“Much as I hate to admit it… she has pointed out that we have commonalities. Both being fugitives from our own homelands, at least.” It was difficult for Elespeth not to feel a little bit bitter for that fact, and that Nia had called on it as if it signified some kinship between the two of them. It didn’t. “Though what we chose to do because of that differs significantly, and I like to think that that is what matters. Considering only one of us is willingly working for Locque; and I’m not that one.”
Perhaps, for all Elespeth liked to think herself honourable, she was not pure, and her own toxic tendencies had caused her to hope for the potential to vent and mutually rag on the Master Alchemist toward whom she still couldn’t help but hold a grudge. She’d ruined perfectly good armor… and, for all she wanted to go on about peace and goodwill, she was working for the single most dangerous and nefarious person in this kingdom! And yet, after sharing a single meal with her, Brownyn couldn’t help but sing her praises? It must be her Sight, the former knight told herself. “But… she did nothing for you when your sister lured you to Locque. Who cares how friendly she acts; surely that must offset something, doesn’t it? ...you know, forget it. It doesn’t matter. It’s just easy to find fault with someone who bears similarities to you so that you no longer have to introspect and see the darkness within yourself, I suppose.”
Elespeth took another long drink of ale, realizing her own folly. Bronwyn was right; Nia was nothing if not forthcoming and honest. Someone who, like her, was just looking for a place to feel safe. People around whom she could feel safe. Like a cold creature seeking warmth, ready and willing to do whatever it takes just to secure a place out of the cold, and flock to people who would bring her in. Or, more like a moth to flame. And she, Elespeth, could very easily be that flame. Alster could be that flame, and Nia would never know until it was too late… and that was why it was their responsibility not to set fire to someone who, at the end of the day, did not want war with them, but on the contrary, peace.
But they were not here today, together, to discuss Nia Ardane. The topic of conversation rightly switched to Rowen (perhaps to Elespeth’s relief and Bronwyn’s chagrin), considering they would be facing the younger faoladh sooner than later, and it was refreshing to hear Bronwyn open up honestly about her conflicted feelings for her younger sister. “I imagine ‘complicated’ is putting it lightly. I have… I had siblings that condoned my own death. It isn’t the same with you and Rowen, I understand, but I realize it isn’t possible to despise her. Honestly… if her actions can be attributed to her Sight, then I don’t even know to what extent any of us can hold her personally accountable. But… I hope you know, no one is expecting you to see her as an enemy and only an enemy. Especially not when she is now taking strides to get the help she needs. So… let’s take this one step at a time, and reassess at each step, alright?” Realizing how heavily the subject was weighing on Bronwyn, she extended a hand and rested it upon her shoulder. “One step at a time--and the first step and seeing for ourselves what sort of progress your sister has made. There’s no logic in giving up prematurely, right? Take your time.” She flashed a supportive smile and spread her hands. “I’m here, and it’s not as though I have anything better to do, today. There’s no rush.”
And it was a good thing that the former Atvanian had nothing better to do that day, because Bronwyn, in her reluctance to face the unpredictable enigma who was her sister, certainly took her time. Elespeth suspected she was sober long before she claimed to be, but laid no pressure on her as she dawdled all the way back to the palace, and then finally to the Night Garden, where she hesitated before the doors of the sanctuary. “It’s been a while since you finished your last drink; and you’re faoladh. I think you were sober before we even left the pub.” Elespeth teased to try and lighten the mood, albeit in vain. “Though, sober or drunk, I don’t think there is anything that will make this easier for you. But, hey--isn’t that why I’m here?”
After rapping lightly on the door, a girl who looked too young to be a Gardener (let alone to be tending to Rowen) answered, peering up at the two adult women from behind a pair of spectacles that looked too big for her face. “You’re Rowen’s sister.” Breane made the observation, but only after Rowen’s interjection. With a nod, she stepped aside to allow her and Elespeth entry. “Please come in. Rowen hasn’t had visitors in a few days.”
It had also been some time since Elespeth had laid eyes upon Rowen Kavanagh, and the last thing the former knight had expected to see the same person who had brutally murdered Cwenha doing was… knitting. Knitting. “You know,” she attempted to interject gently, “knitting can be as boring or as exciting as you want it to be. I knit the sheaths for my first blades; some for my brothers as well. Started with the wool, and then reinforced them by dipping them in clay and other materials. They lasted quite a long time.”
But Rowen had lost interest in knitting before she’d even begun. That wasn’t what she wanted to talk about; though Elespeth had never expected that the young wolf would have taken any interest in her presence, whatsoever. She’d half-expected to be a fly on the wall, mere moral support for Bronwyn. “I’m not sure what it is you think I am lying to myself about, but I’ll confess that, like everyone else, I have lied. Sometimes for the right reasons, and sometimes, not. Though, as someone who once was a knight… I do take it as a compliment that you find me inoffensive, Rowen.” She hazarded a smile. It wasn’t bright, but neither was it deceitful. “It has never been my intention to inspire fear; just to defend and fight for those who need defending. But, my husband… you will have to forgive that I respectfully disagree. Yes, Alster has been taken by anger and hatred, at times, but that is not the core of what or who he is. If you were to meet him, to sit down and speak with him, like you are with me, I think that you would also find he is particularly inoffensive.”
She hadn’t even thought to comment on how Alster had helped Hadwin; but Bronwyn made the case all the same, for better or for worse. Since it was not her place to speak on what Hadwin was doing for his younger sister, Elespeth chose to step back and let it unfold between the two sisters, with the intent to step in and moderate only if the conversation turned dire. However, Breane, who had been replenishing supplies at the other end of the room, surprisingly spoke up in Rowen’s defense.
“With all respect, Bronwyn Kavanagh, your sister has experienced life for a very long time through a lens that has not promoted or nurtured compassion or empathy. Those attributes are learned through experience, and it is not something that dawns on a person overnight.” Such big words from such a small girl almost took even Elespeth aback; she couldn’t have been older than twelve, what sort of worldly wisdom had the Garden bestowed on her?! “But,” Breane added, adjusting the spectacles at the end of her nose, “She has respectfully abided the advice of myself and the other Gardeners since she admitted herself into our care. Her progress is evident through her patience and compliance, which were not attributes I would have used to describe her prior to the start of her treatment.”
“And we could not be more grateful for your help,” Elespeth added, to try and dampen the embers lest she and Bronwyn come across as ungrateful. “But you must understand that Rowen, while she is our concern, is not our only concern. While you are tending to her, we have been tending to Hadwin, but the fact remains that until Rowen has recovered to an extent that she can receive her fears without being ruled by them… Hadwin continues to suffer. And we are barely able to mitigate his symptoms.”
“For that, I wish I could be of more help.” Breane confessed, her expression dropping with what was obviously sadness. “Truly--as do the other Gardeners. I’m afraid that on my part, all I can do is continue to tend to Rowen, which will in turn free her brother from his aliment. I wish I could tell you there was a faster way around this, but… there isn’t.” She spread her hands helplessly. “Healing beyond the physical is new to the Night Garden; I am new to the Night Garden. But you have my word that I am doing everything in my power for Rowen.”
“Of course, I--” But during her brief exchange with the young Gardener, something had heated between Rowen and Bronwyn. Elespeth hadn’t acted in time before the older sibling stormed out, after catching a brief mention of Teselin… “I’m sorry--we can return at some point, Rowen, if you want us to. Or just Bronwyn, alone. If you desire more visitors, then we will certainly make note of that.” With that simple, hasty goodbye, the former knight had to almost sprint to catch up with Bronwyn, who left the sanctuary in a darker mood than she’d been in when drunk.
Rushing to Bronwyn’s side, she took a moment to catch her breath and raked a hand through her hair. “Look, I’ve known Teselin for about as long as your brother. Her innocence and naivete is maddening, but… for certain individuals, she is the best person to be around. The least biased, the most open, and the most forgiving. I imagine that is why Rowen wants to see her. Because she was the one who helped her access the aid of the Night Garden in the first place, and perhaps because it is paying off, however slowly, it’s causing her to trust her more.” Knowing how this must have been affecting Bronwyn, given what the woman had confided in her earlier about not being important or needed, Elespeth’s mind spiraled to offer some sort of explanation that wouldn’t further upset her. “And it’s like the little Gardener girl said: change won’t happen overnight. She’s making progress, just… not as quickly as we had hoped.”
What Bronwyn pointed out next, however, had not escaped the former Atvanian’s attention. Rowen’s decidedly flippant response to her brother’s suffering… that had rubbed her the wrong way. She tried not to think much of it, at the time, but it obviously hadn’t settled well with the girl’s older sister. “...no, you’re right. I picked up on that too. I can’t ‘see’ emotions or ‘goodness’ the way that you can, but she didn’t seem particularly concerned.” She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “But that ties in with compassion and empathy, right? Perhaps on a cognitive level, one we can’t easily detect, she does care. It’s just that she doesn’t know how to properly care… as in, that just hasn’t translated into her healing yet. If that makes any sense? I’m not a Gardener, and I can hardly do well to solve my own emotional issues, but if we are trusting your sister to that young Gardener and her care, perhaps all we can do now is take her word for it: that Rowen is making progress, just… slowly. And, if you’re really concerned--we can have a third party see for themselves. After all…” She met Bronwyn’s golden eyes. “If she is willing to open up to Teselin, then perhaps the summoner will witness something in her that she won’t allow us to see.”
Teselin hadn’t wanted to visit Rowen that evening, for a myriad of reasons. In fact, she wasn’t sure when (or if) she would ever feel safe to face the youngest Kavanagh again, but when Bronwyn returned to the infirmary that afternoon, the choice to stay or to go really no longer belonged to the young summoner. If she went, she had no idea what awaited her, but if she declined… what would that mean for Rowen’s recovery? And what would that mean for her, who had led her to that recovery in the first place?
Feeling caught between a rock and a hard place, Teselin decided she had no choice but to comply with Rowen’s wishes and visit her that evening. Just before darkness fell, she made her way to the Night Garden, and stood beyond the sanctuary door for several moments before the breeze on the wind gave her scent away, and Rowen smelled her through the thin planks of the door. Inhaling her courage on a breath, she pushed open the door and crossed the threshold.
“Rowen… your sister said you wanted to see me?” To her disappointment, Breane was nowhere to be seen. The Gardeners, while always nearby, evidently decided at some point that Rowen did not need constant supervision. “You know, I think it took a lot of courage for her to come and see you, earlier… she brought Elespeth with her because she didn’t know what to expect. I was surprised when she told me it was me you wanted to see. We… we don’t really know each other that well, or why you wanted to see me, but…” Feeling she was beginning to trip over her words, her eyes suddenly fixed on something that could serve as a buffer for conversation. Anything would suffice. “Is that… are you knitting something? You know, I tried to learn, once, but I couldn’t get the hang of it. Are you making something?”
Under any other conditions, and had this to do with anything other than Ari’s safety and well-being, Nia would have gracefully accepted his refusal for her help, and moved on. It wouldn’t have been the first time that someone had declined her services on the grounds that they simply could not support Master Alchemy. After all, it was such a taboo subject among many kingdoms as it stood; even if it yielded favourable results, many a potential client was either too morally opposed to whatever it was she could do for them, or too frightened of the repercussions should they be caught enlisting the help of a Master Alchemist. Nia didn’t blame them; not any of them, not one bit, and she frankly didn’t mind. If it meant making a living, for every cautious or self-righteous refusal she faced, there were always more who were out of their minds with desperation, and the gravity of their situations outweighed their own moral high grounds or fear of whatever might be coming to them should they be caught accepting her services. Nia knew when to back down; she also knew when it was safe to persevere.
But these circumstances were different. For it was neither fear of persecution, nor moral opposition that caused Ari to so staunchly decline her offer. In fact, she had a feeling that whatever encouraged him to shy away from a solution that could very well save his life had more to do than calling into question Alster Rigas’s character and sincerity. And it had more to do than the fact he wouldn’t be on his feet right away, following such a procedure, and more to do than the fact it could all very well be just as hard on her own body for conducting it. Yet, whatever his reasons… Nia could not allow herself to walk away that evening without some glimmer of hope. And, perhaps, it was for entirely selfless reasons.
“If it’s Hadwin you’re afraid of, then you can rest assured, the guy’s easy to buy off.” The Ardane alchemist shook her head and brushed the matter aside, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “For real. Enough money and booze, and he’ll keep his mouth shut. Anyway, what’s he got to gain from learning any of this? He already knows about your curse; if he wanted to fuck with you, he’d have done so already. Had all the time in the world on his hands before he took ill with his own damn fearsight. Not to mention, he knew who I was long before I revealed myself to Galeyn as Locque’s Master Alchemist. Could’ve blown the horn prematurely, and I’d have lost the few friends I’d made in this kingdom sooner than later. Unless it has anything to do with his own well-being--which this doesn’t--he not going to give a fuck about what happens to you, Ari. For better or for worse. But… call it a hunch, something tells me it has more than to do with Hadwin. And more than to do with being out of commission for a little while in the aftermath. So what is it, Ari?” Nia dropped the lightness in her tone, as it began to border on incredulous and desperate. “What’s holding you back? What do I need to do to make you agree to this? To make you see the value in your own life, beyond that of your politics? What… what more do I need to do to get you to trust me?”
She studied his face, the crease in his brow, the way he was so staunchly avoiding eye contact, how he tapped his fingers against his glass and busied himself with it to give his nervous hands something to do, and those were all the tell she needed to confirm her suspicions. There was so much more to it than fear and uncertainty… and yet, despite it all, he didn’t feel as though he could trust her with those details. She tried not to let that sink in too far, lest it sting, but it did, nonetheless. I’m Locque’s Master Alchemist. It doesn’t matter what I do or say: that’s who I was when we met. So you’ll always see that as a part of my identity, won’t you, Ari? No matter what… even at the cost of saving your damn life.
Rising from the chaise, Nia smiled, but it wasn’t the typical, bright smile that so often lit up her features. This one was muted… and sad. “I’m being pushy. And art of me knows I shouldn’t be pushing this, Ari. Yeah, I can’t deny it would be risky for you, for me, for almost everyone involved. I can tell you that I’d take every imaginable measure to expedite your recovery, and to mitigate any and all risk factors that involve you, but can’t tell you that you wouldn’t be recovering for a month in the aftermath. Nonetheless…” She curled her hands into fists at her sides. “I’m sorry, but I can’t just let it go, because I have this terrible gut feeling that there’s more danger in that than there would be in pursuing a solution. And I can’t make things right for everyone, but this… selfishly, I admit, I know that I can make a difference for you. For the first time in my life, I can stop potential disaster in its tracks. I’ve never been able to do that before. Not for Celene--not for her, because, admittedly, I never saw it coming. To me, she was invincible, eternal, and nothing, not our mother or our craft, could ever take her down. And I was so, so wrong about that, and I learned the hard way.” Her fingers tugged nervously on the cuffs of one of her leather half-gloves, feeling the sting of guilt all over again for something that had happened so long ago. “Because of that, I saw it coming with Palla… and I still couldn’t stop it. I tried--or at least, I tried to make a plan, because I thought she had more time. I thought we had more time, but I wasn’t fast enough. I didn’t think fast enough, I wasn’t there at the pivotal moment when she needed me, and I lost my chance, and I lost her. Hells, I couldn’t even make a difference for my wretched mother and pushover father. I couldn’t even save them, because I didn’t have time, I didn’t think fast enough, didn’t see what was coming for them, for us… and I won’t make that mistake again. Not any of them; not the ones I cared for, and not the ones I hardly gave a damn about. Not when it comes to people I care about. Don’t you get it, Ari?” Nia relaxed her fingers from their fists, but the half-moon impressions of her fingernails remained in the leather. “I’ve lost everyone who’s ever mattered to me, and then some. And I’m done with losing--I’m done with loss. I won’t let the same fate become of anyone else who matters to me.”
Her smile faded entirely when she turned to look at the Canaveris lord. “I mean it, Ari. I won’t let it happen again. I won’t lose anyone else important to me--and yes, that means you. You made me feel welcome, you offered me a home… you matter to me, okay? And you think it’s hella rude and irresponsible to take a month off from your important leadership for the sake of your health? Well how rude do you think it’d be if you died? If your curse petrified something more serious than an arm or a leg, and I’m not around to immediately fix it? How’s that for irresponsible, when it could have been avoided?” Without realizing it, she had become flustered, more emotion creeping into her voice than she would have preferred. You went too far, she chided herself, taking a breath to steady her thoughts. Rein it in. Don’t lose your cool. You’ve already said too much… you showed your fucking hand, Ardane. Remember how vulnerable that made you the last time?
“...sorry, Ari. I just can’t give up on you that easily. I’m not done trying to change your mind. I am going to change your mind when I get the details sorted out; that’s my promise to you. B-but, just... forget about the whole modeling thing. That was stupid of me to offer. I was stupid. You’re such a smooth talker, it’s actually hard for me to discern when you’re being genuine, and when you’re just trying to be polite and boost a girl’s ego.” Embarrassment visibly marked her face with vibrant rouge. Of course he hadn’t been serious about actually wanting to sculpt her. That painting, all of it… he was just being nice. Trying to make her feel like a little more than nothing. Because that was what Ari was good at. “I like to think I’m a better judge of character than I was in the past, but… do me a favour, and just say what you mean from now on? Or, better yet… don’t say what you don’t mean. Treat me like an idiot; apparently, I’m still that easily deceived by words.”
Snatching up the book from where it sat, she shut away the menacing image of the basilisk serpent and tucked the tome beneath her arm. “I’ll put a word in for your relative looking to come into the kingdom; like I said, shouldn’t be a problem. Just leave it to me, okay?” Nia tossed a nervous smile over her shoulder, and made her way toward the door before Ari could interject. “Don’t worry, I can find my way back to the carriage, I think. Go and get yourself another drink and calm your nerves before you get another flare up, hm? We can talk again once you get stuff sorted out with your familial visitor, when they arrive.”
Nia disappeared from the cozy room where she’d previously sat before Ari could say a word, her shoulders heavy with embarrassment, guilt, and frustration. What would it take to convince him that he needed to take his curse more seriously than he was currently doing? To convince him to trust her enough to invest that trust in others? No, things hadn’t gone as planned; she didn’t have his agreement. But she wasn’t going to give up. With the right details, with everyone she needed to help her secured… maybe, then, he would see things differently. Maybe he would let her help, because she knew, she just knew, deep down, she could find a way to rid him of the curse that had haunted him for most of his life.
Until then, she’d have to make good on her word, get off her ass, and get to work if she ever had any hope of convincing him to see things the way she did.
In fear of ruining her and Hadwin’s fledgling relationship prematurely, Bronwyn tread carefully into the infirmary following yet another disastrous meeting with Rowen. After bidding Elespeth a farewell (peppered with many apologies and innumerable gratitudes), she tread carefully through the doors, pleased to find her brother asleep and Teselin unmoored from his side. It was the best outcome she could ask for, considering her blundering slip of words, which revealed to Rowen the one thing Hadwin did not want her to know; just how much he was suffering on her account. Despite Teselin’s pure heart and forgiving nature, traits confirmed by both her Sight and Elespeth’s accurate analysis, Bronwyn could not extend much more than a courteous, albeit cool, bearing towards her. It was not fair to the kindhearted summoner, she realized, but the eldest Kavanagh sibling, lifelong model of fairness and righteousness, figured it wouldn’t hurt to allow petty jealousy scrape its ugly scar across her virtue-seeking mind. Through no real fault of Teselin’s own--she was, after all, a victim of her circumstances, wayward magic included--Bronwyn continued to regard the Kristeva girl with indifference, refusing to go the way of her younger siblings and fawn over her, or treat her as some kind of godsend. Simply, she relayed Rowen’s message, inquired after Hadwin’s health, and departed for her chambers before the summoner thought to partake in a friendly conversation or a well-meaning offer to help. She didn’t want Teselin’s help. Didn’t want to be taken in by her innocuous charms or disarming gestures--because she witnessed the truth, first hand. When pushed, the magically-volatile girl was anything but innocuous or disarming.
Rowen, on the other hand, was eager to hear from Teselin. To Breane, her de-facto guardian and Gardener overseer, she admitted as much. A few days of administering treatments, as well as recently defending her from the judgemental gaze of dimwitted Bronwyn, earned the bespectacled girl the right to a sliver of the hamhanded truth. “In Clan Kavanagh, I didn’t have any friends,” she confided, experimentally spooling and unspooling a ball of yarn in her hands. “Just Hadwin. He was the only one who cared. Not Bronwyn; she practically ignored my existence until Chief ordered her to fetch me. Now, suddenly, she cares.” She made a face. “Bronwyn sickens me. She doesn’t understand me. Doesn’t even try. I’ve killed people, so naturally, she only sees me as something to fix. To gussy up and present to Clan Kavanagh, to Chief, in a beautiful bow. But I don’t want to return. I’ve found a better purpose. With Locque. Or...I thought I did,” she said in a low voice, in case the sorceress eavesdropped remotely. “But she spends all her time with Nia. Listens to Nia unconditionally. The cursed alchemist has her ear, which is unfortunate, because she never stops talking. Do I even have a place there, anymore? It’s sad, but...Teselin may be the closest thing I have to a friend, but I’m not convinced she thinks the same. It’s my brother she’s there for; not me.”
Later that evening, when Breane retired to her chambers for sleep and entrusted her patient to recuperate on her own, Rowen sat erect in her chair and stuck her nose into the air, catching the faint scent of the guest she had hoped to see that evening.
“Teselin,” she nodded at the timid girl as she entered through the sanctuary door. “Turns out, I had to request you by name; otherwise, you wouldn’t have come of your own volition--isn’t that right?” Her dark-red eyes squinted in the dimly-lit lantern light, dissecting the summoner, but only for a moment. She broke contact and lowered her head to the pile of knitting on the table. “You don’t have to give me any excuses. I know that Hadwin’s sick. Infected, you could say--by the darkness he took. He’s your priority; I won’t go on pretending I’m important to you, or that you even want me to get better if it means he’ll get worse. I see the truth in your eyes.” Something akin to hurt crossed, as brief as the shadow of a candle-flame, across her cherubic features. On mentioning the messy project strewn about the table, she lifted one knitting needle; four untidy rows of bumps hung from the needle shaft, a shoddy but earnest attempt at cohesion and uniformity.
“I’m trying,” she said emphatically, not clear if she was referring to the knitting or to healing at large. “I was going to make Hadwin a scarf. An ugly one. The ugliest one I could manage, because I know he’ll gush about whatever the hell I give him and would wear it with pride. But at this rate,” she dropped the needle in disgust, “I’ll be summer before I finish this monstrosity. If you’re wondering why I asked for you,” she pinched her lips together, hesitating, “it’s because...you might be all I have, right now. Correction; all I can stand,” she remedied, grimacing at the prospect of suffering yet another visit from Bronwyn or Nia. “Hadwin can’t come to see me. Not as he is. Anyway, I’d rather surprise him. He can’t gauge my progress as a whole if he sees me every day. So for visitors, that leaves...well that leaves just you, Teselin.” She twisted in her chair, cocking her head to one side. “I think... I think you understand me. Better than most. If you’re able to reserve empathy for Locque and offer to help her when so few would even dare, then...maybe I have a chance. But,” her eyebrows creased, hinting at the residual menace still lurking in her eyes, “I shouldn’t volunteer you for such things, even though you promised. Again, I know who takes priority, and it certainly isn’t me…”
Similar to his comments on Alster Rigas, Ari was also using Hadwin Kavanagh as an excuse to dissuade Nia from exploring a solution for his stone malady. The happy-go-lucky faoladh had made quite clear his goals: namely, to bring Nia and Ari together in an intimate partnership. Far from an act of charity, Hadwin had, per his claim, wanted to free her from Locque’s influence in an effort to undermine and weaken the sorceress’s sphere of loyal subjects. While his trust in Hadwin’s scheming nature amounted to nothing, the wolf-man did prove helpful in his advisements on how best to confess Ari’s attraction to Nia--nevermind the dubious and highly-dangerous methods that, through Hadwin’s coaching, had been employed. Nonetheless, he had achieved his desire, and Hadwin, surprisingly, demonstrated his capacity for discretion by taking a forgetfulness tablet, thereby obliterating any hand he had in helping Ari’s romantic pursuits. Sure, it was likely all theatre, a stunt partially intended to placate the Canaveris lord, but through that one act, he was assured that Hadwin proved himself an ally. A volatile, unwanted guest of an ally, but an ally as far as their interest in Nia was concerned. It didn’t lessen his fear of the faoladh drunkenly blabbing out his secret for all ears keen to hear, but Ari reluctantly conceded to his unshakeable presence and hoped for the best.
But Nia, possessed of an unyielding perspicacity, sensed underlying reasons behind the ones he presented, determined to wrench out the truth or, failing that, shower him with guilt in the attempt. At glimpsing the strain in her lovely brown eyes, he lowered his arm from the backrest, withdrawing his foolish, boyish bid to bask in her company by unburdening himself of a topic he couldn't kill. Why did he delude himself into believing she would leave well enough alone and enjoy the precious time they had together, drama-free? Worse yet, she interpreted his simple demurral as dissidence against her, as a person, when nothing could be further from the truth.
“Nia...you misunderstand.” He leaned towards the affronted woman instead of away, making a concentrated effort not to imply a standoffish or avoidant posture. Though his instincts told him to maintain distance, a learned defense mechanism to prevent an accidental brushing of the hands, or a dangerous breach of one’s personal space, he refrained from the desire. Instead, he tried the opposite, lifting his hands to meet her shoulders, but they froze en route to their destination. Try as he might, he couldn’t forge a physical connection. All his progress clammed up during that one vital moment when reassuring Nia meant breaching his comfort zone via touch. He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, cradling his defeated hands in his arms. “Trust is not the issue. It was never the issue. In fact, I wholly trust in your procedure because your deep and passionate investment in my welfare is undeniable. It is no mystery to me, just how much you care and...I’m grateful to you. I’m thankful to have someone like you who--”
Evidently, he was not the only one who thought so, as Nia, who had interjected amid his attempt to mollify her rising panic, began to spiral into voiced recollections of the multi-leveled tragedies that had eliminated every living member of her family, revealing the scope and extent of just how much their deaths had truly affected her. Weeks ago, Nia would have smiled and shrugged off the details of her grisly family history, glibly announcing--with a surety that convinced no one--how she’d given no opportunities for the past to affect her. But now, she had dropped her pretense and entrusted him with her raw, exposed underbelly, which admitted to the contrary. She was not alright. Someone who experienced so much loss and upheaval in her life could not, despite her unquenchable outward demeanor, pretend to be above guilt, regret, or a breaking point. And Ari’s enduring obstinacy, unfortunately, triggered something of the latter in her.
You matter to me.
She spoke the words so emphatically that he could not possibly have misheard the pure pain tugging at every wavering syllable. She meant it. No exaggeration, no ambiguous interpretation. No wordplay, or sly wink of innuendo. Somehow, Ari had joined the ranks of Nia’s sacred inner circle, a circle where the dead--and only the dead--inhabited. No wonder why she reacted so strongly to his rejection for a possible cure, afraid he would go the way of her sisters, and die.
Before he could further weigh and interpret the implications of her confession, she stood and shuffled out the door in a hurried exit. He blinked after her clumsy egress, still bewildered on the spot by her words--You matter to me--to give immediate chase. Did he suffer a sudden flare-up? Were his limbs petrified to the floor, preventing him from following after her?
An experimental twitch of his foot immediately dissolved his dread hypothesis. Breaking away from the paralyzing shroud she cast over him, Ari sprang from the chaise and met Nia in the villa’s grand entrance, catching her just before she stepped past the threshold, towards her waiting carriage.
“Nia. Wait!” He reached out, fingers splayed, and anchored her arm in place. Physical contact, finally made. “Wait,” he breathed, a bit winded from the short sprint to catch her in time. “Are you...do you believe I’m being disingenuous? That nothing I say is a legitimate expression of how I feel in the moment? Do you find this true?” Now it was his turn to offer a smile tinged with sorrow and sadness “I have been known to exaggerate or embellish on the details. After all, I am a politician. In some ways, I possess a liar’s tongue--and by default, it means I am not as nice, not as charitable, as you think. But please understand that my interest in you thus far has been true, and real. This is not a lie,” he gestured to indicate the two of them. “When I translated your essence onto a canvas, that was not a lie, either. Originally, I never intended to show you my flawed, imperfect rendering. It was a personal project, for my eyes only...and perhaps it should have stayed that way, for how much it has brought you pain and uncertainty when I merely meant for it to be a celebration of the woman I am...I am extremely fond of.” His cheeks heated, and he ducked his head to hide his physical reaction, glad for the strands of inky hair that curtained over the unsightly blemish. “Have I failed to court you properly, Nia? Have I been so polished in my approach that it has led you to doubt my sincerity when I say: ‘You are beautiful; I want to paint you; I want to sculpt you’? Do you...also not trust me?” His hands shivered in their grip upon her arms, but he managed to raise his head and probe her warm, brown gaze for the answer he sought. “Do you see me as a farce? An impostor? Someone who does kind things because the rules of hospitality demand it?” He uncurled the fingers of one hand and laid it flat on her arm, testing the limits of how long, and how intimately, he could engage in physical contact before releasing her. “There is a broader reason, Nia. The reason is...to love you,” he blurted, and the heat overtook his features, too widespread to conceal. “I want to love you. Because you also matter to me. I want you near, and I want you here, often. And I want you to feel what I feel whenever I look at you. That is why I showed you my painting. To see what I see. But...it didn’t transfer. My heart.” His eyebrows stitched together in disappointment. Disappointment in himself. “You couldn’t see my heart on display. But that is no fault of yours; it is the fault of the artist. I am a sculptor, not a painter. As well, I have been less than forthright and cooperative when you, in turn, offered me the same expressions of care. I...I should not have rejected your offer outright, but I hope that you understand my rejection is not, in any way, a rejection of you. Never.”
Gingerly, he pressed his hand against her, a tiny push of guidance. Standing as they were in the doorway, they were glaringly in view of curious servants, Canaveris passersby...and Lazarus, who was always watching in flagrant disapproval. As they relocated to a weeping cherry blossom tree at the edge of the courtyard, he finally released his hold, trusting her not to run off before he finished speaking with her.
“Your concerns are valid. I never wanted you to come away from this conversation thinking that they bear no merit. You are right, of course. If treatment is an option for me, then logically, I should consider those avenues and accept this wonderful opportunity. Two Master Alchemists, a powerful Rigas mage, and a miraculous healing garden--certainly, these ingredients spell a recipe for success. But,” he released a low, breathy sigh, “it is not entirely up to me, Nia.”
“You say I do not trust you, so here is the truth, because it would pain me if we concluded this conversation without some iota of a resolution...even if it comes at my expense.” He couldn’t tell her the whole truth—his clandestine opposition of Locque and his methods to undermine her—without putting their relationship into question, and for that reason, he might never offer the wholesale trust Nia so desired from him. Daily, it plagued him with guilt, knowing of his deceit amid his amorous pursuit of her, a dangerous line bound to plunge them into a great deal of trouble if neither wasn’t careful. Yes, it was pure folly that drove him to win Nia’s favor, because it quit being about rationality some time ago. And that was why he broke the silence. He couldn’t reveal his role in Locque’s coup, no, but he could, at least, hand her something as a show of good faith. Something that would come back to bite him, he was sure...in the form of his irate mother, who knew nothing of Nia or her involvement with his curse.
“Here is one of the most pertinent reasons as to why I cannot readily agree to your proposal. My...treatment,” he said vaguely, aware they were still standing out in public. Though alone, he didn’t want to risk blurting out too much delicate information in the open, “it also requires the approval of the Canaveris Head who ruled prior to my brother, because the ‘incident’ happened under her jurisdiction. You would have to state your case to her, as well. Her name is Nadira Canaveris. My mother. The ‘relative’ who you’ve agreed to let cross the Galeynian border.”
“I-I honestly did not expect, or anticipate, that you would want to see me, Rowen. Bronwyn relayed the message, much to my surprise… I’m sorry if it seems as though I have been avoiding you.” But haven’t I been? Evidently, her apology didn’t do much to fool the youngest Kavanagh girl. “But if you want company… I’m happy to come see you. Honestly, I’ve never been ill or needed to convalesce in bed for any extended period of time, so I can only imagine how dull it must be.”
After a brief hesitation, she opted to take a seat on the foot of Rowen’s cot, instead of upon the stool at what would have been a safer distance. Rowen could smell her fear, and already suspected that she’d been avoiding her. It wouldn’t serve anyone to play into her expectations. “Yes… Hadwin is unwell. For a while, he forgot about all of us… anyone who wasn’t his family, actually. But Alster and Bronwyn managed to help to clear away that amnesia. Now he’s just… he’s in pain. He’s weak. Someone has to keep an eye on him, to send for help if there is an emergency, so…” She trailed off. Rowen had already said she didn’t want to hear excuses; so why was she making them?
“Rowen… I don’t think that’s fair.” The young summoner exhaled her confession. “To say you don’t matter to me when we still barely know each other. I would like to get to know you, and I am happy that you are taking the necessary steps to heal yourself. Why wouldn’t I want that for you? For anyone? I’m just… I’m afraid for Hadwin. He can’t get out of bed, and there is nothing… there’s nothing I can do for him. I’m afraid, and I’m sad that he is in the condition that he’s in, and I honestly didn’t know that you wanted me here. But now that I know--if my being here is helpful to you at all,” she hazarded a smile. “Then I’ll come by more often. Daily, if you want. Is that what you want? I’m a summoner, but I can’t willingly read minds… and what you do or do not want isn’t exactly something I am attuned to know intuitively.”
And then Rowen did something that Teselin didn’t expect. Tossing aside the topic of her ill-fated knitting (and she was right; Hadwin would wear whatever she made him, however ugly it might have been), the young killer… opened up to her. The reason that she wanted her there, and if Teselin hadn’t felt guilty before, it began to eat away at her gut, now. Why, Rowen? Why now, when I promised Hadwin I would force him to return your fears to you if he continues to grow worse and worse?
But… maybe it was still too early to think like that. Rowen was reaching out--wasn’t this a breakthrough? A sign that she could and was recovering from the years that her Sight and her fears had poisoned her? Of course, the faoladh’s request hadn’t come without that feeling of an underlying warning--like it was in everyone’s best interests that Teselin comply and visit her at her whims. But if that was what it took to help her, and by proxy, to also help Hadwin, why wouldn’t she? “...I do understand, Rowen. I’m sorry to hear that other visitors haven’t met your expectations. Bronwyn… I do think you should give your sister a chance. She is reaching out, too, you know, and I do believe she wants to connect with you. I… I don’t think she thinks to highly of me, and I have a feeling it has something to do with the fact that not only has Hadwin made it clear he prefers my company, but now… you do, too. But, who you decide to surround yourself with is your prerogative.”
Looking up from her knees, she shifted her body to face Rowen, and pulled her legs up from where they dangled off of the cot to cross them. “Though I will say, I am also disappointed that Locque has not come to visit you. I am not sure what has her occupied, but truly, I think it is worth mentioning to her that someone who is overtly loyal to her deserves a moment of her time.” There was no farce or pretense in her words, as she meant every single one of them. She sought Rowen’s golden eyes, and noted that she was at least aware of her genuity. “You deserve her care just as much as Nia does--although, for what it is worth, I don’t believe she has had much to say to her lately, either. Nonetheless, if you’ll let me, I would like to make mention of this to her. If she is how Nia describes, not quite… understanding how to be ‘human’, then I doubt this was meant as an affront. She genuinely might just not realize that you want to see her.”
Reaching over the side of the cot, she picked up a loose piece of yarn and twirled it between her fingers. “But… forget about Locque and Bronwyn for now. I’m sure you didn’t want me to come over here to talk about then. How… how is it going for you?” She was, after all, genuinely curious--as was everyone else, though no one was brave enough to ask. “I’m glad to see you’ve been accepting Breane’s guidance; are you feeling… well, much different from before?”
Unlike the silly games other women might have played, Nia was not one who fled in hopes that her pursuer would lay chase. More than likely a remnant of living in a state of constant fight and flight, where running and hiding served as the only means of her survival, it was not a game to her: it was a necessity. An exhausting, terrifying, necessity, and it hadn’t occurred to her for even a second that Ari, of all people, would break so far from his own comfort zone, to become the pursuer. She hadn’t fled the villa to play hard-to-get; rather, she fled from her own embarrassment, feeling that she’d been too daft to read between the lines of Ari’s words or intentions. Her surprise was obvious in her wide, brown eyes when, contrary to her thoughts, her flight was stalled by a hand on her arm--a hand that belonged to Ari.
“Ari…” She breathed his name in astonishment, but no further words passed her lips as she let him speak. Obviously, to venture so far out of what was comfortable for him, he had something important to say--and she wasn’t about to interrupt. So she lent an ear to his explanations and concerns, and realized very quickly that the majority of her concerns had been due only to her own suspicions and overthinking. Had… had she managed to hurt him, in her hasty flight from his villa? Had she really misunderstood and misconstrued his words to such an extent that he felt it necessary to correct her misconceptions for fear of how they might impact their future relations?
To remove themselves from the earshot of servants (and possibly Lazarus; the big guy was no doubt lurking somewhere nearby), she wordlessly allowed him to lead her outside, beneath the boughs of a blooming cherry tree. Finally, he let go, somewhat to her disappointment. Something about the gesture, about his need for her to stay so that she would hear him out… it reached something inside of her. Something that began to make her eyes water, much to her chagrin, and that threatened for tears to spill down her cheeks. She had already bore a very vulnerable piece of herself to the Canaveris lord, and his words, his gesture, further wrenched open that vulnerable part even wider, until there were tears trickling down her cheeks. The Master Alchemist went as far as to hold her breath in hopes that it would put an end to the deluge of salt water pouring from her eyes, but it was too late, and she was helpless to stop them, and helpless to collect herself before the man who had just explained to her in no obscure terms just how much she meant to him.
So Nia did the only thing she could think of in that moment, after she had spilled everything with nothing left to hide, and had done the same… and dropped the book under her arm and kissed him. Not so desperate or out of the need not to feel lonely, as she had once before, but as something of a test. To see if those feelings, that sore spot inside that was making her so vulnerable was the same feeling that would make this feel right… and it did. At least, to her, it felt right to kiss Ari, because contrary to what she might have let on, she believed him to be genuine. She believed that he had no other reason to say to her what he had said save for exposing the truth, because she had asked him to be clear--and he had been. He felt warm, and he felt safe, and those were very dangerous things to feelm, and perhaps… perhaps that was what led her to believe that he couldn’t mean what she’d thought he’d meant. Because it was safer to believe that she wasn’t falling in love again, than it was to face those feelings for a second time in her accursed life, and render herself vulnerable all over again. It was too dangerous… but, here it was. Unavoidable. This conversation forced her to face it, and there was no going back. No pretending that he wasn’t being clear with her, or that she was misunderstanding.
The kiss wasn’t brief, but neither did it linger for too long, and soon enough, Nia established a modicum of space between her and the Canaveris lord, but her hands remained on his forearms. “...no, Ari. I don’t… think you’re being disingenuous. Not really. I just thought… I think I managed to convince myself that I was reading something else into your words, and I just projected that onto you. I’m sorry.” The Master Alchemist sighed and turned her gaze downwards, her face uncomfortably heated from her own embarrassment in the cool, springtime air, like she was running a fever. Her usually boisterous, life-of-the-party tone dwindled to something meek and uncertain. “Your painting of me… I didn’t mean to make you believe I thought it was rendered with anything but passion and genuine feeling. I know what I said, but I did… I did see it. I saw myself the way that you see me, and I knew what it meant, but I made up excuses in my head that that couldn’t possibly be the case. I mean, I’m just me and you’re… you’re you. Lord Aristide Canaveris, elected representative and leader of D’Marians. It’s easy to believe… that that just couldn’t be possible. Easy, and… and safer.”
Finally dropping her hands from his arms, she wrung them nervously in front of her, feeling her heart race. “You matter to me. And I… convinced myself it wasn’t possible for that feeling to be mutual. Because the last… the last time I thought I mattered to someone…” Without even realize it, she rubbed the scar on her neck. There was no need to elaborate exactly what she meant. “B-but I don’t mean--that is, to answer your question, I do trust you. I do. And that’s what scares me, as much as it excites me. It’s… complicated. But you aren’t an imposter, and I never should have made you feel as though your feelings weren’t clear in your painting. I hope… you can forgive me for that. For making you feel like you failed in something so blatant, because I’m… I think… I am falling in love with you, Ari. I have been for a while, now. And if I shouldn’t, or if you believe that to be a burdensome turn of events for you… then you just need to tell me now. Before there’s no turning back.” But there isn’t any turning back, a voice at the back of her mind reminded her. If you didn’t want it to get this far, you should’ve left before you could pass out and hit your head. Whatever happens now, it’s too late for you.
It came as a relief to get that off her chest. But it was even more of a relief to redirect the topic to the reason she had come to visit in the first place: to discuss his curse, and the plan of action she had proposed. So, too, had she been wrong in thinking that he didn’t trust her, and that was the reason behind his refusal. Evidently, it had so much more than to do with the matter of “trust”... to the point where the decision wasn’t even in his hands, alone.
“Your… your mother. It is your mother who wishes entry into Galeyn to join you.” It wasn’t that he was being unclear, but saying the words aloud made their implication so much more obvious. With the tears finally ceasing their trickle down her cheeks, she released Ari’s arms and wiped her face dry with the back of her sleeve. “Ari, why didn’t you say so? That makes so much sense; now I feel like a complete idiot for ever assuming that you didn’t trust that I could actually help!” Her shoulders shook with embarrassed laughter and she shook her head, slowly returning to the bubbly, positive Nia Ardane that everyone thought her to be. The part of herself that was safest to show the world. “Well, I don’t know your mother, but I can’t say that mothers make me feel at ease by any means. Mine neither wanted nor liked me, and I can’t very well expect yours to trust me just because you do. But this is important for me to know. Because it’s one thing to pitch the idea to you… and another one entirely to pitch it to your immediate family. Also, I’m rather under the impression that you don’t expect she’s going to like me very much as it is, considering you omitted the fact that the person seeking entry into the kingdom is, in fact, your mother.”
Ari didn’t confirm, but neither did he deny it, and the look of uncertainty that flashed across his features was all the confirmation she needed. The Ardane woman just grinned and shook her head. “Hey, it’s fine. Ari, my own mother couldn’t stand me; you think it’s gonna hurt my feelings that yours probably won’t think too highly of me, either? At the same time, if she is your mother--and if she is anything unlike my own mother--then I don’t understand why she wouldn’t be interested in the opportunity to have her only surviving son’s… condition remedied? It’s just a matter of wording and explaining it very carefully. But,” she spread her hands in front of her, “I won’t even deign to try until I’ve secured everything--or rather, everyone, I need to make it possible. That is… with your permission.”
Nia sought his gaze, and dropped her hands to her side. “It may not be entirely up to you, but I still respect your wishes, Ari. I’ve already spoken to Alster Rigas, but I didn’t drop your name. I haven’t spoken to Isidor Kristeva yet… namely because he… he doesn’t really have much of a reason to want to help me. The guy kinda hates my guts; I can’t really blame him.” She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear and couldn’t help but look away from the Canaveris lord, remembering that brief and ill-fated tryst with Isidor that the Kristeva alchemist hadn’t even wanted. Yet, in pressuring him, she couldn’t help but feel as though she had wronged both men. “Honestly, it’ll probably have to be Alster to convince him to take part in any of this… but only if you want it, Ari. Fair warning, I’m not going to stop trying to convince you, for reasons that I don’t think I need to repeat. But I’m also not going to move forward until you’re ready. I have some integrity.” Looking away from the toes of her boots, as soon as the guilt had passed (for the moment), she returned her attention to the benevolent Canaveris lord’s face, and reached out to touch it with her exposed fingertips.
“I’m… sorry I ran away like that. I didn’t mean for tonight to end like this. I thought I’d be able to convince you to let me help you, and we’d forget about the matter for the time being and get drunk on wine in front of a roaring fire or something.” The corner of her mouth curled into a grin that wanted to be a full smile, but couldn’t quite get there. “One of these days… I’d like to see you, just for the sake of seeing you, Ari.”
Rowen didn’t like to play fair. Unlike her sister, the epitome of fairness, whose strong moral compass failed to deliver her even the most basest desires--chiefly, love--the youngest Kavanagh sibling had no use for such trifles. What good would a virtuous lifestyle achieve if humanity as a whole preferred sinfulness over common decency? No, she had scrapped any attempts to make peace with the world’s disappointing drudgery long ago. Eight years, to be exact; around the time of Hadwin’s brusque departure...which she had instigated. But if this were true, if she were so convinced of humanity’s unsalvageable redemption, to the point where she’d made it her life’s mission to eliminate their blighted souls from this plane of existence, why, then, did she agree to Teselin’s initial proposal? Why had she sought the healing energies of the Night Garden? Had hope, somehow, trickled through her ironclad defenses and infected her with the possibility that, maybe, her ever-present shadows could unstick, drift away, and fade? When Hadwin succeeded in removing the worst of her shadows, that faint hope solidified into something tangible, allowing her to see a halo of light among the clouds.
Outside her Sight-created aura of miasma, she was able to detect those tell-tale signs of ‘beauty’ that her brother always insisted were in existence--if only she looked hard enough. And to his credit, she could see them, abound in the Night Garden. The sacred space was a haven for the alien and breathtaking. On her regular strolls outside the sanctuary, she bore witness to the most astounding constructions of botanical wizardry she’d ever seen. It was miraculous; truly worthy of her time. But...what would happen to that wonderment and aesthetic appreciation once Hadwin returned her fear of the darkness, an inevitability that spanned closer to reality the longer he gritted his teeth and clenched through the pain? Any semblance of recovery was attributed mostly to him for excising the primary source of her grief. Though she couldn’t completely disregard the combined efforts of Breane and the Night Garden in terms of their helpful assistance, the moment she reabsorbed the worst of her darkness, she feared for how she might regress, or worsen. Every day without her most prevalent fears was a godsend, but also an exercise in girded anticipation. How much time had she left before receiving back what Hadwin had borrowed? And could she somehow delay the transfer...indefinitely?
Not if she wanted to keep Teselin as a friend, or rekindle a relationship with her brother. But...what did friendship and fidelity matter, in the end, if she reverted to the person whose enduring hatred of everyone prompted her to kill for sport?
At the very least, she had to make an effort. Or, failing that, convince them that she was ready to turn over a new leaf. But she couldn’t convince anyone if Bronwyn insisted on checking in on her progress daily and catching her general lack of sincerity and remorse. Better to supplant her with Teselin, who Rowen was steadily winning over by hitting all the right notes. Though, in all honesty, nothing she said was an outright lie. But she was also keeping her options open.
“Then let me be clear with you, Teselin. In my attempt to make amends, I will state, loudly,” for effect, she spoke above the wispy mutter she usually favored, “that I want you here. I’ve never had a friend before.” Amazing, how she dispensed that heavy truth twice in the span of one evening. “And I would like to know what it’s like. Forget Bronwyn for a moment. Or...Locque,” she lowered her gaze to her lap. “It’s stupid of me to care about how she does or does not react to my long convalescence. We have an understanding, and I’m in the wrong for reading into a relationship that...just isn’t there,” she released a tired sigh, rubbing a finger against her temple. “I am a colleague of Locque. We’re united—or were united—under a common cause. It’s best for you not to waste her time with unimportant news. If you see her, tell her that I don’t plan on being out of commission for much longer. I’ll return to her court whenever she needs me. If she does,” her mouth turned into a rictus of bitterness, unable to reconcile how Locque listened more to Nia and attended to her needs, ladling her with attention via favors and private conservations. Whereas Rowen worked hard and received...nothing. But the resentment was not a good look for someone in the midst of a clean, swift recovery, so she dropped the grimace and redirected her attention to the pile of knitting on the table.
“Breane gives me special teas to drink at least three times a day. They help to induce pleasant memories and emotions from the past,” she explained as an answer to Teselin’s inquiries. She picked up a messy ball of yarn and wound the loose pieces back into a tight ball. “It’s necessary to establish a strong foundation of warm emotions before delving into the heavier stuff. I expect I’ll have to face the people I wronged...eventually. Tell Hadwin,” she mustered a convincing smile, one that shielded the pseudo lies waggling on her tongue, “that he doesn’t have to hold out for long. I’ll get through this and relieve him of his pain soon enough. I suspect things will go even faster...with a friend.” And what a friend you will be. A powerful one. You’ll protect me...as long as Hadwin stays true to his promises.
He had driven Nia to tears. By his actions, his words, his gestures, or a combination of the three, Ari pressed on a tender spot, almost reducing the already vulnerable woman into an inconsolable state. But before he could open his mouth to apologize for spouting such egregious sentiments (for even though he meant them, he could also not abide Nia suffering such acute misery on his account), she closed the space between them and captured his mouth in a kiss. Surprised at first, he froze, unsure of how to proceed or if she wanted him to proceed. But as the seconds spanned, he realized this was not supposed to be a one-sided exchange. To her, it was no quick, teasing peck on the cheek, not like on the night of the soiree following their ballroom waltz, but a response to his confession. Leaving her without any physical sign to acknowledge that his words were not just lip service, but a legitimate declaration of his affection was both irresponsible and damaging to the delicate tete-a-tete they’d unboxed, but hadn’t yet resolved. Closing his eyes, he accepted Nia’s offer and pressed against her lips as the precious treasures they were. Gentle in his approach, afraid of shattering the moment altogether and crushing their chances for a romantic union, he brushed against them in deliberate strokes, painting with his open palate a myriad of pallets. Jewel tones and earth tones and pastels; his second, and hopefully better, attempt to breathe life into something. No, not something; someone. She was not a static form. Not a painting, not a sculpture, not something he needed to create from nothing just to run his fingers through a solid, tangible material that was deemed safe for him to touch. For once, he didn’t need to conceive of the consuming process of rendering his greatest desires onto a blank surface, be it a canvas or a slab of marble. Nia existed beyond his universe of the imaginary and imagined where he’d been consigned to spend the majority of his time, surrounded by fabrications he’d magicked into being. Even now, the courtyard’s menagerie of guardian creatures hummed with the residual energies of the magic Ari imbued into their structures. One command and they would awaken to serve their master. You are stone. Be as stone. Make your realm of stone and live in it. You are not flesh. The world of flesh is not yours. Not yours…
So he was led to believe. Untouched and untouchable. Admired from afar--like a masterpiece one could never approach or handle, lest they dislodge the frame from the wall and chip the paint. But Nia was different. She wanted to touch him, and he wanted to touch her. To feel the warmth of an organic human presence, not an immoveable construct, whose petrified flesh would not dimple down and rebound after release, or pulse the satisfying rhythms of a heartbeat at rest. Amid their kiss, Ari peeled off one glove and rested his bare hand on the back of her neck, his fingers fluttering from the unfamiliar exposure. No clothing separated those two contact points, and he shivered from the pure, but tantalizing sampling of human intimacy, as it was intended to be enjoyed by two people who fancied each other.
I am falling in love with you. Their lips had separated, then, but the connection never wavered. Him, with his hand cradling her head; her, with her hands dancing along his forearms. A dream made real. Not a fabrication of clay or pigments or rock. The affirmation sent his heart reeling, such that the temperature climbed to a near uncomfortable level. Despite the slight chill of the evening, Ari felt impelled to shed off his long coat and feel the fresh air breathe and whisper on his unafflicted skin. For the briefest of moments, he had forgotten about the curse or its specific maledictions. “Of course I forgive you,” he said, a low chuckle on his throat. “Especially as you have validated my work. We artists are rather sensitive, a cliche I’ve tried to escape, but to no avail, I’m afraid.” As she proposed a proviso, a last-chance opportunity to retreat from their union, Ari, normally, would have given it some consideration before stating his commitment, but this was not a business transaction and, alas, it was too late for him to pull away. Though never his intention to take a special interest in Nia Ardane, it happened, and its happening complicated matters for certain. It complicated his position as D’Marian leader, it complicated his trustworthiness within the Galeyn-liberation alliance, it complicated dynamics in his family, and it complicated his dealings with Nia, herself. Going forward, he could no longer remain impartial, should the alliance materialize and take an active stance against Locque, and by extension, her cohorts. He worried for this inevitable turn in the climate and how it would impact his relationship with Nia. Would she again feel betrayed by a male suitor, and liken his betrayal to another dagger-swipe to the throat? And could he, through his influence, spare her the brunt of the damage, even after she learned of his deceit? If he were sensible, he would heed Nia’s advice and desist his amorous pursuits immediately. To proceed could very well cost him--or her--his life. But he’d opened the gate to his demise, willingly, and it showed no signs of closing. Just as Nia was determined to save him from his curse, Ari was determined to free her from Locque. They were both rightly stuck in the muck of their collective good intentions--sinking together.
The branch overhead rattled as a gentle breeze dislodged a delicate flower, petals intact, from its stem. Catching the errant blossom, he regarded it in all its pink, silken glory before closing it in his fist. “I am quite certain this ability is not unique to me, and a Master Alchemist of your caliber can recreate this trick, surely, but,” he uncurled his fingers and in place of a dainty, organic cherry blossom, a flower-shaped rose quartz sat in his palm, a near-replica, petrified to the most minute detail. “Here. For you, and to you, a promise set in stone.” He offered her the small crystal. “A cherry blossom is a most precious thing, but it is fleeting and ephemeral--as most things are. May this stone preserve and keep its symbolism true; that this, our union, will remain enduring, spanning the seasons. May we again watch another spring rise and fall. We move forward in time to embrace nature’s cyclical advance through the ages; we do not turn back. I will not turn back.” With his ungloved hand, he reached to cup her cheeks, knuckling away her residual tears. “I want this, too, Nia. If you would allow me the honor to court you.”
So as not to overburden her with the responsibility of commitment, he slid a respectful step backwards and shifted the subject to his mother. Not exactly a preferred topic for him, but it was successful in lifting the pressure and doubt from her bruised aura. The news brightened her mood, such that the change in disposition was almost jarring--like the moon switching to noon-tide intensity in the span of several minutes. He welcomed the sun’s return, and even smiled to herald its arrival. “My sincerest apologies, Nia. Originally, I was planning on withholding any mention of your involvement from her. It comes as no surprise to admit she tends towards...overprotectiveness. After Casimiro, I am all she has left. The moment she would have heard-tell of my secret leaking to another set of ears, especially,” he cleared his throat, “one who bears a close connection to a controversial figurehead, she would have twisted the world to manifest here in moments, through terrifying reserves of willpower.” Through his unflattering description of his mother, Ari, remembering his audience, added, “I, too, was hesitant in broaching the subject of my mother to you. I suppose I selfishly wanted one worry-free evening without adding undue stress to your visit--as I am aware of the turbulent relationship with your late mother. Alas, it is not to be. To answer your question, it is as you may suspect; a matter of trust.” After returning the glove to his exposed hand, he sought the opposite hand and clasped the two together. “If you hope to appeal to her sensibilities, you must first gain and earn her trust. You won’t be alone in this endeavor. Whenever you are ready to state your argument, I will vouch for you. That is,” he gave an approving nod, “if you still intend to resume your research. I will permit it--not that obtaining my permission will stymie you from continuing,” he said with the curl of a nervous smile. “There is little question about my reservations concerning this hypothetical procedure, but I understand the importance of optimizing my options while I still have access to them. There may never be another opportunity. My mother, surely, will come to agree.” Eventually. But there was no use disturbing more earth beneath Nia’s feet. Not so soon, anyhow.
Now that several matters of discussion had, more or less, been settled, Ari extended his hand in open invitation. “While I realize the entire reason you called on me tonight was not to partake in baseless pleasures and frivolity, ...if you can spare the time, we can make the most of your visit. You say it is lamentable that we cannot drink to inebriation before a roaring fire? What is stopping us from doing so, right now? Unless you’ve prior engagements, then I shall not keep you. But, if you do not,” his dark eyes sparkled like flecks of pyrite exhumed from soil, “would you like to join me for a few more drinks inside? And, if you are in an agreeable mood, would you be interested in modeling for a few sketches? Nothing serious, of course,” he dismissed, allaying any of her hesitations with a shrug and an airy chuckle. “Who knows how a few drams of liquor will affect the quality of my work? But, seeing as my mother’s presence will no doubt rearrange the ambiance here, we may as well take advantage of this freedom while we have the chance. Are you interested?” He waggled his outstretched fingers, waiting for her to press her palm against his in agreement. “I will take no offense if you say ‘No,’ but I will be elated if you continue to charm me with your company tonight.”
Whatever magic Breane and the Night Garden were working on Rowen’s behalf… Teselin was no longer able to suspend her belief that there, somehow, was hope for the youngest Kavanagh girl. Not when she was now talking about… friends. And not only that, but alluding to the despite that she wanted her as a friend?!
It might not be real. She probably isn’t being sincere. The cautious--no, suspicious voice at the back of her mind (and that hadn’t existed prior to being captured by Mollengard) tried to reason a more probable perspective. Rowen is a master manipulator. Don’t forget the first time you met. She knows how to play you; she’ll say whatever you want to hear to win you over. Naive Teselin was--well, for the most part--a thing of the past. But… somehow, none of her experiences leading up to this could quite extinguish her hope. Her hope that there was more to Locque’s future and potential than a dark path. More to Rowen than darkness and revenge on a world that she had deemed irredeemable for most of her life.
She could hold onto that hope… and she could still be cautious. Those two opposing parts of herself did not need to be mutually exclusive.
“Then I’ll be here, Rowen. Every day, if that’s what you want.” The young summoner put down the piece of yarn she had been toying with and looked up from her lap. Rowen looked… well, for lack of a better word, vulnerable. Truly vulnerable. Not the fragile facade that she had presented, the same day she’d made an attempt to gut Hadwin. This was the sort of fragile that you couldn’t cover up. When your skin grew translucent and everyone could bear witness to everything that was wrong inside of you. Rowen must have known this, the way she averted her gaze and seemed to suggest she wanted to disappear. “If it’ll help you, and if you’re really looking for friendship… well, you’re lucky that that just happens to be something I offer to everyone. Because I think--well, I’ve always thought that it’s something that everyone needs. We’re not meant to get through life alone. And, if it’s true that you’ve never had a friend… then it’s no wonder you tread the path that led you to where you ended up. But,” she tilted her head and offered a soft, albeit genuine smile. “You’re going to need more than one friend before you find yourself out of the woods. And if you’re unsure where you stand with Locque… well, what about Breane? It might be good for her, too. She doesn’t have--”
Teselin hesitated, catching herself just before delving too far into what Senyiah had confided regarding Breane and her transition into becoming a Gardener. How she was the only surviving member of her family, after the spell on Galeyn had lifted… and the Night Garden and its Gardeners were all she had. It wasn’t her place to say as much. But, perhaps, it was something she would confide in Rowen someday, if the faoladh gave her a chance.
“I’ll talk to Locque. At least, I’ll see where she stands. You say that you and Nia united with Locque under a common goal? Well, goals can change… but so can the people who had them. I don’t know what exactly it was you set out to accomplish when you pledged yourself from her… aside from harming Hadwin.” Her smile faded at the corners of her mouth. “But that… correct me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t seem to be your endgame anymore. You’ve got a new goal, or else you wouldn’t be here, committing to getting help. And Nia wanted a means to stop running and looking over her shoulder. She wanted a home, and… well, it seems as though she might’ve found it. Locque wanted Galeyn: she got what she wants. But something tells me that she’s realizing it’s not what she thought. I think… maybe, seeing you, and how you’re recovering, might be the enlightenment she needs.”
Whether or not Rowen bought her philosophy remained to be seen, but Teselin was rather impressed by the young wolf’s openness regarding her treatment and how she was faring with it. This wasn’t something the old Rowen--the Rowen from several days ago--would have offered. Hard as it was to believe that teas were the gateway to her solutions, the young summoner had seen miracles before. Perhaps this, and the young, open-minded Gardener named Breane, was just the recipe that she’d needed. “I don’t want to come across as patronizing, but… I’m honestly proud of you, Rowen. So is Hadwin. You don’t know the half of it; or maybe you do.” The warmth returned to Teselin’s smile, and before she could think better of it, she reached out and rested a hand on Rowen’s shoulder. “I’ll tell him exactly what you said. But if I know him, I think he already knows. You didn’t have to trust me to find you help; you didn’t have to trust Breane to help you. And I… honestly, I didn’t know how far you would go with it. But you’re still here, and you seem different from before.”
Dropping her hand, she slid her legs out from under herself and stood. “I… do need to get back to Hadwin. But tomorrow, why don’t we spend some time outside of this little hut? I’m sure Breane’s teas and the memories they’re eliciting are doing a great deal of good for you, but what about making new memories? Memories void of darkness and fear and pain. Let’s start from here; the two of us. And when Hadwin is well… then make more memories with him, too. After all, we can’t expect to break free of what’s holding us back if we keep looking over our shoulder at the past, right? Until then…” Teselin paused, picked up a skein of yarn, and tossed it to Rowen, who caught it reflexively in her hands. “Keep knitting that ugly scarf for Hadwin. You never know; you might find that as you improve, you’ll actually start to like it.”
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, or what result her boldness would have elicited. This was not their first kiss; in fact, Ari had kissed her once before, and then again upon her request, but in hindsight it was difficult to discern whether it had been out of genuine affection, or mere pity for her condition when she had injured her head. At the time, she had thought it reasonable to chalk it up to his kindness, or his sense of responsibility to make her feel at ease when she had so desperately expressed that she hadn’t wanted to be alone. Even now, it might not have been so farfetched to assume that he returned her kiss so as to put an end to those errant tears trickling down her cheeks. It wasn’t until she felt the warmth of his fingers press against the back of her neck that she knew this was different from before. Ari never removed his gloves, not even in her company when they were alone, so that he could fall back on the familiar comforts of being concealed. Only now did he decide he did not need that crutch, and instead sought direct contact with the very woman who had been ceaselessly pulling him out of his comfort zone for months, now. He didn’t have to return her kiss; he didn’t have to touch her. But he did… and that was all the Master Alchemist needed as an answer to her question. That, whether or not it was safe to proceed in entertaining her rapidly blossoming feelings for lord Aristide Canaveris, he, at the very least, was willing to accompany her on this foolish (and possibly dangerous) venture.
Last time, this almost got me killed. I wonder where it will bring me, this time around…
“I mean… you really shouldn’t need me to validate your work.” She said, unable but to help feeling a little disappointed when they established distance again, and his hand fell away. “You’re an insanely talented guy, Ari. I’m the one without the ability to confidently critique art. All I can tell you is whether or not I find something pretty when I look at it, and given what I’ve seen of your art, I don’t think it’d be possible for you to craft anything that wasn’t absolutely stunning.”
And speaking of stunning things… While it perhaps couldn’t be considered ‘art’, and he was not incorrect in assuming that the skill was not unique to him, Nia couldn’t help but marvel at the tiny, blossom-shaped rose quartz. The tiny flower maintained its delicate blush-pink colour, but unlike its brethren, still thriving on the tree, or some have already fallen to the ground, it would not shrivel and grow brown and decompose. Ari had blessed this blossom with immortality. A promise, like he described, set in stone, and thus unchanging, forever. Nia held the small semi-precious stone in the palm of her hand, and colour bloomed in her cheeks again as if she drew hues from the stone itself. A promise… this was a promise. A long time ago, someone else had given her an eternal promise, one that she had worn around her neck for well over a decade, and had never removed. Your light will be eternal, Nia, like the stars. You’re going to survive--with or without me, you will survive. Do you understand? That’s my promise to you.
Celene’s voice echoed in her head; she would never forget this. But tonight, they were eclipsed by a voice that was not in her head. Rather, it was right in front of her, in the here and now, spoken by another pair of lips. We move forward in time to embrace nature’s cyclical advance through the ages; we do not turn back. I will not turn back.
“...tonight, I told Locque that I couldn’t guarantee I would keep Galeyn as my home forever.” Nia hadn’t intended to come forward with this confession, but since all else was out in the open and pretenses had been pushed aside, she figured that now was as good a time as any. “Only for as long as you are still here. But when you finally see fit to return… I want to go with you. Because without you, this place really isn’t anything more than another handful of towns and villages just tolerating my presence. So if that offer is still on the table…” She closed her fingers around the stone. “I’d like that. To go with you, and experience more seasons in a whole other place.” And with her opposite hand, she covered his fingers with her own. “Together.”
Ari’s remorseful explanation as to why he hadn’t informed her about his mother, a decidedly abrupt change in subject compared to the tender and vulnerable moment they’d shared just prior, did manage to shake Nia out of her raw and uncomfortable state of mind. The Master Alchemist collected herself and her feelings, not tossing them aside, but temporarily tucked them away and returned to the confident and cheerful woman that she presented to most people. “Hey, I get it. Not all mothers despise their children. Believe it or not, I am aware that Felyse Ardane was one real fucked-up exception to the rule.” Nia chuckled; she had long since decided it was better to laugh about the dreadful woman than to cry about her, and the hell she’d put her through. “And I get why she’d be worried that someone else found out about your unique… condition. But, hey, just because I could never win my own mother over doesn’t mean I don’t stand a chance of appealing to yours, right? I’ll just need a little coaching, on your part. Tell me the dos and don’ts, what she likes, what she hates… Whatever edge will give me the best possible chances to have her agree to let me help you. After all,” she tossed her brunette locks over her shoulder in a dismissive gesture of over-confidence. “It’s my firm belief that everyone and anyone can be won over. It’s just a matter of finding out what they fancy, and avoiding what they don’t. So, let me know what’ll win your mother over, and I’ll make it happen. Because of that’s what it will take to get the ball rolling on cracking down on your ‘unique affliction’... then you’ve got my word, I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Maybe she would end up eating her words, for who knew what Lady Canaveris would require of her in order to trust her? But it was a risk Nia was willing to take, and the more time she spent with him, the more she realized she was willing to do and to sacrifice for Ari--such as Locque’s favour. She isn’t going to like it if I don’t return tonight… That much was obvious, especially given the nature of their last conversation. But, she had never promised the new queen that she would be returning that evening… so she would not be breaking any rules or promises in choosing to stay. With a shrug of her shoulders (which gave the appearance that she was far more nonchalant than she actually felt), Nia knelt to pick up the book she had borrowed from the palace library. It no longer really had a place in this evening… but she still had a responsibility to something that wasn’t her property to begin with. “I mean… I guess you’re right. If you really want to put up with me for a little longer, you know I am easily swayed by the promise of drinks. I didn’t have any other plans tonight aside from visiting you.”
As the two of them wandered away from the cherry tree and back toward the entrance of his villa, the Canaveris lord also posed the question of whether or not she was truly willing to stand in as a model for a quick foray into his art. Of course, the answer was obvious before she even spoke it aloud; after all, she had already offered, not but a half hour ago. However, she hadn’t expected him to make the request again quite so soon. Did he mean it? Or was he simply trying to put a bandage on her mistakenly wounded feelings? Stop it, the Master Alchemist chided herself, as soon as she recognized those familiar unhelpful thought patterns. Not the case, and you know it; no being disillusioned by your own lies now.
“Hey, I’m not shy. If you really think I’m worth becoming a piece of your art, I’ll model.” She told Ari with a grin, and took a seat upon a chaise when they were once again within the safe walls of his villa. “In fact, drunk modeling for a drunk artist sounds exactly how I’d like to spend my evening. Too bad you didn’t ask me before I showed up; I’d have put something a little nicer on!” She gestured to her leather apparel, which, while well tailored to her form and functional in terms of serving its purpose, was well-worn and dull from exposure to the elements. “I mean… not like I’ve got many ‘nice’ clothes in my arsenal, but something tells me this isn’t exactly what you had in mind. I guess you could just use your imagination. Draw me in something else.” Nia reached out to accept a glass of whatever wine Ari had poured; she wasn’t fussy. “Who knows? Maybe your drunken creativity will pay off more than you know!”
Rowen, catching Teselin’s hesitation regarding Breane and her tragic history, tilted her head and shrugged. “She lost her family; I’m aware. Even she, young upstanding Gardener, isn’t immune to dark thoughts; resentment for the turn life has taken her, anger for their untimely demise, a smattering of envy for the people who’ve emerged from Galeyn’s sleep relatively unscathed, their families and friends alive and well. Yes, she’s a lonely one. A little lost and confused, with only her fellow Gardeners to guide her. But,” she laced her fingers together, their under and over weave reminding her, vaguely, of the loops and whorls that comprised a simple knitting pattern, “she’s young. Barely pubescent. I don’t think she completely understands what she’s doing, or realizes who she’s dealing with, though I have to give her credit for being one of my biggest advocates. I love how she gave Bronwyn a dressing down,” she tittered, deriving a bit of sadistic glee from earlier that day. “You, in contrast, haven’t been spared an ounce of my ruthlessness. Sure, you weren’t targeted, but you never ventured far from a target or two,” she said, her talk of murder and attempted murder a little too casual for conversations on redemption and friendship. Noticing this, she cleared her throat, picked up her knitting needles, and attempted to pick up from where she left off, to create in lieu of destroy. “But I’m not interested in that path anymore, you’re right. I have no interest in killing my brother. Not when he’s so damn determined to help me.” And if he dies, there’s a chance my fears will return, dark thoughts, never far from reach, reminded her. She rent a needle through a tendril of yarn, splitting it in twain. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stitch it back into one uniform whole. Just as well. She wanted the scarf to appear as ugly as possible.
“You could try to talk to Locque,” Rowen conceded, sounding less than confident about the idea and trying her best to exude nonchalance. “You have her ear and her cooperation. But the last thing I want is to come off needy. I’m not reliant on her attention. When you receive neither the love of your mam or your da and are left to practically fend for yourself, you learn to be self-sufficient. Not to discount Hadwin’s efforts or anything, but it was never his responsibility to raise me, and it was impossible for him to always be there. If I’m honest,” she paused to count the stitches on her needle. Somehow, she acquired three more stitches than when she’d begun to knit the row. “If I’m honest,” she repeated, insecure to continue, “I don’t know what I want for myself. Locque and Nia have their concrete goals, but mine are...abstract. I suppose I want to be surrounded by something beautiful. Something free of shadows...and fear. The Night Garden is a wonderful start, and…” She trailed off. I’ve said enough. She dropped her needles, boring of the project after adding just one more row.
“Yes,” she stressed, carefully, in order to prevent from overwhelming and overtaxing her emotional threshold. She couldn’t allow herself to feel too much, to get carried away with the notion and lose her killer instincts, the very sort that made her an asset to Locque. Without them...surely, she’d be abandoned, her use dried up and gone. Chief Kavanagh, too, made it no secret that her status as his right-hand hinged on her ability to accomplish what no one else dared. If she, at any point, lost her stomach for the chase, for the kill, he would drop his favor in an instant and seek someone better suited to carry out his dirty jobs. But, contrary to Chief, who never liked to rest on his laurels and enjoy his undisputed power, Locque’s end-goal was security; once reached, she no longer had any need for grunt-work. As the days spanned, Rowen was already growing...irrelevant.
So why care about self-preservation? Why care about sharpening her senses and doling out deserving punishments to wicked people? Why not...take a walk in a beautiful garden? “I’d like that,” she finished the thought at last, looking up from her messy swatch of pseudo scarf sitting haphazardly on the needle. Meeting Teselin’s eyes, she tried for a half-smile, a pursed-lipped smile that looked more pained than joyful. “Tomorrow, then. I’m running out of good memories to rely on, anyway.” Good memories that didn’t involve the thrill of blood splattering as her slavering fangs sank into human flesh, puncturing arteries, welcoming the tangy iron to fill her mouth, and savoring the tasty expiration of a precious and unique life, the only one of its kind to exist. For some reason, the teas never showed those fond moments; of missions well accomplished, and the satisfaction they brought. “It’s a promise, Teselin. I’ll see you tomorrow. Now go off,” she waggled two fingers in the air, as though shooing away a stray dog. “Can’t keep my brother waiting or he’ll pitch a fit and make everyone’s lives a living hell.” Her smile expanded into a sideways smirk. “It runs in the family.”
The decision to petrify a blossom came about entirely by the whims of the moment; him and her, standing beneath a tree, a symbol of the fleeting, ephemeral constant of nature--changing, always in flux from one state to another. Flowers subsided to dust, and dust nourished the soil, encouraging growth at peak fertility so that decay and rot would eventually return to the earth and repeat the cycle anew. In understanding this basic science lesson, wasn’t it so bold of him to remove a blossom’s purpose--to proliferate and die--and encase it into a completely different form? A fruitless trinket, for the sake of securing a promise? Hadn’t he learned, from his forceful, partial removal as a complete flesh and blood human, how alienating it felt to shift into an unnatural state against one’s will? The basilisk serpent certainly held no qualms when it attacked a child whose only crime was venturing too close to its cage and peeking under the protective sheet to answer the creature’s desperate hisses and cries for freedom.
The child’s curiosity blessed him with a stone carapace, a premature coffin and simultaneous memorial marker in which to suffocate and die. Rest in inurnment. Somehow, his magic resistance had surmounted certain death, and he survived long enough for his mother to seek the help of other mages and--importantly--a mysterious Master Alchemist whose name remained anonymous in Nadira Canaveris’s recollections of the morbid tale. On the dawn of the third day, he emerged to a new life; a half-being, not quite human and not quite stone, but some strange amalgamation of the two. A curiosity forged from forbidden arts and forbidden acquisitions overseas, doomed to secrecy and silence. In a sense, he had doomed the flower to an existence of not-quites--and yet, its plight, should its essence experience one, hadn’t moved nor swayed Ari out of his decision to present it to a woman who would be his lover. Perhaps his casual disregard of matter conversion was why the questionable and borderline immortal antics of Master Alchemists did little to discourage or bother him. Because he was in no position to judge the twisted practices of Master Alchemy when he had benefited from their aid, and when he, by his admittance (and past actions) was fully capable of causing harm, either to other people or to nature. Stripping the land to mine for ore, or tunneling underground, trampling through delicate root systems and ecosystems, were occupational hazards befitting of earth mages and their penchant for widespread upheaval. Therefore, one little blossom suffering his similar fate fazed him little. Not when he saw how much Nia appreciated the little rose quartz flower. While it was not a work of art, (he could sculpt something far grander and preferred to, in lieu of ‘cheating’ via his magical shorthand) she accepted his gift with a delicateness reserved for something truly cherished. The stone blossom and the promise attached to it meant more to this lonely, company-starved woman than words would properly convey.
And he would never forgive himself for violating that promise--for being the next man in a line of aggressors who trampled her emerging petals underfoot, guaranteeing they would never unfurl and thrive as intended.
“It may take a while yet for such a reality to transpire,” Ari admitted, but he was not disappointed in her confession to join him and the D’Marians to reclaim and repopulate their homeland. “Years, perhaps. Mollengard is no trifling force to defeat, and I am sure we shall invoke their ire by directly interfering with their appropriated land. But, should we succeed,” he accepted the encompassing warmth of her cocooning fingers, “I guarantee you a place of your own, whether with me or elsewhere. Nonetheless, we shall be together,” he affirmed, shaking her hand in a deliberate gesture, as in a pledge. Another promise, reviewed and accepted.
My, aren’t you hasty to forget me, the surly voice of Chara Rigas snarked in his head. Are you certain you are not just nursing a passing infatuation disguised as a grandiose and special connection, when you are, in reality, endeavoring to repeat what you had wanted us to have, once? You are repeating the same formula with a woman who you know will accept your advances because she will accept anyone who gives her the time of day! You are truly a man of honor, Aristide Canaveris. The last words curled derisively, impelling Ari’s hand to stiffen from within Nia’s steadfast and gentle grip.
The thoughts didn’t belong to Chara Rigas, but borrowed her voice to tout an agenda of doubt and to question his credibility. What if the allegations were true? Nia was a desirable candidate for two reasons: she knew about his secret and accepted him, so he needn’t hide beneath layers of fine clothes in her company, and she desperately wanted a friend. Could it be he really was taking advantage of Nia’s vulnerabilities for the sick intention of repeating and amending his ill-fated attempts to win over Chara?
No. He refused to self-sabotage this golden relationship opportunity with someone so genuine, trusting, and...healthier. Chara Rigas did not play into his choice to accept Nia as a dear companion and lover.
I will keep saying so until you vacate my mind. Take your unwelcome drivel elsewhere, demon Chara Rigas. It has no power here.
Happy for the subject change (anything to escape the harsh self-analysis gamboling about in his head), Ari presented Nia with a cautiously optimistic smile, not yet keen on demolishing Nia’s strategy for appealing to his mother. “Ah, well, I admire your confidence in approaching my mother at all, I will give you that!” He scratched the back of his neck, his smile wavering. “Here is some counsel for you, and listen well, for this is vital advice; do not attempt to play a role, and do not play as your best self. Present as you have presented to me; honest, passionate, and transparent. Do not ‘win her over.’ She is quite gifted in detecting gestures that are meant to curry her favor. A more open and unpolished approach will eventually translate as sincere, though if I am frank, it may take some time to placate her initial suspicions. But allow me to put you at ease; she shares scant few characteristics of your faultfinding mother. At least, according to my observations based on what you have profiled aloud. Dame Nadira is a headstrong personality, true, but she is also warm and loving to those who have earned her loyalty and respect. But,” he swatted his hand mid-air, dismissive, “this conversation is for another day. I will be certain to inform you beforehand of her projected arrival, along with any relevant information about her for your edification.”
Taking his one raised hand, he placed it on the small of her back and urged her from the courtyard, through the door to the hallway, and back to the inviting, hearthfire atmosphere of the parlor. Almost as though reading her slight anxiety, he traveled to the liquor shelf and selected a strong drinking wine from a decanter, pouring the almost black liquid into a chalice and pressing it into her hands. “If you are concerned about Majesty Locque, I will not take up too much of your time. An hour or two at most. Of course, that is entirely dependent on how much you choose to imbibe, tonight. I cannot in good faith allow you to voyage back to the palace in such a state of significant intoxication. Be that as it may, I shall monitor your alcohol intake accordingly--if you will do the same for me.” Filling his own chalice halfway, he swished the dark-plum concoction and tasted a sip, just enough to wet his palate and lips--for now. Setting the chalice aside for a moment, Ari rummaged through a cabinet in one corner of the parlor, retrieving a sheaf of bound paper and a small bundle of canvas. Unfurling the bundle revealed charcoal sticks in rows of descending order from thickest to skinniest, and a small sharpening knife. With his acquisitions obtained, he turned to Nia, gesturing at the tools of the trade with the slight jerk of his head.
“I always ensure that every room I frequent is equipped with, at minimum, a sketchbook and charcoal,” he said, his shrug a little sheepish. “Although I mainly keep my artistic endeavors contained within the confines of my workshop, it is refreshing to see this little book come in handy for tonight. It saves me a trip.” Snatching his chalice off the fireplace mantlepiece where he’d temporarily set it down, he used it to gesture at Nia. “Sit on the chaise. Make yourself comfortable.” Following suit, he selected a chair and angled it perpendicular to where she sat. With the canvas roll unfolded across his lap, he slid free the small knife and proceeded to sharpen a few sticks of charcoal to a desirable point. “I would not worry about your attire, Nia. It speaks of your personality. It will remain as is. Unless,” a faint hint of rouge appeared under his golden-brown skin, “you are comfortable with disrobing entirely. It would be most helpful for me, as an artist, to transpose your lovely curves and shapes to paper and render a most accurate drawing, but only if you consent. I realize that not many volunteers are willing to avail themselves of clothing and bask, exposed and naked before a watchful eye, but should you agree, we can certainly approach this slowly, and in stages. Of course,” he directed one finger to the chalice, “there is no scarcity of wine, should you need it, to stifle one’s insecurities. If it helps, I will be partaking, myself.” Saluting her with his half-full chalice, he brought the rim to his lips and took a small swig. “Generously.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. Breane is young; younger than both of us. And probably lost and confused, like you said. I’m sure that even under the guidance and protection of the Night Garden and its Gardeners, she can’t help but hold a little resentment for those who survived Galeyn’s century-long sleep, and guilt toward her own survival. But you can’t deny she’s a genuine person, and if, like you said, she spoke to your virtues and your progress against Bronwyn’s scrutiny… why not give her a chance? I mean, do you think you have so little in common? Wouldn’t you, Rowen,” the young summoner studied her face, uncaring toward what--if anything--the faoladh might see in her dark eyes, “consider yourself to be a little lost and confused, right now? I’m glad that you agreed to allow Breane to help you. Not only is she currently the only Gardener attuned to the Night Garden’s budding ability to heal beyond physical aliments, but I had a feeling she would be good for you. As far as you are willing to confide in her, at least.”
In fact, at the back of her mind, that had been a fragment of Teselin’s hope. That Rowen, who would find little to no fault in young Breane, might take to her. That there might well be hope for change unfolding from basic, organic interaction with another person who… admittedly, wasn’t Locque. Not that she entirely doubted the sorceress could change in the same way that Rowen was undergoing change, but right now, Hadwin’s sister needed the company of someone who did not justify tyrannical means of achieving power. One thing at a time. First Rowen… then Locque. “I never meant to imply you were reliant on Locque, Rowen. But, honestly, it would be good for her to see how far you’ve already come. She also showed interest in accepting the Night Garden’s potential to heal, if only to connect with it again. If for no other reason, to prove to her that it isn’t too late to return to who she was. But, if that doesn’t interest you at the time being… then we can just focus on you, first.”
She hadn’t been expecting that deep confession that came next. That the once murderous faoladh wished only to be surrounded by beautiful things. How she wanted to be surrounded by light. Teselin wanted to believe that this was what Rowen really wanted… and if it wasn’t, then the truth would show itself, sooner than later.
“Tell me about it. The beauty that you want to be surrounded by. Beauty comes in many forms. What does it look like to you, Rowen?” Teselin smiled softly. “To me, that beauty would be Vitali, Isidor, Hadwin and I all standing in the same room, without anyone wanting to kill one of the others. Pretty improbable, but… I refuse to believe it’s impossible. I still believe in it. Whatever you want your beauty to be, keep believing in it. You’ll find it. If I can help you, I will. Maybe Breane can help, too, if you tell her what you told me.”
Feeling a little relieved that she would at least not be overstaying her welcome, Teselin stood up and wandered to the door. “Tomorrow, then. Do you want me to bring you any more yarn? Or anything at all? Just let me know. If you think of anything, send word to the palace. I mean,” she shrugged her shoulders and smiled meekly. “I did sort of volunteer to be here for you by virtue of being there for Hadwin. I’d be there for Brownyn, too, if she wanted to give me the time of day, but… I think she wants distance more than she wants my friendship.”
At least Isidor hadn’t experienced any shortage of work to keep him occupied since Tivia’s disappearance. While the strange absence of the Rigas star seer was never far from his mind, and while he was determined not to give up on finding a way to locate her, in the interim, there were enough feasible projects to keep him busy that didn’t hinge on “what ifs”; namely, plans for Cwenha’s resurrection. Everything was already well in the works or the development of her homunculus body, the development of which had been delayed due to the current predicament surrounding Hadwin, but the Master Alchemist had all the pieces he needed: it was just a matter of finding a moment to put everything into place.
The unlucky part was in finding that pivotal ‘moment’. For whenever one seemed to come up… so did another issue. Or another disturbance.
“Little brother? I trust I’m not disturbing you. Or, on the contrary,” without knocking, none other than Vitali pushed open his chamber door and stepped inside, as if he had just as much a right to the room as Isidor, “I hope I am, and that your current attentions are focused on a certain someone who deserves another chance at life. How’s that coming along, by the way?”
Isidor swore under his breath and slammed his notebook shut to make a point. “It would be far better if I wasn’t constantly being interrupted. What do you want, Vitali? What would give you the idea that I would rescind my promise to hold up my end of this?”
“I mean, if I’m being honest, I still don’t actually believe you have it in you to use that alchemist stone--but that isn’t why I am here.” The necromancer adjusted the blindfold on his face and clasped his hands behind his back. “In fact, now that Rowen Kavanagh is not around to detect deceit, and the sorceress has of late been terribly preoccupied with her own thoughts, I came to assure you of my own dedication to involvement in this plan. I am sure, of late, you’ve question my motives--”
“I have always questioned your motives. Do you really think there was ever a point in time where I trusted you, Vitali?!”
“There was, once. Briefly, when you were just a boy.”
Isidor said nothing at first. He thought Vitali would follow up with some underhanded remark, but to his surprise, the elder Kristeva brother also remained silent. “...what is it you want, Vitali? Make your point.”
“Only to reassure you that, like you, I do intend to come through on my promise. Regardless of the circumstances. I don’t expect you to believe me… now or later, or anytime until it happens, for that matter. But it is my truth; take it however you will. Or not at all, if it suits you, but then you cannot say I didn’t try.” Vitali ran his fingers idly across the surface of Isidor’s desk, furrowing his brow when it came away with dust. “But it was something that I had to say, nonetheless, regardless of how disingenuous you think I am being. I won’t keep you from your important tasks, although I do hope you let someone come in to clean up around here. Even a blind man can identify a pigsty when he is in one.”
“I will not have anyone in here to trifle with my belongings!” Isidor hissed defensively, but his brother, true to his word, was out the door before he could even finish. Stymied, the Master Alchemist sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair, wondering just what had incited this visit, and what the necromancer was up to. What spurred him to so suddenly plead to differ that he was trustworthy? After everything he had pulled up until now, taking advantage of his and Alster’s help, only to reveal that he’d sided with Locque all along?!
“You didn’t bother knocking before,” he barked, as not five minutes later, it seemed that his brother had not finished what he had come to say. “Why bother now? I’m not interest in your bull--”
It wasn’t Vitali; Vitali didn’t knock. Isidor went red in the face, realizing his mistake when Alster’s voice, not Vitali’s, responded to his comment. “Alster! My apologies.” Springing from his seat, he rushed to open the door and let his friend step in. “My brother just paid me a visit, spewing some nonsense about his ‘truths’... don’t ask, because I don’t understand. I thought he had come to pester me again.” Shaking his head, the younger Kristeva brother pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Is something amiss? Does the wolf require any more intervention on my part? If there’s anything you need of me, you know I’m here to help.”
“Ah. So there’s no pulling the wool over your mother’s eyes, huh? No amount of proper clothes and careful words will suffice?” Nia sighed and raked a hand through her brunette locks. The picture that Ari was painting of the esteemed Canaveris matriarch was turning out more complicated than she’d hoped. “Sounds a lot like not-so-dearly departed mother--not that I think they’re alike! Don’t get me wrong, no one can fail at being a parent as much as Felyse Ardane. Just because I have no qualms about insulting my own mother doesn’t mean I extend the same to yours! I just mean she sounds clever, like Felyse. Too observant to be fooled. But if I’m being honest, Ari… I don’t think there’s much hope of convincing her to agree to addressing your ‘problem’ if she sees me as the riffraff that I am. Which she will; because everyone does. ‘Cause, unfortunately, it’s who I am. You’d honestly never guess in a million years that the Ardanes were high-class Ilandrian if I’m the only one you’ve met!”
The Master Alchemist grinned through her casual self-deprecation, but the corners of her mouth were too tight to suggest she was at all at ease with this topic. “If I present to your dear mother the same way I present to you, I can’t imagine any conversation is going to go down too well. Sounds like I might be setting myself up for failure to begin with… but, lucky for you, I’m not someone who is ever so inclined to give up. So, whatever meeting your mom might entail, you can rest assured I’ll at least rise to the challenge!” With one hand in the pocket sewn into her leather, Nia’s fingertips brushed against the tiny, petrified cherry blossom, it’s petal firm and cool and smooth to the touch. And she drew courage from it. “I mean, if I do intend to follow you all the way back to Stella D’Mare one day, then it’s not like I’ll be able to avoid her forever. So, come what may, I’ll face it! But… it definitely wouldn’t hurt for you to put in a good word for me. Or two--if you can.” A faint flush coloured her cheeks, though it wasn’t so obvious in the darkness of the evening outside of the villa. “After all, she’ll take your word for anything far more readily than she’ll take mine.”
While the cautious part of Nia knew it would be far safer to return to the palace posthaste, lest she stir feelings of disapproval with Locque, that was an outcome that she nowhere near wanted. Sure, the sorceress had come through on every word, every promise since she’d begun working for her over a year ago. She had protection: she was safe in Galeyn, and was given free reign to make it her home in any way that she wanted. But Locque… Locque was barely human, anymore. She was a presence, but she was not company. And the Ardane alchemist had passed far too many an evening in the past decade desperately wishing that she had company. She was not a being that thrived on alone-time; in fact, she hadn’t far too much of it since leaving her homeland of Ilandria. And if it were up to her, and she had her way entirely… then she would never venture too far from this villa, from Ari, where she felt the most fulfilled and the most at home. “I never made any promises to Locque that I’d be returning this evening at any given time,” she informed the Canaveris lord, with a passive gesture of her hand that suggested it was no great matter. “And she didn’t make any requests of me for tonight. So unless--or maybe, until there comes a point tonight where you’ve had enough of my slightly overbearing company…” This time, her cheeky smile reached her eyes, and she rested a hand on the crook of Ari’s arm. “I’d be damn happy to drink with you to a point where I’m not even fit to return to central Galeyn.”
Either Ari knew her far better than she’d realized, or he sensed her passive uncertainty on sitting in as a model for him, for he spared no time retrieving a goblet for her and filling it with a wine so dark that its appearance toed black instead of deep red. She wasn’t sure she even tasted it when she took a generous sip, but it did the trick warming her from the inside out, and she could almost immediately feel her nerves begin to relax. “You really do always come prepared, don’t you? Guess you artists really do need to strike when the iron is hot and dive into your art when the mood is right.” At any other point in time, and on almost any other occasion, Nia would have had absolutely no difficulty making herself comfortable in Ari’s home. In fact, there was nowhere else that she felt she was more comfortable. Here, she could be herself, relax her guard, and just enjoy life and the company that had come into it. But somehow… somehow, this felt different. Not to simply be sitting and chatting and drinking away the evening, but sitting in a position that would be translated to and immortalized on paper. Why was it that she was suddenly so nervous to be rendered a piece of art? Anyway, he only intended to sketch with charcoal. It wasn’t as though this was anything formal: really, it was little more than an excuse to drink to the point where their heads began to feel fuzzy.
“Insecurities? Come now, Ari, you know I’ve got no qualms about taking off my clothes. If less fabric and textiles are preferable or makes it easier, I can be naked in thirty seconds or less.” The Master Alchemist winked, and took another sip of her wine. “I just hope I don’t end up scarring any of your servants should they happen to walk in on us. But if you don’t see that as a concern, well… then it isn’t a concern for me, either!”
Considering that Ari was an artist, and had undoubtedly sketched or sculpted his fair share of naked bodies in his time, it only stood to reason that she wouldn’t cause much more of a disturbance than any of his models in the past. Ari spoke his reassurances, anyway, and it left few to no excuses to deny him at that point--especially considering she had put the offer on the table in the first place. “Pfft. I don’t need to be drunk to get naked. But I’m also not going to pass up the opportunity to get maybe just a little bit buzzed!”
Not wanting the wine to go to waste, Nia knocked back the dark liquid in her goblet in just a few mouthfuls, and set the ornate pewter down on a table next to the chaise. “Believe me, I’m fine. Just let me know when you’re ready. Leather is as much of a pain to get out of as it is to get into… but hey, I’ve had practice. The thirty seconds or less still stands!”
Ari provided assurance of his readiness, and with her hands now free, the Master Alchemist stood and began to fumble with the clasps that bound her leather to her body. At one point, getting in and out of this attire had been nothing less of a nightmare when it was new, but as it was not worn with time and weather, it had stretched just enough in some areas that allowed the process of disrobing to be a little less of an ordeal. Despite the warm air and atmosphere of Ari’s home, her exposed skin grew taught from exposure once she rid herself of the topmost piece, as if it wished to shrink away and hide from view. An unfamiliar uneasiness simultaneously stirred in her gut as she discarded the garment on the opposite end of the chaise. Since when are you nervous about taking your clothes off? A critical voice chided her at the back of her mind. How many people have seen you naked? How is this any different?
But that was just it: this was different. Admittedly, knocking back a goblet full of very strong wine perhaps intensified the feeling instead of dulled it, but the difference between this and the men who had seen her naked in bed was that they hadn’t really seen her; just experienced her. None of them, to her knowledge, had ever so much as taken a good look at her body or even thought to really appreciate it. She didn’t mind that particular lack of attention; didn’t mind that they’d called her ‘beautiful’ without meaning it, simply because she had been the first woman in their experience. None of them had ever really seen her, but Ari… Ari was seeing her. Paying close enough attention that he would render every detail of her body on paper with charcoal. Somehow, this felt more intimate than any of her previous sexual encounters, and yet he wasn’t even touching her. It was just art; nothing promiscuous about it.
Realizing she had paused halfway and briefly tuned out reality, Nia flashed a smile over her shoulder and simply explained with a nervous chuckle, “That wine went to my head pretty fast! Guess I couldn’t come through on the thirty seconds or less.” With only what remained on her lower body to deal with, she resumed the removal of her boots and her leggings, until what had once clad her body was now draped on the opposite arm of the chaise. And that was that: there was nothing left to hide, save for what little was covered by her long locks of brunette. Her heart was already racing before she took a seat on the chaise.
“Fair warning, I’ve never done this before; under other circumstances, I know exactly what to do with my naked body, but… this isn’t one of those circumstances.” She felt the need to confess the obvious, in an attempt to allay the feelings of being exposed and vulnerable when, given someone with a history such as her own, she really had no reason to be. With total lack of any ideas of what would or wouldn’t look good, she pulled her bare legs up onto the chaise and reclined sidelong on the leftmost arm. “Last time I had my portrait done I was just a kid, and let me tell you, it was a lot less fun… but I also wasn’t in the nude. And the company kind of sucked; pretty sure my mom was there.”
The Master Alchemist took a breath to calm her racing heart, and fixed her warm brown eyes on the artist sitting across from her. Was it the lighting, or was he already blushing? “What are you going all red in the face for, Lord Canaveris?” Nia teased, more as a means to deflect from her own nerves. “You’re not the one on display! And I refuse to believe I’m the first person you’ve ever sketched in the nude. Though, speaking of… let’s just keep this piece of artwork for your eyes alone, huh? As in, put it somewhere very, very safe where it won’t be found. Particularly by anyone who should most definitely not see it, if you know what I mean.” She repressed a shudder at such a horrifying thought. “Something tells me my chances winning over your mom won’t be so good if she happens to come across it.”
Following the encounter with Nia Ardane in the library, Alster whiled away much of the afternoon in the library, resuming his research on symptom relief for Hadwin’s condition. At least, that was his plan, but his mind kept wandering to the Master Alchemist’s concluding remarks, which she left him to ponder on, intentionally or not. She knew about the alchemist stone. But how? After Hadwin returned the stone to its intended owner, Isidor stashed it in a safe place, beyond casual scrutiny or Nia’s snooping presence. While he didn’t know the details behind Isidor’s chosen cache, the fact that it was rediscovered so quickly gave Alster pause. How much detail about their lives was Nia, by her association with the omnipotent and knowledgeable Locque, privy to? And how could they hope to defeat a sorceress who utilized the ability to eavesdrop on people and conversations remotely? Alster and Elespeth might have gained some measure of psychic protection by way of his experimental shielding spell, but he couldn’t yet verify its efficacy. Even if it were a success, the spell didn’t extend to his comrades and allies vulnerable to Locque’s close radius. What manner of secrets had the sorceress, and by extension, Nia and the deceit-detecting Rowen Kavanagh, extracted from those forced to endure regular contact with her?
Alster wanted to trust in Nia’s integrity; there was no fabricating the shine of determination sparking her aura when she referenced the not-so-mystery client who suffered a thematically-appropriate curse, considering his status as an earth mage. On matters involving one Aristide Canaveris, he had little doubt of her sincere request for help. Outside of the subject and their tentative plans to cure the man of his malady, Alster, alas, still had difficulty reconciling Nia the person with Nia, Locque’s lackey. Ergo, he couldn’t prevent the knee-jerk reaction to her offhandedly-delivered information concerning an artifact that, if judged as a threat to Locque’s rule and investigated, could place everyone in real danger. Therein lay the real question. If given the choice between loyalty to Locque and loyalty to Ari, who would Nia pick? There would come a time when the hypothetical conundrum would leak into reality, forcing her to reassess her stance and make the difficult decision. Until then, until she officially renounced Locque...Alster had his reservations. A survivor of Nia’s caliber would select the path with the highest probability of life, which currently resided with Locque. He understood her single-minded motivations. But lately, those motivations began to shift and, if so…
Perhaps she would make a decision most beneficial to their cause, after all. Even if it only amounted to aiding Ari and no one else.
As the skies outside the floor-to-ceiling library windows began to darken, Alster lifted his head from between his heads with a start, unaware of the passage of time or the fact that his hours of study amounted to nothing but nervous thoughts and periods of half-slumber. Grateful for not face-planting into the book (or worse, drooling on the pages) he closed the tome he’d made no progress in reading and sighed his annoyance for wasting a quarter of the day doing nothing. To resolve his blunder, he tucked the book under his arm and brisked from the library, moving double-time to compensate for his full-stop loafing. He’d reached his chambers not long after Elespeth, who just recently returned from her outing with Bronwyn.
“Oh--good. I’m not late. I was hoping I’d catch you in time for supper.” Pushing through the door and closing it gently with his foot, Alster crossed the room to deposit his borrowed book upon the nightstand. Hands now free, he swept Elespeth into a loose embrace and planted a quick kiss on her lips. “How was your day? Aside from encountering Nia at the library, not much happened on my end. Ashamed to say I almost fell asleep reading and got nothing accomplished!”
Standing aside to give Elespeth some space, he listened as she relayed her day, from Bronwyn’s desperate drunken escapades, to their not-so-fruitful visit to see Rowen. At the mention of the youngest Kavanagh sibling, Alster’s brow furrowed with interest. “Did she talk to you? If so, what did she say? Anything revealing? Anything about,” he dropped his voice, supplementing the rest of his unspoken dialogue with a gesture indicating the two of them. Does she know about us? What we’re planning? The gesture implied.
Elespeth shook her head. No. At least, she didn’t believe so. Seeing as Rowen made it a point to declare, out loud, how inoffensive the ex-knight appeared, especially in relation to her husband (who apparently possessed a dark, resentful core, an observation he couldn’t entirely dispute), it seemed unlikely that she would omit pertinent information unless she wanted to keep her discovery a secret and pass it over to Locque’s ears. But when would such an exchange of information occur if the sorceress-queen never visited her young protege in the sanctuary? From what Alster gleaned during his and Elespeth’s recent relocation to the palace, through an encrypted conversation with Chara and one very brief statement from Haraldur, Rowen seldom concealed the worst offenses of her targeted person or persons, much preferring to call them out on their misdeeds with an immediacy demanding swift justice. If she truly discovered Elespeth’s intentions to overthrow Locque, then she wouldn’t sit on her treasure trove of acquired knowledge for long. Therein...it was imperative that Rowen be watched during all future interactions with people. For now, everything seemed well in hand, granted the young Gardener, Breane, and Teselin kept an eye on her.
Careful about voicing semi-treasonous thoughts out loud despite the activation of his magical failsafe (of questionable potency), Alster swiftly aborted their half-gestured conversation in favor of supper and a fast-paced jaunt about the Night Garden together for some moderate exercise. He hadn’t forgotten his training regimen (or her magical training), but in light of the transition from farmhouse to palace, he was still growing accustomed to the shift in location and the unfortunate shift in priorities.
Speaking of priorities…
A few hours before bed, Alster popped out of his and Elespeth’s chambers to call on Isidor. Now that he had moved to much closer quarters, no longer consigned to the outskirts of Galeyn, he resolved to make good on checking the wellbeing of his friend, and often. By his wrinkled clothes, long, unkempt hair, the seemingly permanent discoloration beneath his bleary eyes, and disarrayed study, all surfaces thick with dust and various scattered paraphernalia, Alster worried about the reclusive Master Alchemist’s eroding state of mind. Not that the majority of Galeyn had been spared the ongoing stress of recent events, but Isidor, by virtue of spending the better part of his life in complete solitude, hadn’t yet the chance to develop a tolerance to people as a whole, and to their endless dramas and traumas. Not to mention...he had his own losses to contend with, both past and present.
The moment Alster knocked on Isidor’s door, he was temporarily taken aback by the snappy retort piercing through the wood grain and into his ears. Who had come before him to elicit such a hostile response in Isidor? Nia? Vitali?
After the question of his identity had been rectified, Isidor, murmuring apologies, lifted the latch and allowed Alster passage inside. “Ah, no, don’t worry about it,” he dismissed with an assuring smile, unfazed by the outburst that was obviously not meant for him. “You said Vitali visited you?” His smile faded, replaced with a curious furrow between his brows. “Anything worth noting?” Anything that hummed from the irksome necromancer’s lips was certainly noteworthy, not because the majority of his winsome rhetoric oozed merit and profundity--quite the opposite--but because when he did have something serious to impart, which he always waited until the last minute to dispense, it was significant, potentially helpful...or even game-changing. Vitali always kept his aces close to his chest, only flipping his winning hand, face-up, just before the midnight hour, ensuring the successes of his well-timed play and subsequently evading punishment because his selfish contributions were, begrudgingly, life-saving.
“Well, if you say it’s nothing…” he trailed off, not quite convinced, but out of respect for Isidor, who seemed in want to forget the trespasses of his uninvited guest, changed the topic by request.
“No, nothing is amiss. Nothing immediate,” he waved his hands to quell Isidor’s rising concerns. “Hadwin remains bedridden, but he’s stable. And...I saw Nia in the library today. She sought me out, personally, to retread a subject she alluded to a few days ago. Do you remember when she mentioned the unnamed person whose limbs periodically and temporarily turn to stone? Well, she wanted my help in lifting this individual’s curse. Together, we may have devised a tentative course of action, but it’s a potentially risky procedure and...well,” he glanced sidelong at Isidor, watching his expression carefully, “it will require two Master Alchemists, plus myself, to pull off successfully. I agreed to lend my assistance because I trust she wants nothing more than to lift this person’s curse. Whoever this person is, I can tell they mean a great deal to her,” he said, maintaining, for now, Ari’s identity--in case his pebble golems decided to eavesdrop. “Anyway, if you’re curious, I’ll lay out the details we’ve discussed, but more importantly than wondering of the viability or willingness of your aid for this hypothetical procedure that I imagine is a long way off from now--since I’d never want to force you to join forces with a woman you despise--Nia said something rather alarming. She knows about the stone. Is this true?” He looked to Isidor’s arm, where he suspected he once hid it, under skin and sinew. “It’s...important that I know how she came across this information. If Locque told her,” then our entire mission has been compromised from the start, his eyes conveyed in lieu of speaking. “But did Nia...did she ever get close enough to touch you? It wouldn’t surprise me, at any rate.” He frowned. “She seems like a rather tactile person.”
Prior to selecting the residue-prone charcoal sticks from the canvas, Ari again shed one glove, then another, displaying, in the well-lit parlor, bare hands a far paler brown than the rich hues his countenance sported. Rolling up the embroidered bell-sleeves of his royal-blue and gold-trimmed jacket revealed much the same in terms of washed-out color tones; an underripe hazelnut on the tree, barely tinged or ready for consumption. It didn’t bother him to shed the fabric layers cocooning his hands and arms because they, as veritable tools of the trade, were the second most often observed section of bare skin--at least among those who modeled for his sketches in the past or worked alongside him on artistic collaborations. Usually, he would don a separate pair of gloves and a close-cuffed coat for the occasion, but spur of the moment artistic inspiration didn’t always allow him a chance to choose a properly-attired outfit beforehand. Besides, there was no need to change; Nia had seen him in various states of undress over the last few months. Naked, even, for a fleeting flash of time. No one else, save for his mother and perhaps Chara, could attest to seeing him completely stripped of finery so characteristic of his being that the majority of the servants and other Canaverises were convinced he donned a second skin. To deflect their suspicion, he occasionally traipsed across the grounds, sans his coat, or gloves, as proof that he had nothing to hide. No flesh-eating disease or unsightly burns branded across his chest. It was a dangerous charade that Laz frowned upon, but Ari knew how to disengage curious onlookers before their cheeks could fill with ammunition to spew forth barrages of juicy gossip. For what they were able to conclude, the Canaveris lord simply liked to be fashionable, and was not, by any means, concealing a stone-petrifaction curse.
Setting aside his now-sharpened charcoals for a moment, Ari, waiting patiently for Nia to avail herself of her leathers (a task he would fain assist in if it didn’t translate as incredibly forward and as a blatant proposition for sex), lowered his eyes out of respect and focused his attention on the goblet of wine on the table. By the time Nia discarded the last piece from her elaborate outfit--funny how it possessed about as many pieces as his daily ensemble--he had consumed half the contents of the dark wine at a speed which quickly registered on his cheeks...unless the sudden spread of heat stemmed from the woman lounging across from him, posed and at the ready for his hand to scrawl its pictures across a blank, waiting page. Perhaps it was a little bit of both. No amount of wine, regardless of quality, could bring so profound a heated, tingling sensation to his lower extremities. In any other circumstance, the reaction would worry him. Sometimes, a flare-up would be proceeded by a sudden, almost feverish rash in the affected area, burning to an uncomfortable and nearly unmanageable temperature before crystalizing to stone, at which point his temperature would plummet, replaced with the room-temperature chill typically observed in nondescript gray granite. But the sensation he was experiencing didn’t register as uncomfortable or alarming. Rather, he was stricken...by her.
“Ah, yes, I have seen my share of naked forms, of that you are not mistaken. For this eruption of color,” he gestured to his face, “I blame the wine, you see.” To demonstrate exactly how much the wine affected his spike in temperature, which congregated primarily around his feverbright cheeks, he gathered his raven-dark hair, lifting it from his quickly-dampening nape, and bound it into a hasty ponytail. A few stubborn tresses tumbled across his forehead, but now with the charcoal resting steadily in his hand and his concentration honing in on Nia, he made no effort to remove them. “My advice to you is not particularly groundbreaking. Relax, if you can. Find a comfortable position. I do not typically pose my subjects; I am more interested in capturing their natural selves, which extends to how they carry themselves at rest. I will let you know if I require a shift in your position. For now,” he lifted the charcoal to eye-level, “focus your attention not on me, but toward me. Banish your cares and your worries. If need be, I can help you put some of them to rest. The servants know better than to disturb me when I am entertaining guests. If they knock and I tell them we are not to be disturbed, they will respect my directive. And rest assured,” he nodded to the blank page, “I will store this sketchbook in my workshop. It is among one of the safest locales on these grounds, for I possess the only key and no one is allowed inside without my accompaniment. Besides,” he tossed his head, dislodging a tuft of hair from over one of his eyes, “if you are referring to my mother, she does not police my art. On the contrary, she is an encouraging presence and has seldom attempted to restrict me or my creative endeavors. If it is you who happens to be my muse, then she will respect my decision and my process. You needn’t fret at all, Nia.”
Trading his attraction for professionalism, Ari lowered charcoal to paper and began to sketch the foundational shapes that comprised Nia’s form. Although engrossed in the activity, he never ceased appreciating the wonderful complexity of human architecture and its endless combinations of expressions. So much could be conveyed through the curious tilt of a head, the casual propping of an elbow, or the deliberate stitching together of the legs. Nia, like other subjects before her, was a fascinating study, touting the characteristics unique to her and her alone, and displaying them for posterity. He, a hungry anthropologist, devoured her sapien, sapient form piece by piece. Sketching every detail in bursts of activity, his hand flew across the page with wild abandon. He noted her long, elegant fingers, the dimple that formed along her jawline when her mouth was fully closed and not in mid-flap (not that he minded her tendency to orate, for he, too, was guilty of chewing the scenery), the teardrop shape of her ample breasts and the elegant shoulders supporting them, the flattering way her hair parted and traveled in elegant waves along her back, and the small tick between her eyebrows that indicated just a hint of unworthiness, sitting in as a model. He captured it all, including the swipe of the scar along her throat, a reminder of her enduring commitment to survival, and the oxidized star-pendant of her late sister’s creation, a beloved keepsake she refused to remove--not that he would ever ask her to part with it.
During the session, he paused only once--to finish the contents of his goblet--before resuming to glide the charcoal across the page, too self-possessed to break the silence with unnecessary commentary or filler words. As he proceeded with his work, his internal temperature continued to rise, a condition he still could not fully blame on the wine, though it had managed to carry him across the threshold to pleasantly drunk.
Once he reached a point of completion to his satisfaction, Ari examined the drawing, tilting the sketchbook to the right, the left and upside down, until finally, he nodded his approval and set down the charcoal. “My, I believe I lost track of time. I hope your neck hasn’t become too cramped, considering how long you have been reclining in that position,” he said, his lips spreading into a smile of apology. “Well, I suppose now is when I unveil my masterpiece. Even after decades of dedicated work in this, my preferred profession, herein lies one of the most difficult tasks, and it is one I have not quite mastered; the reveal.” Inhaling a deep breath, Ari rose from his chair and, as soon as the dizzying effects of the alcohol settled the vertigo churning in his head, proceeded toward the chaise, rotated the sketchbook for Nia to see, and pressed it into her hands. What she beheld was herself in miniature, a rendering so faithful to the subject that it nearly popped out of the page in three-dimensional relief like a statue trapped inside a pocket of paper. “Perhaps I got a trite carried away. The sketch borders on a fully-shaded portraiture, but...ah, I cannot resist going overboard when inspiration strikes.” His hands, availed of the sketchbook and in need of fidgeting, wrung themselves together. “Needless to say, I am most pleased with the end result.”
Following the less-than-idea visit with Rowen, to which she had accompanied Bronwyn, Elespeth had asked the eldest Kavanagh sibling if there was anything she could do-anything at all to help, to put her mind at ease, but Bronwyn was still reeling from the encounter by the time they’d returned from the palace. Knowing better than to overstay her welcome with someone who had only recently decided to allow her back into her life, the former knight had politely accepted her refusal and respected her desire for some alone time, at which point she decided to venture back to her chamber. Not the most exciting place, and frankly, she had felt claustrophobic of late for spending so much time there, but for fear of every other inch of the palace potentially being poisoned by Locque’s touch, it was safest to retreat to the one place Alster had made an effort to guard against the witch’s eavesdropping. Fortunately, she did not find herself alone in the room that evening long enough to feel bored.
“Alster! I wondered when you’d be coming back from the library.” Elespeth eagerly returned his embrace, then took his hands to guide him to sit across from her on the bed. “Let me tell you… it was an interesting afternoon. Bronwyn is in good spirits--or, at least, she was. Until she actually spoke with her sister. That girl… murderous or not, she’s something else.” The Rigas woman blew an errant piece of hair from her face and shook her head and lowered her voice. “But to answer your question… I’m not so sure we need to be concerned. Not while she’s confined herself to the Night Garden, at least. She outright told me I wasn’t particularly threatening to her. I wasn’t under the impression that she intends to give us any trouble.” Much though she tried to keep her comments vague and light-hearted, in the event that the witch could hear her, the underlying tone was clear enough: Rowen hadn’t seen her deceit, and was no wiser than Locque with regard to their clandestine opposition.
But it wasn’t safe to dwell on the topic for too long, so when Alster learned what he needed to know, they partook in a light supper, after which Elespeth insisted that her husband had been sitting idle for too long and didn’t want him to lose all of that new muscle mass he’d gained from training with her in the farmlands. They settled on a quick jaunt around the Night Garden for exercise, and she would have been happy to retire for the evening at that point, but Alster expressed his desire to check in on Isidor. Since his falling out with Tivia, and her subsequent disappearance, he really was the only one left who cared to keep a pulse on the tortured Master Alchemist’s wellbeing, whether Isidor wanted it or not. After all, he was not Teselin’s priority while Hadwin suffered a malady that no one could cure, and he wouldn’t expect her to step away from him for a blood relative that she hardly knew. Anyway, it wasn’t as though he had made much of an effort to connect with her… And at least he didn’t appear to mind Alster’s company; he was one of the only people who kept his visits polite and not too frequent, understanding and respecting Isidor’s need and preference for being alone.
Truthfully, Isidor really wouldn’t have opened the door for anyone else that evening. If he had to see anyone’s face, best it be Alster’s. “I wish I could tell you more. Vitali takes some sort of ridiculous pride in being vague; as if it’s up to the underlings to interpret whatever the hell he’s trying to say. Frankly, I don’t have time for it.” He shook his head and took a seat in his chair. “How is the wolf? If there’s anything I can do on my end to lighten the load on your shoulders, then of course, don’t hesitate to ask.”
He would eat his words when it became clear that it was not Hadwin that Alster sought him out for. The Master Alchemist didn’t respond right away, wondering if he had misheard the Rigas mage’s request. “It’s… Nia? Nia Ardane? You’re asking me to… to lend my services to the Ardane woman?” Isidor was surprised more than he was incredulous, although it was impossible to filter the disdain for that very woman from his voice. “And she wants to… to use alchemy to lift a curse? That’s ludicrous. It hasn’t ever been done, at least not in any documented text, al...although, neither was what I did for Elespeth.”
Isidor slowly lowered his hackles and sighed, pressing his lips together in a flat line. “So she finally got to you, too. That woman had a way of worming her way into everyone’s good graces, and you’re such an understanding person, I figured it would just be a matter of time… I didn’t think she would be that persistent.” He shook his head once and sighed, defeat already evident in the lines across his brow. “So she roped you in with a sob story about someone important to her. How do we know she isn’t playing you, Alster? That this isn’t… some sort of trap? I mean, she’s been dwelling in Galeyn for a year. Who the hell did she meet in that period of time that she would become so attached to, course or not? The woman’s a nomad. She…”
She didn’t want to be alone; she didn’t want to run anymore. All of that had become clear to Isidor the night he’d made the horrible mistake of accepting Nia Ardane’s advances. While this could very well be an elaborate plan to pick off some of Locque’s most powerful adversaries, there was the potential that she was being honest with Alster… and he didn’t take his friend for a fool. “...give me the details of whatever you’re planning. I won’t even be able to tell you if what she wants is feasible before I know what this curse entails. Even better if we could know precisely who this individual is…”
Nia knows about the stone. But of course she knew, because they, they had… “Haven’t you noticed she can’t keep her damn hands to herself? Rest assured, she did not find out about the alchemist stone from Locque. I… I had it hidden under my skin. Embedded in my muscle.” Isidor looked away and rubbed the arm that now bore a nasty scar and still ached. He’d had to tear that flesh open anew as soon as he realized that the alchemist stone would no longer be a mystery to Nia. “S-she got too close and I… and I couldn’t get away before she made contact with my skin. That’s all it would take for her to know that I was hiding something. I’m sorry. I thought I could steer clear of her, I thought she would take a hint and leave well enough alone, but it’s almost as if the more you hate her, the more determined she becomes. I… I should have been more careful. But,” he forced himself to look at Alster, then, but was afraid that the Rigas mage could see the lie in his eyes. Isidor was a terrible liar on the best of days… he only hoped Alster wouldn’t pry too much further. “You needn’t worry. I’ve relocated the stone somewhere safe--not on my person this time. But nobody but myself knows of its whereabouts, not even Nia. And, if she wants your cooperation and mine… then you can tell her that she best keep very quiet about the stone’s existence. That will me my stipulation before I venture any further in doing a favour for the likes of her.
“Blaming it on the wine, huh? Mmm… okay. I’ll give you that one, this time. But only because I used the same excuse.” Nia couldn’t help but grin. There was something about that faint flush of crimson on Ari’s warm-hued cheeks that made it feel far less awkward to be lounging on someone else’s couch, completely in the nude. Because she didn’t believe for a second that the wine had that very effect on him; after all, she’d seen him down alcoholic beverages plenty quickly before. And if, like he had claimed, he’d drawn his fair share of naked bodies… did he blush for all of them? Or was it different, drawing someone who had kissed him on more than one occasion? Of course, Nia liked to think that maybe it was a little different… But Ari, ever the professional, would never cross a line when it came to his art, and would say what needed to be said so as not to make her feel ill at ease.
Taking his advice, the Master Alchemist settled upon the chaise and tried to make herself comfortable. Ultimately, leaning slightly to the left, with her legs drawn up and her right hand draped over her shapely hip proved to be a relatively comfortable position, though keeping in mind her posture, and the fact that Ari would likely draw precisely what he saw down to the most minute detail. Every imperfection, every unflattering angle, a piece of hair out of place… She almost made to move her hair to cover her neck and conceal her rather unsightly pink scar, but her full, brunette locks would have then partially obscured the front of her body, which was precisely what Ari wanted to sketch. So she let it be--along with the equally unsightly pendant hanging at her collarbone. Celene had had a vast number of talents, but crafting with metals hadn’t been one of them. The prongs of the oxidized steel pendant were uneven, and some so sharp that she woke up with small impressions or cuts from the tip… and yet, it was one of the single most precious things she possessed. She couldn’t take it off for anyone, not for any reason, and she was grateful that Ari had not asked her to do so.
“Good to know your mother has no qualms about you drawing naked subjects. She must be supportive. I can’t imagine what my own mother would have done if I’d harboured the same interests. Wouldn’t have been pretty, I can tell you that.” And it was an even greater relief to hear that Ari had sole access to his studio. That not even his dear mother could go snooping through his wares to see what had been inspiring him of late. Even the beautiful painting he’d done solely from memory, while far less risque than the portrait he was currently sketching, still had the potential to be damning if she ever hoped to win over Edira Canaveris. Because not only was it necessary to convince the woman that she could help Ari, but she would also have to convince her--eventually, if she intended to one day follow him to Stella D’Mare--that it was safe for her to love him. That it was safe for them to be together, and to be around one another for at least another spring, as Ari had promised. Truly, Nia couldn’t remember ever being put up to a more daunting task… but she’d face it. And she would be victorious. For Ari, and for herself.
While finding a comfortable zone didn’t come immediately or even naturally to Nia (who was no stranger to being naked), as the moments passed and Ari seemed to find his own zone, she forgot all about caring about her posture or what might look good or bad, and actually found herself quite content lounging on his soft chaise. It quickly shifted from filling her with uncertainty (and just a hint of self-consciousness) to feeling… well, quite natural. After all, it was not at all infrequent that Nia Ardane had passed a fair amount of her leisure time in the past without a single threat of textile adorning her body, and Ari was no stranger to the process of sketching portraits. Ultimately, the two of them fell into familiar rhythms, and the time passed without either of them really realizing how quickly the night was progressing. At some point, likely around the same time that Nia began to grow more comfortable, she ceased her needless chatter to fill the silence--which was nothing less of a very impressive feat. Even when sitting on her own, tinkering with that harp back at the palace (which was still a slow work in progress), Nia would mutter to herself when she didn’t have company with whom to exchange words. To remain silent while in preferred company was not at all characteristic of the Master Alchemist, but Ari was so engrossed in his art, so focused on his subject, that she opted to respect his concentration, and managed to keep her thoughts to herself until the Canaveris lord finally put down his charcoal, a sure sign his current work of art had reached completion. And knowing Ari to be the perfectionist that he was, if his other pieces of art were any indication, it was a sign that there wasn’t another stroke of that charcoal that could perfect what he’d already sketched.
“Nah, don’t worry about me. Your furniture is actually quite comfy; I’m just relieved for the warmth of that fire in your hearth, and the fact that we did not decide to do this back in the winter.” Nia righted her posture and sat up, stretching her arms and rolling her neck to work out any kinks. “Well, now, I have to see what you’ve been toiling over for the past hour and something minutes. Or has it been longer? I’ve completely lost track of time!” Undoubtedly, every other naked subject he’d ever drawn had surely had the good sense to don their clothes before venturing over to see how they were rendered onto paper or canvas. But Nia, in her curiosity and mild excitement, decided to put it off--for now. Getting to her feet, straightened herself and eagerly angled her head to behold the fruits of his labours that evening.
It wouldn’t be right to say that this image of her, transposed in charcoal, was any more beautiful than the painting in his studio. After all, it was a different medium entirely, and while devoid of colours, unlike the painting, it was no less vibrant. In fact, her likeness almost seemed to jump off the page--which only stood to reason, as Ari, a sculptor by choice, was well acquainted with three-dimensional art. And yet, unlike that painting, which she had felt to be something akin to someone she could be, but wasn’t quite there yet, this shaded sketch of her with literally nothing to hide was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, her. Everything was perfectly rendered, nothing guessed, no blanks to fill in. It was akin to looking in a mirror, except that she didn’t make a habit of parading in front of a mirror completely naked. “That’s… that’s amazing, Ari. I can’t believe you can just take a moment in time and put it on paper with such a degree of accuracy.” She noticed he’d even included the scar on her neck, and instead of feeling self-conscious about it… she felt flattered. Because he knew why she’d decided to keep it instead of using alchemy to fade it away. He really, truly understood her, and this portrait was proof.
“It’s beautiful. I don’t care if it makes me conceited to say that; I look damn good in that portrait. Is this really what you see? When you look at me?” Her smile reached her eyes, and she touched the back of one of Ari’s bare, charcoal-stained hands. “Kinda makes me wish other people could see it… but something tells me that’d be a bad, bad idea. Anyway, there are too many people who can’t stand to see me when I’m clothed, let alone in the nude. So let’s keep it our secret. That said…”
Finally pulling herself to her feet, Nia grabbed the leathers she had not-so-carefully discarded on the arm of another chair, and out of respect for decency, proceeded to dress. “I hope you’re not eager to get rid of me just yet. You’ve done a fine job of getting pretty tipsy, by the looks of it. I, on the other hand, have a lot of catching up to do. So…”
Fastening the clasps on the front of her bodice with expert dexterity, the shameless Master Alchemist was dressed in no time, and reached for her empty goblet she’d set upon an ornate end table to the far right of the chaise. “Care to give me a refill? Anyway, there’s still a while before that gorgeous fire goes out. I wouldn’t mind sitting it out with some good company--unless, of course, you have had enough of me. In which case, kick me out before you start to reconsider ever inviting me back.” It was a joke, of course, but the sparkle in Nia’s brown eyes said something different. It spoke loudly of a hope that he wanted her to stay just as much as she didn’t want to leave.
“No, I don’t expect you to lend your services to her,” Alster quickly remedied, aware of how tense the room became from his mere suggestion of a future collaboration with the divisive Ardane Master Alchemist. “But...to me, perhaps? Bah, I know how that sounds. Forgive me for being presumptuous. I’ve asked way too much of you, already,” he puffed out his cheeks and blew out a dramatic sigh, a gesture he hoped would be interpreted as lighthearted; an attempt to lift the mood on a potentially testy subject. “You may believe she’s hoodwinked me into her service, but that isn’t true. I’m confident she’s not trying to undermine you or me, because,” pausing in his explanation, he checked the door, clicked its locking mechanism in place, and lifted one hand. Fingers outstretched, he weaved a silencing spell between them, ensuring no sound would escape his warding bubble and leak to outside ears--or little earless golems crouching in crevices.
“Sorry. Nowadays, I’m constantly on high alert. With my spell in activation, we can talk more freely. As I was beginning to say...I suspect I may know the identity of the person Nia wishes to cure. I won’t name names because I can’t verify my claim, but if this D’Marian is who I believe it is, then eradicating his curse will also aid me in developing a cure for someone who suffers similar symptoms, and who may, in fact, be carrying the same strand of this strange stone malady. If this curse has the potential to spread and infect other people, then….it falls on me to help, not only as a budding healer, but...as a disgraced leader.” He lowered his eyes to follow the faint streaks of chamber-light playing on his prosthesis, its sharp, segmented digits latching onto his opposite arm and burrowing deep impressions into the skin. “I owe it to the D’Marians for the tasteless stunt I pulled. Even if I can justify my actions, any way you look at it, I still dangled the Serpent over their heads, reopening still-fresh wounds and forcing them to relive the events that laid waste to Stella D’Mare. If I can undo the damage, little by little...” Wanting to spare Isidor the depressing details, he trailed off and barked out a humorless laugh. “But all I’ve offered you is my excuse for agreeing to Nia’s proposal. Maybe you’re right.” The prosthesis slid off his arm, leaving behind its surface-level puncture marks on the flesh. “It’s not surprising to find I’m often driven by guilt, which often leads me to contribute freely to any cause that saunters in my direction. But...complicated relationship with D’Marians aside...it’s my war to fight. Not yours. Your incentive in lending your aid will likely differ. Whatever your conditions, you know that I will honor them, Isidor. If you’re curious as to why I so readily trust Nia on this one endeavor, it’s because I’ve seen, firsthand, the relationship the two share with each other. She fancies him, and he fancies her, too.”
“I understand if you have reservations. I have them, too. So, along with your condition--that she swears her knowledge of the alchemist stone to secrecy--I’ll buy us some time. Not that it would be particularly difficult; I imagine the degree of research and preparation alone would take months to compile, even with the three of us combining forces. But if she’s truly serious about curing this man’s curse, we’ll wait to carry-out the procedure until after...we do a little clean-up here at the palace--granted she’s still around to see the end.” The implications of his subtle, yet clearly-understood statement didn’t need elaboration. Despite the dual effects of his silencing spell and his mind-shielding spell, Alster grated the words against his throat, barely above a whisper. Nia, aside from her unfortunate associations, seemed like a genuine person, sincere in her objectives to broker peace and to use her Master Alchemy for good, not so unlike Isidor. It rubbed him the wrong way to infer that any harm would befall the outwardly honest and lonely Ardane woman during their attempts to snuff out Locque’s threatening presence--for good. Unfortunately...one couldn’t always prevent collateral damage, and if Nia took up arms and fought to defend her employer, then no one could ensure her safety.
“You know I believe that nothing is truly impossible, Isidor.” Not keen to linger on a treasonous subject, and even less keen on exploring the dangerous edge that had dominated his person whenever discussions pertained to Locque’s downfall, Alster shelved his ruthlessness and replaced it with the stirrings of hope. “If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have sought you out for the task of restoring my wife’s heart to full-health. Nor would I have attempted half the things I’ve pulled off these past few years alone. Therefore, I wholeheartedly believe that two Master Alchemists, a Rigas mage, and access to the Night Garden will more than suffice in eradicating this man’s stubborn curse. And if you still aren’t sure, let me fill you in on the details.”
He briefed Isidor on what he and Nia had conceived of thus far. Stage one; Alster would activate his chthonic magic to siphon elements of the curse that hadn’t yet the opportunity to assimilate with the man’s biology until siphoned down to a manageable level. Stage two: Nia would deploy her alchemy to transfigure the curse into a combattable form, a chronic disease. This stage also presented the highest amount of risk for both the patient and the alchemist, and Alster sketched the importance of a floating Master Alchemist to oversee that their operations did not go horribly awry; someone who would step in, if necessary. Stage three; the patient would recover in the Night Garden, which would, ideally, burn away the disease and pave the way for a clean and complete recovery, just as Alster and Elespeth had undergone during their convalescence period.
“Nia will be placing herself under a great deal of strain to guarantee the procedure is successful. If she were playing us, Isidor, would she even bother to compromise her own health and safety? As it stands, you’ll be in a better position to control the proceedings in case there’s a problem and she really is trying to hobble us. But, as I’ve said before, this hypothetical operation may not happen until...after,” the whisper returned and along with it, the edge. The promise. Locque won’t survive this for long. I’ll see to it myself if I have to…
The core, the dark, resentful core Rowen alluded to, flared and churned in his gut, fueled by his unabiding hatred for the woman and the unforgivable harm she’d caused the kingdom, its denizens, Elespeth...and him, personally. To escape the gravitational pull, the very same catalyzing force that contributed to the fracturing of his soul and everyone’s painstaking efforts to piece him whole, he flicked his gaze, again, to Isidor’s sore arm, and the tiny muscular movement was enough to ground him back to earth. Nodding to his friend’s reasonable analysis of the touch-centric Ardane Alchemist, he exhaled, utilizing his breath to disperse the vortex of energy pooling around his diaphragm and returning...returning to the surface. “She does have a tendency to get handsy, huh?” He said, mouth quirking into a dismissive smile, too engrossed in his own inner battles to suspect a hint of a lie in Isidor. “I’ll be sure to pass along your message to Nia. At this stage, she looks willing to do about anything to help this D’Marian, so I think she’ll give in to our demands. Well,” he looked over his shoulder at the door, “I should get some sleep. Elespeth’s making me, and I promised her I’d try to get at least six hours.” He regarded the lanky, ragged man before him, his aura so threadbare and frayed, it was difficult not to lower his head in pity. Is this how I’ve looked like to other people? “I’ve been experimenting with some Night Garden herbs and I think I’ve found the perfect combination that will ensure a dreamless and well-rested night’s sleep. I’ll be sure to pass the formula to you tomorrow. We’ve a bit of catching up to do, anyway. Not that much has happened in the farmlands, but I’ll have to regale you with my failed gardening ventures next time. If it weren’t for our proximity to the Night Garden, those poor plants would have reverted to dry, ashy husks by now. I don’t know how it’s possible for me to almost ruin an orchard, but I chalk it up to the latent death energies I’m carrying. Or the alien entity living inside of me. Or the fact that I’ve technically been floating around in space for millennia--the farthest thing removed from earth. That explains the black thumb, at least.” If he didn’t make light of his absurd existence with a little bit of glib acceptance and dark humor, (for his patchwork construction was, at a glance, entirely absurd), he’d surely dwell too much on the deeper consequences that continued to remove him from the designation of “human.” So he laughed to show he was in on the cosmic joke, and he shrugged so that Isidor would not take his comments seriously. They were meant for levity, but Alster wondered if he missed the mark. Before turning around and heading out the door, he clapped his steel arm on the other man’s shoulder, his good shoulder, and met his dark, world-weary eyes with a kindred understanding. “Take care, Isidor.”
Unlike his impromptu unveiling of the painting in his workshop, a decision he ultimately came to regret for the discomfort it elicited, Ari could tell that his sketch was better received. Aside from the difference of medium, he was also working with a live subject, no guesswork involved. True, when there arose a lack of resources or references, creative problem-solving took precedence and the necessity sometimes produced his most evocative pieces to date, but his goal for tonight was to faithfully reproduce Nia in two-dimensions without sacrificing depth or realism--from one property to another, as an alchemist would transmute like materials into an altered state. But unlike alchemy, art equated more to magic, spinning into existence the tangible, a brainchild conceived out of concentration, skill, and imagination. It was just as he’d conveyed to the young Elida Farroway on the night of the equinox ball, whose worth depended on receiving a magical birthright, of which she had none. Magic needn’t be so narrowly defined, he had argued. By far, the one thing held as the most rewarding aspect of magic, as experienced through art, was in how it captivated an audience--hence why he impressed so much importance on ceremony. The unveiling. The reveal. He lived for the wide eyes, the disruption of airflow when the breath sucked in or streamed out in ‘ohs’ or ‘ahs, the gurgling of tears beneath wavering eyes, expressions of delight, or awe, or love. Art was a fine discipline to explore in solitude, but the majority of his art was not solitary. It was meant to be shared with the community. To reach as many people as possible. To inspire. To heal. To carve out his name--literally--in stone. Ari’s art was a living medium, its inception into sapience only possible via a validating audience. Presently, Nia was his audience, and her validation generated in him quite the radiant afterglow.
“Consider me humbled by your lovely endorsement, Nia.” With a charcoal-stained hand, he swept into a grateful bow. Any layperson looking into the scene might find it rather provocative; a dirty-handed, well-dressed man prostrating before a naked woman. “As a public-facing artist, my pieces often find exposure in galleries, libraries, mausoleums and such. As of late, it is rare to create something solely for myself to enjoy. Normally, I would gift this portrait to you, but seeing as the contents are...sensitive in nature, perhaps you would accept a few innocuous sketches—fully-clothed ones, that is to say? The night is at its infancy and I am not yet ready to relinquish my sketchbook or retire to bed.” As he rose to his full height, a debonair smile parted his lips. “What say you? Are you looking to retire to the palace, or remain and let me ‘see’ you some more?”
The answer was clear before she even voiced her desires aloud. Her body language made it abundantly obvious; she had no intention of departing any time soon. “Very good, then. My question was rhetorical in nature, anyhow.” With a playful wink, Ari turned towards the liquor shelf, allowing his hand to teasingly slip away from her fingers. Whilst she dressed back into her leathers, he towel-scrubbed the charcoal residue from his hands, then collected their goblets for a refill of the midnight-dark wine.
“There is no need to sit still, retain your pose, or lapse into silence for this next round of sketches,” Ari said in a reassuring tone. “These will be a more casual series of vignettes. I am curious to see how I fare as the night progresses and sobriety abandons me.” He returned the replenished goblet to Nia, who had returned to a state of full attire. “All the same, I invite you to sit...over there.” He gestured to a chair, its elegant backrest carved in curlicues made to resemble stylized branches. “Ah, wait just a moment.” Lifting the chair by the arms, he repositioned it perpendicular to the fireplace, which guaranteed to catch the fire at a flattering angle upon the recliner’s face...if only enough fire existed to create the effect he wanted. From the mantle, he retrieved a curious, chipped cinnamon-colored stone and flipped it into the hearth. The wispy flames flared, growing a full-bodied mane and roaring to new life. “Better,” he clucked in approval. “Now, you may sit.”
Balancing the goblet in one hand, a charcoal implement in the other, Ari scratched and whorled more shapes into his sketchbook, but as promised, he didn’t hold his second session to the higher standards of its predecessor. They kept conversation--and wine--flowing, their exchanges traveling at a light and airy clip. “Posing naked for portraits is not what one would consider taboo in Stella D’Mare,” Ari said, circling back to her offhanded comment about the alleged open-minded demeanor of his mother, earlier. “It is not a scandal to immortalize the unclad human form in art. My mother, she is supportive, of course, but we Canaverises generally see little wrong in celebrating one’s body sans clothing. Would that I could partake in the naked bacchanal like my peers, but,” his charcoal halted mid-movement and hovered over the page. Ari’s brow furrowed, contemplative. “There are reasons I must retain my modesty, as you well know. It has given me something of a reputation among my family, and has led to being called a myriad of descriptors. Never to my face, but the appellations, they filter to my ears eventually.” A low chuckle formed in his throat. “Puritanical, pious, sexless, chaste, repulsed, confused, disinterested, differently-oriented, to name a few. I’ve ascended the ranks as an alluring mystery, for some. A figurehead too intriguing to ignore. I suppose that it is my own fault, going against my mother’s wishes to supplant Casimiro's place in the public milieu. Not surprisingly, I have caught the eyes of many, Canaveris and D’Marian alike, who believe they possess the power to lift my shroud of mystery with their,” he coughed, “...verve. Pray you never meet this...persistent rabble in person. My mother usually holds them at bay, but not lately--for obvious reasons. Her duties have taken her elsewhere. Instead, the prestigious position has fallen to Laz. You’ve him to thank for many of our quiet, uninterrupted rendezvous.” The charcoal rubbed back and forth, darkening the animated shadows of flame dancing across the floor. “Like my art, I do prefer to have something that belongs to me. Beyond a curse whose details I cannot share to all but my closest family, I yearn for the sanctity of privacy. To have an unpublicized piece of heaven right here, in my home. To have something I choose to hide, not something I’m required to hide. Do you agree, Nia?” His eyes lifted from the page, meeting her gaze. “Me and you, together, but...clandestine? For now, at least?”
Before she could answer, he moved his sketchbook aside and stood, bounding to her chair in two unsteady strides. One knee planted to the floor for balance, he leaned over the arm of her chair, brushed a hank of hair from her nape, and planted a dainty kiss on her neck, between the raised scar and star-shaped pendant. “Would you like that?”
Isidor’s camaraderie with Alster was in so many ways a blessing, but in times like these, where he proposed the two of them lend their services to--in his opinion--quite the undeserving party, it was just as much a curse. Because while he refused to be swayed by Nia Ardane’s wiles, and how he could have easily turned her down in a heartbeat had she approached him personally, it was far, far more difficult to reject Alster. It had nothing to do with the Rigas mage’s unfaltering ability to lay out his reasonings in simple and legitimate terms that someone like Isidor, who was far less used to accommodating humankind and rising to their troubles, might have more easily overlooked. Furthermore, Alster was by no means a liar or manipulator of truth, and he if really, truly believed that he had not fallen for one of the Ardane woman’s ploys… then Isidor was inclined to believe him. And, of course, to help him.
Feeling instantly more at ease when his close friend shrouded their conversation in silence to other ears who might be listening in, the Master Alchemist was more inclined to ask the boring questions on his mind to really determine if this was a worthy cause. As if any cause of Nia Ardane’s could be deemed worthy… “So you know, then? How sure are you that you can actually put a finger on this person who supposedly means so much to that selfish woman?” As it turned out, Alster was quite certain, and his reasons for agreeing to assist Nia were not all entirely to do with her. Even someone as emotionally oblivious as Isidor was aware of the way Alster’s shoulders still drooped with guilt since the day he had summoned the Serpent and then disappeared for weeks. It didn’t matter how many times those close to him, he and Elespeth in particular, had told him that all was forgiven, he could not forgive himself for what he had done to the people he’d led all the way from Stella D’Mare and had sworn to protect. And if helping someone unworthy could lead to helping those far worthier who suffered this unnamed curse… how could he disagree?
“...you’re right, of course. Forgive me, Alster, that I am not as attuned to the fact that helping a single person doesn’t occur in a vacuum. I understand why you agreed to this, now.” The younger Kristeva brother rubbed the side of his face and adjusted his spectacles on his nose. “You have my agreement to help. Of course, I think it goes without saying that curses are well beyond the realms of Master Alchemy, so I will need as much information on this as I can possibly garner. It’s not impossible to marry magic and Master Alchemy to achieve outcomes such as eradicating curses, but… I’ll be damned if I say it is easy, or without risks. The Ardane woman understands this, right? That she could well be putting her own life at risk by trying to help this man she fancies so much?” It seemed strange, that someone so dedicated to her own survival would suddenly be so willing to throw it all away for a fling… but Isidor couldn’t begin to claim that he understood Nia Ardane and what went through her head, by any stretch of the truth.
By Alster’s brief explanation of what he and Nia had discussed in terms of possibilities, it did seem as though she was aware of the risks to both her and the man she so desperately sought to help. But… he would be lying to claim that it did not sound feasible, especially with another Master Alchemist, an accomplished and power mage, and the Night Garden in play. And he couldn’t help but feel intrigued by the possibility of such a miraculous outcome… that he could be part of. “I can say right away that this sort of procedure would indeed take months of preparation. This is not a matter of swapping out cells the way I did for your wife, Alster; Nia means to transform magic, a volatile energy, into something tangible and workable. If she means to live to see the result of this endeavour, it’s going to require a good deal of preparation on her part, as well. I most definitely would not propose this be executed with only one Master Alchemist. I understand, now, why you approached me.” Tapping his fingers thoughtfully upon his desk, he exhaled a defeated sigh. “I’ll see what I can do. But, I do maintain that the best course of action would be for the three--no, four of us to… to meet, in unison. It won’t do for you to be the messenger between us. We must all be on the same page, to the same degree of understanding. There can be no guesswork if everyone insists on making it out alive. Surely Ardane understands that--as does her charge, who remains nameless, as of now. There will be no place for anonymity, here. Secrets can be kept, but I am going to need to know names and faces.” Looking up from his desk, he righted his posture and cleared his throat as he shifted in his seat to face Alster. “Nia might like her secrets, but I’m going to have to see and feel the subject in person. Get a feel for his rhythms and his curse, myself. So if she and he are serious about this pursuit--then you can let them know that this is a stipulation, and not a suggestion. Believe me, I’d rather not sit in a room with her for any amount of time either.” He blew air from between his lips. “But if we do this, we are going to do this right.”
A wave of relief washed over the Master Alchemist when Alster did not pry further into the reasons why and how Nia Ardane had found out about the alchemist stone. He gently rubbed the sore spot on his arm and guilty averted his dark eyes, staring intently at the floor. “It is rude for an average person to touch to the extent that she does. That she is a Master Alchemist and can read so much more through touch makes it all the more taboo.” He muttered, but said no more on the topic, not yet willing to admit that he felt more guilt for that encounter than he wanted to let on.
“You’ve earned a good night’s sleep, Alster. We’ll have plenty of time to speak now that we’re not communicating through the twin glyphs.” Isidor managed a smile, so as to assure the Rigas mage that, despite his exhausted and spent demeanor, Alster was welcome company. In fact, he couldn’t help but experience levity in his presence. Part of him wanted to confide in him that brief, regrettable tryst between him and Nia Ardane… if only to get the weight off his own shoulders. Confess his own horrible mistake. Alster… somehow, he knew he would not judge him. But, worse, he feared his friend would feel… sorry for him. And that was what made him maintain his silence.
“There are tricks to keeping plants alive, you know. I got a knack for it over the years; if it’s something you’re interested in, I could give you a few tips.” The Master Alchemist nodded and stood, showing his friend to the door. “Come by again soon, Alster. I realize I… my demeanor has been less than inviting, of late. I hope you can forgive me; I suppose I could use a little more sleep, myself.”
As beautiful as the piece was, the way he had rendered her so perfectly in shades of black and grey, so lifelike that she felt her doppelganger might reach out of the page itself, Nia couldn’t fathom keeping such a beautiful piece of artwork for herself as some secret possession. Something about it… something about keeping it for her did not feel right. Part of it was perhaps a vague notion of feeling terribly conceited to possess a portrait of herself; wasn’t it that you should be surrounded by the faces and images of those whom you held most dear? Nia Ardane’s self-worth didn’t quite measure up to the point of keeping likenesses of herself around for only her eyes to see. This--she wanted this to be for Ari. For her was the experience of stepping far, far out of her comfort zone and allowing herself to be the subject of his art, and that breach in comfort had nothing to do with taking off her clothes. No, that was something that came naturally and easily to Nia. What had been difficult was finding a way to relax that did not make it look so painfully obvious that she was unsure of being the subject of anyone’s art. And, in fact, that insecurity had not surpassed Ari’s attention, for he had clearly captured those subtle nuances on her face--the shape of her mouth, the tilt of her brow--that displayed those very insecurities that not many had the chance to glimpse. Ari’s portrait of the proud and easygoing Master Alchemist was, oddly enough, a study in innocence and humility. Vulnerability, even, and while Nia knew wholeheartedly that she could not deny those deep-seated sentiments that she tried so desperately not to put on display, she did not want a constant reminder of them. After all, for prey animals, vulnerability in the wild was often a ticket to swift demise.
“I kinda feel like questions would be asked and brows would be raised if anyone found out I was keeping a nude portrait of myself, of all people.” She tried to joke to lighten the very faint sense of dread that accompanied beholding the perfect likeness of her naked and vulnerable form on the paper. “No, that’s for you, Ari, to do with what you want. Your gift to me is the opportunity to step way the hell out of my comfort zone and become a piece of your art. That was kinda eye-opening for me; there aren’t many things I don’t do with confidence, but… well, here we are.”
Fastening the last clasp on her bodice, she turned back in wide-eyed surprise to Ari’s suggestion--relieved that he did not intend to see her to the door so soon, though she had not anticipated that the Canaveris lord, who had swept into an impromptu bow, wasn’t yet ready to put down his charcoal. “More sketches, huh? Believe me when I say I am in no rush to head back to the palace just yet. If sitting for more of your sketches is my ticket to put that off as long as possible,” she winked, “then consider me in! On the condition I finally get to be a little bit drunk, of course. So I’ll hold you to that, Lord Canaveris!”
Accepting her goblet and the refill of dark wine that accompanied it, Nia waited while Ari stoked the fire in a distinctly magical way, and then positioned another chair in front of it to his liking. “Oh, thank the gods.” She teased at his comment that she no longer needed to remain silent. “Spending time with good company is damn hard if I can’t talk to them--and, in case you haven’t noticed, I enjoy talking quite a lot.” Taking a seat in the chair, she sipped generously from her goblet, enjoying the warmth in her throat and her head as the wine made its way through her system. She had been relaxed, before, in Ari’s presence while reclining naked on the chaise, but it was helpful to have alcohol to take the edge off of being someone’s study in human form. Modeling for art, either formally or informally, was something that would take some time for someone who valued themselves so little to become accustomed to.
“You know, as much as I appreciate the opportunity to feel like my human form actually merits artwork--I wouldn’t mind a nice, self-portrait of the artist himself, someday.” Nia pulled her knees onto the chair and relaxed against the cushions, and flashed a sidelong smile at Ari, who continued to sketch to his heart’s desire. It was… endearing, to see him so engrossed in his chosen profession. He was confident, at ease, and excited, all at once, and that lent him a far more natural air than those times when he insisted on playing host and tending to all of his guests’ whims. She understood, now, why he had taken such an interest in art: clearly, this was how and when he felt most at peace with the universe and with himself. With his curse and every way it had forced him to adapt. “I always thought that was the point of having art; to have a piece of someone or something dear to you, yeah? Like a landscape that makes you feel at home, or the image of someone who means so much to you. I’m not sure I’ll derive as much meaning from seeing images of myself than someone I’d like to see more often.” Her smile softened as their eyes met, and once again, a faint flush seemed to spread across Ari’s warm face. “What do you say? No rush, of course, but I’d love a quick portrait of my favourite artist at some point, for times when I’m not able to stop by as frequently. Until then… I think I’ll happily accept pieces of my likeness sketched by your hand, with your signature scrawled at the bottom.”
Although Ari had given her permission to move and speak freely as he composed these more informal sketches of the Master Alchemist in his home, Nia couldn’t help but take care not to flail her limbs or shift her positions too much, out of respect for the ease at which he sketched. She lifted her goblet slowly and carefully, as she listened to his account of artistic nudity among Canaverises (and D’Marians alike)... and how that freedom had never been something of his to personally enjoy, for reasons that were not unknown to her. The corners of her mouth, her ever present smile, drooped a bit. None of this information was new; given what she knew of his curse, it was easy to surmise that likely no one, save for her and his own mother (and probably Lazarus) had ever witnessed him in any such state of undress. And because of that, he was evidently the recipient of backlash and rumours, among a conglomerate of people who took no issue with nudity. “Damn; there really isn’t any winning with how you choose to clothe yourself.” Nia breathed and shook her head remorsefully, sipping her wine more thoughtfully. Now it was her turn to bear the distinct flush of creeping inebriation across her nose and cheekbones. “If you’re a woman who cares to flash just a little too much of her bosom, you wouldn’t believe the collection of colorful names in store! Ha, really used to bother me, way back when. I mean… in a way, I guess it still does. Sometimes. Guess it depends on who’s doing the name-calling. But anyway,” she cleared her throat and took another sip. “I never would’ve thought you’d be on the receiving end of that kind of bullshit for covering up! ‘Sexless’? Really? Just because you choose not to flaunt what you’ve got. I mean, okay, the first thing that came to mind when I first met you was ‘modest’, maybe, but who says that’s gotta be a bad thing, anyway? Sorry you’ve had to put up with all of that. I can’t even say I empathize, since we’re on opposite spectrums of that sort of criticism.”
But there was more than one side of the sort of modesty Ari displayed, it seemed. And upon that revelation, she came to understand exactly why young Elida Farroway may have been so smitten with the Canaveris lord. Beyond Ari’s handsome face and charming demeanor, there was a lot that the general public did not know. And that… well, that could be alluring, couldn’t it? “So you’ve got some fans, huh?” Nia raised her eyebrows and grinned. “My competition, I take it? Well then no wonder I seem to get death glares from bystanders whenever I make my way toward your neck of the woods. I thought it just had to do with the fact I’m a Master Alchemist and working for Locque. Never occurred to me that it could be more than that. And… I can completely appreciate your desire for privacy, if you’re putting up with bullshit like that.” Leaning forward in the chair, she helped herself to the bottle of wine on a nearby table and refilled her goblet. “Growing up in the public eye can make you want to run away and hide, sometimes. If here is where you choose to hide, in the comfort and safety of your home... no one can begrudge you that.”
About to take another sip of dark wine, Nia stayed her hand, and instead placed the goblet down when Ari looked up from the page, with words on his lips that she somehow hadn’t expected to hear. You and me, together. Together, just like he had insinuated outside beneath the blushing blossoms of that cherry tree. That promise, crystallized in the petrified cherry blossom that she had tucked safely away in one of her pockets. She didn’t have time to respond before the artist in front of her put down the tools of his trade and closed the distance between them, dropped to a knee, and kissed her neck. She could feel the acceleration of his pulse from the contact, not to mention the jump in her own heartbeat. With her hands free, Nia gently cupped the sides of his face when he drew away, their faces only inches apart.
“I like to talk a lot. More often than not, I don’t know when to shut up. But… that doesn’t mean I can’t keep secrets. Especially if it means protecting people who matter to me.” Nia’s smile softened, and she tucked tresses of his dark hair behind his ears with her fingertips. “Sounds exciting, to me. A secret between us. Well, more than one, really, but… I do like the idea of a secret romance. Kind of a thrilling concept, if you ask me. I could don an invisibility cloak and slip in through a secret door in the dark of night!” She couldn’t help but chuckle. “Nobody would be the wiser.” Leaning forward by a few inches, her hands slipped from his face to cradle the back of his neck, and she pressed a soft kiss against his lips. “...you can count on me, Ari. To protect your secrets. To protect us.”
“I am not much bothered by how others choose to define me based on my modest attire,” Ari clarified with an unfazed smile, countering the frown that bracketed each side of her lovely mouth in shadows. “In many societies, I outfit myself in respectful and appropriate dress, especially for Northern latitudes such as this one.” His eyes temporarily drifted from his sketchbook to a painting of a bare tree adorned with snow-crystals and standing amid a frosty sunset: a true to life recreation of the long, Galeynian winter that only barely reached its terminus, as evidenced by that same courtyard tree abloom in cherry blossoms. “Unfortunately, I am D’Marian, and Stella D’Mare seldom plummets to frigid climes such that would require vast wardrobes of floor-length coats, high-necked collars, and sleeves which graze the knuckles. When others see me voyaging out of doors, baking in sunlight, they, rightly so, express their concerns regarding my comfort level. To be honest, it can become quite stifling beneath so many layers! But, I choose my fabric accordingly. Linens and silks in the summer, reinforced cotton and tweed in the winter. While there exists unflattering appellations and false claims about my character, there are also many lovely accounts on my fashion-consciousness and stylistic choices. Rumors abound simply because people enjoy gossip and drama. So long as the rumors do not injure my reputation, they are harmless wisps of air whistling in and out of my ears.”
“However,” he tapped the fingers of his unarmed, residue-less hand against the line of close-trimmed facial hair along his chin, “I gave my mother quite the headache when I announced my bid to campaign for the open position of Canaveris patriarch. For decades, she deftly rerouted suspicion about my...peculiarities and idiosyncrasies by offering explanations regarding my poor constitution and frequent illnesses of beridden proportions. They are not lies; merely twisted truths. Many a time, I required a day or two of reprieve to de-petrify a limb or other affected area of my body. These, ah, twisted truths, became much more difficult to maintain when I so brashly stepped away from my quiet life as an artist and donned the mantle of leadership. Before, when I enjoyed a level of relative anonymity, we found it fairly simple to fool the public. Alas, if you are advertising your ability to work in the public eye as a civil servant, then people also expect you to exhibit little flaw or disability. I could no longer afford to identify as ‘ill.’ So...we, rather, I, changed the story. My mother refused to support me on moral grounds, so I campaigned alone. Well, Sylvie assisted. And my, did she assist.” He smiled fondly at the memory of his spirited niece making her rounds within the Canaveris estates, loudly declaring why everyone needed to cast their vote for Lord Aristide. “According to the story I spun, my illness has fallen into remission and I am, for all intents and purposes, of full health. I recruited a physician to corroborate on my claim. It is not difficult to fool wellness when your malady has a peculiar nature. It tends to slip under many an acute and well-trained eye, undiscovered.”
His fingers pressed against the charcoal, darkening the lines he’d lightly wisped across the page. “It has been about a year and a half since my appointment to Canaveris Head and I have managed to hide my injuries well, whenever they arise on duty. Never have I retreated to nurse a flare-up during that time. It presents too much risk and will certainly reveal the lie I’ve spread to my family and to the D’Marian settlement, as a whole. This is why I haven’t the luxury to take a sabbatical from my responsibilities, Nia. The people will see my sickness as weakness and I will lose favor, respect. There shall be a chorus of, ‘I told you thus, he is not healthy or hale. He is too sickly to lead.’ I must remain reliable. For all Lord Rigas did his best to provide for D’Marians during his short tenure as leader, he also took too many leaves of absence. They were for noble reasons, I am sure, but in doing so, he alienated the very people he professed to lead. I suppose I have him to thank, for I would not have ousted him, otherwise, but I am sure you understand why I cannot follow in the footsteps of my predecessor. And for that, so long as the public views me only as effete, fashionable, sexless, prudish--but not ill and not unreliable--then I have no cares for what they say. Nonetheless, they deserve the quality and quantity of my full and attentive presence. Especially now, in this, the dawn of uncertainty.” Seeing as Nia could register his statement as a reference to Locque’s demi-ascension to the throne (and it wouldn’t be a false assumption), Ari cleared his throat to clarify. “Stella D’Mare remains in shambles, abandoned and reoccupied by a threat ten times more menacing than Andalari. There are some citizens who are fast abandoning hope of beholding our bejeweled city in their lifetimes, or in their children’s lifetimes. I must be here to nurse their hope. To remind them never to surrender to despair. So long as we are alive, the dream remains alive. That is the message I must convey to the people. To do that, I need to stand as a bastion of strength, mental fortitude, and durability. They cannot watch their leader waver or crumble. Not again. Not like their--our--city. I will not see their spirits collapse for the umpteenth time. It is far too cruel, far too much.”
Realizing he’d devolved into an impassioned speech, he raised his head to the unfortunate recipient of his lengthy thoughts spoken aloud and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Ah, my apologies, Nia. The wine has emboldened me to orate a steady stream of drivel. You are not the sole person who enjoys the sound of their own voice. Of that, you can be assured!” Half as a method to disrupt the trance he’d fallen into, half as an excuse for nearness, Ari emerged from his seat, abandoning his sketchbook, and closed the space between them to lay a kiss on her neck. With his nose skimming the delicate flesh of her throat, he could smell her perspiration, a light sheen encouraged to the surface by the heat-generated combinations of fire, wine...and company. Owing to the properties of her clothes, she smelled of leather and musk, and sweet hints of blackberry rode on her breath--a trait he shared, considering the beverage they consumed together. “Fans--yes. You could say that. Competition, though? No. Not at all.” He tickled her throat when his lips moved into a grin. “You are the only one I desire. Even so, if you find yourself among this particular crowd, do tread carefully. An invisibility cloak will suffice...and is an intriguing method for entering my villa undetected. Relatively undetected,” he amended. Pulling away from the crook of Nia’s neck, he tilted his head toward the door, where Lazarus no doubt was lurking. “Laz cannot be fooled. He is well-attuned to the vibrations of the earth, however faint. Unless your invisibility cloak vests you with the power of flight, as well, he will be informed of your arrival. Laz aside, I do believe I’ve a few ‘secret’ entry-points in mind. Before you depart, I will have to show you where.”
Though loath to leave Nia’s side, Ari rose to his feet and retreated from her chair, but only for a short while. From the table where he deposited it, he lifted the drawing-littered sketchbook and presented it for her to peruse. Inside contained vignettes of his subject in full-bodied, head, and bust length varieties, lips parted and eyes slanted in half-moon shapes. In each sketch, she radiated warmth and verve and light, relishing in her element and exuding the utmost confidence and contentment. Here, she was safe, comfortable--and her relaxed posture flaunted its every shade and angle. “For you. Tear out whichever sketches you fancy--or take them all. And no worries, Nia; I understand your preferences and am in full agreement. You will have your requested portrait of the artist. On a completely unrelated note, when is your birthday?” His dark eyes glittered with mischief. “I ask for no reason. I have absolutely no ulterior motives. Well,” he offered Nia a hand free of charcoal residue, “shall we relocate to the chaise? I believe I’ve satisfied my quota of sketches for tonight, but we’ve yet to finish the wine. I daresay we should see to its completion, yes?”
In anticipation for the morning, Rowen was unable to sleep. Even after consuming the special tea, its effects tailored to cart one to welcome oblivion and to provide succor by unearthing pleasant memories to the surface, her overactive mind caused her heartbeat to thrum too swiftly for the brew to take hold. For the majority of the evening, she stared at the ceiling. In spite of the thick darkness inside the hut, her night-sensitive eyes could follow the contours of vines criss-crossing their way up the walls, like snakes squirming their sinuous bodies to the top. As with everything in the Night Garden, the vines very much behaved like creatures capable of mobility, defying their natural tendency to remain stationary and, well, rooted. In the middle of the night, she could have sworn she heard them hissing and writhing, and sometimes she wondered, nay, feared, she’d wake up gasping for air as the green ropes constricted her chest, her airways, and silently choked her to death in a fit of revenge. The Night Garden knew the harm she inflicted on Galeynian soil, she averred. She’d nearly succeeded in killing a man who it favored. Haraldur Sorde, against bleak odds of survival, received the Night Garden’s blessing--with help from the untrustworthy necromancer (who no one cared to watch for his traitorous intentions, no matter how much she insisted he was up to no good!) In retaliation for almost eliminating the Forbanne commander and honorary emissary of the Sentinel Tree, wouldn’t the Garden act as judge, jury, and executioner, and claim her tarnished soul for the soil to break down and purify? She already accepted that her violent path of murder and destruction would end in her swift elimination. One who did evil to remove evil was, after all, another form of evil. The world recognized the distinction, but the punishment would amount to the same: retribution in death. But her permanent death was a small price to pay if she’d succeeded in clearing away just a tiny sliver of the ugliness that proliferated, casting blight upon blight across all of humanity.
At least, that was what she once believed.
Teselin’s question was, perhaps, the reason why she couldn’t sleep. For fear she would wake up dead having failed to achieve the one thing she never thought she wanted, her eyes refused to shut and shutter closed in slumber. Beauty comes in many forms. What does it look like to you, Rowen? Bereft of a response, she sent Teselin on her way with promises to meditate on a proper answer come morning, but three or four hours into the middle of the night, and she could draw no conclusions, no insights to guide her towards clarity.
I never believed I’d be around to see any of it. Beauty, pristine and untouched. Nor did I think I should be around to see it. Would I know what to look for? Or would I confuse it for something ugly, and strive to destroy it? Do I even understand the meaning of beauty? Or am I mythologizing something that will never exist for me, in this world?
I don’t know…
But I want to find out.
The morning sun trickled through the windows, stirring Rowen from a pseudo-sleep she’d managed to find through a lucky combination of tosses and turns in her cot. Unlike the majority of her clan, Rowen preferred to sleep as a human. Despite this preference, she exhibited many wolfish qualities in slumber, as evidenced by the tight curling of her limbs and her routine huddling into a comfortable ball, positions that the average person would have difficulty replicating...unless gifted with a generous amount of flexibility.
Someone like...the acrobat she killed. Cwenha.
It had been well over half a year since clamping her slavering jaw into the feral girl’s swan-necked throat, killing her instantly. But though she was dead and her body reduced to ashes, Cwenha wouldn’t leave her alone. Just when she thought she’d excised the wild-haired girl’s face from her memory, she roamed the palace corridors only to almost collide with a life-sized replica of the beloved acrobat, immortalized in stone. Upon glimpsing the marbleized doppelgänger’s cherubic face, characteristic pout, and fierce-set eyes, she froze in terror, temporarily stunned into believing Cwenha had been revived as a golem who would exact gleeful vengeance on her killer by pulverizing her like the rock that comprised her new form. After she’d come to her senses, she discovered, through a little bit of digging, that Hadwin commissioned none other than Aristide Canaveris to sculpt her likeness as tribute to the fallen Missing Links member, a move that both confounded and intrigued her. Why? What motivated him to partake in such excessive extravagance, all to honor one dead woman? Guilt? Personal accountability over his sister’s actions? No. Hadwin was seldom so one-note. He was up to something. But what?
Before she could further speculate on her brother’s schemes, approaching footfalls alerted her to the arrival of two people. Judging by their small-statured advance, they were the very guests she’d been expecting: Breane and Teselin.
Hm. The summoner kept her promise, after all.
By the time they’d rapped their knuckles on the door, Rowen, who hastily pulled a tunic and leggings over her undergarments, was more or less ready to receive them. Lifting the latch, she swung the door open and allowed them space to enter.
“Good morning,” she mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of her drooping eyes. “I couldn’t sleep, so it’s not a very good thing to me. But if this Night Garden is so miraculous, then maybe the simple act of wandering outside will be enough to rejuvenate me.” Her darkness-trained eyes squinted as she regarded Teselin for a long, unspoken moment. “You actually came. I guess that shouldn’t surprise me...but it does. I’m not used to kindness. Even the kindest of people carry an ulterior motive and neither you nor Breane are spared from this indisputable judgement.” She nodded at the young Gardener. “Nothing is pure. And for that reason...I don’t know if I have a clear answer to your question. But if we walk around, I might have a sudden epiphany. Unlikely, but I’ll humor the thought. So please,” she fluttered her fingers at her escorts, “...lead the way. Show me something beautiful.”
“Nah, I can see that. Not much ruffles your feathers, Ari. You’ve got that aristocratic grace going for you and lots of failsafes in place for that.” Nia brought her wine glass to her lips and sipped thoughtfully. In all honesty, prior to touching Ari and realizing that his living, human composition was somewhat compromised by something that interfered with his rhythms and daisy functioning, the Master Alchemist wouldn’t have thought for a moment that his attire was a result of anything but niche D’Marian fashion sense, or perhaps a way to display and celebrate his wealth as a privileged family among the high-class citizens. Then again, she was not part of the D’Marian community, and didn’t have a sense of what his people would find quaint or strange. Regardless, he seemed to pull it off fairly well, touting the precautions he took to conceal his curse as a means to cast mystique over his existence. She had to admit… it had had her wondering, when they’d first met. “But I’m with you. Harsh words and assumptions sorta feel like nothing more than oil off a duck’s back when you’ve been through so much worse, huh? Like, if that's the worst I've gotta deal with? Call me an immoral whore: I'm sold!"
The Master Alchemist chuckled and took another long sip, but cut her indulgence short when she noticed the dimple of concern in Ari’s brow, and was quick to wave off any feelings of doom or gloom that threatened to dampen the vibrancy of this otherwise perfect evening. “No, no, no, none of that look. What’s behind me is behind me, and what sought to kill me but didn’t only made me stronger. In fact, I’m grateful for it, because everything wrong makes it so much easier to appreciate everything that goes right, doesn’t it? Like this. Like… you.” She wanted to get up, reach across the distance that separated them as Ari’s eyes flitted from her face to his paper and back again, sketching whatever it was he saw so intriguing in her. This was, perhaps, the most authentic version of the Canaveris lord to which she had ever borne witness, for there was no hiding or falsely projecting the zeal and light in his dark eyes. They glimmered like flecks of pyrite embedded in obsidian, as he indulged his calling, which was art. It was as enthralling to take in Ari at his most relaxed as it was for him to sketch the subject of his choice.
“Look… I’m not going to pretend I know a thing or two about D’Marian society. My only exposure to you folks has been since your migration to Galeyn, and even then, my interactions have been limited at best.” Draining the remainder of wine in her hand, Nia resisted the reflex urge to refill her pewter just yet. Her brown eyes fixed steadily on Ari’s form, partially hunched over his work. Whisps of dark hair escaped his ponytail to frame his face; oh, how she wanted to reach out and tuck it behind his ears. “But I do have experience with what you’re talking about. Not showing weakness and all. When it comes to my… I don’t know, type? Kind? Breed? Whatever the hell you want to call Master Alchemists. By the time we get those runes on our hands… it’s debatable that we’re even human anymore. But I’m going off on a tangent.” She spun the stem of her goblet in her hands, watching the ways the grooves and patterns caught the firelight, and glittered like they were embedded with liquid gold. “Thing is, only the strongest of us survive. Roughly five to eight percent of people who aspire to be Master Alchemists actually survive to see it through; slightly higher within families and children of Master Alchemists. Offspring have about fifteen to twenty-five percent since it’s assumed we inherited our parents’ resilience. The numbers are pretty spot on, I’d say. Of four children, I’m the only one left. But the thing is, with that number so low, it’s not worth it for families or mentors to invest time and energy into hopeless causes. Children who won’t survive to see the endgame. Showing weakness or distress… let’s just say, it’s in no one’s best interest, especially your own. You learn to breathe through it, bite your tongue, learn not to cry when it hurts too much. Showing weakness lets your family down; let’s your mentor down, ‘cause it makes them look bad. Loses them their prestige and credibility. There is no recovery time, no downtime if you’re sick or exhausted… you just keep going, and going, until either you get over it, or you drop dead. It’s not tragic, not unfair… it’s just the way it is. So… what I’m trying to say is, I get it--I do. Stepping away to get better is a bold and dangerous move when people have invested their faith in you. But…”
The Master Alchemist leaned forward in her seat, taking Ari’s attention away from his sketch temporarily. “But it doesn’t mean I think any of it is right--and it doesn’t mean we can’t think up a damn good excuse. We can do this without anyone learning your secret, Ari. We can help you, and no one will need to know exactly what is going on. Believe me when I say I have gotten pretty good with thinking up tall tales and excuses; it’s kept me alive for a pretty long time, so that’s something, huh?” Nia grinned and gently squeezed his shoulder. “I stand by what I said: it’s a lot shittier to neglect your needs and die than take a little time away so that you can come back stronger, and be the best damn leader these people have ever seen. Especially if we can get your mom on board. She can smooth out the wrinkles while you recover, keep an eye on things… believe me when I say that everything’s gonna turn out alright. For you and all the D’Marians who are counting on you. Remember what I said about only the strong surviving? Well, I’ve never been able to afford to make mistakes. You can bet you won’t be my first.”
Hopefully something, one or two words, got through to the Canaveris lord. Regardless, Nia welcomed the change in subject, and the attention that accompanied it. The soft brush of Ari’s lips against her neck stirred a fire that blossomed at the source of the kiss and spread up into her face and down through her shoulders. A thrilling sensation that she couldn’t ever recall experiencing before, in all of the proximity she had ever had to other men. It warmed her from the inside out… A feeling she wished she could bottle up and take with her whenever she needed it. “I happen to like the sound of your voice very much.” She murmured, her voice vibrating in her throat against Ari’s lips. “More than my own, in fact. So keep talking, all you want, about whatever you want.”
Reaching out, she couldn’t resist the urge to tuck a wisp of hair behind Ari’s ear, marveling at the charming, boyish look his half-gathered hair allotted him. “Hey, maybe I like a little competition. Just means I’ll have to work harder to win you over.” Her grin reached from ear to ear. “And I’ll have you know, I can be very good at winning people over. Especially if they’re willing to be won… and you seem up for the challenge. Now,” she shrugged her shoulders helplessly, “you’re right. Invisibility I can’t do, but… flying, I cannot. So I guess I can’t pull the wool over your big manservant’s eyes--not that I’d want you, Lazarus! No secrets between us, right, big man?” She raised her voice slightly so as for it to reach the sentient golem which was, undoubtedly, within earshot, just as Ari seemed to suggest. Of course, he chose not to dignify her with an answer, but she could practically feel him roll his eyes from wherever he was concealed.
“I’m going to hold you to that, though. Show me your secret passages, and I’ll be sure to make use of them. Late in the night, when no one would suspect it. I like the sounds of this challenge.” The Master Alchemist’s warm eyes glimmered with mischief. “We could have a secret code. Leave a light in your window at night when you’d like to have some company…”
Sighing in soft disappointment as he left her side to retrieve his sketchbook, Nia took the proffered sketches to flip through and observe. All were far less refined than the nude portrait he’d spent the past couple of hours perfecting, but everything about the figure in those sketches was undoubtedly her. From her posture to her expressions, to the way she held her wine. Ari was observant; as if there was more he knew about her, just by looking at her, than he was willing to let on. “Well, the trouble is… I like all of them way too much. But it would compromise the integrity of your sketchbook to tear out any of the pages. So… when I feel like being vain enough to stare at my likeness, I guess I’ll just have to come back and see them here, hm? But… no more drawing tonight. You’ve worked your butt off. And I’m a little jealous that your hands are giving paper and charcoal all of the attention.”
With his suggestion to relocate to the chaise, Nia eagerly seized the artist’s gloveless hands in her own and drew him over to the chaise with her. “Feel free to push me away if I’m coming on too strong,” she said in advance, as if in apology. “I’m a touchy-feely person when I’m not drunk, and it only gets worse when I’m drinking alcohol… but, if you want some advice, you should try going without your gloves a little more. It’s amazing how much better you can experience the world when you don’t have that degree of separation from gloves.” She ran her thumb across the palms of one of his hands, and leaned in, placing a featherlight kiss on his jaw. “At least… there’s no need for them when I’m here. Nothing you need to hide, huh?”
Her lips drew into a grin, tickling his jaw, and slipped her hand onto his wrist. It was then that she was taken aback by Ari’s question. “...my birthday?” She drew back and angled her head, brows knit together in confusion. “Springtime--May the 30th. When the blossoms start to fall from the trees and make way for budding. To be honest, I’ve never really kept track… but, well, that would be in the next week and a half, wouldn’t it?” The Master Alchemist raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Damn… time just sneaks up on you. Guess that means I’m twenty-eight before the summer hits. Why do you ask? What ulterior motives don’t you have, exactly?”
He was hiding nothing with the mischief in his eyes. Nia nudged him and slid her fingers just beneath his sleeves, where they met his wrists. Her brown eyes picked up flickers of firelight, the warmth of which had spread across her cheeks in a faint flush--which could also well be attributed to the wine. “And here I thought we weren’t keeping secrets, Lord Canaveris. Are you being sly with me? You know…” Closing the space between them, her cheek brushed against his, and her breath tickled his ear. “I could try to coax the truth out of you. At least, I’ve got as long as the night permits to try.”
Teselin had no idea where her relations with Rowen Kavanagh would take her. Upon her return from every encounter, she would recount to Hadwin exactly what had taken place to keep him in the know of the situation… but with the pain that he continued to suffer, and his more frequent lapses in consciousness to escape it, there was little he could do to help and little advice he could offer. The young summoner was largely on her own in taking things with the volatile young wolf one step at a time, and carefully analyzing at every juncture. On one hand, there was sincerity and genuine desire to improve; to heal. But regardless, Rowen was still Rowen, and not all of her decisions, past and present, could be chalked up to her Sight. Just how much of her darkness was to blame for her crimes? How much of her was innocent, and willing to change?
Breane, the young Gardener who tended to her, seemed to believe that Rowen was not playing at anything. Upon leaving Rowen to rest just the other evening, Teselin had approached her shortly afterward, seeking insights into the young faoladh’s recovery. Whether or not the girl was biased, or too reliant on the positive outcomes the Night Garden could provide, she had nothing but glaring positivity to offer, in Rowen’s defense. “Rowen hasn’t questioned a single bit of advice or instruction since she admitted herself into the Night Garden’s care,” she’d explained simply, without a trace of doubt on her young face. “She takes the teas I make for her every night. When I ask her what they have caused her to see or feel in her dreams, she is always very transparent about her experiences. All that I am able to report is that she is following each and every suggested step toward her healing. I’m afraid that I am not able to detect deceit, if it is there, but it occurs to me that only those seeking recovery follow through. And Rowen has been following through. But, don’t you agree that that is the case? Or else, why would you continue to visit her?”
Good question, the young summoner had thought, but Breane had a point. Rowen’s character, however untrustworthy she might be, had been nothing but sincere thus far in her slow journey toward recovery--to the point where she had even agreed to go on a stroll through the Night Garden with her and Breane. The morning that she arrived to make good on her promise to Hadwin’s sister, she checked in quickly with the young Gardener, and hoped to everything holy and good that she would agree to accompany them. For Rowen’s sake, but… also for her own. To alleviate some of the pressure and uncertainty that always accompanied finding herself along with Rowen. “You want to go on a walk? And you want… me to accompany the both of you?” Breane seemed perplexed, unsure what to make of the request that had come out of the blue. “If you’re asking if I condone Rowen leaving the sanctuary, Teselin, then of course I see no reason against it. So long as you stay within the confines of the Garden, of course.”
“I’m not asking permission, Breane; I want you to come with us. As in… I would like you to be part of it. Not just for Rowen, but for you.” It wasn’t a lie. Teselin felt for the young Gardener, alone but for her fellow colleagues, and the Garden that protected her in lieu of her family, that time had taken. Rowen most certainly could benefit from friends, but so too could Breane. “I never see you when you are not doing the Garden’s work; healing in whatever way it guides you to do. But what does it tell you? For your benefit, Breane?”
The young Gardener fell quiet and looked contemplative. Uncertain. “Nothing. The Garden doesn’t speak that way; it shows me what it wants for others. But… if you are inviting me for company,” she fidgeted with the stem of her spectacles. “I’d… like to go.”
“Not as a Gardener, though. As a person… a friend. Does that make sense?”
Breane nodded, and with a great sense of relief, the two approached the sanctuary together. To their surprise, Rowen looked tired, yet ready to take her leave of the small hut. “Are you unrested, Rowen?” Breane asked with concern and furrowed her eyebrows. “If you require more rest, I can mix something that will help you sleep without any dreams. We could postpone this to when you are more fully awake.”
Rowen, however, was determined to see this through, no matter how tired she was. Teselin had to admit she was impressed. Perhaps there was truth to Breane’s assessment: a faker wouldn’t display this zeal and determination. “You can call it kindness, or you can call it just keeping a promise. I do try to hold myself to keeping promises that I make to people, and if that is what you perceive as kindness… well, I suppose that makes me kind. Or honest. But--yes. I’m here, and if you’re sure you’re well enough to go, then let’s see what the Night Garden has to show us.”
Gesturing, she saw Rowen out the door, and led the way past long tendrils of flowers whose petals hung like small umbrellas, as tall as they were. “You’re going to have to clarify what you consider beautiful before I can show you something to your liking,” Teselin clarified, taking a moment now and then to marvel at the unique flora that was only found in this single Garden, within this one kingdom. “But, maybe, you aren’t sure what you consider beautiful, yet? If that is the case, then I suggest we just explore. And you can tell us what strikes you the most. The smells, the warmth, the colours… Different things appeal to different people. Maybe you just need to see the world through your eyes without your Sight clouding it to discover what is beautiful for you.”
“If you are one to find solace in catharsis, then I shall offer you this: you are not the only one who grapples with the concern that they may no longer qualify as fully human.” Without the sketchbook to ground his focus, Ari felt his moorings loosen and drift into the wine-dark sea inside his goblet, a world within a world that welcomed thirst, and in exchange, delivered questionable gifts. Loose lips, thoughts never revealed aloud, a gentle, pendulum-swinging state perhaps too comfortable for comfort and too rhythmic to resist not following as it took its gradual turns: back and forth, back and forth. He’d said something private, an insecurity buried deep inside which seldom vibrated from his lips to reach a willing pair of listening ears, and yet, a compulsion drove him to continue. So keep talking, all you want, about whatever you want. And oh how he welcomed her invitation to resume the verbal deluge!
“You’ve observed so, yourself. My biology has partially assimilated with the curse and my composition has been compromised, meaning, I am, by a handful of percentage points, a construct of stone. Inorganic. On most days, I’m little bothered by this knowledge; it is a small price to pay for the opportunity to live when the likelihood of death was all but a guarantee. Never, too, would I insult myself by referring to my chimera of a body as ‘less’ or ‘defective,’ because that does a disservice to Lazarus, who is every bit a conscious, sentient being possessed of his own soul, despite the unorthodox origins of his conception. Canaverises,” he swirled the dregs of wine in his goblet, hesitating in his clarifications before choosing to commit, “...we, too, dabble in what many consider the ‘forbidden arts,’ creating life when we’ve no right to defy the balance of energies between true life and true death. I suppose that is why we are largely unfazed by Master Alchemists or necromancers--though I take it that the necromancer currently under Majesty Locque’s employ is one to revile?” he said of the divisive Vitali Kristeva, well-aware of his deeds--and misdeeds--cycling as far back as Stella D’Mare. “He has certainly not garnered a favorable reputation. Digression aside...on certain occasions, I do wonder how others may receive the news of my petrifaction curse, should they become privy to it. Would they view me as too removed from humanity to rule properly and regard me as something inanimate, or as a golem constructed and controlled by a committee of Canaveris elites, mindless but to obey the directives of his creators?”
“The thought is absurd,” a faltering chuckle failed to convey unerring faith in his claim. “I should not worry. In Galeyn, I am surrounded by figures whose identities typify beyond the scope of ‘human.’ They are not treated as ‘beneath’ or ‘inferior.’ Your friend, Hadwin Kavanagh, revels in his dual identities as wolf and man. But…” he sighed, the twinges of hope deflating from his nostrils, “then I remember my predecessor. Lord Rigas sacrificed some of his humanity to form a pact with the Serpent, an oft overlooked detail he decided to make common knowledge in the village square via quite the flashy demonstration. There are a collective of D’Marians who now denounce him as a devil no better than...” he paused. No use skating around the obvious. “Majesty Locque has our compliance, but she is, I daresay, a controversial figurehead alongside Lord Rigas. Again, I should not worry, but alas, I do worry...because D’Marians need someone relatable. Someone without scandal. Someone who is human, and healthy, and I fear I fall short of the mark in a few key areas. They...they cannot know my truth. I am far more comfortable in the lie.” Normally, hand-to-shoulder contact reduced him to a gargoyle, trapped in stone by the flash of morning sun. This time, her touch melted him, chasing away the pinprick threats of a flare-up, which always kneaded and teased around his wrist, his ankle, his knee, waiting to bloom and spread. “Thank you for understanding. Even if we manage to convince my mother, I...might need a little time to plan for this procedure and to devise an admirable excuse for my prolonged absence. Does that sound like a reasonable request?”
Shaking away the morose thoughts the wine had dredged to the surface, Ari, remembering the purpose for the evening, reestablished the airy, lighthearted tone they’d both agreed to honor--for one night, at least. “I for one am grateful you survived your family’s gauntlet, Nia. Not simply for my benefit--though I find no complaint to be sitting at the receiving end of your enchanting company--but because you deserve a life not contingent upon performance and survival. So long as you are here, in my villa, it is my sincerest wish that you enjoy every luxury I can provide. If you require more wine, some nourishment, a bed for sleeping, or, ah,” he gestured to himself, his burnished cheeks darkening a brilliant sunlit bronze, “you’ve only to ask, for I am your most obedient servant.” In the shuffle from the fireside chair to the far roomier chaise lounge, Ari allowed Nia to manipulate his location, wherever she desired him to sit. Together, they crowded on one cushion, their laps nearly overlapping whilst Nia explored the undersides of his sleeves with her questing fingers.
“You may suspect otherwise, but this is not my sole encounter interacting with another person bereft of gloves. Granted, I’ve precious few instances to draw from, but...they exist!” Just as a sculptor would search his piece for imperfections along a marble surface, he skimmed the pads of his fingers up and down her arms, reading the bumps and stroking her fine hairs with all the finesse befitting one dedicated to his delicate craft. “You possess no cracks,” he said, lips drawing into a wry smile. “Free of flaw. No plaster required to repair your chips and dings. Oh, I’ve no doubt they exist within. Who are we without flaw, after all? But from without...your vessel is wonderfully warm and supple. You do not at all behave like stone, or clay for that matter. I must say how refreshing it is...to hold someone who is animate. Who possesses hue and vibrancy and who does not press, firm, chilly, and unyielding against my hand. I may continue to have my reservations concerning human-related tactile exploration as a whole, but touching you, unburdened,” he cupped her hands, roving across each individual digit like he was patting the keys on a clavichord, coaxing them to play, “is...it makes me feel like I no longer need to hold my breath in fear of shattering. Shattering makes little sense, after all, if my flesh is of flesh. And as you are with me, it will remain as such. There is no becoming part of the decor tonight. Under your care, I can think of no one safer to entrust my stony legacy.” Realizing his eyes had trained themselves directly into Nia’s own, entranced by their tiger’s eye luminosity hued into fire-aided brilliancy, he blinked and coyly lowered his head, temporarily stunned by...her dimensionality. Not a painting, not a sketch, not a statue nor a bitter memory of a nonexistent love between a woman who desired only to control, but a tangible thing that breathed and spoke and who wanted him as certain as he wanted her.
“Have we yet exhausted the number of excuses scapegoating the wine for our behavior? Because I believe I have fallen into quite a drunken spiral and require your assistance to recover from this sudden onset of vertigo.” He placed one hand over his forehead for dramatic effect, pushing aside the more stubborn follicles of hair from his face in the process. “Fair warning, I may end up teetering over in your lap, leaving you trapped, helplessly, beneath my deadweight for the night’s remainder, or for however long it will take for me to awaken. My, this is an emergency requiring the expertise of a Master Alchemist to cure. And if I am specific, only an Ardane will do. Ah, I jest, Nia. I’ve not fallen ill. Well,” his mouth puckered in consideration, “that is debatable. But,” one dark eyebrow raised at the pronouncement of her birthday--and its close proximity to now, “that is in no time at all! I must mark the occasion. And I must ask that you call upon my villa on said date. Why do I ask? It is my business to memorize relevant information pertaining to my most esteemed guests, and this vital detail you’ve provided me is certainly of note. I implore you do not read too much into the matter,” he effused as he rolled his shoulders, exuding peak levels of mock flippancy. But the facade cracked as her face loomed, her hot breath generating more heat than the roaring fire across the room. Their cheeks touched and oh, how his head careened into a tailspin, sending him into spins of vertigo he jokingly eluded to moments ago. “Though I swear by my innocence, I will not deny you the attempt. By all means,” he challenged as he cupped the back of her head and pulled her ever closer, “try.”
Rowen didn’t need a mirror to know how frumpy she appeared to her guests. Breane wasn’t wrong in her assessment; she could have benefited from a few more hours of sleep, a substantial breakfast, and perhaps a bath. One stout sniff revealed the stale odor that clung to her days’ old clothes as well as the oils dampening her head of shaggy, dark hair. As a (once) important member of Locque’s court, she presented as nothing grander than a street urchin, and the two who accompanied her looked no better than her minders, or, even more realistically so, fellow members of her orphan-esque troupe. Together, their aesthetic would raise questions among visitors to the Night Garden, as they, as a whole, resembled a roving band of feral children than anything approaching respectable or mature. Interestingly enough, the only exception was the actual orphan among the trio. As a chosen Gardener, the barely-pubescent Breane belonged as a companion to the unique scenery of this pocket-sized utopia, a floating blossom on the wind, directing them on where to go.
“I leave it to you.” Rowen pointed her heels to Breane, falling in step behind her. “If anyone can locate something worthy of inspiration, it’s you.” She gripped the wall, her fingers scant inches from contacting a serpentine vine, the very same she envisioned strangling her last night. “I…” So as not to make her unease obvious, she casually slid the hand from the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t have a preference. Just show me what you think is the most beautiful spot in the Night Garden. If…” at risk of sounding too invested, too committed, she rolled her next suggestion forward on a half-slurred tongue, “there’s a waterfall, or some small body of water in the area, then that would be a good place to start.”
On the first night she had taken Breane’s tea, a waterfall featured prominently in her dreams. To this day, it existed as the only locale that had ever moved her to tears. But even now, she wasn’t sure which part she thought beautiful. Did she credit the excursion? The long journey, hiking through slippery slopes and heavy curtains of mist? The company? It was Hadwin’s idea to pay the secluded mountain a visit and Hadwin’s words that solidified the waterfall as a haven worth ingraining into her memory. Without those two components, would Rowen even care to see rushing water tumble off a cliffside in any light other than at face-value? How then, could she understand true beauty? Did beauty exist on its own, waiting for discovery, or did it require definition in order to exist? Nature hadn’t the capability to whisper its lofty designation into her ears if hadn’t the vocabulary to call itself beautiful. And did it actually care what an insignificant human had declared it to be? No. Beauty was a silly title existing for individual humans to bestow--to objects, to landscapes, to creatures, to other humans. Mere labels of language organize chaos into a realm ripe for understanding. Hence, as a faoladh who exhibited a human persona, her senses alone would have the learned ability to parse and interpret the answer for her own...if she actually knew what to look for.
And she didn’t. On that day so many years ago, did she find the waterfall beautiful out of genuine belief, or because Hadwin wanted her to find it beautiful?
Thankfully, her confusion lessened, but she attributed the abatement to the physical act of walking rather than any sudden dawning revelations. Together, she and her two “companions” explored the garden pathways. The late-spring day brought lowering clouds, threatening rain, but she preferred this sunless aesthetic. It reminded her of home. Of Collcreagh. Bereft of any helpful celestial light, the unique flora and their myriad of colors needed to stand out by their own merits--and stand out, they did. Stalks shot skyward in gravity-defying corkscrews; gelatinous petals detached from leaves like dewdrops; mushrooms sprouted underfoot, their button-shaped caps looking like a box of the most decadent bonbons. The Night Garden seldom failed to impress or awe, but Rowen still could not derive beauty based on what she saw. Not yet. Not until…
Her thoughts were interrupted when Breane parted a sheet of sparkling purple moss aside, revealing a little sheltered path at the base of the sentinel tree. Owing to its proximity to the garden’s famed dendritic centerpiece, giant roots emerged from the ground, disrupting swaths of earth and tearing the ground into uneven, tiered steps. And because the terrain was uneven…
She heard it before she saw it. The teeming of gentle, playful water traveling from a high point to a low point. An ensemble of splashes dimpling the pond’s gentle surface. They traveled around the bend, and sure enough, nestled in the crook of two massive roots, a miniature waterfall flumed out the side of the tree, spilling into a shallow depression made in the rock below. A pool formed near her feet, glowing a preternatural, bioluminescent blue from the surrounding fungi. This place was nothing like the one she and Hadwin hiked to in Collcreagh; not nearly as majestic or stately. But size didn’t matter when the feelings evoked meant more. Cocooned beneath the forest’s canopy, she felt, dare she say, some measure of peace?
“It’s...it’s--” She opened her mouth to state her human desire to categorize, to name the place as beautiful, but something, no, someone, held her back in hesitation. A figure materialized from behind the tree. Despite his human, or human-like, appearance, he remained a strong contender to join the wooden colossi that marked this dense patch of the Night Garden.
Haraldur Sorde was staring directly at her, green eyes blazing.
Not for the first time since her foray into the Night Garden--and her foray into this inexplicable healing process into which she stumbled, woefully unprepared--Rowen froze.
The man, trapped in all his vertical blessings, flicked his attention from Rowen, acknowledging the two young women who accompanied her. The austerity in his brow softened a little. “Teselin. And,” he studied Breane carefully, “I don’t believe I’ve met you. Are you a Gardener? What brings you out here?” With the likes of her? The unspoken darkness ricocheted from his mouth and spat in Rowen’s eyes. Haraldur Sorde couldn’t hide his disdain of her if he hid away in a full suit of armor, the visor firmly closed. And...he had every right. She wanted him dead, and she failed. Her second biggest failure, Hadwin aside.
No. She didn’t fail. He died. Her operation was a rousing success. But the cursed necromancer intervened...
And the Night Garden. The Night Garden she almost named as beautiful.
“Why?” The question buzzed from her lips before she could stop herself. “Why...are you still alive? Why did the world afford you another chance? Why you...and not someone else?” Her inquiries, despite their accusatory nature, were entirely without malice. Only...confusion.
Ice appeared in the Forbanne prince’s mossy gaze. His counter hit with a cold snap of immediacy, as if the words had been dying to reach their target since day one. “Why them? Why are they dead, Rowen? Why did you kill them? Shouldn’t these also be valid questions? Why am I alive, and why are they dead? If you have an answer to the second part, but not the first part...then there’s no helping you. To me, it sounds like you’re bitter for not finishing the job. The loss you feel must be heavy. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“Wait!” To his credit, Haraldur halted his retreating steps. “I’d like to know that answer, too. Why I killed them. Why I really killed them...Take me there.” She nodded to Teselin and Breane both, volunteering them to join her ill-conceived excursion. “To their graves.”
It wasn’t until Ari expressed his own insecurities regarding his humanity that Nia regretted her comment about the debate as to whether or not Master Alchemists were entirely ‘human’ anymore, by the time they earned the runes scrawled across their palms. Not exactly something said in good taste to someone who had the unintentional habit of partially turning to stone when he was at his most distressed. Guilt etched itself clearly into her features as she let out a sigh. “Well… if nothing else, our common faltering foothold on humanity makes us quite the compatible pair, if I say so myself.” She attempted to make light of what was otherwise a very serious topic. “You make a good point, though. Your buddy Lazarus has as big a personality and purpose as any flesh and blood mortal--so why should we feel any lesser for not being more… well, common? Doesn’t have to be bad to be a bad thing. We’re just… special. For lack of a better word.
“But, if you’re worried about what other people are gonna think if they find out about your curse… Honestly? I think fewer people are going to give a damn than you suspect.” With her wine glass now empty, Nia took the liberty of reaching for the bottle refilling it halfway. The final dregs of the dark liquid dribbled from the bottle, completely empty by the time she replaced it on the table. “I get it--I do get it. D’Marians can be judgmental. Hell, so can Galeynians… I learned that firsthand when any Galeynian who’s ever smiled at me now won’t look me in the eye, knowing I work for Locque. But it seems to me they’re looking for a leader, regardless of their human status. What’s happened to you isn’t the same as what has happened to Alster Rigas, and whatever weird shit he did to tie him to some otherworldly monster. What he did can potentially make him a danger to other people. But you… well, pieces of you turn to stone now and then. Nothing that can hurt other people. And I have a feeling that, should your people find out about your unique condition… you’ll probably come across more sympathy and understanding than you think. You give them a reason to care about you, and frankly, they already seem to have one: because you’ve got their best interests at heart. You get what I’m saying?”
Giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, the Master Alchemist did away with the remainder of her wine and put her goblet aside so as to focus exclusively on Ari, knowing well that this topic demanded the entirety of her attention. “Of course we’re not going to rush this, not even after we get your mom on board. And I say after and not if because I am going to make it happen, you hear?” Her grin stretched from ear to ear, every inch of confidence radiating from her demeanor. “I don’t rush any of my work. So, not only will we not go forward until I have a solid plan in place, as damn fool-proof as I can make it, but we don’t put anything into play until we come up with what we’re gonna tell your people. As much lie or truth as you want--whatever you think will put your mind at ease. Whatever it is, I’m sure your doting mother will back you up. We’ve got this, I promise! The only thing I’ll need you to do,” she tucked a tress of inky hair behind his ear, “is to focus on recovering after it’s all done. Sure, you’re a popular guy, and you’ve got a huge impact on your community… but the world’s not going to catch fire the second you take a short leave of convalescence. I promise. Trust me on this. I’ve worked my butt off too hard for too long to let down the people who matter to me.”
Appearing to have reasonably placated Ari on the sensitive topic (at least for the time being), Nia released a quiet sigh as the Canaveris lord shifted the topic away from himself. Truth be told, he had likely been looking for an excuse to do so, and while she didn’t blame him, she hadn’t meant to draw so much attention to her situation. Sure, it was worth mentioning to those that mattered as a means to give them some perspective on who she was and where she came from, and there was a certain catharsis confiding in him things that she had never confided in anyone else… but she couldn’t help but consider, at the back of her mind, if words of her past influenced him a little too much. She’d gone into detail about her sisters, her mother, her upbringing and all of the hardships that followed her flight from Ilandria… frankly, there was probably more that Ari knew about her than he didn’t know, at this point. Being an open book with pages that screamed at you were bound to colour anyone’s perspective; perhaps it would behoove her to learn to keep the cover closed. “You know what? Forget about it all--my family’s ‘gauntlet’, everything that’s followed. It doesn’t really matter; it’s just the past. And we’re not living in the past. We’re not working toward it, are we? We’re in the present and headed for the future. So don’t feel like you’ve got to turn yourself inside out for me, Ari. I’m really not that high maintenance. I mean, don’t get me wrong--the wine is nice. Your villa is lovely, and you don’t have to ask me twice to show up, invited or otherwise.” The Master Alchemist chuckled and made a wide gesture to the ornate sitting room with one hand. “But I don’t have to be some revered guest. You don’t need to treat me like one. I don’t need luxury. Just… just be you. To be honest…”
Nia rolled her shoulders back as they both made it to the chaise tilted her head to the side, her warm (and only slightly inebriated) brown eyes taking in the mutual warmth of his skin, his smile, his reassuring presence. The warmth of his skin beneath her observant fingertips tingled with more than just an uncanny connective to his life-rhythms. “As much as I do need a safe place to rest my head at night without fear of someone slitting my throat in my sleep… it’s really the company that matters. Your company. Someone I can talk to and sit with without judgment, someone… real. I hope you know, I don’t make excuses to leave the palace just to eat your delicious food and drink your wine. I’m here for you, Ari. You…” It must have been the wine. She hadn’t thought she was that drunk, but the truth was pouring out of her as fast as that garnet liquid had filled her glass. The flush that spread across her face was almost the same colour. “You’re… ah, this is sappy as hell, but I mean every word of it. You’re what I’ve been looking for. Since I fled Ilandria… I wanted to feel home again. I wanted to belong, and you… you’ve given that to me.”
Drunk or not, it was a risky thing to say. What if she was coming on too strong when their shared affections were still so fledgling? Once again, the words of her open book spilled words without proper consideration… but, Ari did not seem fazed. His fingers--bare fingers--trailed along her arms like she was a sculpture he had already crafted, marveling at its details. “...I’m far from free of flaws. Got a lot of them, inside and out. I just fixed them all so no one can see them anymore.” Nia’s boisterous voice fell uncharacteristically quiet and small. “Getting rid of scars and imperfections isn’t hard. I only chose to keep one as a reminder of my survival. But… I am very much made of flesh, like you. And you have my word that neither of us is going to shatter tonight.”
Appreciating his move to make light of the heaviness that accompanied all of the honesty the alcohol may or may not have coaxed from them, Nia positioned her form closer to the Canaveris lord’s and rested her hands innocently on his shoulders. “Well if you’re going to pass out… then I suppose someone should keep an eye on you. To make sure you don’t stand and take a tumble and hit your head… been there, done that, don’t recommend a fractured skull. But---hey, now.” Raising an eyebrow, Nia removed her hands from his shoulders and placed them firmly on her hips. “No party planning--you hear? Girls don’t celebrate getting older! Particularly when they’re not a Rigas or a Canaveris and happen to age at a much faster rate than you. I’m afraid if I look too close, I’ll find a grey hair or two!” She laughed and ran a self-conscious hand through her brunette locks. “Anyway… my mournful aging aside, we’re supposed to be keeping things quiet, aren’t we? But, regardless of the day… you can count on my company. Just let me know when and how. Through the front doors, or sneaking into your window in the dead of night? Not that it matters… but your eyes give away your complete lack of innocence, Lord Canaveris. Lucky for you, I happen to enjoy any and every excuse to see you.”
Encouraged by the warmth of his palm on the back of her neck, Nia pulled back just enough to unite their lips in a slow kiss, with her hands resting on either side of his neck. With warmth already encouraged from the alcohol they’d both consumed, she could feel the heat coming off of his skin--bare skin, his hands and his neck, that he felt comfortable enough not to hide from her. With her already loose inhibitions further pushed aside with the help of wine, the Ardane woman shifted the angle of her body, half-poised over Ari’s lap. On any other occasion, in this very circumstance, this was a natural progression to her flirting: test the boundaries, interest, willingness, extend her intuition to just how far her partner was willing to go. Nine times out of ten, they would go all the way, and so it only stood to reason that Nia always anticipated that they would finish what they had started. At this point, that path was almost assumed, a part of her muscle memory, and if it weren’t for that single, lingering lucid part of her inebriated mind that echoed in her ears, she might have assumed that this was sure to end just as it did with almost every other man she had kissed. But this was Ari--and before Nia could lose herself to the softness of his lips, or the warmth of his hands, remembered it was Ari, and that she could not assume that this would surely end the way she expected it to.
After all, the last time she had pushed a man too far beyond his comfort zone, she had earned an enemy that she would never shake… and a shame on her conscience that she would have to bear for the rest of her life.
“Ari…” Nia stopped herself just as her hands slid down his tunic, eager as they were to slip beneath the hem. She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, black orbs of obsidian that swam with warmth. Was she interpreting this correctly? Was it excitement and desire she felt in his pulse, or fear? Was she doing the right thing, putting out her desires in such a way to someone who was just becoming comfortable without his gloves?“Is this… alright? You need to tell me if you’re uncomfortable, or if I am taking things too far. I… I really don’t want to screw this up with you. You’re too important to me.”
“...me?” Breane blinked, turning Rowen’s words over in her head a few times, wondering if there was something she had missed. “I don’t… it’s not that I derive inspiration from the Garden. It speaks to me, and I find ways to interpret its words. I’m afraid that I find everything here beautiful, so I am not so sure that my input will be particularly valuable to you, Rowen.”
At least the faoladh girl was able to elaborate to an extent on something that she at least expected to find beautiful. A body of water, such as a waterfall… now that was something she could work with. “In fact… I do know where you can find water, here.” A smile tugged at the young Gardener’s thin lips, and she carried herself with a confidence she didn’t realize she’d had. Together, the trio ventured down a familiar, well-trodden path that led to the Sentinel tree, where they stopped once they reached the massive natural structure.
“Where do we go from here, Breane?” Teselin asked, although she seemed to be the only one unaware of the small secret this massive tree held, just on the other wise. Rowen’s heightened senses had already picked up on the reason the young Gardener had brought them to this spot, so Teselin followed her to the other side. Sure enough, what could easily be considered a miniscule waterfall cascaded into a puddle from between two roots of the great tree, wetting Rowen’s feet, where they tread upon bioluminescent flora, causing the gentle ripples to sparkle.
“I know this probably isn’t precisely what you were looking for,” Breane apologized, sounding far too adult for her young age as she adjusted her spectacles on her face, “but I did find myself… captivated, I suppose, the first time I happened upon this particular spot. I don’t know if you would call it beautiful, so much as it is perhaps enchanting, but…” The young Gardener paused, cocking her head to the side. “Rowen? Is something wrong? If this isn’t to your liking, I can show you some other spots…”
She followed the wolf girl’s frame of vision, all the way over to the tall form of a man that she recognized to be the father of the first to babies born in Galeyn in the past fall. He seemed to recognize Rowen, as well as Teselin, but was stumped at the company they kept. “Hello, Prince Sorde.” Breane greeted him politely with a nod of her head. “Yes, I am a Gardener, here. My name is Breane. I am the one overseeing Rowen’s recovery.”
“We are all simply out on a walk, Haraldur. To find… something beautiful.” Teselin was quick to explain, all too aware of the animosity the Eyraillian prince felt toward Rowen, to which Breane was a little slow to pick up. “No ill intentions, I promise.”
It didn’t matter what anyone said, however, after Rowen opened her mouth and asked a question to which no one, Haraldur in particular, had the answer. A question that surprised Teselin more than it appeared to surprise Breane. Was Rowen… was it really remorse she heard in her voice? Real, unadulterated regret, a desperate attempt to understand why she had done all the terrible things she’d done? Was she really so out of touch with her darkness at this point, that past actions no longer made sense to her?
“Rowen… you said you wanted to see something beautiful.” Breane reminded her gently, following her request to visit the graves of those whose deaths remained her responsibility. Her fault. “I don’t know… what sort of beauty you think you might find, there. But healing isn’t always about finding beauty. It can be about confronting what is ugly. Prince Sorde, if you would oblige us…” The young Gardener bowed her head. “Allow us to see their graves, and the life that has sprung from them. I realize this does not provide you with the closure you desire, and I understand that you may not wish to do any favours to Rowen’s benefit… but closure is just as important for the ones who have done wrong.”
Teselin could tell that Haraldur had been ready to outright reject Rowen’s request, but for some reason, when that same request was echoed by young Breane… his feelings were swayed. Wordlessly, he nodded, turned his back, and silently led the way. Teselin and the young Gardener recognized the thriving flora that marked the spots where Cwenha’s, Naimah’s, and the Galeynians’ ashes had been spread, but this was Rowen’s first time witnessing the results of her actions--the true aftermath of her brutality which, almost as if to spite her bloodthirstiness, shone with its own beauty. Life coming straight out of death.
“Rowen… I do not know that you will find the answers you seek, here.” Breane spoke softly, as the young faoladh knelt next to Cwenha’s rosebush. “The Garden… is silent in my ears. It provides no answers. But perhaps that is the point: silence. It may well be that which it prescribes.”
Nia always chose the correct combination of words in response to Ari’s concerns. He was grateful to them, to her, for her considerate contributions to a conversation he hadn’t planned on having, but which the wine encouraged. Knowing he had imbibed too much for the evening, he finished what remained in his goblet and set it upon the parlor’s grand table, a lavish, vine-carved centerpiece that acted as a complement to the various plant-themed furniture displayed about the room. “Thank you, Nia. You speak sense, of course. I am a danger only to myself. Even so...I have oft imagined various hypothetical scenarios in which my curse and its details are released into the public. In one such scenario, the people do not react in disgust or outrage, but with sympathy, as you have now posited as a possibility. If I am honest...I am not so certain I desire that result, either. Pity.” To neaten the table, and to give his hands a task, he reached over and collected the two charcoal sticks laying across his open sketchbook, tucking them back into the canvas bag whence they came. “Yes, it can be a wonderful method for humanizing a leader, especially one who may seem too high on their pedestal to interact with and understand the pleas of the common-folk, but one who rules primarily to evoke pity cannot possibly have a strong bid for continuous rulership. My policies and my actions must not be overridden by some fleeting condolences over my condition. Further, any revelations relating to my curse will place the Canaveris family as a whole in a negative light, considering our ex-“ He flipped the cover of his sketchbook shut and with it, his mouth. “My apologies, Nia. There are some Canaveris-specific secrets I am not in liberty to discuss unless given explicit permission by my mother, as these matters involve the Canaveris Head at the time of incident,” he hurriedly explained, so as not to alienate Nia into thinking he didn’t trust her with such scandalous details. “Nonetheless, my sentiments remain intact. I do not want sympathy. Understanding? Of course. An unpopular leader is a misunderstood one. Alas, I shall not manipulate them emotionally to feel badly for me; otherwise, we will never make a dent in passing reforms if the citizenry views me as a fragile thing that needs protecting.”
He stared at his ungloved right hand, untransformed and free to interact with the world as an adept, human tool of expression and toil. Hands created. Hands built. Hands communicated turns of anger, of comprehension, of love. But there were times his hands would fail this contract and petrify, leaving him functionally useless and artless. For, without them, he was no artist, and the world grew ever smaller. Bereft of choices, he was confined to his room, and he waited. The colors around him bleached, turning to the featureless gray of his stone skin.
“I do hope you are not curled upon your bed, pitying yourself over this latest transaction,” his mother’s voice once sailed through the closed door. A key slid through the hole; the latch clicked, and the regal Nadira Canaveris swept through the threshold, floating on skirts too long to reveal her toes. To this day, Ari could scant remember a time he saw them exposed. Her manicured brow furrowed slightly upon seeing him, deadweight hands and all, scurry out of the section of bed closest to the hugging wall. “Oh, I suppose I’ve done and interrupted a pity session, after all. Ari,” she tutted a sigh and sat with him on the sheets, “I understand you are upset. You were upset, before, when the stone claimed your legs for the evening of your birthday. But this discomfort is temporary, and you are quite capable of adapting. We could not celebrate your birthday outside, so we brought the birthday to your door. If you cannot create art with your hands, then use your feet. It is the same principle.” She touched the top of his glossy head, a temporary gesture, but it so seldom persisted before she withdrew, and the welcome, affectionate sensation vanished. “We compromise, but we do not surrender. You are not to surrender, either. Tell me you will not.”
Ari pooled his frozen hands into his lap, casting them a glare so fierce, his eyes nearly squinted shut. “I will not surrender, mamma. This is temporary. But while I wait for this to pass,” he lifted his head at his mother, testing a smile, “would you fetch me some paints and paper?”
“I do not need pity—and in that vein, I suppose neither do you,” he nodded to acknowledge her request to focus on the present. “The past is important and we cannot forget our origins, but you are also correct in that the present is what is most relevant to us. It is, after all, where your life and my life cross over, allowing us these wonderful moments to share. Though, do give me some credit, Nia.” He chuckled, his padded shoulders quivering under her touch. “I am being myself. Nothing you see of me is a farce or an exaggeration. I just happen to be invested in your comfort and happiness. That is...I suppose that has always been who I am. It is, in a sense, why I choose to lead; to become a steward of my family, and of D’Marian society. In fact, I define it less as leading; more as serving. Willingly, and happily. Perhaps it seems ludicrous to some, but I want to take care of people, however much I may overdo things.”
At her heartfelt confession, a smile filled his wine-bright countenance. Nothing too wide or splitting; he didn’t show his teeth, but he wasn’t one to wear big emotions, learning, as he was taught, to suppress them at an early age as a preventative tactic against petrification. Despite this, the weight of her words brought his expression as close to radiance as it would allow; his soil-churned eyes crinkled in a marriage of mirth and desire. “That means a lot to me, Nia. It is what I have been striving toward since I decided I fancied you, even if you deem my methods too excessive or lavish. You can have me as I am, but may I also make a request?” His fingers peppered the back of her hand in small, concentric circles. “Would you allow me to continue...to dote on you?”
His explorations of her arms persisted, but they served a purely curious purpose rather than as a means for pleasure. He pressed on the protruding veins around her wrist, followed the natural delineations of her fingers, and caught the silver glint of her rune scars beneath the fabric and leather of her gloves. In an ironic twist, Nia had become the one who covered and concealed her hands while his own laid themselves entirely bare. “That is not what I mean by flawless, no. A person who carries scars, freckles, moles, or birthmarks is flawless, too. It becomes a defining characteristic of their body, whether they agree or not. I carve, paint, and draw what I see, and what I see in you, in them, is human wholeness. I appreciate those details because I appreciate seeing such lively, breathing intricacy, warm and wonderful, in motion, and real. You are real, Nia. You are not stone. And that is what makes you flawless. How...how is that for saccharine?” He teased, cutting his poetics short before he induced nervous laughter in his partner. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable moments after she declared how much comfort his presence brought her. “You needn’t worry about an obscene celebration, Nia. We are going to keep our affairs clandestine, as we have mutually agreed upon. But,” the twinkle of mischief reappeared in his eyes, “that is all the information you are to retrieve out of me on the subject. Come morning, I shall show you around the villa and point to a few entry points in particular that will serve our interests for a secret rendezvous. But that is an activity for the morning. Right now…”
Their lips met, melded, connected. She pumped warm breath in him as they kissed. So lost in the movements of her tongue against his tongue, he hardly noticed that she’d shifted her position in a half-straddle about his lap, a suggestive pose that was initially lost to him. Only once they broke contact, and she informed him of what they were about to do, did he understand...what exactly it was they were about to do. For a pregnant moment, he hesitated. No amount of alcohol could help him forget their last, disastrous attempt from last week. How he had disrespected her, disrespected himself, and paid the price for his arrogance. They hadn’t attempted anything else since, but if he was honest...their present moment was the best and possibly last opportunity for a while. Their sneaking about notwithstanding, Nadira was not a stupid woman, and the probability of her catching the two in the act seemed likely. The very thought of discovery filled him with a slippery-slick malaise, the very type that preceded a flare-up. No...it had to happen now. They had to happen now.
“Yes,” he affirmed in an unwavering whisper. “I agree, Nia. In fact, this may be rather fortuitous timing for us. I am moderately intoxicated and thus, better relaxed. There is little risk in falling into dangerous thought patterns...or in having many thoughts, at all. I am much calmer than last time. There is no reason to fret. Successful or not, I am with you. You will see me in the aftermath; this I promise. So,” he began to undo the buttons on his coat, “let us proceed.”
It took a few moments for Haraldur to register exactly what sort of madness he had stumbled into. “You...want me to go with you to see the graves of the people you killed?” Rowen’s request took him so far aback, the animosity on his face abated, replaced with confusion. “Why do you need me at all? The others know the way just fine.” For all he was flummoxed, the glint of suspicion never left his gaze, and his feet, newly rooted to the ground, showed little intention of budging. Rowen had preyed on his vulnerabilities for weeks, worked them carefully, like an accomplished luthier patiently constructing each piece before assembling the instrument as one musical unit. And when all was built and ready, she twanged his strings and watched him play by her command. All the while, she wore the guise of an innocent young child, an appearance guaranteed to affect his psyche, over time. Now, the young woman before him presented as anything but childlike or innocent, but her sincere attempt to recruit him, if one could call it sincere at all—did not sway him. He wouldn’t be fooled again. “So what good would it do for me to come?”
In an interesting reversal, it was Rowen whose eyes left his steadfast stare first. They trailed to the ground, directing to the water lapping at her feet and dampening the soles of her boots. “To make sense of it all, you have to be there, too. Among the dead. Because, though you survived, you were also one of my victims.”
Before he could outright decline and march on back to his family’s chambers for an uncomplicated day of changing the soiled rags of two fussy babies, he looked again to the petite Gardener, who had introduced herself as Breane. She couldn’t be any older than twelve, and here, she was called as a Gardener, driven to spout wisdoms far older than her age denoted? Why am I surprised? Life doesn’t care how old or young you are when it decides to kick you in the teeth.
“...Fine,” he said, his assent a low growl in his throat. “If Forbanne can be granted forgiveness and closure, then,” he hesitated, “I’ll come along. Whatever helps.” Someone has to protect them from you. Knowing she could detect his dark and deceitful thoughts, he looked Rowen directly in the eye as he not-so-covertly curled a hand over the hilt of his sword and proceeded ahead.
The threat was not lost on its recipient, but she elected to let it go. “Maybe this is what I need in order to understand true beauty,” she explained to Breane and Teselin as they doubled back to the main pathway that would lead them to the small memorial garden. “I have to acknowledge the ugliness first. Truly acknowledge it, without the exaggerated nature of my Sight getting in the way.”
They arrived at the site, a quiet trek that ended in yet more quietude. As they approached the four evenly-spaced shrubs and trees, only the rustling sound of their collective footfalls interrupted the serenity that hushed across the lush patch of flora and verdure. Nothing, not even the presence of a murderer, disturbed the bobbing of white roses and dewy shine of red leaves from the specimens that signified a graveyard.
“Silence,” Rowen repeated after Breane’s message as relayed by the Night Garden. She crouched before the white rose bush, a tribute unmistakably planted for Cwenha, and shook her head. As she feared, she felt...nothing. No answers. Remorse lodged, stuck in her throat; present, but not prevalent. It was the wrong kind of remorse, anyway. The remorse of one who wished they could express more of it, but simply...couldn’t. “It can’t be just silence. Where is the anger? The shouts for my head? The mad, pulsing energy? This...this can’t be completely right. How can I know I did wrong if I’m not punished for it?”
“Do you want punishment? I’ll give you punishment.” Haraldur’s voice filled in the space beside her, despite the several arm distances away from where she crouched. “You wanted me here for a reason? Here it is. I don’t even have to touch on what you did to me. The hand that drove the blade across my throat was my own; I’m the one who has to live with my deed. You had an easy target in me. I was already lost. It would have made no difference who pushed me over the edge. You just happened to occupy the slot. But,” his jaw clamped as he gestured to the red-leaved tree, “you killed Naimah—and why? To get at Sigrid? To crush her hopes and make her ripe for becoming Locque’s slave?!” He didn’t care about cooperation; not at this stage. He didn’t care to maintain peaceful ties with the usurpers who forced their way onto the throne, expecting clemency and acceptance for withholding from doing worse. “Did you know that Sigrid was about ready to propose to her? The woman whose throat you tore to ribbons? She had chosen a ring and was preparing to do it the very day you struck and made that reality an impossibility. You fucked with Sigrid, you fucked with Naimah, and you fucked with my family. I’d say it’s fair game if I fucked with you.” Slowly, he stalked towards Rowen, sword-hand still in place. Uncertain of his convictions, she scrambled to her feet, taking on a defensive posture. “Oh would I love to kill you where you stand, Rowen Kavanagh. I’m not above it. I’m a father of two and a healing garden talks to me, and I’m still not above rending your heart from your miserable body and celebrating your demise. But that would be too merciful. You won’t learn a damn thing after you’re dead.” He released his hand from his sword and ceased his forward stalking. “You want to take the long, grueling route to recovery like the lot of us Forbanne have to do? Be my guest, because it’s going to be punishing—but not the kind of punishment you desire. Not instantaneous death. Not ‘take one thousand lashes’ or ‘labor in the fields for five years.’ and be done with it forever. All of it will happen in your head and stick with you over the course of your lifetime. And if your head was ever a place of nightmares before...well, I won’t sugarcoat things when I say these next few months for you will make you wish you were dead. Enjoy the ride.”
He sidestepped out of the memorial garden’s boundaries, almost apologetic for sullying the peaceful atmosphere with strife and roiling hatred. “And before you go on thinking I want you to fail...I don’t. For your sake and for everyone else’s, I hope you do heal and recover, because I don’t want to deal with you at your worst. But I’m not going to dance around the truth, and I’m sure as hell not going to hand you forgiveness just because you’re making an effort. However,” he sighed begrudgingly, “I won’t deny that you have a good start.” He acknowledged Teselin and Breane, who, anticipating a full-on brawl, crowded between him and Rowen to mediate and act as protective shields, if necessary. “Listen to them. Let them help you. Don’t go it alone. And maybe, just maybe, there will be hope for you yet.”
Having exhausted any obligation he felt to stick around, Haraldur Sorde turned his back on the young faoladh and sped away to the palace, not interested in a retort or a follow-up conversation. Rowen, meanwhile, tired from the verbal onslaught, allowed her knees to make contact with the grassy earth beneath her. As she sat, prostrate and mute, tears, unbidden, developed under her eyes. Moisture became wells; wells became trickles; trickles flooded into rivulets. And she cried her remorse before the graves of the four people she murdered.
“Unfortunately, as much as I would like to promise you that you can get the reaction from your people that you’re looking for… we have to realize that there’s a point where all control falters. So I can’t guarantee that some people won’t respond to your plight with pity, Ari. Or, hell, that a small handful won’t respond with horror. But… maybe those aren’t necessarily the select few that matter. I mean, yeah, every person matters, but at the end of the day, even you must know that you can’t please everyone--stone curse or not.” Nia ran a partially gloved hand through his hair, a soothing gesture in contrast to the confession that she couldn’t promise that all would unfold exactly as he might desire. “There are gonna be people who will question you and your right to authority, regardless. But you need to think about this; about the people who will come to realize how damn brave and capable you are, that you’ve been navigating life with this unique condition that others might not even be able to fathom. That you’ve managed to pull off a relatively ‘normal’ state of existence in spite of everything playing against you. You’ve gotta count on the people who are going to realize how, despite that you’ve probably every right to focus all of your energies on yourself, you’ve been focusing on them and their well-being, instead.
“So...sure. You might get the doubt. You might get a little bit of pity. But,” she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, accompanied by a reassuring smile. “Don’t think of those people. Think of the ones who are going to see you as a force to be reckoned with; someone that not even a bout of bad luck can push over! And if those other people need any convincing… well, that’s what you’ve got your loyal entourage, for. The people who work for you. Your mom. And, least importantly but not insignificantly… me. We’ve got your back, Ari. I’ve got your back. I don’t expect you to go this entire thing, alone!”
The Master Alchemist thought she saw something akin to relief glimmer in Ari’s stone-dark eyes. She might have the tendency to run her mouth a mile, but that never meant that her words were insincere. On the contrary, she yammered on to such an extent because she hoped that even one of those words would reach her listener. That she could establish that connection she so desired, and make her intentions clear that she was friend, not foe. It helped that she understood Ari’s plight, having also been of a family that had grown up in the scrutinizing public eye, but her words were not lip-service. Frankly, Nia Ardane was too damned honest to be much of a liar, and what she said, she meant. And what she meant, she wholeheartedly believed.
But, Ari was very much the same--at least, Nia truly believed so. Yes, he was someone gifted with the unique skill of always finding the right words to suit his needs, and as a politician, it wasn’t uncommon for him to embellish an idea or two. But around Nia, he knew--at least, she hoped she’d made it clear by now--that luxury and embellishments of any sort weren’t necessary. Just as she’d reassured him he needn’t impress her with wines and foods and other such frivolous wants, neither did she need him to gussy up his words. So when he saw fit to do so, anyway… to call her flawless and ‘whole’, despite that her very nature made her feel as though she were composed of fragments of being that simply should not exist as a whole, she knew that he meant it. And as it so countered the image of herself that she had been raised to see, it forced a pause to stop and really consider his words, and how they could possibly apply to her.
“I’ll give you that; I’m about as real as they get, for better or worse. Usually doesn’t take long for people to decide whether they love me or hate me for it.” Self-consciousness threatened her smile, but only briefly. What did it really matter that she thought less of herself when Ari clearly saw something more that she had yet to realize? “But you don’t need to dote on me--really, you don’t. I’m pretty used to being self-sufficient and walking the low roads out of sight of the higher classes. But… I guess I can’t deny that your doting really is part of what makes you you. The way you want to take care of people… that’s just one of the things I love about you. And if that is inherently you, then no. Don’t change. Don’t change a single thing on my account. Even...” she sighed in partial defeat, puffing out her cheeks, “Even if that means you insist on making a point of doing something on the day I’m getting older. If you wanna make note of my birthday, then alright. I oblige you… this time. But don’t go out of your way, alright? I mean, it’s not like you need to convince me to come and see you, any damned day of the week.” Nia smirked, and her lips grazed the underside of his jaw. “Birthday or not.”
As much as she would have liked to blame it all on her very inebriated state, Nia couldn’t lie to herself: drunk or not, at some point, she knew she’d find herself all over Ari… with his consent, of course. But after the terrible outcome of the mistake she had made with Isidor Kristeva, she knew better than to interpret a lack of pushing her away as consent--particularly considering that their last ‘attempt’ had ended so poorly. She didn’t want to hurt Ari; really, she didn’t want to hurt anyone… but especially not Ari. As a result, it wasn’t until she had his pure, unadulterated agreement in plain words that it was alright to proceed that she fully let her inhibitions drop, and allowed herself to feel everything she wanted to feel for him. “Good. No thoughts, then. Just be in the moment--and trust me to take care of you.”
Although he didn’t need any help, the Master Alchemist’s nimble fingers, eager as they were to become occupied, grazed his knuckles to help him with the buttons of his coat, which she then slipped from his shoulders. Even with the weather rapidly growing warmer, the Canaveris lord continued to sport layers upon layers, hiding his curse from the world almost as much as he seemed to wish to hide it from himself, for what he couldn’t see wouldn’t bother him quite so much. Following his coat, which slipped from the chaise, discarded on the floor, Nia expertly worked his tunic over his shoulders and head, breaking contact with her lips only for a handful of seconds as she (respectfully) discarded that garment as well. Ari never once flinched from her touch, or recoiled, or pushed her away; he was relaxed, perhaps the most relaxed she’d ever seen him, and seemed to welcome her fingers, her hands, her lips on his body. He trusted her, not only to show him pleasure, but not to hurt him. She was determined not to betray that trust.
“It did cross my mind… that it’s a little unfair I was the only one to expose myself tonight.” Her lips tickled his earlobe at her lighthearted comment while her hungry fingers traveled down the expanse of his chest, ever attuned to his life rhythms, but for the moment, those were only background noise in comparison to the sheer delight of feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the pads of her hands. She only (somewhat reluctantly) removed them from his shoulders to assist him in unfastening the leather bodice that bound the topmost half of her body. “But I’m glad we’re playing fair, now.”
As snug as her characteristic attire was, it was rather remarkable how elegantly she was able to slip out of form-fitting leather, without much struggle or trial or twist or fighting with the material. Then again, she’d certainly had sufficient practice in making the mundane act of disrobing look enticing, and in moments, the bodice slid from her upper body to join Ari’s coat and tunic on the floor. It struck her as somewhat comical that she’d already spent more of this evening unclothed that dressed in her usual apparel. “I have no limits. At least, none that I’m aware of.” The Ardane alchemist purred in his ear, leaning forward to press her bare torso against his. “You can touch me wherever you want, however you want. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”
If they had all night, and he had already suggested that she remain until morning so as to show her the secret ins and outs of his villa... Nia figured there was no good reason to rush this--especially when rushing it the last time had ended very badly, for Ari in particular. There was great benefit to foreplay, not only for the fun of it, but to give the inexperienced a chance to warm up and find their own level of comfort prior to fully committing to finish what was started. And anyway, it wasn’t as though it was any compromise for Nia. Inexperienced though he might have been, she relished his hands on her body, and pulled back ever so slightly to give him room to explore her breasts. It had been quite some time since her body had partaken in this kind of attention--over a year, in fact! Now that was certainly a new record, but for inhabiting a kingdom that did not look upon her fondly, it wasn’t as though she was rich with opportunities.
“I’ve heard artists are good with their hands…” She sighed, tilting her head back ever so slightly when his fingers grazed her shoulders. “You, at the very least, live up to that reputation. Another thing we have in common.” The corner of her mouth pulled into a smirk, and she briefly lifted her buttocks from his lap to gracefully slide out of her leggings. In seconds, she had returned to the state in which he had originally sketched her--except this time, he was allowed to touch as much as he was allowed to look. But she wasn’t about to stop there. Searching his eyes for permission, Nia proceeded to unfasten his belt, and even the playing field once again. “No rush.” She breathed in his ear, and slid the trousers down his thighs when he lifted himself briefly from the chaise. “We can take as long as you like at any point in time… I’m lucky in that I can get a good sense of what works for you, but if you want to be bold,” She winked. “Then feel free to tell me.”
With the alcohol keeping most of his anxieties and nerves at bay, Ari seemed to be experiencing a good deal of beginner's excitement, as there wasn’t much ‘convincing’ to be done. His member was already hard and standing at attention--except that this time, it wasn’t stone, and mercifully, did not turn to stone in response to her touch when she stroked it in an upward-downward motion. “Am I the first person to tell Stella D’Mare’s most eligible bachelor that you’ve got me all hot and bothered? I don’t think I can blame it on the wine, at this point.” Nia chuckled, her fingers, featherlight, stroking the tip of his manhood. “I can tease you all night long, if that’s what you desire. Otherwise… just let me know if, or when, you want to take it all the way.”
Upon encountering Haraldur in the Night Garden, Teselin had a bad feeling that their planned afternoon full of beauty and serenity was about to come to an abrupt end… and the worst part was, there was nothing that she could do about it. No one could begrudge the Eyraillian prince for speaking to a woman who had directly caused his family so much intentional pain, and he, no doubt, had a good deal of healing of his own to undergo on his own. No one missed the dark circles under his eyes, the slouch to his posture, all of which surely could not be attributed to being a new father to a pair of needy infants. What could she have said? ‘Please, your feelings are valid, but now really is not the time and place and we would very much appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell Rowen everything you really think of her in this given moment?’
The young summoner’s mouth went dry as the Forbanne commander proceeded to go into great detail of the sort of punishment that Rowen deserved, and what she could expect to experience in the coming days. His voice broke the serenity of the memorial pocket of the Garden, such that any Gardener within hearing range stopped what they were doing, their tasks interrupted by the sudden break in the calm. Afraid that Haraldur might completely lose himself with his rising temper and lash out at the young faoladh, Teselin seemed to have the same idea as Breane, and took up a place between Rowen and the Eyraillian prince, on the defensive on her behalf. “Haraldur… please.” The youngest Kristeva sibling sighed quietly with pleading eyes. “We hear you. Rowen hears you. But… please.”
She didn’t need to elaborate or beg. Haraldur quickly had his fill of facing the woman responsible for his almost-demise. For Naimah’s demise. For Sigrid’s enslavement, however indirectly. He turned on his heel in a heartbeat and began to stalk away from the memorial site, just as Rowen sank to her knees and began to sob. “Rowen…?” The young summoner knelt next to the crumpled form of Hadwin’s younger sister, and was frankly surprised when not only did Breane not follow suit, but she was making her way away from the area. Immediately, Teselin was struck with the possibility that not only might she be stuck with Rowen alone, but a sobbing, unstable, and unpredictable Rowen. Understandably, her next words were a squeaky, “Breane? What’re you--”
“I’ll return shortly!” The young Gardener called without looking back. Her small feet carried her in the direction where Haraldur retreated, and she didn’t stop until she’d all but caught up. “Prince Sorde!” She called, and was frankly startled that her voice seemed to stop the Eyraillian prince in his tracks. He stopped and stalled, hesitating before he turned to acknowledge the young Gardener. Breane, panting with her hands on her knees (it was difficult to keep up with legs that long!) took a moment to catch her breath before she righted her posture and pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.
“Prince Sorde… the Night Garden knows your pain. It feels it--but you already know this. Because it speaks to you too, doesn’t it? You hear the Garden’s voice just like the Gardeners do. You already know it’s acknowledged you--and so have we, the Gardeners.” Finally feeling a little less winded, Breane stood up straighter and took a bold step forward. “You deserve to be heard. All of your feelings, and everything that you have said… it is all entirely valid. It is justified. Please know… I just want you to know that what I--what we, Teselin and myself--are doing in looking out for Rowen is not a slight on you. It is not to diminish what you have suffered or to excuse what she has done. In fact, I was very clear with Rowen before we began any of her treatment that none of this could be about clearing her name, or justifying her actions, or excusing them. It isn’t about any of that. Listen…”
Her small shoulders sagged with the heaviness of the subject. As much as she was able to hold her own, even when dealing with such a difficult subject as Rowen Kavanagh, it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that the endeavour was particularly exhausting for the young Gardener. “Please do not fall under the impression that we are favouring the assailant at the expense of the victims. That isn’t what this is about. Yes, like victims, Rowen also needs to heal, and as you have already surmised… it will not be easy for her. It hasn’t been easy, and it will not become easy anytime soon, because first she must come to terms with what she has done. She must understand why she was so easily driven to murder, and yes, she will have to live with that. But through her healing… we are also preventing future tragedies. I won’t lie, I do feel sorry for Rowen. I cannot imagine only ever seeing the darkness in the world, or how that might drive one mad. But not in the same way that I feel for her victims. It is different--and all I want is to help restore balance. To spare future lives from what drove Rowen to do what she did. And, with any luck… if Locque can see how Rowen has benefitted, and has changed, then…” Her voice grew softer. Afraid she might be heard--and that her words might be taken the wrong way, by the wrong person. “Then it is possible she might find a way toward change, as well. The bigger picture here is the possibility Galeyn can be saved from further tyranny. But please… please do not think any of this is aimed to be at your expense. Or at the expense of all who have fallen. That… that is all I wanted to say.”
As much as Ari appreciated every word of comfort Nia so eloquently expressed, he couldn’t prevent feelings of guilt from washing to the surface at her confident declaration: I’ve got your back. Not that he doubted her commitment to his long-term progress, both in terms of navigating the public as a leader and navigating his private life as a cursed being, but rather, he worried about the staying power of their togetherness. Sooner than later, he would have to come forward and make his opposition to Locque known. On that inevitable day of reckoning, where would his decision leave Nia? How would she register his betrayal? He opposed only Locque, true, but she, by default, would suffer his kickback, and take the unfortunate collateral damage from her allyship with his enemy.
He oft considered informing her of the upcoming insurrection in which he played a significant role, but her loyalties to Locque would demand her to report his involvement, and everyone else’s involvement. While he could trust that she might turn a blind eye and carry on as though he said nothing, the risk factor was too high, too potentially self-sabotaging. Not to mention...how would future interactions with them unfold, knowing he intended to depose her faction, herself included? He was not vain enough to believe she would defect from Locque to side with him, not after everything she worked for to achieve her lofty position alongside the false queen of Galeyn. No, in regards to his role, silence was the best method in mitigating damage, overall. Despite his sound reasoning for his deceit, followed always by his emphatic promise to prioritize Nia’s safety if she fell in mortal danger, he still felt like a traitor to this kindly Master Alchemist who was, presently, fighting so hard for him, in every conceivable facet of his life. Every day, it was becoming almost unbearable to anticipate how their relationship might end. If I turn my back on you, Nia, will you still care to have mine?
“You are most definitely not insignificant. Please do not rank yourself on a hierarchy of most to least import. Really, you do a disservice to your worth. It is because of you that I feel better assured of my path forward.” At least, the path not involving a coup against your Lady. “Your optimism is that infectious. I would love nothing more than to have you at my side indefinitely, Nia,” he stated, perhaps a little too rife with zeal and hope for the unlikely outcome that, maybe, she felt the same tug to leave Locque’s employ and join him on his health-related and leadership-related crusades. “Alas—you are spoken for. I cannot possibly ask so much of you, Nia. What would Queen Locque think? I do hope she is not prone to bouts of jealousy, for I am afraid of the repercussions should I persist in continually stealing you away from your courtly duties.”
To make light of his half-hearted observation, one steeped in the suspicion that it may very well correspond to Locque and her tantrum-prone demeanor, Ari chuckled, a low ding of a sound, like pewter hitting a wooden surface. “Be that as it may, I shall gladly take whichever percentage of you is available at any given time—by your consent, of course. Receiving you at my villa is never an imposition, and always a blessing—no matter how others may perceive you. It is as you say, after all.” His fingers outlined the depression beneath her exposed collarbone, dutifully memorizing the dips and curves of her body for posterity...and maybe something more. He hadn’t embarked on a serious sculpting project since creating the statue of Cwenha, and it was time to begin a new enterprise. “We cannot help how people choose to pay us heed, good or bad. What remains most meaningful is the relations we share with those special and beloved individuals whose company we warmly welcome. I want to express my earnestness to you, Nia, and...well, I do hope you forgive my rather loud expressions of grandeur. In time, perhaps I can learn to shed them for your convenience, but,” he smiled guiltily, “I cannot help myself. I understand that, among the majority of populaces who age at a normal pace, birthdays serve as grim reminders of one’s own fleeting mortality. I would hate to remind you of said mortality, but Nia,” he stared into her eyes, lowering his brows meaningfully, “I hope you understand that aging does not devalue you. Some archaic institutions, ones who still prescribe to the belief that only spring-fresh maidens carry worth, may argue my point, but I say fie to them. You are ageless. Moreover,” he weaved through layers of her richly-hued hair, making an exaggerated show of examining each individual strand, “I see not one gray hair on your chestnut head. Unless this has been achieved by alchemical means, rejoice! Alas, if you have tampered with the color...rejoice, nonetheless! It means I shall be enlisting your aid for whenever my hair turns a less appealing shade. I am in my sixties, after all,” he winked. “I admit my vanity. A vice, I understand it to be, but I am wholly unconcerned in my indulgence of such ‘frivolous’ pursuits.”
It might have seemed bizarre for a man bound to a lifetime of involuntary celibacy to invest so much time and effort into cultivating an appealing aesthetic, from the clothes he selected to the shine of his raven hair, which in some lights emitted a green-blue iridescence. While his fashionable decisions had definitely contributed to his status as most eligible and desired bachelor, Ari primped and gussied up not for the attention of amorous admirers (though to be fair, he certainly relished in their interest from afar, a vicarious high of attention he lapped up through osmosis), but for differing reasons. Initially, those reasons happened at the onset of his curse, when his mother stressed the importance of covering up was planted in his mind. You cannot make it obvious, she instructed. Your dress, it needs to be intentional. Wear to impress. Wear for the love of the cloth. From there, his reasons evolved from necessity to touting a fashion-conscious agenda, and the accidental passion suited an aristocrat of his status just fine. It was the most authentic cover-up, because his interests were no lie. He unironically debuted many a fine-tailored coat and boasted a closet full of the bold and colorful, distractions misdirecting from any potential flare-ups marring his body as much as they were selections displaying his specific tastes. And as with any natty dresser, a handsome, well-manicured face often completed the look.
But oh how quickly it took for Nia to disrobe his many coordinated and complementary layers—coat and cravat, vest and tunic—reverting him back to the womb-nakedness at his conception. Bare, baby-smooth, defenseless. Nothing he felt as ashamed to unveil now; not when Nia was doing the shedding. He hardly had the opportunity to drift towards her leathers, fingers itching to help, before she practically peeled them off in one fell swoop. Each piece fell off with all the ease of a ripe orange in the hands of an expert rind-remover. The demonstration left him rather impressed. “Ah, so your clothes are sex-motivated, but not necessarily naked-portrait-motivated. On my word, you disposed of your effects in half the time, compared to before,” he mused, a good-natured tease humming from his mouth. “Am I that irresistible? Pray it holds, for—my apologies in advance—my skills in this endeavor will be...quite lacking. Not to your satisfaction, I’m afraid.” Doubt wiped the playful smile from his face. “Yes, I realize you have low and realistic expectations for how this night will unfold, but tell me what I can do for you, too, Nia. I want to help. To...take care of you, too.”
Acknowledging his plea, Nia grabbed hold of his hands and positioned them over her breasts, where she invited him to explore the open territory to his heart’s content. Unsure of how to pleasure a woman, he focused instead on what he could do, and pretended he beheld not mounds of flesh, but mounds of clay for sculpting. In small, concentric circles, he molded the clay by kneading it. One needed to soften the batch to make it workable and malleable, so he strove to do the same for Nia. To work her.
Apparently, his technique, well, worked, insofar as she said it did. “Ah...you are too kind, Nia,” he laughed, a little nervously, at her congratulations. “Here, I lauded your body for its realness and vivacity, and yet I revert to ‘sculpting’ you via pantomime. How dehumanizing. But...if you truly enjoyed it…”
He stopped short when she unbuckled his trousers and stripped his bottom half free, revealing his fully-engorged member, throbbing in delight and attention-starved for a woman’s touch. I understand you. Ari closed his eyes shut for a moment, concentrating on his breath. On oblivion. No past reminders of disastrous experiences, but for the obsessive focus on one simple request. Just...do not turn to stone. Do not. Do not…
A sudden laying of hands caused a surprised yelp to issue from his throat, yanking him from his thoughts and plunging him back to reality. Grateful for the physical jolt to the present moment, he fluttered open his eyes and looked to the source of the excitement. Nia polished his member, eager hands moving up and down the shaft in slow ministrations.
“No, it is the inverse,” he sucked in his breath, a noisy rattle flaring in his nostrils. His voice came out in strained syllables as he jerked and shivered in response to her massaging strokes. “You are...getting me all…’hot and bothered.’ Heavens, Nia,” he swore, trying and failing not to overreact to but the simplest of touches in a sensitive and very neglected area, “I am not certain if I can withstand another moment. If you want to derive any enjoyment from this, best we do this now, before...before,” he clenched his teeth, gripping her shoulders for a strong handhold to compensate for his lack of traction elsewhere, “I lose purchase completely.”
Amid her tears, Rowen struggled to cease the leakage that poured from her orifices, but to no avail. Something in her broke and she couldn’t end the torrential rainfall that splattered down her cheeks and drenched her collar. Her hands, which clawed at the grass, stabbed through the earthly soil like wooden stakes, keeping her aloft and somewhat stable when her legs had sprawled uselessly, failing her. This...was unprecedented! Since when had she ever cried with such wild abandon? Certainly not since she was a child, hugging her knees to her chest to comfort against a soul-shaking nightmare. But her self-soothing sessions seldom lasted very long. Hadwin had a nose for when she was in distress and often materialized at her door at the right time, taking up the mantle as both defender and vanquisher of fears. Even before he gained the uncanny ability to vanish terror from one’s mind, he always had the knack for making her feel safe, and protected.
Except for now. What she felt was beyond his ability to help. Not that he was in any state to lend aid, but this, what she had done to him, to others...put her recovery into question. How could she ever stand on her feet again without wobbling from the weight of her blood-soaked burdens? And how could she turn to the people she abused for help? Haraldur Sorde was right. There existed no easy solution, no foolproof method for shrugging out of debt and resuming without a care for past misdeeds that she’d already paid for upfront. In theory, she understood the hurdles she needed to face on her journey towards healing, but understanding paled in contrast to the heart-squeezing experience of it all. Honestly...she didn’t know if this path was survivable. Worst yet, how would she withstand the tonnage once Hadwin returned what he borrowed from her? That near paralyzing through impelled more self-pitying tears to fall.
“This was a mistake,” she found herself saying out loud, too removed from the scene to register if anyone remained nearby to listen. For all she knew, she was talking to herself. “I don’t have the integrity. This isn’t...this isn’t sustainable. How could anyone live like this? Why would anyone choose to live wallowing in both guilt and pain?! I’ve had enough of pain. It never ends!” She gasped, the power of her sobs limiting her ability to breathe and speak as normal. “What is there to look forward to? There’s nothing…Why did I think I’d find anything different?!”
Meanwhile, Haraldur Sorde was fleeing the scene of his outburst, widening the distance between himself and the slighted faoladh before she thought to retaliate or report his traitorous opinions to Locque. He barely stepped through the doors of the palace before a different presence and a different, softer voice impelled his feet to stop their grueling escape march. He turned, standing face to face with the young Gardener, Breane, and he listened to the message of empathy she’d intended for his ears. What tragedies had befallen her to articulate her acknowledgment of his ongoing hangups with such clear insight? It couldn’t be bred entirely from the Night Garden’s influence. If so...shouldn’t the exposure have made him more self-actualized? Even so, Night Garden or not, her commentary spouted idealisms that he, exposed to a lifetime of violence and bloodshed, couldn’t wholeheartedly reflect.
“The sentinel tree speaks to me,” he clarified, but not with any show of confidence. “I don’t know if that’s the same as the Night Garden as a whole, but if the tree operates as the brain and many lifeforms spring from it, I don’t know; maybe it is all the same. I can’t say I’m Gardener material. All of you seem so…” he sighed, “so blessed with the energies this Garden provides, and then there is me. I’m too full of hate, anger. I’m tired, and stubborn, and fed-up. I’m no candidate for Gardener, whether I’ve been recognized for the role or not. I only clinched my place under the tree’s care via an inheritance I still can’t understand. Maybe I’ll never understand. Too many nuances for an idiot like me to decipher.” Despite the self-deprecating remark, he forced the tiniest of smiles. It didn’t last.
“I could have said worse to Rowen. I wanted to. I...held back,” he admitted, rubbing the old injury on his wrist as an excuse not to fully look at the young, sympathetic girl who went out of her way to reach out to someone who very well may have sabotaged Rowen’s route to recovery. “I held back because...I don’t disagree with your method. If I did, I wouldn’t be so invested in rehabilitating Forbanne for similar crimes. They may not have lived their lives suffering the literal manifestation of darkness, but it’s a close equivalent. If I could change, and they could change, then it’s possible to see positive change for Rowen. For,” he swallowed. Hard. “For Locque. Don’t worry; I’m not insulted or offended. You’re a Gardener. A healer. This is what you’re meant to do. Isn’t this the reason the Night Garden called to you?” I still don’t know why I was called, he thought grimly, but didn’t share aloud. “Go ahead. Help her. I won’t stand in your way again. It was...a lapse of judgement on my part. It’s what Rowen will inevitably face when she’s ready to answer to her crimes. But I acted prematurely. She’s not ready. Even so,” he dropped his hand to his side, “I don’t regret what I said. I don’t regret it, because I’m petty...and I needed to confront her. Like I said...I’m not above it. Not above acting in violence or aggression. My apologies are to you, Breane,” he tilted his head to meet the youthful Gardener’s eyes. “For potentially making your job harder. But not to her. ...Never to her.”
Before he excused himself and let Breane return to her duties of caring for an unstable wolf, Haraldur added, as an afterthought, “I could use someone to help me understand...how to become better attuned to the Night Garden’s energies. If you’re ever looking for a break from tending to your charge, I’d be grateful for your assistance. Taking a break now and again is important. Mornings are my reprieve from the twins, but now I have to get back to it. Time’s up and my wife will wonder if I’m escaping my commitments to go and play hooky. You’re always welcome to come around and see the little hellions if you’d like. And, well...thank you,” he concluded, a little awkward in execution, as was his tendency around individuals of a certain age—sans his own children. “For checking in on me.”
“Ah, Ari, you are too kind. And I do thank you for not holding women to a lesser standard when they age; that’s a pretty rare trait to find in a man, if you ask me.” Prompted by his comment about her hair, she drew a heavy lock into her own hand for observation, simply to clarify whether or not he was telling the truth or spouting a white lie to make her feel better. True to his word, she couldn’t find anything but ruch brunette among the thick strands. Not to say there weren’t any grey hairs, any signs of her aging hiding more coyly among her vibrantly rich locks, but at least none that were overtly noticeable. “Now, I’ll admit, I’ve done a thing or two alchemically to make my hair healthier. Or to change the colour on occasion during those times when I really relied on hiding and having no one recognize me, but… nah. I haven’t--as of yet--found the need to make grey hairs blend in with the brown ones. I’d like to think that I’m still over a decade away from having to worry about that--neither of my parents sported a single grey hair into their late forties--but who the hell knows if they didn’t cheat aging with their alchemy? I’m almost sure Felyse did. Just seems characteristic of her vanity. But, honestly… aging wasn’t something that was ever really at the forefront of my mind until rather recently.”
Mirroring his actions, the Master Alchemist took a silky black inch of his hair and admired the rich colour between her fingers. Raven black, but sporting green and blue undertones… Really, it was an enviable shade, as those undertones were not often a result of natural outcomes. Over the years, she’d certainly made a pretty penny from people requesting they tint their hair with other jewel tones beneath the surface. Nothing so obvious as to make it known that they had approached an alchemist for their vanity, but just enough for the light to catch their straight, curly, or wavy tresses and make them into something a little more magical. “I think we can both agree, I’m not going to look half as good in my sixties as you do in yours. And, hells, by the time you look sixty years old by a normal mortal’s standards… I’m probably not even going to be around anymore. That shit never bothered me before; I mean, okay, I’ve kind of got a tiny little aversion to death, but really, it’s more premature death that I have to avoid. For Celene’s sake, because she expected me to survive and live a full life, at the very least, so I intend to do just that. But a full life for me… that’s barely even a half-life for you, isn’t it? When the day comes that you can finally return to Stella D’Mare, and I can go with you, then you’ve got my guarantee, there’ll be no more ‘borrowing’ me from Locque: that’s when I will be removing myself from her service, since she probably won’t need me at that point, anyway. And you’ve got my word, I’ll stick with you as long as you need me, but you know there’s gonna be a day when you’ll have to find a new Master Alchemist, if you want to continue to have one at your service. We’re not eternal; in fact, some might argue we’re more fragile than normal mortals. We take more risks and therefore put ourselves at risk. My forever… it’s not going to be the same as your forever. Hey, how…”
Nia paused, letting the tress of inky black hair fall against his cheek, and looked up to search his face for answers. “Elespeth Rigas--she wasn’t always a Rigas. She was a Tameris; just some average human from a noble family in Atvany that she forsook. But she wouldn’t have married Alster, knowing how quickly she would age and die compared to him. Don’t Rigases basically live until for-fucking-ever or something? Anyway… how did she do it? I know she’s not the same as she was before. I could tell just by touching her; her cells expire at a much slower rate than mine do. So do yours, for that matter. So what changed for her? I mean…” She ran a hand through her own hair and furrowed her brows. “Yeah, Master Alchemists have a means of prolonging their lives. But it’s complicated as fuck and usually at the expense of other peoples’ lives, soooo… that option, in my own humble opinion, is kind of off the table. But Elespeth wouldn’t have gone through that at someone else’s expense. She’s got too much of that goddamn knight honour and a solid moral code. It just really gets the gears in my head turning…”
It occurred to her, however, that right now, on this rare occasion they had (and perhaps the last they might have, before Nadira Canaveris’s arrival), now was not the time to discuss mortality and longevity. So she opted to change the subject before it entirely killed the mood. “I’m sorry. This is a really fucking dreary thing to discuss, isn’t it? Forget I asked. We,” her smile turned sly, matching the mischievous glint in her alluring brown eyes, “have more important things to address, I think. Or… more appropriately, to undress.”
His teasing comment regarding the speed of her ability to undress drew a small laugh from her lungs, and though she probably didn’t have to explain the discrepancy in time, she chose to anyway. “This is different. When I was the only one sitting around naked, you had all the power, really. I was the vulnerable one. But this? This is an equal playing field, if you’re wearing nothing and I’m wearing nothing. So yeah…” She pressed a slow kiss to the underside of his jaw and purred, “Guilty as charged. I’ll strip far more quickly for sex. And stop worrying. You do know I’ve only ever bedded virgins, right?” Well… with one small, unfortunate exception, which she chose not to address. “I’m used to men who don’t have a ton of experience. Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the sex; there’s a lot more to it than just physical pleasure. So do us both a favour and don’t concern yourself with performance, alright? This is your debut, so let’s make it about you.” Pulling away from his jaw, she pressed a kiss lightly to his lips, and murmured, “let me take care of you.”
Perhaps she was doing too good a job, or in Ari’s unquenchable excitement, everything was already too overwhelming for him. She felt she’d barely begun to tease him, with miniscule strokes to his most sensitive organ, and he cautioned her that his beginner’s endurance surely would not hold out. With an understanding nod, she removed her hands from his member and rested them on his shoulders. “Stop worrying. I’ve already derived enjoyment; I am deriving enjoyment, and a good deal of it, at that. Don’t focus on what I want: this is about you. I’ll say again… let me take care of you.”
When Nia had told him that she didn’t have any limits, it wasn’t exactly a lie, but neither was it the entire truth. A good portion of her reasons for only ever lying with virgins was the fact that none of them pushed her to submit on her back in what was the most common coital position. She couldn’t handle that position; not since the first time it had nearly gotten her killed. But she needn’t worry about that when the two of them were already in an optimal position to derive pleasure. Carefully lifting her lower body, she slowly, intentionally, positioned herself onto Ari--who, to his credit, had not turned to stone in the slightest! A soft sigh escaped her as soon as they connected, and she remembered how much she had missed this sensation. Something that was usually a passtime, an escape, but this time… it felt like so much more.
Capturing his mouth in a slow kiss, Nia wrapped her arms around his neck and moved on him, languidly and with purpose. His excitement was her excitement, and she reveled in the adrenaline coursing through his body, his elevated heart rate, the soft groans he admitted with every time she lifted and lowered herself. This was more than just a distraction for him, more than just a convenient passtime for her. And for her, at the very least… this was meaningful. It was different, being intimate with someone who you cared for, versus someone you knew you would discard in the morning. Somehow… it really was more fulfilling.
Despite her slow motions, and taking care not to rush this encounter, it did not take long for Ari to reach his peak. She felt it in his blood before he hissed a warning, and upon his completion, slowed her pace even more, before lifting herself off of him. He was breathless, almost shaky in the aftermath, but not without concern lining his exhausted (and satisfied) features. “When I said don’t worry about me--I meant it.” Nia tried to assuage his concerns, and stroked his face with the back of her knuckles. “I’d rather you not make this common knowledge, but I… don’t climax. Never have, not on my own and not with help. Not sure why; maybe something about my first experience broke me a little bit. But that doesn’t matter. It’s not the fault of any of my partners, including you. And I still happen to like sex very much, in spite of it. Oh, and before you ask--don’t worry about any ‘consequences’ to our actions.” She winked playfully, adding, “I’m a Master Alchemist. There are tonics that prevent ‘unintended consequences’ of anything sexually related. And I may not look it--or act it all that often--but you can rest assured I am a responsible partner and I do take it all seriously. So, you can rest easy, Ari!”
Feeling a little chilled in the aftermath, she Ardane alchemist pressed her body against Ari’s, both siphoning and encouraging warmth between them. “And let’s not forget about our little victory: you didn’t turn to stone at all. Not one bit of you! If that’s not progress… then I don’t know what is. See? You can experience the world and a good deal of its pleasures without having to worry about your curse all the time. Don’t let it control you, so. But, most importantly…” Raising a hand, she tucked his hair behind his ear, still keenly aware of the gradual slow of his racing heart. “I hope this lived up to your expectations… and that you don’t have any regrets.”
“It was the Sentinel tree that first spoke to me, too.” Breane clarified, in response to his comment. “At first, it was only when I touched the tree that I could receive messages from it. But then… I can’t really explain it, but it was like something opened up my intuition, and I was gradually able to hear the rest of the Garden. Everything here has a voice, if it chooses to speak to you, and if you choose to listen.” The young Gardener paused, considering his comment about the interpreters of the Garden being ‘blessed’. That wasn’t a term that she had considered, prior to just now, hearing it aloud. “I suppose… some of us might think that we are blessed to be the interpreters of the Garden’s messages. Though I am sure that others have felt beholden to it, and work purely out of duty. I have never met a Gardener who abandoned their duties of their own free will, but I am still very new to the role, myself, so it’s possible. For me, I don’t feel beholden, but… ‘blessed’ doesn’t sound right, either. I guess… I somehow just feel grateful.”
She shifted her boots in the soil, where ordinary grass was beginning to sprout. “I often wonder why I awoke from the Sleep with the Garden in my ears. To this day, I don’t really know why it chose to speak to me, or to have me herald an entirely new means of healing of which it hadn’t been capable, before. Maybe it just felt sorry for me, that I woke up alone and had no place to go and no one to go to. It is for that I feel grateful: for having a place, if not a person, to turn to. But, Prince Sorde, if you think that being a Gardener means you are devoid of all of the negative emotions that you mentioned… I am afraid you are wrong.” Her wide, dark eyes sought his green irises for understanding. At the very least, it appeared as though he were trying to understand. “We still feel anger, and sadness, and jealousy and resentment. The Garden doesn’t make us ‘more’ or ‘superior’ in any way. We are still just mortal. Perhaps our advantage is that we more readily have the means to address and deal with those emotions, but that’s it. I still feel angry, sometimes. And sad, and confused, and resentful that for some reason, I’m still here, but my parents and my big brother aren’t. I still don’t understand why I was spared, but not them. I was no better or worse than they were. And sometimes… I just let myself feel those emotions. I don’t act on them, because there is nothing to be done, but I don’t already reach back when the Night Garden reaches out to me. Because at the end of the, logistically, I’m still alone, aren’t I? The difference is, I’m now alone with a purpose. And having that purpose makes it easier not to focus on the fact I’ll grow up without ever seeing my family again.”
Realizing she had gone off on something of a tangent, Breane cleared her throat and looked down at her boots. “What I am trying to say is… what you are feeling is valid. Your words to Rowen, they are valid, too. Today may not have gone as I had planned, but it was Rowen who wanted to confront the memorial site of the people she murdered. And she wanted to face you, too; you did not force this upon her. So what she is feeling now is not only necessary, but also, of her own ministrations. And I… I do thank you for not going too far. For not sabotaging her recovery. I can see and understand every reason why you might want to, but you have the clarity to realize when to stop. For that, Prince Sorde, I must disagree with you when you say you are not fit to be a Gardener. Should you ever find another calling, I am certain the Garden would accept you with open arms.”
Truly, Breane wasn’t expecting him to hear her out for even half of what she had to say. After all, she was still a child, and that was how many people, fellow Gardener’s included, chose to see her. Yet, the Prince of Eyraille was… reaching out for help? She had to admit, the proposition did seem like a nice reprieve from the taxing task of helping Rowen Kavanagh recover from a very unique emotional condition… “I would be happy to help you in any way I can, Prince Sorde. I am not sure that you would find me entirely useful, but… I would like to do what I can to help you communicate better with the Garden. Especially since the Garden itself has reached out to you.”
Finding herself alone with Rowen--the exact opposite of what she’d wanted for today--Teselin wanted nothing more than for Breane to return and save her, to find a way to soothe the faoladh girl through her Night Garden magic. To brew her some sort of tea to calm her down and help her to see the bigger picture, again. But that was nothing more than a fantasy, and right now, she was the only pillar present to offer Rowen any support, however unqualified she might have been. With a barely audible sigh, the young summoner lowered herself to the ground next to the stricken girl, and put her hands on her shoulders. “Rowen, I know you don’t want to hear this, but everything you’re feeling right now… this is normal. Normal in the sense that you can finally understand--really, truly understand how your actions have affected other people. I’m not Breane, so I can only really give you my uneducated perspective… but I think that this is something you needed to feel. A barrier you needed to break so that you can see what is beautiful when it is right in front of you. I can’t guarantee that the guilt you’re feeling will go away, but… I think that good--better feelings will come of it. Sometimes we need to fall apart before we can put yourself back together in a stronger, more durable way. And if you need to fall apart… well, this is the best place to do it, and you are certainly among the best people to help you.”
With her sleeve, Teselin made a bold move to dab some of the flowing tears from Rowen’s face. “You want to know what there is to look forward to? Doing the opposite of what is making you feel like this. Step away from causing harm and learn how to make people smile. I think you can do it--you’re already on your way. That scarf you’re making for Hadwin?” A small smile tugged at her lips. “You can bet that will make him smile. And that will make you feel differently than you do now. That you willingly came here, to face the resting place of people who died by your hand--and to face Haraldur, at that… I really believe you’re finally on the right path. You don’t have to cause pain anymore. Isn’t that why you’re pursuing this at all?”
“Rowen.” A slightly out of breath Breane hurried back to where she had left the faoladh and the summoner, and leaned over with her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “Rowen… I know what you must be feeling right now. But I need you to know, what you did, just now… that not only took bravery, but insight and understanding. You say you are unsure that you can find any beauty in the world, but you’ve already got a good idea of what is ugly. I would not have recommended you do today what you just did, but in hindsight… you had the intuition to realize it was necessary. But that doesn’t mean we can’t come out to do what we set out for.”
Straightening up, she dabbed perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand, and reached for Rowen, offering to help her to her feet. She was even smiling. “I can think of a few other places in this garden that you might find beautiful. What you did in your past does not prohibit you from witnessing beauty.”
For bringing their disparate ages into the picture, Ari frowned, but at himself, not at Nia. Perhaps it was too insensitive to make light out of her expedited aging in relation to his slower, more gradual pace. “Ah, how uncouth of me to broach the subject in so laissez-faire a manner,” he apologized with the bow of his silken head. Seeing how much she seemed to enjoy fiddling with his hair, as a consolation, he unbound the cord that held his ponytail in place, letting it escape in an instantaneous cascade that fanned around his face and shoulders, eager to burst free of its shackles. The follicles were too thick and fine to maintain their updo position for long; the one—quite literal—downfall to possessing an enviable set of locks. They especially betrayed him during the sticky, unrelenting D’Marian summers when no amount of preventative tactics could delay the inevitable in what one could only refer to as ‘A briny head thick with kelp.’ Another inconvenience for the fashionable elite to contend with, but all things considered, it was far and away a non-issue.
“In reply to your curiosities...I shall reveal what I know of the Rigases and their knack for defying mortality. Their founder and patron, Rigel Rigas, was believed to be a Demi-god, an immortal being who sacrificed his eternity to share extended years among his blood-descendants. A Rigas is granted long life not at conception, but through a ritual that is conducted whenever their magic first awakens and manifests. Because Rigases are not innately born of enhanced longevity, it means they possess the ability to grant it, as would one a gift. Typically, only Rigases who bear the blood of Rigel can receive this gift, but there exists a few exceptions; Elespeth is one such exception. For her heroics in service to the Rigas name, she has been granted the title Honorary Rigas by merit, and later, Rigas by marriage. In ceremony, she earned the right to carry Rigel’s boon of longevity. I myself was present for the momentous occasion. An impromptu festival was held in her honor. The last of them, in fact, before we abandoned our homeland in exodus to eventually settle here in Galeyn. Chara Rigas organized the event. Knowing my propensity for party-planning, she requested my contribution, to which I obliged.”
His attention drifted at his utterance of the controversial Rigas woman whose past relations with Ari still dredged up complex feelings, none of which he could accurately parse. He had done so well to expunge her from his mind in the decades following her active vanishment as his long-time companion, but her popularity spiked when she ascended as Rigas Head, and ignoring her fast became an impossibility. All the forgotten turmoil bobbed to the surface like jetsam that hasn’t quite waterlogged into the oceanic depths of oblivion, forcing him to confront her—in a political capacity, at least. As Rigas Head and Canaveris Head, they often convened on matters concerning official D’Marian business. Though he kept their engagements entirely professional, in private, he could only devise one method in coping over her brusque reemergence in his life: to sculpt her likeness. Again and again and again, until he grew so sick of the sight that his hang-ups would miraculously vanish just as her regard for him had done all those years ago. It had been a start, a step in the right direction, but it was not enough. The mere whisper of her name haunted him, penetrating even through the thick pall of inebriation. Luckily, his enchanting guest and her rapt, captivating smile as he explained the dynamics of mage families and their secrets to delaying decay and death redirected him from lingering on his unpleasant associations for long. He was easily able to regain his footing regarding the subject.
“If you are wondering how to obtain an age-retardant solution for yourself, through less objectionable and immoral means...well, I suppose you can ingratiate yourself towards Alster Rigas—if you do not mind beseeching his good favor. However, I will advise that he can grant you a Rigas lifespan, which differs from a Canaveris lifespan. You will age roughly four times slower than the average human cycle, but we Canaverises age at only half that rate. The story behind our extended years stems from our magic. Earth mages draw strength from the land. Our direct ties to this plane and our solemn pledge as its arbiters have granted us the endurance to mitigate and manipulate our aging process, but the results are finite. Oh, have I long dreamed to grasp the coveted Rigas panacea, but to no avail.” To age in tandem with Chara. That had been his previous wish...trampled to an unrecognizable pulp by the woman about whom he had made so fervent and foolish a wish. Now, he yearned for a longer life because he wanted to take his years and add the years that Casimiro had been denied. In tribute to his brother, he would, literally, live twice the life if possible.
But what he failed to tell Nia was...there was little guarantee his curse would allow him to grow old and fulfilled. The constant stresses his body had endured for decades was bound to exact their toll—according to the opinions of several experts. But what concerned him at the moment was for Nia to circumvent a short or even average existence. Live long and live well. Free of hunger, free of want...and free of tyranny.
“I would not fret about the issue for now, Nia. You traverse a path that many others before you have tread, with favorable results. Look no further than Stella D’Mare for your answer. The Garden City, the Jewel of the Sea...The Eternal City. Oh yes, it gained the latter moniker for a reason. Many able mages have conceived of numerous ways of cheating death. We are among them. If you would like, I will gladly contact some of these rumored individuals, as I have no doubt they currently reside here, in the settlement.”
Happy to ditch the topic in lieu of more exciting prospects, Ari welcomed the transition from clothed to disrobed, conversational to carnal. Much though he deferred to the expert, knowing how well his attempts to replicate the only sex-related encounter he’d experienced went the last time they met in physical engagement, he worried that she would derive no pleasure from his lack of contribution. Nonetheless, he banished that frayed thread of worry back to the bobbin whence it unfurled, and he took a calculated risk: he surrendered. He surrendered to the sensations tickling his tip and pumping out its own heartbeat. He surrendered to the welcome heat costing his extremities like hot wax. He surrendered to the rhythms introduced by his partner as she galloped on his lap, a Master horse-tamer in addition to Master Alchemist. He tried to synchronize with her tempo, but he did not know the steps, or he had simply forgotten how to waltz. Not the first time he ceased functioning in her arms.
But this...this dysfunction was entirely different! She slid on him and over him like a well-loved ring, snug and comfortable, and, in those euphoric few seconds, he dissolved into slurry. There was no quantifying the magnitude of two complementary parts fulfilling their purpose, no calculation to tabulate or treatise to draft. No song to compose...and no art to create. On the contrary, one could compare the culmination, the altitude, the thinning air and the resulting gasps, as a performative art. And for how it made him feel, similar to achieving a peak flow state in the height of creative ingenuity, when the universe collided and chaos made sense, it was art that inflated him, and it was art that trembled from his lips as inspiration streamed out, quick as it streamed in, and sailed off to the ether in search of another deserving candidate to touch. Sad as he was to bid it farewell, the crashing return to earth, entwined in the embrace of a woman who truly invested her all into his happiness, was just as sacred and invigorating to him as the spasmodic ecstasy preceding it.
Slumping over in Nia’s supportive hold, he rested his head on her shoulder, using the short reprieve to recover his breath for the honor of speaking aloud his praises and to shower her with...with...
“It would be indecent of me to profess my unabiding love for you directly after sex,” he managed to say after a few moments’ pause, “and while drunk, to boot, so in exchange, please accept my sincerest of thank yous. For your professionalism, patience, grace and...please stop me before I go on. In sum, I...thank you for everything. If this remains my sole excursion, then I will be satisfied, having experienced it,” he laid a hand against her cheek, gazing into her eyes meaningfully, “with you, Anetania Ardane.”
To help whittle down the intensity swarming about their buzzing forms like a legion of bees, Ari flipped his tongue to reference her casual remarks, a requirement for grounding one’s spirit back to the material plane. Alas, even in this endeavor, he fell just shy of the mark. “While I applaud you for your forward-thinking and preventative alchemy, I’ve my own preventative measures in place. You see, I am sterile. A side-effect of sharing my human vessel with inorganic components, the physicians believe. I, ah, it is of no matter.” To lighten the load, he laughed away the reality. “I was never to marry or to lay with a woman, let alone procreate. My brother secured our legacy by siring seven offspring, and I shared in the responsibility by helping to raise them. My nephews and niece are practically my own, in a sense. But ah, if I may be so bold to ask,” he clumsily shifted the topic, unable to stay silent on her issue regarding her inability to climax, “is there...is there anything I could do to help you? Anything at all? It seems a trite unfair that you cannot benefit from this arrangement in quite the same way as I have.”
But before he could hear her response, his eyelids grew heavy and his head lolled on her shoulder anew as he succumbed to sound slumber, secure and happy in Nia’s arms—as evidenced by the soft smile left behind on his lips.
“I’ll admit, I don’t know the first thing about healing. I already made a mistake in believing Gardeners to be ‘blessed.’ No, that was a very simplistic statement, and probably an ignorant one.” Two armed Forbanne guardsmen on patrol approached the Garden pathway, saluting to their commander before continuing on their rounds. Haraldur watched their retreating backs, a wistful expression tugging on his haggard face. “Somehow, I thought I could help them, but I don’t even know how, and that feeling extends to myself, too. Under my watch, so many have taken their lives. The guilt weighed too heavy for them to bear, and I’m partially to blame for not providing them enough support or...leading by example, at the very minimum. I’ve hardly shown them the facets of a healthy, put-together commander. In my failings, I’m sure there are some who think I’ve given up on them, or that I don’t know what I’m doing. Gardeners may not be blessed, as you’ve kindly distinguished for me, but you’ve also pointed out the easy access you have to the proper healing channels via the Night Garden. I suppose I do now, but I’m clueless. This whole time, I’ve been figuring it out on my own, but I still use my Forbanne bringing as a crutch whenever a task seems too...emotionally complex. When I can’t deal with it, I...retreat. Or pretend I’m fine. Growing up, I was taught never to ask for help, show weakness, or to rely on anyone other than our higher-ups and...that reasoning has stayed with me, even after all these years.”
Why was he pouring out his vulnerabilities to this young woman and near-stranger, when he had difficulties doing the same thing around Vega? Did he sense her potential for soothing internal wounds, a role the Night Garden hand-picked for her? Or did she simply strike him as familiar? Too familiar? Like the tragic Sybaian healer, Shayl, who relieved him of his pain, albeit temporarily, and died from a combination of its intensity and outside stressors? At her grave, he lamented her choice. If she hadn’t helped him, would she be alive? This girl before him, fresh as a rosebud, who admitted to having no ties, no family, only a singular purpose, gave him enough pause to question his intentions. Was he reaching out to her for that reason alone? Another chance to redo his exchanges with someone who represented Shayl in age and vocation? If I don’t resist help, if I don’t resist my feelings, maybe this time, it will go well...
“I’m talking too much,” he puffed out an apologetic sigh. “Disregard my chatter. We may not know exactly why the Night Garden chooses its stewards. Maybe it felt sorry for me, too. Maybe my ‘rebirth’ in the Garden had something to do with it. Or maybe it wanted to explain my heritage so I could pass it on to my children. Even if we don’t know the answers and can only speculate, I think you will make an excellent Gardener in the task you’ve been selected for.” For emphasis, he reached out to place a supportive hand on her small shoulder and offered an encouraging smile. “It’s hard, making it alone in the world so young. But you’re in the right place and it sounds like you have a strong sense of belonging, which will carry you far on days when you’re feeling lonely or lost. I...think I understand, now. Why every Gardener I’ve encountered looks so...serene. They’re not removed from their negative emotions. They just...know the Garden will care for them in any capacity. It’s faith. It’s belief.”
Letting his hand slide away, he veered closer towards the palace, not wanting to overstay his welcome. “Well, you have another charge to see to. But thank you in advance. For your help. And remember, if you’re looking for companionship of any sort, my door’s open to you. I have two very affectionate children who will love you to pieces.”
Nodding his farewell, he turned and reentered the palace en route to his family, leaving Breane to reconvene with Teselin and a very distraught Rowen. The latter was found still clawing at the ground, as though to exhume the ashes of the people she killed and sculpt them back to life with dirt and tears. However acute her position of distress, she wasn’t so far gone as not to hear Teselin’s voice attempting to overcome the din of her sobs. As the summoner spoke, Rowen listened. She swallowed her tears and registered the words as best as her overwhelmed mind could decipher. The long-departed Rowen of reason wasn’t available to coldly dissect Teselin’s appeal based on their most cogent merits, but emotions seldom operated in the realm of logic or good sense anyway. Instead, she honed in on the most helpful nuggets of her advocate’s argument: concrete hope. Sureties she could believe would transpire, if she stepped forward and forged them into the shape she desired. Soon, Breane reentered the scene to add to the list of appealing goals to strive toward, and eventually, Rowen had enough ideas to abandon her tears and slowly, but shakily, rise to her feet.
“...Hadwin will smile if I give him that ugly scarf. The oaf. That’s a guarantee. Are there any other...guarantees? What I mean is...if I do something nice for someone, who can you guarantee will receive it well? They have to be people I haven’t previously hurt, or people who can work with me, despite what I’ve done. People like,” she tilted her head at her two-person entourage, “like you. If I target them first, I could work my way to other relationships I’ve damaged.” She rubbed her runny nose with the back of her hand. “...I like having a plan. Let’s work on a plan. I don’t want to sit in silence with these sins right now. I don’t understand them. And...I don’t want...to be alone,” she flinched as she uttered what to the prideful loner was a very difficult request to confess. “So,” she turned her pleading, overbright eyes to Teselin and Breane, “can I trust you to stay with me? I would like that, too. To see more beautiful things. If I even can see them, anymore. Or,” she looked over her shoulder at the four graves, bracing herself for the plants of the fallen to follow Haraldur Sorde’s model and spout their spirited, vitriolic commentary, “if I deserve to.”
