spinning its ever-changing, but ever-consistent, rotations of elation and depression, all in equal keel. He knew the stimulant’s numerous failings. Paired in the hand of the desperate, injured, or uninitiated, the herb was dangerous, even fatal. But caution dispensed careful and conscientious measurements. Never did he recklessly throw several sprigs in at once; he sprinkled minute amounts into his tea. Adjusting weekly to account for tolerance, the sprinkle grew into a pinch, always an insubstantial amount, even to the most seasoned Forbanne soldier. He stood by his statement; he didn’t have a dependency problem, and he wasn’t expecting to take stimulant forever. It was only meant as a temporary solution until life’s vicissitudes presented him with a lull, for a safe, uninterrupted recovery. Despite Locque’s quiet takeover, nothing particularly alarming had happened yet, and, knowing he needed to be in peak physical condition in the event of a treaty violation or a violent outcry, jumped on the opportunity to wean off the potent substance. The sooner he readjusted to a pre-stimulant state, the better. Unfortunately, getting there required enduring the uncomfortable and sometimes disruptive stages of rehabilitation including, but not limited to: weight loss, vertigo, nausea, fever, fitful slumber, erratic heartbeat, and joint pain. But that was all it was to him; uncomfortable. And, as he predicted, Vega saw his wary admittance differently. While he couldn’t blame her for reacting in alarm, considering Elespeth’s near-fatal episode, her visceral response was exactly why he hesitated to inform her any sooner.
“You may not know this, Vega, but as former Forbanne, I have a long history of on-again, off-again stimulant usage,” he ventured to explain, hoping that providing context would ease the severity of his radical choice. “Mollengard valued efficiency, by any means necessary, performance-altering substances be damned. But neither did they tolerate addiction. Sprigs were handed out, few at a time, as a deterrent against over-abuse. Everything was highly-regulated. Elespeth, in contrast, had full, unrestricted access to the stuff, and by the time I stepped in to offer guidance, it was too late to reason with her.” He swallowed down the extant guilt he still carried for his unsympathetic and insensitive handling of Elespeth’s case. “Yes, several Forbanne have succumbed to temptation and stolen pouches from officers’ tents--suffering execution for it--and yes, it’s an occurrence in my camp, too, especially as some soldiers start coming to terms with what they’ve done and need relief, but I was never one of them, Vega. I may have had a drinking problem in the past, but never a stimulant problem. I know how to safely administer the amount I need. I wouldn’t dare slip up. I said that I wouldn’t. I promised you I wouldn’t, and I meant it. The repercussions I’m feeling right now are a combined result of stress, time mismanagement, lack of sleep, worrying over Sigrid, dealing with the fact that I’m a tree, and catching whatever ailments the little ones get every so often.” He smoothed the little tufts of hair over Kynnet’s forehead, a gentle and non-verbal apology to his son for scapegoating him and his sister. Though it wasn’t a false statement, he still felt bad for lumping in the twins as a reason for his hard-to-shake malaise.
“When I say I’ll ‘find a different method,’ I don’t mean a substance-related one, Vega,” he corrected, locking eyes with his sagging, olive-green ones. “I know what’s helpful. Routine walks around the Night Garden recharge me, and proximity to the sentinel tree boosts my strength in ways I can’t rightly explain or understand.” Certain runes, he found, also provided temporary relief, provided he concentrated and meditated on the meaning, but the stimulant, paired with his busy schedule, complicated any attempts to sit still and disconnect from his mountain of tasks for longer than ten minutes at a go. The closest he achieved to focused contemplation was whenever he took up the blade and whittled toys for the children, every completed piece always signed at the bottom with the chicken-foot protection charm of Algiz.
“I can’t fail them,” he whispered, countering Vega’s concern that he was taking on too much at once. “Kynnet, Klara, Sigrid, the Forbanne...you.” He tried to swallow the hard-to-swallow truth, but the lack of saliva in his bone-dry mouth prevented the passage from opening. “I’ve burned through all my chances. This is it; this is all I get. I can’t expect you to keep carrying me whenever I stumble. Nor do I expect to be the best parent, or the best commander, or the best cousin. I only need to not fail or make it worse. To stay alive, and to keep going, which I’m doing. I’ve taken some unpopular steps, true, but I’m still stepping forward. Isn’t that what’s most important?” Emptied of the comforting weight of his serenely-sleeping son, Haraldur’s bare hands dropped, fingers curling and uncurling like a fish’s gills, gasping for water. “Without the stimulant, I’m capable of balancing work and family. I’ve done it all before. I’m doing it now.” You have your doubts, I can tell. His hands fell limp, in dejection. “Don’t you see? I can’t afford to do less. Because--” If I do less, I can’t make up for the pain I’ve caused you. If I do less, I can’t be worthy of repairing your trust. If I do less, I can’t prove I’m a good father, or prove if I’m worthy of living...or worthy of my children’s love. Those warring thoughts perched on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill, but he silenced them before they gave voice. Shortly after surviving his suicide attempt, his main vow was to do better, be better, and to never let Vega down again, and here he was, already failing! To admit the difficulty in adhering to his vow would only finalize his failure. It was best kept internalized. In saying too much, it resulted in his wife removing his responsibilities and assigning him Gardeners for monitoring, conditions he couldn’t refuse, else she question his commitments to their family. Like Locque before him, he had no choice but to submit to one knee, in defeat.
“If I consult the Gardeners and clear my schedule to rest, will that be enough to assure you that I’m taking my recovery seriously? Because I am,” an undertone of exasperation stressed his last, uttered note. “I’m not turning away from help and neither am I in danger of death like Elespeth was. I’m off the stimulant; my heart’s fine; we’re steps away from a healing Garden; and, I have the sentinel tree’s blessing. Believe me, I’m working with what I’ve got. I’m managing it; I’m taking it easy. I can’t help what Locque wants me to do for her, or how I respond to seeing Sigrid enslaved and stripped of her autonomy!” Realizing he was getting worked up, he blew out decompressing breath before the heat rose to agitate his presently burning cheeks and forehead. “You’re not going to lose me, Vega,” By the waist, he drew her in close to his chair and pressed his forehead against her abdomen. “You won’t. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Whatever is necessary to restore your faith and confidence in me. Just…” his shoulders buckled in a cringe, “let’s try to keep this between as few people as possible, alright? I don’t want word getting out that I’m having withdrawal symptoms, especially when it’s not even a severe reaction. They’ll blow things out of proportion and compare me to the drug-happy faoladh who picks plants for the sole purpose of getting high. My reputation was only recently restored in the eyes of the Galeynian people when I became a father; I’m not keen on damaging it so soon after my,” he closed his eyes, hesitant to name it beyond the vaguest of terms, “my mistake.”
During Teselin’s long and well-thought out response, Rowen never ceased maintaining full contact with her shoulder. Light though her touch was, and easily shrugged off, the young thing was apparently so adamant against offending others, and so fearful to oppose, that the simple act of tactile proximity was enough to convince her that fleeing was not an option. The fear to flee also reflected in her answer, so careful and curated, that Rowen had no trouble envisioning the summoner as a future diplomat, granted she didn’t blow up the world, first.
“Haven’t I also honored my promises?” She said, tilting her head in mock hurt. “I am a rightful part of Locque’s court, and in respect to my Lady, am honoring her pact of non-aggression. Let’s also not forget that I haven’t ended another human life since last fall. Sure, I don’t have the vision for a harmonious accord like she does, because I don’t believe harmony exists, only people placating other people for purely self-serving purposes, and that creed is part of my problem. I’ve been working on it.” In emphasis, she placed a free hand over her chest, as though to clutch it in guilt. “I’ll admit, I said horrible things to Bronwyn, out of hurt and anger. My Sight affects me to a vising extent and there’s nothing but gaseous poison clouding my view, but there are occasional moments when the clouds disperse and I can see through the storm’s eye, through to sky-blue clarity. In that brief instance, I’m self-aware—self-aware enough to know that this,” she closed her eyes and dragged her head, “isn’t what I want for myself.”
“You are the best person for the job, because you’re about the only one left who believes in me. Bronwyn blindly followed out of militant duty to our father. Hadwin has given up and I can’t blame him, nor is it safe to apologize up front when my urges to kill guide my hand to his throat. No,” she shook her head so vehemently, her fringe of dark hair fell into her eyes, “the closest person I could conceivably trust is you, because you genuinely see the good in everyone, unlike Bronwyn, who sees good against her will and succumbs to its influences. She doesn’t value virtue. She judges virtue on a sliding scale and rejects whatever doesn’t fit her own moral and ethical framework. But you,” the hand upon her chest swept outward to clasp her other shoulder, “your acceptance of others is unconditional. The fact that you’re giving me the time of day speaks volumes to your character. It shines through even the blackest shrouds like a beam to penetrate my darkness. Brings me a bit of hope when all seems lost. Let’s do it, Teselin,” her thin lips spread into a smile. “Together, we’ll approach the Gardeners for help, and I’ll work on patching things up with Bronwyn...with my brother. They’re...I don’t think they’re yet out of my reach.”
You don’t believe me. But you don’t need to. As long as I have you in my grasp. Her smile grew wider, brightening her reddish eyes.
“We’ll talk again, Teselin. I know where to find you,” she said, cheerily enough, but her pep didn’t change the meaning behind her statement. “Until then.” She dropped her arms to her sides and at last, released the summoner.
At Teselin’s return, Hadwin’s pointed ears perked and he lifted his head to the shadow by the door. The only light illuminating their shared chambers issued from the fire flickering its last embers in the hearth. Before he could launch off the bed to meet her, she met him around the ruff with her spooled arms. Their eyes met and he saw it all; everything that had transpired between her and Rowen within the last handful of minutes. In place of growling his anger and frustration, he licked the tip of her nose as if to say: It’s not your fault, and: We’ll figure this out.
Rowen made her move and announced that she simply wasn’t to be ignored, anymore. But, if there was anyone sincere enough to play along to her machinations while honestly operating under the best of intentions, wielding little to none in the way of deceit...it was Teselin.
Immediately following his “conversation” with the sentinel tree, a language not of voices but of messages discovered in nature--a rattling branch, deadfall swirling in the wind, a dislodged pinecone unearthed by a squirrel, ripples skimming through a serene pond’s water-glass surface--Haraldur marched to the council chambers to report his findings. While each step proved difficult, he did not falter, crediting his reserve strength to the Night Garden’s restorative energies. Whenever he explored its alien flora, a sense of peace overtook the ravages of rage that threatened to gut him, tree-like, from within, like a flame sparked from a vengeful lightning strike. However, in his transition from outdoors to indoors, the peaceful energy lost its efficacy and, abated, leaving, in anticipation for the audience he begrudgingly sought, the infection in his body to travel, unopposed, through his scorching veins.
Despite the increased company--the Master Alchemist who rankled him and the faoladh who still commanded power over his nightmares--Haraldur epitomized unshakeable stability. He stood, immoveable, like Sigrid before him, girding himself for however Locque would react to the news, be it with unpleasantness or neutrality.
“Agreed,” he gave a curt nod in Nia’s direction, acknowledging the Master Alchemist’s interpretation of his message. “Notice I used ‘presently’ and ‘at this time.’ It means that as long as you’re willing to connect to the part of you the Garden remembers, then the possibility exists.” Not lies on his part, but a stretch of the truth, insofar as the sentinel tree did not consider Locque’s candidacy at all. But, given her centuries’-long lifespan, it could be assumed that she would, when all other caretakers served their tenure and died, eventually regain control of the ancient Night Garden--granted, she reconnected with the lost Gardener she had tossed aside so long ago. Though he doubted her ability to dispel the built-up darkness that defined her character more than the innocent youth who served and tended the Garden, encouraging her towards reform wasn’t the worst of ideas. At the very least, they could keep her morality in check, using the (unrealistic) acquisition of the Night Garden as a reward to inspire her towards good behavior, starting with releasing Sigrid from her thrall...before she realized benevolent acts would not win the Garden’s favor.
Rowen, squinting suspiciously in his direction, almost caused him to lose his footing and his stance. “Your message isn’t false, but I don’t trust you; not when your hatred for her Majesty runs deep.”
“Hatred shouldn’t matter; I’m cooperating. Even with the young woman who killed my cousin’s lover and orchestrated my death.” He flashed a stormy glare at Rowen. “Considering what happened, I’ve every right to hatred. It doesn’t prevent me from serving your interests to help me serve mine. In the end, we both get what we want. Now that I’m formerly dismissed,” he presented a stiff bow to the council, “I’ll leave you alone to your affairs.”
More than ready to collapse into a heap in his family’s chambers and shake off the tingles igniting the top layer of his skin, Haraldur almost tripped over the door’s threshold to see Vega in concert with Senyiah. Out of all the Gardeners to inform! I told you to keep this non-issue relatively private and you go and consult the Head Gardener to fetch me. His eyebrows folded, both perturbed and frustrated to be cheated of rest on his own terms; though, with the presence of Klara in Vega’s arms, he wiped the expression from his face so as not to distress her.
“I’ll go,” he said, his tone clipped as he turned from his wife, following Senyiah out the door without as much as a goodbye. Mutely, he trekked after the Head Gardener, through the winding palace corridors and finally, outside to the Night Garden. En route to whatever section of herbs were most conducive to treating his ailments, a curious plant, growing near the base of the sentinel tree, caught his eye. Bleached white, its long and wiry form rose up like a celery stalk and sported segmentations that resembled a spine, with a particular shepherd’s cane crook bending at the top. He stopped, regarding the hardy plant carefully. The spine of the world. Eihwaz. You cannot endure if there is no stability, it seemed to whisper. If you burn your trunk to a husk, you can never hope to stand tall. You’ll only collapse from the effort. “What does this plant do? Anything?” He pointed to the cane-shaped, bony appendage jutting from the ground. “I think...I think we should take some. For medicine.”
“Haraldur… don’t misunderstand me. I trust you, and I do trust that you are taking your recovery seriously. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have taken yourself off of the stimulant at all.” Vega mentioned gently. She was hyper aware of just how sensitive her husband appeared to be on the topic of his substance use (though he swore it was not substance abuse), especially given his feverish and sleep-deprived state. She feared that saying the wrong thing might cause him to turn away and clam up when it clearly made him so uncomfortable to approach her with honesty. “If you say you have not developed a dependency on the herb… then I believe you. You’ve been functioning; you’ve been a wonderful father and a perfect soldier. But you are still more than that… you realize this, don’t you? You’re still Haraldur. And you deserve to devote time to yourself as much as you have been devoting it to your responsibilities. That is all that I am saying.”
As he rested his head against her, she ran her fingers through his hair and exhaled slowly. How long had he been keeping this close to his chest? Months? One wrong move, one wrong word, and this trust would crumble. He trusted her not to overreact, to make him feel guiltier than he likely already was, but the Eyraillian princess still could not shake the urgency she felt at this revelation. She couldn’t shake the image of Elespeth from her mind… shrunken, confined to that wheeled contraption because she could not stand on her own, otherwise confined to her room when no one was there to guide the chair. That image of her struggling to dance with Alster on her weak legs, putting up such a front that she was not nearly as ill as she really was. And then seeing her comatose for several weeks afterwards, with no solid reassurance that the former knight would ever open her eyes again…
And she couldn’t help but picture Haraldur in that state. He was strong, and perhaps more familiar with the drug than Elespeth had been, more in tune with its effects and the longevity of the symptoms he was experiencing, but for all Haraldur was someone who had cheated death and sickness, he was no immune. She had already almost lost him once, and with the stress and pressure building up on his shoulders, his resilience was already being tested. It wasn’t Haraldur that she didn’t trust: it was the circumstances surrounding him. Surrounding everyone within the palace.
“We’ve all had it hard, this past month. All of us, for reasons that are both different and similar. I can only imagine the stress that Lilica is under, holding her breath in Locque’s presence. Or that Alster and Elespeth must feel with everything that has happened to Alster, in addition to their self-exile. Or… or Sigrid. With everything she is being forced to endure.” She slipped her hands onto his shoulders and squeezed gently. “But none of that diminishes what you have had to shoulder even before any of this happened. You became a leader and, frankly, a saviour to hundreds of men and women who were otherwise enslaved by Mollengard. But at the same time, you also became a prince, and soon after, a father. And all of these things require enormous responsibility… but on top of it all, you now have this. A force that threatens not only this kingdom, but your family, directly--our family. And I don’t just mean the twins. Sigrid… she is my family, too, now. But it doesn’t take a scholar to see that you felt you were breaking under the pressure, so you did what you thought you had to do to stop breaking. Because you won’t see yourself fall apart.”
Taking his face in her hands, she made him look up so that her eyes met. “And you’re not going to fall apart, with or without the stimulant. I believe in you that much to know that… but right now, you’re burnt out. You’re overwhelmed, and I know that you want to try to get through this alone so as not to be an inconvenience. Going it alone, though… it’s not the answer. Even telling me, which is in and of itself a substantial step, is not the answer. But we’ll find the answer together, alright? It doesn’t lie with me and it doesn’t lie with your confession just now, but if you trust me, I think we can get that very help. Only if you trust me, Haraldur. I’ve trusted you for this long; and I won’t let you down. It doesn’t mean the entire kingdom has to find out, but we… we need to reach out. Just a little bit. Okay?”
Leaning forward, Vega pressed a soft kiss to his lips, which felt as feverish and flushed as his face. “We won’t let this out of hand… it’s going to be alright. Your reputation isn’t on the line; just your health. You’re wellbeing. So in good faith for what you’ve told me, and in your commitment to recover, then put my mind at ease and just rest. Just for a little while… alright?”
And Vega intended to stand by her word. She would not do anything that would compromise Haraldur’s image to his Forbanne soldiers, to the Galeynian monarchy, to Galeyn in general, or to his friends. However, she was more than a little familiar with his stubborn streak, and in fact shared that very trait with her husband. In many ways, she was not so different from Elespeth: were the tables turned, she knew that seeking help even from a trusted friend would have been her last thought, just as it had been Haraldur’s last thought. Even with his confiding in her, it was not a means of reaching out for help, but simply for honesty and transparency. Somehow, he was still convinced that he could get through this alone, but the Eyraillian princess was not about to let that happen. And so, she did exactly what she said she was going to do, and she reached out. Not to the judgmental Elias, or even to gentle Daphni who would no doubt relay what she knew to the Clematis healer, but to the helpful and impartial Head Gardener, Senyiah. In the days that had followed the ‘emergency birth’ of the twins, the Head Gardener had been of the utmost help to her, always respectful and--unlike Elias--entirely tactful. During that trying time, the Skyknight had developed a trust for the woman in charge of the Night Garden. She had trusted her with her health, and many times, with her children’s health when they came down with a touch of a cold.
Now, she was willing to trust her with her husband’s health… if he was open to receiving it.
And that, in and of itself, was a feat. “She can help, Haraldur. Senyiah helped me recover from the surgery when the twins were born. She’s helped Kynnet through a head cold and Klara through her upset stomachs. She has helped our entire family… so I thought that she could help you, too.” Vega attempted to explain, bordering on firm and apologetic. Haraldur looked tired, like he needed rest, but that was entirely the problem. If ever he wanted to feel what it was like to have energy again, to not fight through fevers and nausea and headaches as a result of withdrawal symptoms, then he needed this help. “I’ve spoken to no one else on this matter; frankly, I don’t trust anyone else. Senyiah is discreet.”
She understood, though. The betrayal he must have felt, his sense of reason clouded by fever and exhaustion. And Vega didn’t blame him. She’d have felt the same; no Sorde was pleased to be deprived of any autonomous decision. Nonetheless, she would have eventually seen a small intervention as necessary… as Haraldur surely would, hopeful sooner than later. But feelings could wait; they could talk about it later, and he had all afternoon to feel disappointed and bitter towards her. All that mattered now were his words of agreement, however reluctant they had been. Just get better. Return to yourself first; we can fight about it when you are well again.
Just as pleased with his response, Senyiah nodded silently and stepped out of the room with the Forbanne Commander, hands clasped in front of her and hidden by her white robes as she led the way to the Night Garden. When they had left the premises of the palace, the Head Gardener spoke low and quiet, so that the words were only between the two of them. “It was to honour your request for discretion that your wife chose to approach me on this matter.” She said, as a means to clarify and offer some perspective. “All of the physicians in this palace answer to Elias and Daphni, as the Queen’s chosen royal physicians--and she was not sure that you would be comfortable with your condition being shared with either of them. Likewise, the Gardeners must answer to me first for any patient that they seek the Night Garden to treat. I am the only one who answers to nobody; none but the Garden, and Queen Lilica, herself. That said, should she inquire about you, then I would be obligated to divulge our treatment plan… but as she seems to trust you implicitly, I highly doubt that your health would cross her mind. Rest assured, your secret is safe with me.”
As they crossed the threshold into the Garden, where Senyiah sought to pick some preliminary herbs that she had used as a means to help Elespeth deal with her more severe symptoms of withdrawal from the Mollengardian drug, Haraldur stopped them both near the Sentinel tree. It had come to her attention that the man, despite not hailing from Galeyn, did indeed have some connection with it. But the Garden worked in mysterious ways, and it was not for her to question. However… it was important to note. “We call it cane root. It is in fact a root that thrives not from water and soil, but from air and sunlight, and grows upward instead of inward. To be honest… it is not often used in medicines. Simply because it has never really spoken to any of the Gardeners as reaching out to be a cure, like many of the other flora do. One of the few specimens that we still know so little about. That said…” Kneeling, she picked a stock that was the length of Haraldur’s arm. “There is always a time to try something new. I will have this processed in a few different ways: as a tea, an incense, an ointment, and failing all that, you can try taking it in your food. One thing is for certain, and that is that nothing growing in the Night Garden will harm you. At worst, it simply won’t cure you.”
Straightening, she held the cane root to her chest. “Do you think you’ve found what you’ve come to find, or are you interested in anything to bring down your fever and headache in the short term?”
While Haraldur suffered a headache from lack of sleep, Teselin was nursing one from stress and anxiety ever since her conversation with Rowen. It wasn’t safe to discuss the details with Hadwin anywhere near the palace, so in true Hadwin fashion, he suggested that they hit up a pub to “loosen up a little”--and to talk about how they needed to proceed, now that Rowen had her sights on the young summoner. Of course, Hadwin never needed an excuse to drink, and even Rowen couldn’t blame Teselin for feeling apprehensive, so it was the perfect excuse to get away from the palace long enough to get some words out and throw some ideas around.
Teselin was so on edge that she couldn’t even touch the fruity, alcohol-free concoction that Hadwin insisted she try, given that the barkeep said the fruit juices had come straight from the Night Garden and had uplifting properties. Her stomach was in knots and her head was pounding; she hadn’t slept much since encountering the young faoladh girl. “She didn’t think I was lying. I didn’t think I was lying, either, but Hadwin… I think that just because I wanted to believe that I could help Rowen, I’m not sure that I can. Wanting to believe I can and knowing are two entirely different things, and I… I don’t know. I don’t know that she is being sincere… and if I had to guess, I doubt that she is. But…” The girl rested her chin on her hands and furrowed her brow. “It doesn’t matter what I can or can’t do. She made me promise; and I know that she is probably just going to try to use me to get to you. I’m so sorry, Hadwin, I know you warned me to stay away from her, and I tried, but she… she found me. And now I’m stuck.”
“Wow, hon; what’s got you so down?” A familiar voice, someone with a familiar mind to Hadwin’s, must have also thought that tonight was a good night for drinking. With a full tankard in hand, Nia invited herself to sit down next to Teselin, and pursed her lips in concern. “It’s gotta be bad if you’re stressing out. What’s driving you to drink? Hadwin! What kind of influence are you having on this impressionable young mind?” She couldn’t help but tease him, and nudged his shin from under the table. “For real, though… did someone die or something? Because if that’s the case, then I can guarantee that Locque had nothing to do with it, this time. Rowen, on the other hand… well, that one does what she wants, so I can’t exactly speak to her innocence.”
“...Nia. How much sway does Locque hold over Rowen?” The young summoner looked up at the Master Alchemist. “If Rowen were to ask someone for something, but then Locque forbade it… would Rowen yield? Or does Locque really let her do whatever she wants? What would happen to the person who refused her--would Locque let her get to them, or would she get to them before Rowen could? Do you...” With a desperate sigh, she looked away again. “I don’t know why you would even have these answers.”
“...what exactly did the little bitch ask you? Sorry, Hadwin--just calling a spade a spade. But seriously, hon, is the little wolf girl trying to bully you into something? Listen.” She wrapped an arm around Teselin’s shoulders as she took a large gulp of ale. “We might work for the same person, but we’re not friends--Rowen made that very clear from the beginning. I won’t rat you out. What did she ask you to do?”
Teselin retreated in on herself a little, suddenly finding as though she were in more of a bind than before. Could she afford to trust Nia? Moreover… could she afford to lie to her? “She… she just asked for help. That’s all.”
“And you don’t really want to help. Well, fortunately for you, you won’t have time to help her.” A small smile spread across Nia’s face. “Because it just so happens that Locque needs your help more than Rowen does. Prince Sorde had a little revelation earlier that leads Locque to believe she needs to reconnect with the person she once was--which is what I’ve been advocating for all this time. And who better to help her than another summoner? So--what do you say?” The Master Alchemist arched an eyebrow. “I don’t fear Rowen. She can think what she wants of me; I’d planned to approach you about this before this brief conversation. And she can’t rag on you, either, if you’re assisting Locque herself and suddenly don’t have time for anyone else. No deceit, just a change in priorities, and you’re off the hook.”
Teselin looked up again,and looked from Nia to Hadwin. It was… a little bit crazy, especially considering she wasn’t sure that she could reach Locque anymore than she could Rowen. Although… she somehow had more hope for the sorceress than the faoladh killer. “...what do you think?” She asked Hadwin, personally. “Would that put you at risk? I don’t want this to backfire… I feel like I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.”
Haraldur nodded along to Senyiah’s commentary as they walked through the Night Garden. Whether from her persuasion or from the natural, rejuvenating effects of their environs--or both--he accepted her help as he determined its source to come from a place of extreme discretion and confidentiality. Despite her prominence in his family’s life, he seldom had contact with the Head Gardener, as she tended to visit and assist whenever he donned his Forbanne Commander mantle and couldn’t be available for the important or stressful moments of his children’s development. Perhaps he resented Senyiah a tad, for comforting the twins in his stead while he ran weekly provisions calculations, conducted border inspections, allocated troops around the palace, and attended countless strategy meetings, all which cut into precious time spent at home. Though he didn't let the command of a small Forbanne army consume him, and always prioritized his family, often, he worried about missing his children’s first words, first steps, first milestones, and that someone—such as Senyiah—would witness them in his place. In fact, his fear of forfeiting quality family moments out of exhaustion or bone-weariness largely encouraged him to take the stimulant, a decision he knew Vega and the others would find incredibly controversial. Alas, he was too well-acquainted with it to choose an alternative option, considering how selecting a Night Garden grade herb of a certain potency required a consultation with a Gardener—unless you were Hadwin, who didn’t care what he stuffed into his pipe and smoked—but Haraldur was determined to keep the shameful secret to himself.
As a Forbanne soldier, he survived many cycles of the stimulant as early on as childhood, and the frequent and sometimes brutal kickbacks of withdrawal little affected his performance. A major part of Forbanne training was to tolerate pain, all pain, and the stimulant provided an apt learning tool to guide soldiers through the trials of illness and malaise. Often, Mollengard’s Overseers would poison their food and force-march them under excruciating abdominal pain and nausea, severely whipping whoever stopped to vomit or relieve their bowels. If they could function while compromised, and function well, then in Mollengard’s eyes, they truly epitomized the ultimate, unstoppable soldier. Therefore, stimulant withdrawal, though it no doubt affected him, was an old, reliable evil and thus, didn’t inhibit his ability to carry on as normal—same as whenever he developed any other run of the mill malady. Simply, he endured it, no complaints, because that’s what he’d been raised to do. People like Senyiah, Vega, and hell, even the late Arina were wont to make him answer to the imbalances in his body, but with or without their help, he always recovered.
Apparently, the ‘cane root’ at his feet was telling him a different story—telling insofar as it parsed his mind to deliver its mute energies into easy-to-digest ideas and words. From just a cursory look, Haraldur received its request that he rethink the true meaning of endurance, for however he handled it in the past...was unhealthy. A potted plant could not grow if deprived of the proper nutrients, and in applying the same principle, neither would his ‘tree,’ the far-north entity that housed a chunk of his soul, flourish if blight continuously infected their shared pot. The nightmare, in which he and his arboreal counterpart burst into flames, forewarned more than the fear of his family’s destruction, but of his destruction. Vega was right. How could he be a father or a soldier when he refused to honor himself?
“It’s...speaking,” Haraldur, in hesitation, offered to Senyiah as explanation for his attraction to the cane root. While his connection to the sentinel tree was no secret, he seldom mentioned it aloud, and even then, only to the pre-takeover Galeynian council and his wife. Locque, naturally, had discovered his abilities in that uncanny way of hers. Whether by drilling Sigrid for intelligence or spying through magical means, visually and audibly, there wasn’t much one could hide from her purview if they caught her curious eye. “But I can’t verify to what effect this specimen will have on me. I defer to you on the other herbs,” he said, volunteering to carry the arm-long stalk to free up the Head Gardener’s hands for selecting the rest of the more conventional ingredients necessary for his recovery. “Forgive my behavior, from before,” he bowed his head in apology, his downward gaze now directing at the bleach-white specimen that emitted a faint, buzzing energy in his palm. “Vega was right to choose you. For all you’ve done in service to her and to our children, I thank you. I just didn’t expect...that you’d have to tend to my needs, when I’m sure you have far more important cases. So I’ll stop wasting your time, pointing to every plant I see as a potential cure as if I know any better. I don’t. Living in the wilderness on my own for a handful of years doesn’t exactly make me an expert, let alone with Night Garden flora. I’ll defer to you for the rest.”
True to his word, Haraldur said not a peep, nor did he flock to another specimen to add to the collection of flora fast gathering in Senyiah’s hands. Not that he received any particular call to do so. The cane root ceased its whispers, apparently satisfied by being chosen. Once the Head Gardener selected the necessary herbs that normally went into the medicines she crafted, they traveled to her personal study, where she cut, pestled, and prepared the base tinctures for him on the spot. With the tincture, she mixed teas and powders for sprinkling into his food, instructing him to use any combination of topical methods he preferred, three times a day, until better. At the conclusion of his visit, he accepted the bundle of medicines, expressed his gratitude, and headed back to his chambers. Vega turned her head as he entered, having just finished breastfeeding little Kynnet, who, bloated with mother’s milk, had begun to fall asleep in her arms. The moment his blue eyes closed, Klara popped up from her bassinet, fully awake from her nap and ready to replace her brother as the conscious baby. Before she started crying from lack of attention, he put his bundle aside and in favor of the thriving bundle whose little hands outstretched for her father. He scooped up the brat and bounced her in his arm, up and down, up and down.
“Don’t worry, Vega; I won’t be at this long,” he assured, before his wife could inquire if he planned to fully throw himself into fatherly responsibilities in his current condition. “I’ll retire into the back room, have some tea, and lie down. You...were right,” he sighed under his breath, not entirely thrilled to voice aloud his folly. “Just because I can recover without help doesn’t mean I should. Cutting myself from assistance means I forfeit my ability to listen to the world and its infinite wisdoms. I turn my back on knowledge and growth. I’m no longer the lone man living in the wilderness, surviving on his own means, or the wandering mercenary, waiting to die. The Forbanne who can’t show weakness, else he gets the whip. I’m a father and a commander. The formation collapses if I waste away. ...Not saying that I would, but it’s less likely if I draw strength from more than just myself. Achieving balance is...it’s essential. The tree is lost if it refuses water, sunlight, and nutrients. Don’t think you’re entirely out of the woods, though,” he waggled one finger at his wife, which Klara grabbed and brought to her mouth to suck on. “Next time, please don’t spring a surprise on me like that, especially following a meeting with Locque. Especially,” he took in a long, necessary breath, “since Rowen was also there. I haven’t seen her since...well, since I thought I killed her and…” his green eyes shuddered to a close, “I’m not sure how much longer I can stand on my feet, right now.”
Haraldur Sorde wasn’t the only person who couldn’t shed Rowen Kavanagh from his mind. Hadwin and Teselin, alerted to her newest advance into the foreground as she reinvented her identity from silent killer to smooth schemer, planned to discuss their next steps in the relative safety of his favorite drinking establishment. It wasn’t an ideal place of operations, but it beat huddling together in whispers or sneaking about the palace to find a quiet hideaway for discussion. Besides, a public venue served as its own form of protection. The likes of Rowen wouldn’t barge in and make a scene if she cared about adhering to Locque’s promises of peace. She abhorred crowded areas, anyway, and despised drawing undue attention to herself. At most, she could handle quiet conversation among a small collective of people. Too much varying levels of noise and raucous action, however innocent or merry, triggered her Sight to untenable heights and effectively shut her down. Keeping his sister’s preferences for quietude in mind, the pub at the height of dinner rush was effectively anti-Rowen—and it didn’t hurt to be surrounded by the welcome distractions of warm food and frothy beverages. Teselin’s fears were so numerous and profound, the headache it produced in him required an entire barrel of ale to drown, and left him to wonder if he’d fare better absorbing them, as he’d done for Alster. He hadn’t attempted to practice his new ability since its accidental discovery, but the experience wasn’t the most pleasant to endure. Not only that, but fear absorption rendered him into a half-conscious lump, a sitting duck and, therefore, an easy target.
Fully knowing the summoner would be too wound-up to accept anything into her stomach, food or drink, he ordered her a beverage anyway, a refreshing mix of unique Night Garden fruits mixed with feel-good properties. Curious about its flavor (and especially its effects), he stole a sip or two and raved about the taste in hopes it would inspire Teselin to drink, concerned for her day-long lack of accepting nourishment. But fear was like that; fight, flight, or freeze prevented the animal from taking in anything that would slow its escape or distract its survival.
“C’mon, I already said I don’t blame you for the run-in,” he dismissed, slinging a beverage with one hand and sucking on his pipe stem with the other. “My warning was more about giving her no reason to notice you, like saying ‘Hi’ to her in the hallway or making eye contact. But this encounter’s different; she approached you. Kind of hard to worm your way out of that one when you’ve never been the lass to out and say ‘Fuck you.’ Now,” he shot a stream of smoke ceilingward, “what’s done is done, so we might as well work this to our advantage. If she’s using you to get to me, then we’d at least know that she’s distracted and not targeting anyone else. Increased surveillance means it puts her out of the running for sneaking about and causing trouble. She can’t do that if you’re watching her and holding her to being ‘good’ by acting as her morality guard. ‘Course,” he balanced his pipe between thumb and forefinger, “this is all predicated on your openness to the idea of spending your free time with her. I ain’t gonna put you in a position that turns you into a nervous wreck. She won’t lay a finger on you if you always meet in public, especially with a guard nearby, but your head’s fair game; she can mess with it all she wants while still adhering to Locque’s non-aggression policy.” He upended the tankard of ale and slid it across the counter to signal the barkeep for another. “In short, we’re kinda at an impasse. My sister’s petty as fuck. Piss her off and she’ll never forget. Probably why she approached you, in part; she knew you’d act civil.”
Prior to his response, his peripheral gaze set on the jangling bell above the entry-door, signaling, unsurprisingly, Nia’s arrival. Assuming she’d first grab a drink and then mosey on over to their table, she moseyed over to their table first, then hailed the proprietor for an ale. Apparently, he couldn’t shake the Master Alchemist! Wherever he went, she was close on his tail. Sometimes...it made him wonder.
“Hmm, you stalking me, Nia?” Hadwin’s eyebrows waggled and a suggestive grin overtook the bottom half of his face, revealing nothing but teeth. “For all your talk about fucking only virgins, are you, by chance, reconsidering? Cuz you know I’m down!” Equipped with his new tankard, he bumped it against Nia’s in a toast. “Psh, I’ve got better shit to do than to warp young minds, thank you very much!” As he made to drink, he listened to the exchange between Teselin and Nia, not exactly thrilled about the former showing her entire hand to the woman who worked for Locque, but it wasn’t like they’d been discussing anything nefarious, either. They were merely drafting plans for surviving Rowen—and it seemed that the cheerful alchemist had an idea to share.
“There’s a danger in kicking my sis to the wayside.” He relit his pipe and puffed little circles into the air. “Doesn’t like to be abandoned, y’see. Eight years later and she’s still sore about my supposed breach of trust. Wants me dead for it and everything. So sure, go ahead and recruit the scamp for your Lady’s humanity lessons, but if Ro senses it was your idea, Nia, she’s gonna be right pissed at you for fucking with whatever strategy she’s playing, with regards to Tes. Not gonna tell you twice to tread carefully, cuz she ain’t loyal to folks she perceives as traitors. Unfortunately, so much as breathe funny and she’ll mark you as one. Such is the tragedy of her wayward Sight.” When he exhaled, smoke blew from his nostrils.
“If you want my opinion, the way to piss Ro off the least, if you care about that kind of shit at all, is by approaching her about enlisting Tes’s services before broaching the idea to Locque. Ask for her feedback; y’know, make her feel like a contributor and a confidante. See how she reacts. Not like she can rightly disagree if the service is for your lady, but she’ll feel less like you’re trying to hoodwink her outta something she asked for first. Sure, she’ll be furious, but less so. As for the scamp, here,” he gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze as he turned to the summoner, “I wouldn’t completely blow Ro off. She’ll know you’re avoiding her, and I wouldn’t put it past her to raise a stink about the unfairness of it all. You’re gonna have to give her the time of day once in a while, to placate her. Just remember,” he pointed his pipe stem at her, bushy brows creasing meaningfully, “always meet her in public areas. She hates public areas, but if she wants so badly to play along, she’s gonna have to make do and adjust. So,” he shrugged, “that’s my two pence, but it ain’t up to me to make the final call.” He met Teselin’s gaze, the lineaments of his face softening. “Managing Locque and Ro, both? That’s a damn steep hill to climb. Think on it. You don’t have to blab out an answer straightaway.”
So as not to put Teselin on the spot by continuously emphasizing her position and the difficult path should she choose to agree to the alchemist’s proposition and Rowen’s request, he waggled his empty tankard at Nia and reinvigorated his easy smile, shifting the subject. “Anyway, what’s got you all in a shine, lately? Didja have a good fuck or something? Or, did Lord Fancypants finally return your smooch?” He reached over and elbow-nudged her arm, full-on knowing that the union between the two hadn’t bloomed for quite a while.
“It is what the Garden does: it speaks to those it chooses to communicate with. That is how we are able to determine who is adept in becoming a Gardener.” Senyiah explained, and handed Haradlur the cane root to hold in his hand, in case it gave him a better idea as to how helpful it was offering to be. “Often, Galeynians will know at a relatively young age if they are adept in interpreting the Night Garden’s messages, and thus they proceed from then on with training to become a Gardener so as to use those gifts to help those in need. However, it is not unheard of for the Garden to choose to speak to its chosen later on in life, either if the need arises for more people to interpret its messages, or if it senses something dire that has come to pass. In your case, Prince Sorde…”
The Head Gardener surveyed the large man head to toe, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. “...I believe a number of things could possibly have come into play. For one, I have the sense that you are somehow predisposed to understand the language of flora… or, at least, that of what the Sentinel tree wishes to tell you. But, if I am not mistaken, it wasn’t until your near experience with death that you began to hear the murmurings within the Garden. In part, perhaps it has something to do with that event… but also the state of Galeyn, of late, and the threat that it faces.” She did not need to go into detail for the both of them to know she was referring to Locque. “All in all, especially with the kingdom’s reduced population upon its awakening, it was a perfect storm for the Garden to reach out to you. So while I understand and appreciate that you wish to defer to my expertise, I can reassure you as Head Gardener that if this root has reached out and spoken to you… then I am confident it means to play a key role in your recovery. And, it may just be that it never serves a purpose for anyone else, ever again, but in this moment, it is what you need. Again, the Garden chooses to work in mysterious ways.”
With the root in hand, Senyiah led Haraldur to a handful of other herbs that she knew had been proven time and again to be universally helpful in the treatment of bodily imbalances. “You are not a bother, Prince Sorde. And you are certainly not the first person I have helped who has first resisted it.” The Head Gardener explained, as she packed everything carefully away in a satchel for him to take. “I daresay… we are all on edge, right now. There is so little help to be had. Frankly, this opportunity gives me some reprieve from the stress and a little bit of normalcy. It feels reassuring to know that there are some who I am still able to help. I am glad that your wife came to me; it has been a pleasure helping your family and watching your little ones grow. And the hope that you have given others… do not sell yourself short. The people of Galeyn have seen what your family has endured, despite a growing number of obstacles. Given what you have been through and that you have still come out strong and on top… I think you are entitled to a slip-up every now and then. Like I said before,” she flashed a brief smile, “your secret is safe with me. And this conversation, as well as treatment going forward, will certainly remain confidential.”
With everything gathered and prepared by powder, poultice, or otherwise, Senyiah accompanied Haraldur out of the Night Garden, but did not cross the threshold with him, so as to allow him his privacy to return to his wife with the herbs. “Just follow the instructions that we discussed and you should be feeling more like yourself in no time. If you don’t mind… I would rather like to know how you fared with the cane root, as this will be the first account of it ever being used as a remedy. You know, if you find yourself feeling particularly unfulfilled being a Forbanne Commander… you have potential to be a decent Gardener, yourself.” The Head Gardener raised an eyebrow. “Especially considering your connection with the Sentinel tree, itself. Maybe think on it… if we ever find a way out of this mess.”
Vega had anticipated her husband’s anger: she understood it, and in many ways, she could empathize. What she had done could very easily be construed as a betrayal, after he had confided in her something that he had been keeping very close to his chest, otherwise. For such a sensitive matter, she knew she had to tread lightly, and yet… and yet, she couldn’t let this problem try to solve itself--or let Haraldur continue to shoulder it alone. So she had taken a heavy chance in consulting Senyiah to help her husband lift his most current burden. In her mind, it was the the safest of all betrayals of information in that she knew that information would end with Senyiah, and travel no further. And given that the woman had never once judged her for any of her decisions--flying to Galeyn while pregnant, isolating herself in the farmlands when she needed to get away from everyone else’s judgement, or how often or seldom she left her children with their young nursemaid who had been such a blessing--she trusted her to do the same for Haraldur.
Despite the Forbanne Commander’s surly acceptance of that very help, she still had faith that, at some point, he would come through and see it her way. See that she’d had to reach out, and why she had done it. Haraldur could hold a grudge when he wanted to, but… she didn’t regret relaying his condition to the Head Gardener for a minute. Not a second. Not if it returned him to a place of health and vitality that their young family needed. “Thank you for not being as difficult to deal with as your father, today.” Vega murmured to Kynnet, who, after about a half hour, was finally sated on milk and ready to be put down for a nap. “Your sister, on the other hand… I’m not sure I am going to be so lucky with her, am I?”
It was at that moment, as she very, very carefully placed the now sleeping boy back into his bassinet to sleep, that the door opened. Vega immediately looked up, taking precious seconds away from her attention to Klara, who looked up and ready to start wailing because she was wide awake and would not be ignored. Before the Skyknight could open her mouth, the baby girl’s father scooped her up and gave her the attention she so craved. A small smile curled at the corner of Vega’s mouth. “However tired you might be, I am never going to argue if you want to help with the babies.” She said to him, and took a seat beside him on the bed. He still looked weary, like it required more effort than he was letting on--which she was sure was exactly the case.
“Haraldur… I know I betrayed your trust in a big way. And despite that it was necessary, you do have every right to be angry with me for breaking the silence that you trusted I would keep. But I want you to know that I did not do it to be ‘right’, or to stand on a more moral high ground than you. I did it because I know it is exactly what you would do for me if the situations were reversed--and because I know I would act exactly as you did. With contempt and betrayal, because I am a Sorde, and a Sorde is nothing if not stubborn to the core.” Noticing that his arm was getting tired bouncing the fussy, growing baby, she reached over and gently took Klara in her arms and rocked her against her shoulder. “I was worried that if I did inform you that I wanted to approach Senyiah… that you would walk away and refuse to meet with her, because you were so determined not to be a burden to anyone. I admit that I was wrong to assume that: I trust you, I really do. And if it ever comes down to it again… then I won’t spring any more surprises on you. That is my promise. Anyway…”
She glanced at the satchel he held in his opposite hand, and her smile broadened. “I am beyond glad to see that Senyiah seems to have come through for you. I knew she would; that woman can be a saint when she wants to be. But for now… you’ve had a long day. More than just a day, even. So… I’m going to hold you to your promise that you will take today to rest.”
Leaning in, the Eyraillian princess kissed his mouth and stroked the stubble on his jaw with her free hand. “You’ll have plenty of time to dote on two fussy babies when you are feeling better. Just tell me what I can do to make it easier for you. Or… what I shouldn’t do, for that matter. I can be a reasonable person, you know.”
“Stalking you? Come on, there are only so many decent pubs in this health-conscious kingdom.” Nia scoffed at Hadwin as she slid next to Teselin at the table. “I wanted a drink! Can’t help it if you apparently had the same idea. Nothing’s changed; I do only fuck virgins. And even if I was interested in going to bed with you, do you really think I’d want to make it so obvious right in front of your innocent, young entourage, here? I have more class than that!”
Although she hadn’t planned on seeing either of the two here, this evening, and had intended to chat up some (hopefully virgin) locals, the heavy rain cloud hanging over Teselins head did not escape her attention. And since this evening the pub appeared to solely be filled with older men who were much less likely to have never lain with another person, familiar company was far preferable to their company. So if a problem was stirring for the young summoner, which one most definitely was, the Master Alchemist was more than happy to lend assistance where she could. Neither Hadwin nor Teselin seemed to be particularly opposed to her suggestion, but the two women did take heed of his advice: not to let Rowen feel particularly slighted by this change in plans. From what Nia knew of Rowen, she was in agreement. “Hmm… yeah, you’re right. She’s a vengeful one, that thing. No telling what she might do or who she might go after if she feels like we’re fucking with her. Which we are, but the less obvious that is, the safer we will all be. So… how about this, then.”
The Master Alchemist leaned forward on the table, temporarily pushing her tankard aside. “I’ll keep an eye out for the next time the little killer approaches you. And I’ll fully acknowledge that I’m aware of your agreement, and heavily apologize if your involvement with Locque somehow interferes with her nefarious little plans. In fact, I’ll ask her if it might be an inconvenience--because there’s no way in hell she can tell you to blow Locque off her for her sake. She’ll have no choice but to agree. What do you say?” Leaning back in her seat again, she brought the tankard to her lip.s “Wolf man here is right. That’s a lot of responsibility and expectations on your little shoulders. It’s just a thought, but taking on two loads might actually lighten your load overall.”
“...I’ll do it.” After a moment of thought, Teselin nodded and sat up a little straighter. “I’ll help Locque, not just because it means that I can get free of Rowen when I need to, but because like you, Nia, I don’t think it’s too late for her. And if Locque sees the possibility in becoming the person she once was, before resentment and revenge changed her… that is something everyone will benefit from. I’ll do it.”
“Wonderful! Well, that solves a whole damn bunch of problems, then! You’re a good kid, Teselin.” Nia patted the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”
To Hadwin’s question, the Master Alchemist screwed up her mouth a little, in an expression that betrayed more than her words did. “Nah, honestly, I haven’t slept with a single person since I came to Galeyn. Haven’t found anyone safe enough, yet. At least, no one who is interested.” She took a long, thoughtful sip of her ale. “I haven’t heard from Ari in weeks. I felt kinda bad after kissing his cheek and dragging him waaaay out of his comfort zone when I made him dance with me, so I sent along a little apology gift… but I’m not sure how well that went over, either. I suppose I could just take a jaunt over to the D’Marian settlement and apologize in person, but I don’t know how well that would go down, either. Especially not with his big, beefy manservant chaperoning him. Something tells me he’s not my biggest fan. Didn’t really mean to burn bridges this time, but, eh… it’s already on fire, and I can’t make it rain. Nothing to do but move on and hope I don’t fuck up any more friendships. Here’s hoping I don’t alienate you guys, next!”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Nia… is it possible it could just be an understanding? I’m sure Lord Canaveris is a reasonable person. But…” The young summoner hesitated, glancing curiously at the cheerful woman beside her. “None of that sounds like particularly good news. Yet you seem to have been in extremely good spirits, lately.”
“What can I say? New beginnings and all. This is my new home, I can be a new person, none of the shit that used to haunt me can reach me under Locque’s protection. Why shouldn’t I be happy?” Nia shrugged, tipping her tankard to her lips again. “You’ve gotta keep a positive outlook on life. Hell, if I hadn’t for the past decade, I’d probably already have done myself in out of misery! There’s always a silver lining, kid. Life can be cruel, but it’s not out to get you; it doesn’t have that kind of sentience. If you’re willing and able to be patient, and to never stop hoping… you’ll find that there will always be bright horizons. Happiness is fickle; but it’s never lost. Not until you let go of it… and I’ll never let go.”
Something of a reminiscent look flickered in Nia’s brown eyes as she thoughtfully stared at the wall ahead of her, a gentle smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “Anyway--that’s my pep talk for the day. You’re lucky I won’t charge you for it.” She winked at Teselin. “Now don’t tell me the two of you planned on spending your evening avoiding Rowen and brooding. There’s enough of that going on in this kingdom. Chin up and live up the night!”
Despite his promises to relax, Haraldur hesitated in giving little Klara up to Vega, preferring to bounce and rock the fussy baby as a distraction from his tightening muscle groups and the prominent wash of nausea that threatened to intermix with the hot air that dominated his head. Perspiration soaked his brow, sticking tendrils of damp hair to the skin. His breath was ragged, difficult to direct, but he muddled through the motions, made easier by sitting and concentrating on his daughter’s well-being—until Vega plucked her out of his throbbing arms. It annoyed him to be perceived as so weak that he couldn’t even handle a baby, but in understanding his wife’s well-meaning attempts to aid in his recovery, he refrained from reacting too harshly. As a Forbanne commander, he was required to lead by example. How could he eradicate the toxic habits instilled by the old Masters of Mollengard by continuing to perpetuate them, himself? If he was so determined to rehabilitate the soldiers, then it behooved him to allow others to assist in his needs, however much it embarrassed or shamed him. Perhaps he, too, would benefit from rehabilitation, if it could nix him from believing that it was simply unacceptable to show weakness, even towards the friends and family who professed to offer him guidance. Was fierce, unyielding independence, to the point of self-isolation, a lesson worth instilling on his children? If he wanted them to develop his best qualities and not his worst qualities, he, too, needed to become the best version of himself, and quickly. While he wasn’t aiming towards perfection, it didn’t hurt to strive for betterment, starting with openness. After all, didn’t he marry Vega so as not to suffer alone?
“I married into the right family,” he said, a wry smile forming on his face. “Stubborn, immovable, fiercely independent—I embody many of the Sorde values. No wonder why we hit it off so well—I mean, after a good amount of persuasion and persistence on your part,” he added, no doubt remembering how he budged in response to her innumerable advances and expressions of interest, upon their reunion at Camp Tadasun. “Don’t worry, Vega. I’ll get over it. I trust Senyiah can keep a secret. Nor do I regret acquiring some natural remedies that I suspect will actually work wonders on my health, considering one of the plants ‘called’ out to me in the Night Garden.” Tiring of its limp, clammy sensation, he swept the clumps of hair from his forehead. “Senyiah thinks I have the potential to become a Gardener. Can you believe it? And on top of all my other responsibilities? It’s enough that I’m now…” his voice drifted to a murmur, “Locque’s go-to tree whisperer. I wouldn’t want to be her go-to Gardener, either. Not when…” he trailed off. Aside from lording Sigrid over his head, the sorceress cared little about inserting Rowen into the same room as him, fully knowing how the she-wolf had plotted his demise by the most destructive and spirit-breaking means possible.
Carefully, he rose from his position on the bed, hefting the satchel at his side. “I’ll head on to the back room to recover, Vega.” He returned her kiss, aiming it closer to her cheek than on her lips, mindful of whatever potential contagious disease he carted among his withdrawal symptoms and stress. “I’ll be fine, as long as I take Senyiah’s medicine and rest. And I’m not just saying that to reassure you. But if you want to duck your head in from time to time and see if I’m in one piece, I won’t fault you for your concern. I, too, can be reasonable,” he tilted his head to one side. “Somewhat.”
For all their talk about pulling a fast one on Rowen, Hadwin, not so passionate on the subject, drank and smoked away the remnants of his personal feelings, but to little effect. Ostensibly, he remained unaffected by their scheming, but beneath his protective drunken layers, his reserve love for the sister who betrayed him had stubbornly persisted, squeezing out little pits of doubt from the pulp, impossible to extract and ignore. Though he’d exhausted giving Rowen any more chances for redemption, lest she off Bronwyn, next, or assault Teselin with her destructive Sight, he couldn’t so enthusiastically climb on board with blockading her nefarious plotting, even as it directly impacted Teselin. Not that he’d turn around and give his littlest sister whatever she wished, either. He’d already resigned to his choice, and he’d follow-through, no matter how it appeared to Rowen, who was convinced he had abandoned in favor of a surrogate. Perhaps he did abandon her, but only because she did so not once, not twice, but many times over. His enduring leniency towards her would continue to cost and compromise the people who loved and supported his right to live. He couldn’t hold out on the slim chance that a small part of her was reaching out to Teselin for help; couldn’t stand back and be complicit in another massacre in the making. At last, he learned to put his foot down, and deny her the opportunities to run roughshod all over his closest comrades in her bid to lay claim to his life, as she felt was her obligation and her right. But just because he contributed to stopping and subduing Rowen didn’t mean he derived any pleasure from the act. Though responsible for thwarting all her attempts to put Teselin in harm’s way, for a man who enjoyed deploying winning strategies and reveling in some sleight of hand, a card trick, or the odd confidence game, he hated everything about deceiving and undermining his sister. While she wouldn’t offer him the same courtesy and concern, and would definitely take advantage of his lack of initiative if he allowed an opening, it didn’t change his attitudes. Nonetheless, he was ready to plow forward and do whatever needed to be done, heedless of his personal feelings.
More prevalent than the thought of cheating Rowen at her own game was his concern for Teselin. The fear-prominent summoner took little time to accept a position among Locque’s court as a morality advisor of sorts. As well, they all came to the consensus to jilt the murderous faoladh with care, and ensure her inclusion regarding their underhanded hiring of Teselin for the witch’s interests, in case excluding her would incite an incendiary reaction.
“Yeah, sounds good and all; just don’t expect the kid to work miracles. Cut her a break if she falls short of delivering whatever your lady expects. Not that you won’t pour your heart into it, Tes,” he smiled and gave the summoner an encouraging nudge. “But this ain’t a night and day labor; just a way to wheedle out of her commitments with my sis. I don’t have to tell you to be careful, either, scamp.” His nudge transitioned to a stabilizing clamp upon her arm. “Blowing off my sis as a means of getting away is likely to translate as deceit in her eyes. Constantly choosing Locque over her—well, it’s sure to affect her long term. Make sure you give her credit for your idea, Nia,” he gestured to the Master Alchemist across the table. “She can’t rise up to oppose you for swiping Tes from her if it puts her in good standing with your Lady. Anyway,” he sighed as he retrained his eyes on Teselin, “this ain’t an easy game you’ve chosen to play, as much as Nia claims it is. Balancing two loads like this is no calming stroll in the Garden. If things get outta hand, well,” he threw both arms into an overhead stretch, a casual pose, considering his next words, “trap or not, I’m stepping in to shut her bullshit down. It’s gonna happen sooner than later, anyway. Might as well speed things along if it’ll catch you a break, Tes.”
Before they could speak more on the subject, Hadwin deftly turned the conversation to Nia, expressing inordinate interest in her happy-go-lucky sensibilities and how she acquired them, following Ari’s cold shoulder and her banishment from Osric’s place. “Nope, you didn’t burn your bridges; I’d say Ari’s silence is a positive sign, and I’ll tell you why.” While the why behind his reasoning was purely speculative and scaffolded on artful lies, Hadwin’s intent wasn’t to exude the truth but to instill hope. Though sidetracked, he hadn’t yet surrendered his goal to clinch a relationship between the two, whether it be romantic, sexual, or purely platonic. Whatever would weaken her ties to Locque—and something told him that her current bout of happiness had somewhat involved the humanity-inept sorceress. “You’re getting to him in a good way. The man’s all about professionalism and arm’s length distancing, but in the short time you’ve known him, you made some great strides in breaking his shell. Now he’s rightly scared that he’s exposed too much of his true self to you, an outsider, and believes resetting your relationship will erase his perceived social faux pas. But if you wanna maintain your friendship and ties with Lord Fancypants, don’t let ‘em do it. The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be to salvage what you’ve already established. So if you don’t want the friendship to go to waste, I’d say pop in for a visit. The hulking manservant answers to Ari, anyway. Most he’ll do is growl menacingly at you.”
At Nia’s little inspirational rant on happiness and positive thinking, Hadwin cackled with laughter. “Yeeeeeah. I call bullshit. So much bullshit,” he snorted, trying to manage his rogue bursts of chuckles. “Your maudlin as fuck, ‘seize the day’ fist pump into the air’s entirely lost on me. It’s also making me puke into my mouth a little bit. And I taste corn. Lots of corn.” He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth for good measure. “Good on you for manhandling your happiness but you and me both know it didn't come about from a sudden change in attitude and lifestyle.” He hailed the barkeep, ordering two refills; one for him and one for Nia. Upon arrival, he slid the brimming tankard of ale in her direction. “So spill. I think I deserve it for suffering through your stomach-turning speech. Forget that it wasn’t meant for me; I still had to sit through it. By the way,” he exhaled smoke in her face, “I’m fully capable of living the night without needing to be strung up high to the ceiling, walking on peoples’ heads. My misery’s got a hedonistic streak, too. It ain’t looking to burst your bubble. Hells, if you’re looking for a partner of crime to celebrate your gains, your search has come to an end. I’ll dance on the tables with you! But humor me—cuz I wanna know what you’re celebrating.” His reflective eyes half-closed like twin, golden smirks, sly and ever-perceptive. “Better you tell me than I tell you.”
After a few drinks, the Master Alchemist finally revealed the reason behind her buoyant mood, a reason his uncanny Sight had picked up on; but without any context, it was hard to piece together. She feared that the ghosts of her sisters would vanish, but why was she so suddenly fixated on ghosts and communication in the first place? Now that she filled in the blanks, the missing holes, he understood the correlation.
“Ah, so ol’ Vitali set you up with the works, eh? Awfully nice of him. And what drove him to grant you such a boon? Seems like a huge hassle of energy just to get you outta his hair, but, eh,” he shrugged, “guess he values his peace and quiet that much. Or hey, maybe Locque put ‘em up to it. If that’s the case--aww, how sweet.” He propped one hand against his cheek. “Looks like your lady’s trying to cheer you up. So you’ve been shooting the breeze with your dearly deceased? Are they the chatty sort, like you? Oh, lemme tell you,” he thumbed over his shoulder, at the shadow forever marring his periphery, “some ghosts never wanna shut the fuck up.” He raised an eyebrow in curiosity as Nia explained that the ghosts of her sisters weren’t one for chit-chat, and in fact, couldn’t speak at all. While knowing little about the finesses of Vitali’s medium-work, it had seemed awfully suspicious that the so-called shades of her sisters were rendered mute by some kind of convenient limitation or another. Not that he had any evidence to support his claims, but it left him fascinated enough to explore the details with Vitali--for curiosity’s sake. After all, if the necromancer were to recover Cwenha’s spirit, it was best to understand exactly how he intended to do it--and if he intended to provide them with the genuine article.
The following day, Rowen was surprised to answer a knock on her door from none other than Nia. The chatty Master Alchemist, aware to whom she was speaking, blessedly led not with infuriating small talk, but the point of her arrival. As she began to explain her proposal, Rowen flicked her gaze from the ground to her face, reading not only her micro expressions, but the dark intentions that her own eyes had betrayed. Whatever she had come to say, her words were backed by the purpose to cheat Rowen out of something she wanted.
“So...you would deny me help,” she nearly hissed in response. “Snatch it from under my nose and give it to Locque, instead. Even when I asked, first. You do this...why? To undermine me? To solidify your position as an indispensable member of Locque’s court? You needn’t worry about that at all; it was her idea to send the traitorous necromancer to provide you your ghostly comforts. Why would she give a shit if you meant nothing to her cause? And yet here you are, continuously snatching things from my grasp. First, you befriend my brother. Then, you look out for his little surrogate sister. That’s your real purpose in doing this, hmm? I’m not daft. And,” she cricked her neck from side to side, a decidedly casual gesture that only intensified the impact of her next words, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you’re actively looking to make an enemy out of me. To make an enemy of me is to weaken your associations with Locque. Choose your affiliations carefully, Nia.” Her eyes squinted menacingly. “You wouldn’t want to make a mistake by choosing wrong.”
“Don’t think you’re doing me a favor by asking my permission, either,” her lips curled into a grimace, exposing one of her canines. “Like I actually have a choice to disagree. Whether or not I say no, you’ll broach the subject with Locque, regardless—perhaps spin it by claiming your magnanimity for suggesting Teselin’s aid and accusing me of selfishness for planning on hoarding her all to myself. Go and do what you want,” she threw a shooing hand at the pesky Master Alchemist, as though she were nothing but a mosquito, not worth her time. “It’s not up to me, anyway. It was never up to me.” Hadwin got to them. He fucking got to them. She slammed the door in Nia’s face and stomped to her bed, ripping off her sheets and tossing them aside; they were in her way. I’ll never be free of you! You’ll never stop infecting my life, my relationships, my freedom! You’ve never given me a damn chance!
You have to die...
