“Surely you don’t mean to say that a blind man does not make good company.” The necromancer joked, and put a hand over his heart, as if he were deeply hurt by the comment. “Really, Alster. Your days of feigning interest in favor of saving face truly are gone, aren’t they? Amazing, how brutally war and hardship can change people. Or have I simply become more despicable and intolerable because you’ve been forced to spend more time around me? You’re right, Tivia; were it not for that familiar voice, I really wouldn’t have known it was him.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he shook his head. “For what it’s worth, Alster, it took Tivia as long to convince me to reach out to you as it likely did to convince you to come see me. I’d have been more than happy to save you the travel and meet you at the palace, but she seemed to think that that would be a very poor decision, given how aggressively the Night Garden attacked me… and I seem to think she is right. Hope coming all this way wasn’t a terrible inconvenience.”
The sound of a body taking a seat beside him on the inactive fountain alerted him that the Rigas caster clearly didn’t find him as so despicable that he’d decided to rescind his former offer to help. Appreciating the heads up (his other senses had yet to compensate for his lack of sick, in sensing his surroundings), he let Alster take his injured arm. He could hardly feel the cold steel weight against his damaged, sensory-deprived skin.
“Good to know that my sister is doing relatively well. After hearing about her little outburst toward the Night Garden, and her ill-fated hope that our dear father would return, I was beginning to wonder if the Night Garden hadn’t made a terrible error in judgment, sparring her while smiting me.” He only knew the details because Lilica, on visiting him once, had told him; had been very transparent, in no way flaunting her status over his misfortune. It was the most civil she had ever willingly acted toward him; and he’d been too shocked at her utter transparency and humility to make any snide follow-up comments. “Though, really, it isn’t quite fair for either of us to blame the Night Garden for my condition, Alster.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle at the Rigas caster’s attempt to slight him; the change in character was nothing less of amusing, and frankly, he was far too impressed to be hurt. “If we’re going to get picky about details and what happened to whom, let us just call a spade a spade. I’m not the Night Garden’s reject; I’m my own father’s reject. Though ‘reject’ is something of a status that even you can attest to, am I right?” He raised his eyebrows, as Alster placed his dead arm back in his lap. “Wasn’t it not so long ago that Stella D’Mare wanted you no more than Galeyn wants me? I’m not criticizing your past, Aslter; though your comebacks do have something to be desired. Keep working on them. Any in any case…” He rolled his shoulders back and looked skykward. Though blindfolded, he could tell it must have been sunny by the warmth on his face. “Who are you to say that if I hadn’t lost my sight, and if the majority of Galeynians didn’t fear me for what the Night Garden did, that I wouldn’t be making my own efforts to connect? You’re forgetting, this is my home, too. Or, at least, I’d had hoped it would be.”
At the Rigas Caster’s prognosis that it would heal on its own, Vitali detected in that statement alone that Alster truly didn’t wish to offer any further help, even if he could make a difference. Well, he’d accept that; if the injury was one that would repair itself, then he was not of a mind to kowtow to this would-be healer to help further. And perhaps he wouldn’t have, save for the fact that Alster had not given him any semblance of a timeline or how long the task might take… and that he was confident he could speed the healing. For a price. “Cute, Alster. But necromancy has less to do with tissues and more to do with life and death. Still…” He pursed his lips curiously. “I’m listening. What is it you’d have me do?”
Vitali listened to Alster’s most recent encounter with the Skyknight princess; one whom he hadn’t seen since he’d used her on a rather crucial errand, during the war with Andalari. Of course, he remembered what he had done, and what it had cost her. At the time, as someone newly resurrected, the princess was still vaguely connected to tendrils of death. Enough that he was able to have her cross halfway and return safely; well, relatively safely. The life of her roc was truly no fault of his, as the giant avian had acted up during the ritual, at which point death had taken it. But what Alster was talking about now… if he had, in fact, seen what he was so convinced he’d seen… well, that was indeed curious.
“I did temporarily re-open that gate when the Skyknight aided me on a little errand. Not in full; that would be reckless and wouldn’t have served me at all. Just enough to re-establish a connection with death.” He began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But, here is the thing, Alster: I did not see to it that it would stay open, because even if I’d wanted to, it would be impossible. The magic that I used when I brought her back from the dead is powerful. That scar on her chest, which she will have for the rest of her life, literally ties her to the plane of the living until her body is rendered, naturally or otherwise, to no longer support life. The rune literally antagonizes that gate that you say you’ve seen; and so, it should have closed itself, by now. Long before now, in fact.”
Straightening his posture, he rubbed his injured arm, a habit that he’d developed in hopes that increased circulation would somehow bring life back to it. “There are only two circumstances under which I can see this happening. The first is if a resurrection went wrong; often young or amateur necromancers don’t get it just right, which opens the door to any array of nasty side-effects. And that, I can assure you, is not the case. I am very adept in my field, and have had more years to perfect it than you might imagine. Had anything gone wrong, I can guarantee, she’d have already returned to death by now.
“Meaning the only other possibility that I can think of is that your Eyraillian princess is, herself, keeping that gate open.” He anticipated the silence that followed from the two Rigas casters; that it could not possibly be true, for why would someone want to maintain a connection with death when their desire was to be part of life? “She may not realize that she is doing it, but I’ve seen it happen before. People having been resurrected who’d have preferred to remain dead. People who’ve been resurrected yet cannot reconcile the deaths of loved ones, who were not so lucky as to be brought back. Or, even people who find themselves inexplicably drawn to the allure of the other side. To seeing and hearing and feeling the dead around them… arguably, a less common phenomenon, but a possibility no less.”
Shifting his position to switch the fold of his legs upon the uncomfortable fountain edge, the necromancer shook his head. “Now, I cannot say for sure what is causing the residual nature of this gate, or why it is persisting--and worsening, as you say, without seeing the princess for myself. And I do mean ‘seeing’ very loosely.” He chuckled, as he seemed to be doing often at his own misfortune, lately. Perhaps a defense mechanism against settling into despair. “Though I have an inkling of a suspicion that I would be welcome in Eyraille, and even if I was, that mercenary has a death promise for me. So you will have to rely on your own appraisal, I’m afraid. But I am willing to bet that Sir Vega Sorde is her own worst enemy, right now, whether or not she even realizes it.”
Expelling a long sigh, as if that assessment has exhausted him, the necromancer scratched the back of his neck. “Depending on how fiercely she is keeping the gates open, you may need to exert that mind-magic of yours to help her find its opening in order to close it. I warn you, though, you may find it very difficult to shift someone’s sentiments in a different direction. Clearly, there are some strong feelings and beliefs running a current beneath the princess’s skin… and if she isn’t even aware of them, then bringing them to light to challenge them could be a trial, in and of itself. Shouldn’t be impossible, but I cannot attest to its success rate, as I’ve never seen it done. Though I have full confidence that the determined and caring Alster Rigas will find a way to come through for his friends once again. Now, speaking of coming through…”
Vitali turned toward where he expected Alster sat. “I’ve told you what I know, given my limited access to the affected person in question. So…” He pulled his hand away from his injured arm, which sat, heavy and useless in his lap. “Care to help a lame man out and restore function to this damned limb?”
Vega awoke from her dream the next morning, to find Haraldur’s arms still tightly around her. Afraid to let her go; afraid she might grow cold, again, when in fact the heavy blankets, nightgown, and the mercenary’s body heat had brought a deep flush and thin sheen of perspiration to her skin. Whatever Daphni had done for her, the other day, it had certainly done wonders for circulation. “Haraldur.” She gently shook her lover awake, hope brimming in her wide, blue eyes. “Alster made contact--in my dream. He’s asked I send a roc to take him back to Stella D’Mare; and I agreed, but asked that he come here, first… there may yet be hope. Maybe… maybe he can help me. Help us.”
Jumping out of bed so quickly one would’ve thought she’d been burned, the Eyraillian princess tore off her nightgown, and quickly donned a tunic, leggings, and boots, her hair still a wild cascade of copper waves down her back. She didn’t bother to tie it back in her usual braid, which she pinned to the back of her neck to keep it tamed. “I’m going to send the rocs, immediately. Two, as treading unknown territory could be dangerous for a single rider. It seems he found the lost kingdom that he sought; it’ll be the first time anyone has traveled within its perimeter since they found it.”
Before he could comment either way, the Skyknight dashed out of the room and made for the stables, where her Skyknights would begin their training shortly. Immediately finding two of her more experienced veteran knights, she hastily explained the situation required, and apologized profusely for the short notice on such a sudden errand. Of course, both agreed without hesitation, and she spent a good portion of the morning detailing the specifics of the directions that Alster had given her in her dream. She hadn’t forgotten a word he’d said; not for the magnitude of the urgency that coursed through her veins.
Shortly afterward, she found Haraldur and joined him for breakfast. Despite the surge of hope that had illuminated her eyes earlier that morning, Vega’s face was drawn, and decidedly more void of color that it had been just hours ago. Daphni had been right when she’d said that her damage control would not last; they needed Alster’s help, and fast. But right now, that wasn’t what weighed on the princess’s mind as she picked at her food. “...I need to tell Caris. I can’t keep it hidden; not now…” She sighed, without looking up from her plate. “And not just about the pregnancy. I need… to tell him what happened to me. And why I’ve sent two rocs to bring an ally to Eyraille. He’ll be livid; but he’ll resent me all the more for keeping it from him, if he finds out another way.”
Finally looking up, she met the mercenary’s soft gaze. “I’m going to talk to him. You… don’t have to come, if you don’t want to. But he’s my brother, and I owe it to him to keep him in the know… he’ll be angry with me, Haraldur, but not you. In fact, when he finds out what you’ve done for me… you might find he respects you even more.”
Pushing away from the table, Vega made her way slowly to the king’s business chambers, where she knew she would find Caris diligently tying up the last details of the festival, which the kingdom was soon to celebrate. Sure enough, the young king sat at his desk, his hands busily scrawling over papers with a quill. He didn’t look up when she entered, after a polite knock. “So I know I’ve been harmlessly joking with your mercenary lover about dressing as the Fool for the festival,” he began, without putting down his quill, “but we’ve yet to find someone to fill the roll, and he’s broad-shouldered enough that he’d fit the costume… what are the chances that you can convince him? I’m willing to compensate for the utter humiliation.”
“I’ll be honest, Caris, chances are not good.” Vega ventured a slight smile that did not reach her eyes. “But… I’m not here to talk to you about the festival, right now. I want you to know what happened to me… during the war with Andalari, when myself and the Skyknights lent aid to Tadasun. I did not tell you sooner because I didn’t know how to… but, truly, there is no right way to do it.”
This was enough for the young king to put down his quill and look up, his youthful features twisted with suspicion. “You withheld from me.” Not a question. His voice was flat, and far from impressed. “Why now, then, Vega?”
“Because now, it is imperative that you know everything that happened… and everything that followed. Please, stay seated.” She sighed, herself finding a seat. “I don’t know how long this is going to take…”
And so, the Eyraillian princess explained it all to him. From the moment she’d met Haraldur, to how their attraction and feelings developed to the point where the mercenary could not bear to leave her dead when he’d found her that way. From being resurrected, to losing her memory, and, most painful of all, to losing her beloved roc forever. From the residual death that still gripped her, to discovering she was--impossibly--pregnant… to where she was, now. Alive, and carrying twins, with no guarantee that they would survive. Which, of course, led her to explain that she had sent for a valuable ally, just that morning, who was her unborn children’s greatest chance at survival.
By the time she’d finished, she felt heavy, exhausted, and out of breath. And Caris, sitting across from her, his spine straight and hands clenched into fists, was positively colourless in the face. Several beats of uncomfortable silence passed, before he said anything in return. Frankly, the silence was worse than his ire…
Finally, when he did speak up, they were not the words that she’d expected to hear. “So… now, then,” he seemed to struggle with finding the right words, let alone what he wanted to say. “Are you… going to be alright?”
No ire; no vitriol, no criticism, nothing that she had braced herself for. The only sentiment that she felt from her brother was genuine, unadulterated concern. She wanted, then and there, to reassure him. But he deserved honesty, not coddling. “I don’t know,” she told him at last, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I would be… but if there’s a chance I am going to lose these children…” Vega shook her head, and raked a hand through her copper locks. “I’ve already lost Aeriel. I don’t know… I don’t know how I will bear losing babies that have not yet been born.”
“And what if your health, though? Is this why you’ve been so withdrawn? So pale and cold all the time?” Caris looked positively stricken, yet made a solid effort to hide it behind a weak stoic disposition. “Can these elite healers who we’ve welcome into our kingdom not do a ting to help you?”
“They can. And they are. But Alster Rigas may be the only one with the right skills to make a difference for good.” Vega sighed. “I’m sorry; I know this is far too much to take in at once. But, even if I could have hidden my condition from you forever… I knew I couldn’t hide this.” She placed a protective hand over her abdomen. “I want you to know I’ll should the shame, Caris. If these children can be born… it will not reflect on you, I promise.”
“Your unborn children aren’t my concern Vega. You are.” The young king’s voice was quiet. Sincere. “I want you healthy… I want you back. Then, we can worry about a couple of unlawful babies. Frankly, you’re probably doing me a favor. It’s not as though I have the time to fall in love and find a wife who will bear my children.” He snorted. “Yours may be the only Sorde offspring that this kingdom sees. So, once your health is secured… you have my word that I will do everything in my power to secure theirs, as well.”
Alster steeled himself for the unfiltered babbling of his unfortunate 'patient,' who seemed determined to talk his way into full health, for how eagerly he filled in any lapse of silence between them. Though he was well-practiced in the art of flippancy and false-charm, he clung to the routine of his old persona--a persona, which, in the aftermath of his body-altering attack, he may never hope to regain. Yet, he wielded his denial like a sword, though its blade had broken, and he charged into the field, confident he could slay his enemies. While he felt a little pity for the man so desperate for normalcy, that he requested his help to get there, there was not enough pity to forget what the necromancer had done to his friends, and to himself.
"Oh yes, I am well-aware of my status among my family. That's why I'm able to see your situation for what it is. From one reject to another. It hurts, doesn't it?" But any spite that tinged his words had lost its prevalence, as he stared beyond, at the thoroughfare from whence he arrived. "Shunned by family, despite all your efforts to make amends. To become something, someone, different. Accomplishing it, in a sense, only for your family to reject you even more fervently than before. Yes, I understand, Vitali. Understand in you a desire to connect, and to be more than you are. But you can't do that as you are. That's your prerogative, though. And while I can't deny the efforts you made so far, you'll need to continually, consistently make them. That's all I'll say on the subject, lest you start yawning and calling me a prosaic lecturer who thinks he's profound."
Thankfully, the necromancer obliged Alster's request for information on Vega's condition. He listened, rapt with attention, though he resisted the urge to slip a remark or two within Vitali's long discourse. And when he began to explain the reasons that the resurrected would maintain an open gate to the realm of the dead, he nodded earnestly, awareness flooding his memories of a past that seemed so long ago. It was before he returned the Serpent to Its home, when they were all stationed at the decimated Tadasuni camp.
"It's Aeriel," he said, with bold surety. "She saw the roc soon after she returned from your...'excursion,'" he tried to keep his voice as impartial as possible, "She followed the ghost of her--all the way to the edge of the pit that Andalari had created. She almost fell through, thinking the roc awaited her at the bottom. I've seen their deep-set connection, in her memories. About the only consistent joy in her life, as believed by Vega Sorde. The impact of her death...must have been catastrophic. This must be why the gate remains open. She's consulting the spirit of Aeriel, as a means of coping. After all, she never has to say goodbye, if her trusted companion is always near. And if I am right," he dug his segmented digits into his good hand, "then it will be no small feat convincing her to let go."
"I agree," Tivia propped her hands against the fountain and leaned backwards. "you have a task ahead of you. Even with Haraldur to support her; even amongst her friends. She's going to need every hand pushing her out of death's grasp."
"I know," Alster sighed. Even she will begin to realize that if she doesn't release her hold on the dead, she'll only spiral there herself. But maybe it's what she wants." He was made all too aware of his heartbeat. A steady pulse, but one which had seen the precipice of death many times. It had not been there, but it craved the other side, nonetheless. He craved it. "Wouldn't a soul that has experienced death look forward to the return?"
"Tell that to Haraldur." Tivia's voice faded into a somber whisper. "Tell him that Vega should die because it's best for her, and see what happens."
"I'm not saying that she should die, but that her soul may yearn for the release, as a thirsty man needs water." With the sudden heaving of his shoulders, he extricated from himself the weight of what approached him, from Eyraille and Stella D'Mare, both. "But...I'll find out all the details once I reach Eyraille. Vitali," he twisted his body to face the man's limp arm, "true to my word, I'll heal your arm. I'm going to lift it, again." As before, he took the injured appendage in his hold. "And yes; I am essentially urging your dead tissue to come to life. My apologies for defining the process as necromantic. I am about to start; fair warning, it may feel invasive. Relax, and do not speak to me unless it's an emergency."
Closing his eyes, Alster focused on the affected tissue, which his hands had wrapped into a makeshift cocoon. Constricting the injury as if expressing pus, his palms assimilated the bumps of scar-tissue, and massaged along the point of damage. As he would delving into one's mind, he did the same for Vitali, only he did not travel to the subconscious dream-state. His will went beyond, to the parts which constructed the necromancer into his physical form. He rode along his spinal column, searching for the correct side-path. Once found, he shot through the map of nerves, and at last, had reached a familiar bundle. He'd only seen it from the outside, but within, it resembled a desiccating nebula, its colors bleached and stretching into oblivion. Chthonic magic surged from Alster's being, interacting with the dead and twisted pieces. He removed their debris, absorbing what had died into himself. Taking, draining, until what remained was clean and dressed. Within its dead, new life bloomed, like shoots from the Spring earth. It weaved among the old, and began to stitch its galaxy of nerves back together, into a uniform whole.
Pleased with the results, Alster receded from the electric, glowing place and opened his eyes to the world outside. Though he was not exhausted, as were the benefits of his Serpent-granted vitality, the ravaged ends of his arm vised, like the clamps of a steel trap. He gasped, but slowly released his grip on Vitali.
"It appears to have been successful," he said, resting his hand above the elbow of his prosthesis. "Your body took to my magic quite well. The cells are regenerating. At this rate, you should have full use of your arm within the next week or so." With a small grunt, he rose to his feet. "Well, I should return to the heart of Galeyn. Who knows when Eyraille's rocs are scheduled to arrive? I want to bid my farewells to Lilica and the Gardeners, while I have the chance."
"I don't foresee you dying this time," Tivia chanced, with a half-smile. "So whatever happens in Stella D'Mare, you'll survive it."
"That reminds me," he turned again, to Vitali. "Your sister is there. Teselin. Under Chara's advisement. She's offered to summon a tidal wave to decimate Mollengard's fleet. I take it she is young, and not in full command of her abilities. Elespeth seems worried for her. Wants me to help her. Would you like me to relay a message?"
The night following Elias and Daphni's grim prognosis was one of the most difficult that Haraldur, in his post-Forbanne life, would endure. In silence, he swept the bereaved woman into his arms, pressed his lips to the back of her neck, and closed his eyes. But no relief found him in sleep. Conjoined, half-fevered nightmares assailed him, drifting, as he was, in an in between state: awake and in slumber, his eyes fluttering with the strain of keeping shut. A pressure built up in the mask behind his eyes, throbbing and squeezing its ache that pumped in tandem to his racing heartbeat. The dreams that he'd collected burrowed out of his resting mind, and manifested into his conscious state, parading around the bed with discordant, chaotic timelessness. It was hard to tell if what he experienced was real, a hallucination--somewhere between both. He tried to touch those pesky will-o'-the-wisps, but his entire body was paralyzed. And so, he was forced to witness the carnage. His unborn children, slithering out of Vega's ravaged womb--the womb which his arms were encircling. They were black with muck, crusted with blood, their tiny forms mangled by the violent journey out of their mother. They cried. Beneath their emaciated forms, their faces were blue from asphyxiation. Yet, they continued to scream. For him. Pabbi. Pabbi. Help us. Mamma is dead. She's dead.
He tried to wake up, but he couldn't; he was already awake. Awake, but frozen. Helpless to watch as the babies crawled on him, their tiny hands pawing at his face. Their screams were unearthly. Their eyes, empty of life. The stink of the muck clung to him like sticky tar. Dead. Dead. All dead. We're all dead.
On and on this went, until the sun brightened the chambers, and Vega stirred out of his arms. His eyes, which had closed in the night, opened to find the Eyraillian royal hovered atop him, her face rosy with the work that Daphni had done. But that was not what stymied him. Her entire mien was...peppy. Enthusiastic. She bounded out of bed, and flew into her clothes, as though she were a roc trying to adopt human sensibilities. Soon, the reasons for her mania became clear, and he found himself sitting up in bed, adopting a modicum of that self-same energy. He drew to his feet, and bounded over to his clothes, which were thrown on a pile on the floor.
"Alster visited you? Last night? I must say...that was quick. Are you sure it was him? I'm not doubting you, but," this sounds too good to be true, was his unsaid implication.
By the time he slipped his trousers on, Vega was already dressed and halfway out the door.
He saw her again, at breakfast. At the table, he was armed with only a tankard of potent ale. No food before him; a sign of the utmost concern, considering Haraldur always had a bottomless appetite. When Vega stepped into their private dining area, pallid and shivering with cold, he pushed out of his chair and met her within his arms, as was his instinct, nowadays. Sure enough, her skin had returned to its clammy, corpse-like temperature.
"You want...to tell him?" He kept their body contact but withdrew a little, to search her expression. She was serious. "I...do you think he's ready for this, yet? Could we wait until after the festival? We can reason away Alster's sudden presence in Eyraille; a quick place to rest before he heads for Stella D'Mare. The missing two rocs isn't cause for suspicion. While I know that we have to tell him eventually..." Again, she was marching out of the room, en route to the king's chambers. Helpless but to follow, Haraldur first took a generous swig of his ale, then pursued the resolute woman down the hallway. When they stopped at the closed doors, however, Haraldur shook his head, and backed away and out of sight. "This is between the two of you. My presence may only agitate a very delicate situation, no matter what positive results you think this will have on the king, in relation to me."
For, it was not as though he had saved Vega's life. Saving a life was heroic--but he took her corpse and bargained for its unnatural return to the physical realm. He made an unsavory deal. Disrupted the balance as it related to the fragility of order and chaos. It was possible that once Caris learned the truth, he would shun his sister, thinking of her as nothing less than a wraith. And what would become of Haraldur, the catalyst, the reason that events had spun in such an unprecedented direction? Would he be exiled? Sent to hang? To rot the rest of his days in the dungeons beneath the palace?
"I'll leave you to it," he said, with a shaky smile and a supporting squeeze of his hand upon her shoulder. "I'll be at the training grounds, if either you or him need to find me."
When he reached the supply area at the grounds, Haraldur donned light armor over his outfit, selected a few daggers of good throwing quality, and cradled them in his hands like a lethal bouquet of flowers. Standing afar from the hay-bale targets, he threw, starting from the far left, and working his way down the line, reserving one dagger for each target. He kept at it for hours until his mind existed as nothing more than a living weapon. Fight. Kill. No other thoughts needed. No babies to cry for him. No grave-markers to embed in the soil. No Judgement, come to announce his name. But his muted thoughts did not prevent the arrival of brothers and kings, who were of the same molding. They--him--who targeted him, as he targeted the stationary bales. After sailing his final blade into the final bale, Haraldur turned to face the Eyraillian monarch, and presented him with a bow.
"Your Majesty." The worries he thought he'd left in the supply room threatened to return with a jolt as shocking as the image of those mangled, helpless children, drip drip dripping away into puddles of black tar. "Did she," uncertainty crossed his otherwise staid expression, "did she tell you everything? Is there anything I can do for you? Anything to help you make better sense of what happened? It's difficult to believe. Hell, I wouldn't believe it, myself. But...it's true. All of it is true."
“Ah… her fallen roc. So you believe that is the catalyst, hm?” The necromancer scratched his chin with his uninjured hand pensively. “I’ll be frank, I am not particularly familiar with the bond between a Skyknight and their mount. I’d have thought it to be no more relevant than that of a horse and its rider. But, then again, I have been wrong about many, many things in my extended, wretched life.” Vitali smiled wryly, but it was not out of a mocking or snide nature. It is humorless. “Your cousin here is right. If her Highness, Vega Sorde, still calls upon the spirit of her fallen roc, then she has unwittingly been keeping her foot in death’s door for months, now. Frankly, I am surprised that it has not wreaked more havoc on her body, if you were able to reach her… then again, dreams do not tell all. But…”
He rolled his shoulders back, turning toward the curious Rigas caster, always in a state of yearning to help. “She must be aware, to some extent. Obviously, she sees fit to take care of her body enough that she is maintaining her hold on life. My guess is that she’s been suffering intolerable cold, slugging or dysfunctional organ patterns, and--probably, as you stated you witnessed back at Tadasun--dream-like visions. She is probably seeing and hearing her roc through the crack in the door. That alone would serve as positive reinforcement to continue to nudge that door open. Fair warning, she would be particularly vulnerable to passing through that crack in the door, when she ‘dreams’, at which point she would be irretrievable without the interference of a necromancer. And I have my doubts that Eyraille harbours any resident necromancers. So,” he angled his head. “If these rocs do not arrive anytime, I’d suggest you recommend someone keep vigil over the princess while she sleeps. To snap her out of the trance before she goes too far. Though I have a good feeling that her mercenary lover is already doing just that.”
When the Rigas caster seemed content with what he had told him, it was with great relief that Vitali found he’d keep his promise. Of course, he hadn’t really doubted such, but this new Alster Rigas was capable of things that he never would have expected of the old one. Apathy; perhaps, to an extent, even cruelty. Feeling the dead weight of his arm being lifted again, he hazarded a smile. “Shut my trap until you’re finished; understood,” he agreed, none too eager for anything resembling an invasive procedure, but too keen to regain use of his bum arm to refuse.
And it was, as Alster had said, invasive. Like a parasite, Vitali could feel the Rigas caster’s essence exploring his own inner mechanisms. It resembled a feeling of anxiety, unease in the pit of his stomach, and uncanny warmth down his spine. Yet, slowly, gradually, he began to become aware of more. Of pressure on his arm, as Alster pressed his fingers and hands into it. Of something resembling a knot in a muscle being massaged out by means of magic; re-establishing circulation and functionality, bit by bit. And, with that re-awakening of neural pathways that had been severed, came the return of an old and unwanted friend: pain.
The necromancer wasn’t expecting the blossoming of pain that suddenly bloomed in his injured arm, up and down the damaged nerve which, just moments ago, had been inactive. But it was beginning to awaken, now, and realizing the damage and trauma it had suffered, was particularly unhappy. It was unlike any other pain he’d experienced: sharp and burning and incessant, and without meaning to, he found himself hunching over and clenching his jaw against it, after the Rigas caster relinquished his arm to him once again.
“I’d… say you were indeed successful,” he panted, struggling to keep a lightness in his tone. His stomach turned from the nerve pain, and he kept his breathing even to fight off the nausea. “I can’t remember the last time this arm felt… pain. But that is certainly more than it was feeling before.” And, along with it, the sensation of his fingers twitching, ever so slightly, at his will. Against the agony, which he hoped would soon fade, he smiled. “Many thanks, Rigas caster. It’ll be easier to find my full autonomy again with the use of both arms.”
The blossom of pain searing through his arm was only dulled, briefly, by mention of a familiar name. One that he hadn’t heard in quite some time. Vitali straightened his body very suddenly, turning in Alster’s direction. “Teselin. What in all creation is she doing in Stella D’Mare?” He was asking himself, moreso than the Rigas caster, but hoped that he might have some insight all the same. “And under Chara’s advisement, you say? So, in other words, Chara Rigas has manipulated her way into my younger sister’s vulnerable heart, and now she is hell-bent on performing this dangerous favor.”
Temporarily pushing the nerve pain in his arm to the back of his mind, the necromancer stood. “I haven’t seen Teselin in a very long time; but I can tell you what I know. She is naturally adept in summoning magic--to an extreme point. Energies are attracted to her and seek her out like she is a magnet. To the point that when she was very, very young, she managed to actually materialize the beasts that sought her in her nightmares. She made them real.” His typically conversational tone had turned stone-cold and serious. “And that was what she was capable of when I could count her age on one hand. I can only imagine that her strength in her ability has grown along with her, whether or not she directly puts it into practice… although, whether or not she has been practicing, power like that does not stay put when it is ignored…
“I can tell you this much. If she is anything now like she was as a child, there is no changing her mind when her heart is set on something. Sounds to me like she is invested in being part of the solution for liberating Stella D’Mare; hell, maybe she has come to master her skills, and I am worrying for nothing But know this: nothing that she does is small-scale. For a summoner, it is all or nothing; not unlike my own practice. Life or death, but no in-between. Yet my skills are limited to the dead… hers can touch anything. I only hope that Chara Rigas knows precisely what she is asking for.”
At Alster’s inquiry, into whether or not there was a message that he would like to relay, the necromancer had to pause to consider. It was no mystery that he wasn’t exactly a saint toward his own family, if what he had done to his other sister--Lilica--in the past, was any indication. And he made no claims to be a good brother, and to Teselin, he hadn’t been; not when he hadn’t sought after or so much as thought of the girl in years. But, for Alster to know that she was his sister… It only stood to reason that she had dropped his name. How or why remained a mystery; but it was clear he’d been on the forefront of of her mind recently. For what reason… who knew? Was she looking for him? Had she known he’d been present in Stella D’Mare?
“I have no advice to offer her, I’m afraid.” He said at last, shaking his head. “Tell her where I am, if she is seeking me, for whatever reason. I do not know what would have brought her to Stella D’Mare. I suppose, banal as it sounds…” The necromancer sighed through his nose. “Tell her to be careful. However much she might want to help, it is not worth risking her life.”
Taking a seat again, he gripped his newly healing arm tightly with his good hand, struggling to keep the burdensome pain from his face. “One last request--much though I’m sure it is just as satisfying for you to know I’m in well-deserved pain, as it was to heal my arm, might you see if you can send our Dawn Warrior friend my way with her magic pain-siphoning needles? Just in the event that the agony lasts, until my arm has healed…”
Watching the Rigas caster ride away on his horse, bound for the heart of Galeyn, the necromancer took a seat at the side of the fountain again. And he dropped the mask he’d been wearing to hide the full extent of the pain. “Forgive me, Tivia, but I don’t think I can ride out, just yet…” He confessed, breathing through the pain of his newly awakening nerves. “Might be worth considering finding a place in this neck of the village to spend the night, until this pain subsides… if it subsides.” And as an afterthought, he added, with a pained smile, “If I didn’t know better… I’d almost think he made it hurt, on purpose.”
Later that evening, Alster met with Lilica and Sigrid, to explain that he’d made contact with Vega, and would be leaving Galeyn as soon as the rocs arrived. Lilica fully understood, of course, but a modicum of disappointment could be detected in her dark eyes. While she had been making an effort to build a rapport with the kingdom that now belonged to her, along with trying to better understand the intricacies of the Night Garden, it stood to reason that the chthonic mage still felt very much alone in her own home, without her friends. But she was not about to ask him to reconsider for his own sake. “I will inform those who need to know about the arrival of Eyraille’s rocs,” she assured Alster. “So that they are not startled and do not act untoward. I believe it is these peoples’ desire that Galeyn remain relatively hidden from the world at large, for now, so I do hope that Eyraille can maintain secrecy.” These people, she had said. Not her people. Lilica might have found her home, but she had yet to feel as though she belonged.
“Do you know if they are sending a single roc to retrieve you? Or… multiple?” Sigrid had asked, all of a sudden. “Because if there are means to transport more than one person… I’d like to go with you. According to Tivia… my kin resides in Eyraille. Haraldur, she said. I…” She trailed off for a moment, trying not to sound too desperate or insistent. “I’d like to reconnect with him… if it is possible. Furthermore, I am not sure that there is much that I can do for you, here in Galeyn, Lilica. My own contribution is this damned sword; and it has so far brought me nothing but pain.”
“You needn’t explain yourself, Sigrid. Go and find Haraldur. I’m doing much better than before.” She explained, hazarding a smile. “The fevers aren’t as aggressive. And I have all of the Gardeners to help me if I need it. Anyway, it was never your intention to stay here; only to accompany us.”
“I appreciate your understanding,” the Dawn warrior nodded solemnly. It was odd, seeing this small woman in a new light. If her father had, in fact, been a king, then that now made her a Queen--and yet, no one addressed her as such. Many seemed to recognize her authority and the efforts she was making to help heal this kingdom, but there was still hesitation throughout Galeyn to fully accept her as their new monarch. Perhaps it had something to do with her rampage in the Night Garden, some time ago; or, more simply, perhaps they were reluctant to let go of their former King, whose presence still resonated in the atmosphere.
It wasn’t her business; but Sigrid did hope that both Lilica and Galeyn learned to acclimatize to one another. “We’ll keep an eye out for the rocs. In the meantime,” she pushed a sigh from her lungs, and shouldered her bag of tiny needles and tinctures. “I suppose I’ll go and tend to the necromancer. Nerve pain and be excruciating; and it will be easier for Tivia if he isn’t in agony for the entire time his arm his healing.” With a nod, she headed towards the stables to mount one of Galeyn’s lightning-fast steeds.
Vega and her brother spoke for hours, in the privacy of his business chamber. She filled him in; they problem-solved, and by the time she left that afternoon, there wasn’t a single thing that Caris didn’t know. And not once had he lost himself… Not to anger, or despair, or betrayal. He saw how difficult it was for his sister to confide--and, frankly, he couldn’t blame her. He listened. He reassured her.
And, when all was said and done… he wandered to the wine cellars beneath the palace, selected a fine bottle aged thirty years, and selfishly took that bottle to his bedchambers, where he consumed the entire thing, all by himself.
Hours later, still riding the welcome haze of inebriation, the young king ventured to the training grounds, where he found Haraldur. He did not make any mention of his arrival, simply stood watching the man, who was trying hard to lose himself in his training. When at last the man turned and took notice, Caris offered a nod. “Haraldur.” He greeted him, closing the distance between the them. At the mercenary’s inquiry, he stopped and shook his head, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I don’t know, Haraldur. How am I to know if she has told me everything? How am I to know that there isn’t something else she is hiding--or that you are hiding? I don’t know, anymore. Who to trust. Or if I’m even worthy of trust, if I am only hearing of all of this now, and it has been months since the two of you returned from Tadasun.”
Wandering over to the target, the young king withdrew the knives he’d thrown, all which had hit the very center of the target. “I know that my sister died--and that she came back. And that she almost returned to death in order to buy you freedom, which cost her the life of her roc. And that somehow, despite that her resurrected body should not be able to bear children, she’s… pregnant with twins.” No matter how many times he told himself, or said it out loud, none of it sounded real…
Taking several steps back, the slight sway in his step suggesting his previous rendezvous with a bottle of wine, Caris angled one of the knives and aimed for the target. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know what is going on; and that I never will, whether I like it or not. But the fact that my sister is pregnant out of wedlock is not what concerns me. The fact that I almost lost her--that I did lose her, and I didn’t even know it…” Drawing back, he threw the knife. It found its mark, right in the center of the target. “That will haunt me forever.”
Shaking his head, he took another knife, and let it sail through the air. This one was slightly off its mark. “I should be asking you if there is anything you need. Vega did not tell me outright, but am I correct in assuming you are the father of her children?” The look on Haraldur’s face was all the confirmation he needed, and he nodded once. “I’ll tell you what I told Vega: worry about her health first, and the children second. If they survive, and she carries them to term, then there is no reason to worry about how it might be perceived by the kingdom. In fact, I am certain that it will be taken well. After all, I am not wed, and as such, have no heirs. Nor do I ever foresee the opportunity in my future. Just one other aspect of life of which kingship has deprived me, for lack of time.” He snorted, and this time, the knife he threw was way off its mark. No thanks to having unsteady hands. “Vega did mention the Clematis and Sybaian healers are monitoring her condition and her pregnancy. And that she has sent for a powerful ally from Stella D’Mare to lend aid, as well. I don’t imagine that there is anything within my power that will help right now, but… you can at least rest easy knowing you’ll find no trouble from me.”
Throwing the last knife, which also miraculously found the center, the young king sighed heavily. “...thank you for bringing my sister back to me.” He said to Haraldur, albeit that he sounded exhausted and defeated. No control over his own life, or the lives of those he loved. For someone with so much presumed power, it was all out of his hands. “That’s all that I care about. That she is alive and stays alive.”
Dropping his hands to his sides, Caris sighed. “I’d love to join you right now, but one bottle of wine has my aim off… and it still isn’t enough to turn my mind off. I may go seek another.” As an aside, he added, “You are welcome to join me, if you like.”
At witnessing Vitali's sharp reaction to the healing of his nerves, who was discovering what healing such nerve paralysis entailed (namely, pain), Alster gave the necromancer a cool look from his now standing vantage point. Although he could not see it, other senses would alert him to the sass that continued to pepper his tongue. "Oh, I'm sorry, Vitali. I forgot to mention that in mending your arm, the pain will, as a consequence, return. That was an oversight on my part. You get used to it." Shouldering off his medicines bag, he undid the drawstrings and rifled through its contents. Then, moving to Tivia, he presented a small vat of balm and a syringe in a box of velvet, where a vial of solution also rested. "I've given Tivia some remedies for the pain," he told Vitali. "It's what I use for my arm. The solution, however, is only to be used if the pain is so immense that you find breathing difficult." Like right now, for me, he thought, rolling back the shoulder of his affected arm as a method to "air-scratch" the ache away. "But compared to your eyes, this triumphant return of feeling should feel like little more than the prick of a thorn. Easily combated."
Returning the straps of his bag over his good shoulder, he watched what could be seen of Vitali's partially-obscured face. The mouth, which went momentarily slack, then twitched and pursed its lips together, as if to make up for the quick lapse in thought and action. They were microexpressions, and were easily missed by the layperson, but Alster was paying attention--because he wanted to see if the necromancer would react to news about his sister. He did. It bled into his words, which pumped its sound full in exclamation. He was surprised, a little shocked over the news. And perhaps he was desperate to view more humanity in the despicable man, but he thought he sensed an undercurrent of...concern and high regard for the young woman.
"All I know of Teselin is what I've heard from Chara. And it was brief. That apparently, she traveled to Stella D'Mare looking for you, and that she spoke of you fondly. I have yet to know the reason she's looking for you, but I'm assuming it's not to exact bloody revenge on you for some slight you've incurred on her. No--that's not the vibe I'm getting from you."
When the necromancer detailed a little more of the summoner's power quotient, Alster's eyes grew wide. "She...created life out of nightmares? She's capable of such magic? And it's not eating her apart ? That, I daresay, is power to rival a god. That's far beyond what any being on this earth should conceivably be able to achieve."
"And yet here you stand," Tivia said, matter-of-fact. "By your own objections, an anomaly. One who keeps getting more powerful."
He frowned at his kin. "Even I can't create life out of nothing! Unless," he stopped a moment, to think, "when one dreams, one creates new realms of possibilities. New dimensions--and within those dimensions, pockets of finite energy from which to draw. It's taken from the ether, from the entropy of all existing universes. Which is limitless...though the individual dimension collapses when too much energy is expended from it. One can only give as much as they have. That's why dreams are so ephemeral. They are low-energy manifestations of the mind. Every time you awaken from a dream, you've essentially created and ended the existence of dozens of worlds. It's how I imagine Theomyr Tenebris to have preserved himself so long in the realm of dreams. But instead of drawing from the creative subconscious, he drew himself into it, living there until his energy depleted, and he disseminated. But Teselin," he shook his head, still incredulous from Vitali's news, "is drawing outward. Transplanting existence from one plane to another. The former being something that she created. To accomplish a feat like that is...monumental."
"Looks like you're getting a new friend," Tivia said, with a wry smirk.
But he didn't seem to catch her remark, his head already swarming with the possibilities rampant in Teselin's power, in his own power. He really did need to make this young girl's acquaintance.
"I will pass along your message. And thank you for the assessment," he said after clearing his throat, a little embarrassed over his enthusiastic tangent. "I'll keep my eye out on her. What would you say her disposition is like? Is she one who might use that power to advantageous ends? It sounds as though she's gentle, with a sense of honor about her...In which case, I have to say that some traits don't always run within bloodlines." He stared at Vitali. "But," he sighed, "I've overstayed my welcome. If all goes well in Stella D'Mare, you'll see me once we deliver the evacuees to Galeyn." He played with the loose buckles of his pack straps. "In the meantime, I'll talk to Sigrid and see if she'll want to deign to visit you for her needle therapy. Until then, keep out of the flora, Vitali." After retrieving his horse from the corral, he was gone, back on his route to the heart of Galeyn.
As she watched her kin depart, Tivia swiveled her head towards Vitali when he was the first to break the silence between them. She looked at his healed arm, at the way he cradled it as though it were in its own sling, and nodded, sympathetically. "Say what you will about Alster's treatment of you, but he still hasn't lost his empathy for your plight. He wouldn't have given you this parcel, otherwise. Wouldn't have even 'deigned to visit,' as he so put it. But, "she sighed, and scanned the square with her one good eye, "I think I saw a tiny inn on our way to the square. With Galeyn's dwindled population, there's a high chance it's been abandoned. If not--well, I have some coin with me."
When Alster returned to the palace, he informed Lilica and Sigrid of Eyraille's forthcoming arrival. While he was relieved that he had reached Vega and would soon be reunited with Elespeth in Stella D'Mare, he was feeling plenty anxious for what was to come--and guilty for who he was leaving behind.
Though Lilica claimed that she was faring better since her attack on the Night Garden, he felt reluctant to leave her side. It was obvious that she still required the guidance of friends who knew her well, and who wanted to support her not because she was the de facto monarch of an awakening kingdom, but because they wanted to see her surmount life's troubles, and to find the happiness she so deserved.
"I know that once I'm gone, we need to find a method of communication between Galeyn, Eyraille, and Stella D'Mare together. And since dreams are an unreliable means of contact where strategy and coordinating plans are concerned," he pulled two stones out of his pocket and placed them on the table where they'd gathered, "I created my own resonance stones. Mind, I've never enchanted stones for far speech before, but with a little research and help from some Gardeners who helped me concoct a substance from plant matter with the properties I desired, which I coated onto the stones and then activated with my magic," he took a long breath from his windy sentence, "these should work for you. Since we haven't yet finalized Galeyn's stance on accepting refugees, through the stone, you can update me on the current situation. And once I arrive in Stella D'Mare, you'll be able to speak with Chara." A small smile crossed his face. "So rest assured, you'll have guidance, even if it's from afar." He slid the plain-looking stone with a wine-splashed surface to Lilica, and pocketed the other one.
"I don't know how many rocs Vega will be sending," he admitted to Sigrid, who also expressed her desire to depart from Galeyn. "In the dream, it sounded like she's sending only one. If she does, we can request that she send another, if it's your desire to see Haraldur in Eyraille. Besides...I may need you with me." He glanced sidelong at his arm, which the Dawn Warrior had treated upon his return to the palace several hours earlier. "It doesn't fare well when I overexert it, and I'm all too aware of the strain of roc flight," he shuddered to think of the excruciating excursion ahead of him. "Holding tightly to another rider's middle, for hours, as we jostle around on thermals and uneven heights...I'll be surprised if I don't faint and fall out of the sky." At that, he laughed, though as a method for diffusing fear more than for humor.
As he passed the mercenary on his way to the daggers in the hay-bales, the young monarch was looking flushed. Not to mention, his distinctive waddle, which was unlike the prideful king's distinguished, affected poise. He was drunk, a state that Haraldur wished to achieve, himself.
He carefully watched Caris as he plucked the knives from the concentric rings of the painted target, curious in his ability to throw them while under the influence. So long as he didn't aim with the dagger pointed directly at his feet, he wouldn't stop the young man from partaking in the art. No one else was around, and if he were struck, he'd heal from it... in time. If the king struck himself, they had magic-based healers, now. He'd recover just fine. But to ensure his own safety, Haraldur stood about an arm's length away and behind the knife thrower. Armed with weapons and the full briefing of Vega's trials since the previous war, he wasn't certain if he was safe from the king's inebriated wrath.
But his wrath never arrived.
As each dagger progressively fell short of its target, so too did Caris's words. There was such uncertainty, confusion, hurt...and a little bit of betrayal. He did not blame the Sorde sibling for any of these emotions, and in fact, was surprised that the anguish was not directed at him. On the contrary, he carried...gratitude? Tolerance for Vega's out of wedlock pregnancy with an uneducated peon?
"I'm sure she told you what was necessary. But don't think of this as an issue of trust. What happened to her...there's no easy way of confessing what would sound to many as a story of lunacy. Please realize that telling you at all was probably difficult beyond belief. When we returned from the war, I think she wanted to forget, for a while. To return to any semblance of normalcy that she feared was no longer applicable to her current condition. She needed to feel alive, again. And only when she's facing something that's unavoidable, which pits her again with the forces of death," he swallowed, "does she feel compelled to tell you. I didn't want her to; not yet. Not because I didn't want you to know, but because I wasn't sure how you'd regard Vega, afterward."
"When the necromancer revived her, it," he bowed his head, "took me a while to accept her, again. To see her as alive, and not as a corpse. I suppose I was projecting myself onto you, and assumed you'd bear the same superstitions towards death, and would shun her. But you...you're a much better person than me," he chuckled, without humor. "Shortly after she was revived, when the same necromancer almost caused her to die a second time, I...I abandoned her. Because I couldn't handle the thought of knowing that she was still so susceptible. That death could take her from me again. But," he glanced at the target, and the scatter of knives from Caris's waxing and waning aim, "she never abandoned me, through it all. She came for me, in Stella D'Mare, right when Mollengard's ships were pulling into the harbor. That was when I saw her vigor shine through, penetrating all nuances of the death that once claimed her. That was when I began to regard her as among the living. She was still, well...Vega. No collection of horrors combined could strip her of that wild avian ferocity. I was a moron not to see it sooner."
At Caris's invitation for a drink, Haraldur perked up with the prospect. "I'll take you up on that," he said, as he collected the knives from the targets, and returned them to their weapons racks. "Because what I want to say next...is going to require a lot of wine."
After shedding his armor and washing the dirt streaked across his face and hands, Haraldur joined Caris in the privacy of his chambers, free from guards or eavesdropping servants. As befitting of a king, it was opulent in design, with gold-filigree ceilings, gilt-paneled walls, fluted sconces dancing with amber flame, and royal blue velvet curtains framing each window. "I'll take your finest cheap wine," he said to Caris, with the twitch of the smile. "No use wasting the good stuff on me. I won't appreciate it, when I'm only looking to drink it all down without factoring in taste."
Once he poured a goblet full of the dark red substance, drained it, refilled it, and drained it again, did he feel more prepared to foray into a far more testier subject for him. The matter of children.
"First, I'll say this. You're still young. Very young," he waved a hand to indicate the fact that he hadn't any facial hair sprouting from his smooth, pale jaw. "You have plenty of time. Some kings didn't marry until well into their forties. Focus on what you can, for now. The rest will unfold, as it's meant to. These children," he hesitated, "my children...they're illegitimate. And everyone will know that they are. Are you so sure that it'll be taken well?" His mouth twisted into a doubtful frown. "But that's if Vega carries to term."
After pouring a third goblet-full of wine, he took three thirsty gulps. "I always wanted a family. Children of my own. But it was always a far-off dream. A dream I shouldn't have been allowed to have. I've killed children in my Forbanne days. Pregnant mothers. Burned a family alive in their own home. But I still couldn't shake the desire in me. Then, I discovered Vega was expecting, and..." he about planted his face into the goblet, "I dared to hope. I let myself imagine what it'd be like to, at last, be a father."
He poured himself another glass and slouched over in his seat, elbows crashing on the table. "Vega's life has priority over them. I told her so. But if they die...I don't know, for some reason, I feel like I'll be killing children all over again. They're already haunting me at night....asking me to save them. And I," his voice hitched, "I don't know what to do. If any of them will make it through. I...can't lose everything, again." He drove his knuckles into his eyes, forcing away the moisture that gathered in them. "I can't."
Somehow, despite that they had seemingly overcome impossible odds for the fact that they managed to find Galeyn at all, or that Alster could wield a mechanical arm, or that Sigrid was in possession of an ancient, enchanted sword (not to mention the fact that Vitali was somehow still alive), it had never occurred to Lilica that it could be possible to communicate over distances by different means than entering someone’s dream. Taking the proffered stone from Alster’s hand, the dark mage examined it in her palm. It felt smooth, its weight reassuring. Something for her to hold onto--literally--in the absence of her friends. “While I am in favor of the both of you leaving me for Eyraille and Stella D’Mare, I do hope that Tivia at least plans to stay for a while longer to keep my brother in line.” She mentioned, with only half a smile. “Because that is something that I do not think I can do, alone. Thank you, Alster. This…”
Lilica looked at the stone once again, and her heart filled with hope. She could talk to Chara… Just to hear her voice, to have that connection to her while she was forced to reside in Galeyn, provided her with a source of comfort. “I didn’t think it would be possible for me to connect regularly with Chara. But this… it is more than I could hope for. Thank you.”
The next morning, long after Sigrid had returned from treating Vitali, the Dawn Warrior saw fit to treat Alster for the pain in his arm once again, prior to the arrival of the rocs--in case they happened to arrive sometime that day. He always seemed to respond well to the pain remedy, which, while it was reassuring, did not pose as a suitable long-term solution, where things stood. After all, it was not for certain that their paths would remain connected, forever. Eventually, Alster would return to his home and his life, just as Sigrid would have to return to her dawn warriors. For this reason, she had spent a good portion of the night thinking ahead. “I know you are already relatively informed with this practice, now,” she mentioned, as she carefully positioned the needles along his arm. After all, he had asked questions at length almost every time she did this, and to the extent that he had learned it, she was confident he’d probably be successful in performing this treatment on another person. The trouble with performing it on himself was simply a matter of reaching area inaccessible to him along his arm. “But if we happened to encounter your fiance, should time allow, I will instruct her in this method to the best of my ability. So that you can have reassurance for the treatment of your pain when our paths finally diverge.”
After waiting a handful of minutes for the tincture at the tip of the needles to distribute the pain-numbing properties to its full extent, and the Rigas caster looked quite relaxed, did she remove them, one by one, and placed them in a case to be thoroughly sanitized. “I did check on your necromancer friend, yesterday,” she added as an afterthought. “He and your cousin, Tivia, have not left the rendezvous point where you treated his his arm. He was in a fair bit of pain and unable to travel, so I thoroughly treated for pain, I imagine it may return by the end of the day. Sadly, I haven’t the time to instruct Tivia in the practice, and even if I did, the only set of needles and tincture that I have with me will be required to maintain your own pain-free functionality.” She shook her head in what looked like remorse. “Hopefully his own pain will fade as his arm continues to repair itself. It is a shame that he cannot seek the Night Garden for help, like everyone else residing in this kingdom…”
“Alster--Sigrid.” Lilica, emerging from the palace, approached the two in a hurry from where they sat comfortably in the Night Garden. Her face was flushed, but it was likely less from her fever and more for the fact that she appeared to have been running. “The rocs from Eyraille… they’ve arrived, two of them. But I was informed that for the distance, they need to rest some hours. I’ve just spent the better part of an hour trying to reassure Galeyn’s people that they mean no harm and intend to respect their privacy.” No wonder she looked so exhausted, then. Nonetheless, it was good news, at least as evidenced by the looks on Alster’s and Sigrid’s faces. The latter looked particularly reassured.
“So they did send more than one roc…” The blonde warrior breathed, a small smile at the corners of her lips as she turned to Alster. “Well, it appears as though you won’t have to worry about going without your pain treatment, after all. That is, so long as the rocs’ riders are not opposed to you bringing along a friend.”
At that, Lilica shook her head. “You needn’t worry about that. The I have also taken the time to explain that the one whom they were sent to bring to Eyraille is currently managing a good deal of pain, and would need the assistance of a trusted comrade. Vega must have stressed the importance of your arrival in Eyraille, for they did not protest. The Skyknights are happy to take each of you on a roc. Come,” she gestured, “If you’re finished, I’ll take you to them.”
The chthonic mage escorted them through the palace, and out the entrance at the other side. Sure enough, just beyond, two rocs sit, resting as their riders’ attention was torn between keeping vigil on the two avians, and observing the details of this strange, foreign kingdom of which they had never heard tell. Many Galeynians who happened to be in their vicinity took care not to acknowledge them; and Lilica couldn’t blame them. Clearly, the kingdom was not ready for sudden visitors… it might not be, for a long time. “These are the two who will accompany you back to Eyraille,” Lilica explained to the two men, clad in the distinct silver and blue colours of Vega’s Eyraillian Skyknights. “I present Alster Rigas, and Sigrid Sorenson--the latter is of the Dawn Warriors, hailing from Braighdath. As you can see from the unique condition of Alster’s arm…” She paused, not wishing to offend the Rigas caster, but to push home the necessity of Sigrid’s accompaniment. “He will need some aid. Sigrid has been doing well to help him manage the pain through methods specific to Braighdath.”
The Skyknights nodded their acknowledgment, one of them stating dismissively, “It will not be an issue, I assure you. Her Highness, Sir Vega Sorde, emphasized that we oblige Alster Rigas on whatever requests he might have. She sent two rocs, not only for safety, but in the event that he wished not to travel alone.” He extended his hand to Alster, and then to Sigrid, in turn. “I am Sir Gleide, and this is Sir Kallais. I hope you can understand that we aren’t able to leave immediately: the rocs have been flying for almost an entire day without rest. It may take a few hours for them to regain their strength… though I don’t suppose your fair kingdom has any meat to spare? The birds could use a bite.” That last comment was directed at Lilica, who solemnly shook her head.
“Galeyn… well, hunting game isn’t exactly ingrained in the culture, here. The people nourish themselves primarily with vegetables and grain; some dairy, but we haven’t any livestock, just yet… it is a long story.” She sighed regretfully. “The best we could offer is some fish. I can talk to the fishermen, but as we’re not coastal, you’ll have to settle with what we can catch in the lakes.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. These guys are known for being damn good fishermen, themselves.” Sir Kallais grinned, stroking the golden feathers of his roc. “Whatever you can offer would suffice; and only if it isn’t a convenience. We also have emergency stores of dried meat.”
Assuring them it would be no trouble, Lilica passed on the message to a trusted palace worker to ask the fishermen what they could spare--which, at this point, would probably be little. Animal life, as it stood, was scarce right now in Galeyn. She herself had been subsisting off of grain and vegetables. Fortunately, thanks to the Night Garden’s magical properties, Galeyn’s crops were unlike any other, and she did not find herself missing the sinewy tang of meat.
Some hours later, when he rocs had rested and eaten a small fill of river fish to regain their strength, the Skyknights deemed it best to take off. The direction of the wind had turned favorable, and with any luck, they’d arrive in Eyraille at the same time the next day. Eager though she was to see a kingdom upon which she had never laid her eyes, Sigrid couldn’t help feel a pang of regret for Lilica, who was, for all intents and purposes, chained to this place. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been such a burden, were it not for the fact that the dark mage still looked so lost in her own home. Whenever she beheld the Night Garden, it was not with the same familiarity as the Gardeners. Nor did they regard her as familiar, or she, them. She hadn’t put down that resonance stone since Alster had given it to her; it was always in her hand, its smooth surface perhaps the only reassurance she had that she wouldn’t truly be alone, in their absence.
As someone who had grown up among the Dawn Warriors, who were nothing less of a devoted family, this calibre of loneliness was difficult for Sigrid to understand. But it did not mean she couldn’t sympathize with Lilica’s plight. Even the young Gardener, Teren, and the Head Gardener, Senyiah, appeared to keep her at arm’s length, as if afraid that she would snap again at any moment, and that her dark fire would strike them… If only they knew that was she needed was for them to reach out to her. To make her feel accepted, as she’d always wanted to be.
“Will you… be all right, here?” She couldn’t leave without asking the dark caster. The rocs were nearly ready to take off, and Alster had already mounted. “If we leave?”
“Of course. Everything seems to be unfolding nicely. I’m lucky that Galeyn is so self-sufficient; people know their place and where they can lend aid, and they have been doing so. I think my presence is more of a symbol to them than a necessity; a message that my father never meant to leave them alone, completely.” Lilica ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the resonance stone, what had warmed to the temperature of her body, and remained that way. “I know I can contact you. But I doubt there will be a need; not unless my brother does something incredibly stupid. Please, both of you travel safely. In the meantime, I will see to it that Galeyn prepares for Stella D’Mare’s evacuees. We will be ready to lend aid when it is needed.”
After a final goodbye, Sigrid and Alster secured themselves upon the rocs. Sir Gleide situated Alster in front of him, for the sake of his arm, and took the reins from behind him, while Sigrid situated herself behind Sir Kallais. Clearing the way for the giant birds to take off, it wasn’t long until they ascended into the sky, and disappeared above the clouds.
Caris couldn’t help but snort at Haraldur’s explanation as to why Vega did not inform him of any of this sooner, but it was not out of frustration. In fact… he completely understood. And he didn’t blame her. “Sure. I’ve been hard on her; and in many ways, on many occasions, it has been unnecessary. For all I care for her, it is difficult not to feel resentment for the person who put you in a place where you do not want to be. While she has the freedom to fly through the air, to fall in love and have children at her own volition… while I am married to this kingdom. And one for which I don’t feel I care enough.” The young king raked a hand through his blonde hair. “Vega would have made a better monarch. Because she wants to forgive; she thinks that Eyraille can heal, that it can be better. I wish I was of the same opinion. But if it were left up to me--entirely up to me, without her influence or her support… I think I might have left it to fend for itself. And if it died, well… so be it. Perhaps, for a nation that ended so many lives and devastated so many more, that is the least that it deserves. That my own bloodline deserves. No, she was the one with the vision; but she did not like the implications of Queenhood that would tie her to it. So she continued to dream while she put me in the throne. Of course I resent that. But…”
He paused, blinking slowly, the words sluggishly forming in his mind. “But she is still my kin. And she is all that I have left. I don’t blame her for thinking that I would react poorly to what she had to tell me, but the fact remains that I can’t, when all that I feel is deep relief for the fact that she is still alive.”
Gesturing with his shoulder, the young monarch turned from the training grounds. “Come on, then. I’ll find you a bottle of something.”
Leading the mercenary back inside the palace, Caris ignored the confused glances of onlookers as Haraldur accompanied the king in the distinct direction of his own private chambers. A servant, only once, hazarded to ask if there was anything that he needed; Caris simply replied that he required privacy. And that was the first and only interference that they had from anyone, for the remainder of the day.
“Between you and me… I have no damned clue what defines fine wine over the ‘cheap stuff’. You’ll have to settle for whatever my already drunk ass has pulled from the cellars.” Caris wandered over to a wall, where he had already chosen a wide array of wine bottles, ranging from pale as cider to dark as the inky sea. He selected an arbitrary couple, one for himself and one for Haraldur. For one with a lean form, Eyraille’s king seemed to have a surprisingly good tolerance for alcohol, considering he’d already consumed a whole bottle, and was not only still standing, but coherent. No sooner did he fetch goblets for the both of them that he cracked his own bottle open, filling the silver goblet right to the brim.
“Please, spare me the ‘you are young, with your life ahead of you’ speech, Haraldur.” Caris snorted and took a long sip of his dark wine. “That isn’t the point. The point is that perhaps, once upon a time, I aspired to something different. A family without strings attached, to an extent. Without the expectation that whomever I marry must ‘carry on the Sorde bloodline’. But that isn’t possible. Whatever might become of me in my marital status, it will be purely political. And, as with everything else… I will have to pretend that I am okay with that.” He paused, as the reality of his own words sunk in. Then he drained half of his goblet.
The young king was not, however, prepared for the baggage that the mercenary saw fit to unload on him. Gone was the unshakable, former-Forbanne who could inflict damage on him by doing little more than shoving him just the right way. Haraldur was practically crumbling before him, at the possibility that his dream for a family, to be a father, might not be realized. He could sympathize… but what was more cruel than entirely being denied the opportunity for the family one wanted, was to have it dangled before them, with the threat of it being snatched away. He hadn’t realized that the mercenary felt pain so deep-seated. And, for the first time since he made his acquaintance… he felt sorry for him.
“First of all, Haraldur… losing the babies is not losing everything. Not if Vega survives; no if she’s cured from whatever… whatever the hell is ailing her. There will be other chances. But under the care of two well-respected healers, I believe they’ll all fine… because I have to believe. If I don’t, I’ll just keep drinking until I don’t wake up. But more importantly, you need to believe that. And secondly...”
After one more sip, he effectively drained his goblet. “The problem here is not how your children will be received; nor is it how you are viewed as Vega’s lover. The problem is you. Because you are the only one who sees it as a problem.” Heaving a sigh, he refilled his silver glass. “Vega clearly is not ashamed to be with you. Even I have come to realize that in a lot of ways, you’re good for her; you curb her recklessness. The palace at large has already accepted you as a permanent fixture, and the Kingdom is no stranger to the breaking of convention with Vega’s antics. Literally, Haraldur, you are the only one who thinks yourself unworthy. And it’s time you changed that.” Pressing his lips together, he leaned across the table. “Because until you believe you’re worthy of my sister, and the children she is carrying, you won’t be. So change that, and fast. No more abandoning her when things get difficult. Be the lover that my sister needs, and the father that these father will need. Have faith. Because if you break my sister’s heart again…”
Taking his goblet, he leaned back in his seat, and took another long, pensive sip. “Then I’ll never forgive you. And that is a promise.”
Doubtful that the roc (or rocs) would arrive at any point that day, Alster retired to his cot in Lilica's chambers. While he'd been offered his own room, with a far larger and more comfortable bed, Alster declined to move, citing that he was content with his accommodations. Like Lilica, he, too, didn't want to be left alone. He feared what would prey on him within the dark chambers of his own isolation. It was how the Serpent found him, as a child; locked away by his mother for hours in a windowless closet-space, unaware of time or even sense. Those punishments had happened so long ago, but they were still effective; as a result, he was loathe to be left alone in a small, dark space. It was why he had shared his tent with Tivia, and why he was vehement in his decision to stay with Lilica--so long as the dark mage, herself, didn't view him as an imposition.
Even with a companion's gentle, rhythmic breathing contributing to the ambient noise of the chamber, filling it with life and a feeling of safety, Alster could not sleep. He was kept awake by thoughts of Vega, whose waning face drifted behind dark clouds, obfuscating into the void. How quickly was she deteriorating? Would he reach her in time? Would he be able to help her at all? Then, there was Stella D'Mare. The inordinately powerful young summoner, tasked with creating a tidal wave that, by Vitali's appraisal, would be a colossal wall of water. The evacuation--how would they escape? The road outside of their twice-to-be-damaged city. How would they reach safe haven? What could he do? What were the limitations of his power? And even if he was assured of his capacity, did he dare risk the attempt for a grandiose solution? I promised Elespeth, he reminded himself. I can't let her down again.
That morning, he "awoke," a mere opening of his eyes that found no reprieve in a deeper state of rest. After he washed up, dressed, and broke his fast, eating a delightful breakfast of fresh greens and fruits (Galeyn was an culinary utopia to him, as he did not eat meat, and often found it difficult to eat his fill in places that cared nothing for his diet), he sought out Sigrid in the Night Garden. His arm had returned to its quotidian throb, a mouth-sucking kind of pain, but one to which he was growing accustomed. Despite the normalization of his aching arm, he jumped on the Dawn Warrior's assistance for relief, even if it lasted mere hours.
"I've watched your process, so I might be able to perform parts of it on my own," he agreed, and as he spoke, his eyes were oscillating between Sigrid's hand and the needles that were slowly accumulating across his arm. "But you're right. I can't reach my back, but I know where you place the needles, from the several times I insisted we sit by the big mirror in the palace corridor." His smile was a timid one, and half in apology. "So if I do come across my own set of needles and tincture, and you're not nearby, I may be able to instruct Elespeth on what to do. Though I imagine it's going to be like hitting around a target, for a while," he laughed. "Not an indictment on her, but she, and I, for that matter, won't get it right during the first few attempts. For that, I hope Vega has sent out another roc for us. As magically adept as I am," he shrugged with his good shoulder, "I can't do much if I'm in so much pain that I can't even think properly."
At the completion of Sigrid's treatment, he relaxed against the chair that palace attendants had fetched for them so they could enjoy the balmy and wondrous environment of the Night Garden. His enjoyment was dashed, however, upon her mention of Vitali and his sudden onset arm pain. "He'll be fine," he said, with a slight air of callousness. "His nerves are firing at an expedited rate. Fast-paced regeneration is bound to cause some discomfort, but it won't last for him. I can't say the same for his eyes, but his arm should recover. And," he muttered, "if the Night Garden hasn't done anything for me, not even to lessen this pain, what can it do for him? I haven't yet seen what's so miraculous and healing about this place. It prevented Lilica's destruction, and gave her an ongoing fever but I've yet to see its results, other than her lack of nightmares. Maybe Tivia was right," he sighed, and his spike of resentfulness sank into defeat. "maybe....we're giving it too much credit. We've seen it do one thing well. It knows how to wound, to curse. Theomyr may have instructed it to do so, but it's capable of great harm, nonetheless."
Before he could continue his unfavorable self-analysis of the Garden, a place he had so wanted to be an inspiring sanctum of rehabilitation and peace, Lilica rushed outside to announce that the rocs had arrived. Shaking away his perverse thoughts, Alster stood from his chair and followed her through the palace, with Sigrid not far behind.
"Well that's fortunate--for both of us. I'll have relief and you'll get to meet your kin." They entered through the palace doors and traveled down the corridors towards the front entrance. "I wonder how he's been faring. He and the Eyraillian princess are intimate," he explained. "At least, I think so. I haven't seen the two of them for a while. Be that as it may, it's easy to see the love they have for each other."
When they exited out the front doors, Alster instinctively hugged his arms, with the prosthetic arm heating itself to a comfortable temperature, by way of his magic. He kept forgetting that the weather in the Night Garden was self-contained, while the rest of the country was still shaking off winter snow and chill. As Lilica introduced the two Skyknights, he bowed in greeting, then jutted out his fabricated arm for them to shake. "I'm not sure what the convention is, here," he said, with a disarming smile. "Bum arm and all. But I'll abide your curiosities, if you wish to touch it. Just don't pump it too hard. It might fall off," he joked, though it was clear to anyone present that pins had been driven into his flesh, and cauterized all around the entry ports. It was, literally, melted onto him.
"My apologies for any inconvenience, but Lilica is correct. Though I've riden on a roc before, I'm a bit fragile. I don't know if you have a belt of some sort--anything to keep me strapped in, so I don't need to make use of this arm throughout the long flight?"
They assured him that he would be well looked after, as per Vega's instruction. He nodded, having little choice but to believe them, though it did not prevent his uneasy glances at the saddles that heaved along the massive, feathery shoulders of the two avians.
"Take as much rest as you and your rocs require," he said, deferring to the new Galeyn monarch on matters of meat and fish. It hadn't even occurred to him that game was nearly nonexistent within the awakened kingdom's borders, since it was the sort of subsistence he did not support for himself. "We'll reconvene in a few hours, when you're ready to fly."
When the time had arrived to depart, Alster had packed his belongings and added them to the saddlebags of the roc belonging to Sir Gleide, his rider. Dressed in his thickest layers, he was as prepared for the frigid winds as could be expected. Before he settled on the waiting mount, he turned to Lilica, who was holding the resonance stone like she planned to have it assimilate into her hand. "I'll send you a message with mine, once I reach Eyraille," he promised her, resting his own flesh hand upon the one that cradled the rock. "Please take care of yourself, Lilica. You won't be without us, for long. I'll bring Chara to you, if I can." Drawing her hand forward, her pulled her gently into a hug. "Don't be afraid to reach out, if you need to talk," he said, pulling away from their contact. "You needn't tackle the responsibility of Galeyn alone. Remember; you do have options." He bowed his head in retreat. "I'll see you again, soon."
Approaching Sir Gleide and his roc, Alster climbed aboard the mount, and for safety, strapped himself in with the buckle that was looped through the steel rings of the saddle. Throughout the process, a small blush colored his cheeks, shamed in admitting his need for this extra precaution--one that he had difficulty buckling around his waist. His steel hand wasn't made for dexterity, or fine motor skills, and he had required the assistance of the knight who had mounted behind him. In gratitude, he thanked the man, then donned the helmet given to him. Once strapped in and ready to depart, Alster turned in his saddle to wave at Lilica one final time, until the roc spread its impressive wings, and took to the skies--leaving the hermetical kingdom and its overwhelmed monarch behind.
"I've lived my life expecting the worst, Caris." It was the first time he uttered the young king's name since his arrival in Eyraille, though he didn't realize his slip-up, so entranced was he by the swirl of wine in a goblet that was about ready for a refill. "And receiving the worst. I've lost my mother, my sister, and my father, all before I even reached puberty. Then, I lost my humanity. I regained it, only to then lose my wife...and then Vega, the first time. I don't say this so that you'll pity me, but only so you understand the perspective I'm coming from. It's hard for me to have faith in a positive outcome. Hard for me to trust that Vega will survive, with the babies. But," he brought the goblet to his lips, "it's all that I have now. And I already promised her that I won't leave her side. I give you full permission to stab me to death if I renege on that promise, and flee."
Already two-thirds through the bottle, Haraldur filled his goblet, dipping his head to sip at the overflow. "I'm not worthy," he said, as though it were painfully obvious. "I don't understand why people are so accepting of me. They don't care about what I've done. The horrors I've carried out, without question. Mollengard will gut you alive if they discover who you're harboring within your palace walls." He watched the movements of his fingers across the polished silver reflection of his chalice. "I'll be the first to admit that my favorable treatment baffles me. Say what you will--all of you--but I'm a lowly soldier, who has nothing but my skills in combat and survival. I've given it all to you, to Vega, to this kingdom, because I'm indebted to your kindness. I fight for this Caris," he swept his arm towards the window, where a sliver of light shone past the heavy curtain. "For Eyraille, the closest I've ever felt to a home. I'll help you to rebuild this nation in a likeness you can be proud of. It already has much to offer. Look at the alliances you've forged. You're well on your way to reviving this country; do not take the hard work of others for granted. I know this isn't what you wanted for yourself, but this isn't a senseless cause. We'll make this better." He tasted the tang of his wine with the point of his tongue. "Maybe then, I'll be worthy."
The days waiting for Alster Rigas to arrive was a trial in fortitude, for Haraldur and especially for Vega. True to his word, which he had expressed to Caris, the mercenary kept to Vega's side, keeping her warm when Daphni was not available for her revivification treatments. Since advised to remain in bed, Haraldur kept busy by running her errands, and even surprising her by delivering her favorite foods on a tray with brilliant blue wildflowers. "They're the first of the season. Spring is well on its way," he told her, with a hopeful smile.
Throughout his back and forthing, however, he would leave for long enough stretches to sneak himself a generous glass of wine, or a swig of brandy--whichever was readily available. He knew that Vega could smell the alcohol on his breath, knew that he was finding methods to cope, while she, in her vulnerable state, could little eat certain foods, let alone imbibe any spirits or wine. There was no fooling her, but when asked about his increasing habits of consumption, he blithely remarked that he was getting into the Equinox Festival spirit. For, in her absence, he was helping Caris with the preparations--on the grounds that, should he take a more active role in the proceedings, that he thereby be immune to dressing as the Fool. And considering their drunk-addled tongue waggling from two nights ago, his appeals had worked.
During the unbearable wait for back-up, the Sybaian healer had treated Vega thrice more, with each interval in between growing shorter and shorter. He couldn't tell which was the cause: if Vega's body was slowly building an immunity to the procedure, or rejecting it outright, or if Daphni, who was stooped over, leaning against the bedpost for support and taking in shallow breaths, was becoming too weak to administer consistent aid. The Clematis healer had stepped in during those moments, generating healing pulses through her abdomen and chest, and making sure she drank the herbal tea that he brewed, which incited her heart to beat quicker and would warm her insides.
"Drink this four times a day," he informed her, once Daphni had taken her leave of them, to rest. "More, if you can manage it. It may not be as effective, but frequent reliance on Daphni's abilities will only exacerbate her resource, and in the end, she'll exhaust herself completely."
"I understand," came Haraldur's solemn reply.
At last, the good news had arrived. On the afternoon of the second day, a messenger pounded on Vega's chambers, announcing that the rocs had returned with Alster Rigas, with a companion in tow.
And, similar to when she'd heard about the healers, the Skyknight kicked aside her covers, dressed appropriately, and ran out the door--with Haraldur following close behind.
They intercepted the small procession en route from the roc stables to the courtyard. Sure enough, among their party, was Alster Rigas, accompanied with a woman he did not recognize. The Rigas caster looked pale and wobbly on his feet, a common symptom of roc-riding. Though, he didn't think it was from the vertigo. In his arm, he cradled...a steel contraption. No. It looked like...a fascsimile of a forearm, complete with a hand. He tried not to stare at it, but its make was fascinating. Sleek, lightweight...and it moved on its own.
Alster, who tracked Haraldur's eye movements, smiled knowingly, and nodded. "It's new. And it's also a pain in my side." He straightened his slumped form, holding himself with a posture that seemed to hurt, judging by how heavy his prosthetic attachment must have been. "Vega. Haraldur. It's so good to see you again. I wish it was under better circumstances, but that would be asking too much." He waved his good hand at the blonde-haired woman standing beside him. "This is Sigrid Sorenson, of Braighdath, warrior of the Dawn Guard. She's also an effective healer with needles. I can attest to this, because my arm is in a good deal of pain right now and she will make it better. Sigrid," he swept hs hand forward, "this is Sir Vega Sorde, commander of the Skyknights and Princess of Eyraille, and Haraldur--"
"--You don't have to come up with any fancy titles for me; just Haraldur is fine," he interjected, and gave the Dawn Warrior a polite bow. "It's an honor, Sigrid Sorenson." Sorenson. Where had he heard that name, before?
"I daresay the two of you share a lot in common, but that's really not for me to infer," he said, with a secretive smile. "Now," he dropped the pleasantries, and set his eyes on Vega, "I'll need my arm tended, but while that is being done, please tell me all that's been going on with you." There was a cryptic undertone in his statement. It read: how is your death still ailing you?
Caris heard the mercenary’s plight. He hadn’t realized the full extent of his loss, and frankly, it was impossible not to pity him. Yet none of it was an excuse to favor a pessimistic outlook, and he would not tolerate that. So the young king explained why. “There is something you need to understand about Eyraille and its people.” He began, refilling his goblet and swirling the dark wine within. “You mentioned that I am not so superstitious as to harbour ill emotions towards my resurrected sister. In a sense, you are right; but it is not because Eyraillians are not superstitious. For one, why do you think we prepare to celebrate Equinox, the coming of spring, when the temperature and climate is still far from the comfort of a spring day? Does that not strike you as even a bit odd?”
He took a long sip from his wine glass, to let the mercenary contemplate that practice, before he continued. “We do not often celebrate what we have; we celebrate what we are going to get. By joyfully decrying the coming of spring when our kingdom is still within the last clutches of winter, we are inviting the warmth to come. Telling it we are ready, and so it should come soon. And during the days of the Festival, everyone takes part. Not a single person is allowed to refuse, lest they be shunned. Because in our minds, if Spring hears our cry, and then witnesses our eagerness to have it, then it comes to us, fast, and it favors us as our crops grow. We do not hope for a good year for crops; we anticipate it.
“The same goes for battle and war. You can ask anyone in the palace, and they will tell you about the lavish parties and celebrations that my father used to throw before a battle. Celebrating Eyraille’s impending victory, not hoping or praying for it. And, lo and behold, Eyraille has never lost a battle, in all of its history. And my father is not the first king to be lost prematurely.” He took another thoughtful sip, before meeting Haraldur’s eyes. “In the minds of Eyraillians, if you believe it is yours, then it is yours. And if you believe otherwise… if you are prepared for loss, then you are encouraging bad luck. So I will tell you this, Haraldur.”
Placing his glass on the table, he folded his hands in front of him. For a brief moment, it wasn’t even all that evident that he had spent the entirety of the day drinking away his cognitive faculties. His eyes were sharp, and his jaw was set. “You are welcome to fight for Eyraille and to call it your home. If your past and your lack of rank is what is holding you back from feeling worthy, then I’d be more than happy to place you among Eyraille’s ranks. Our forces could use something like you, and your input on helping the Skyknights form tactics on their assault of the Forbanne has been invaluable. But know that, regardless of what you choose, you will never truly be able to fight for this kingdom and all of its potential glory if you cannot change your mindset Haraldur.”
With a sigh, the young monarch picked up his goblet again, and unapologetically drained its contents. “If events turn sour, then you have my full blessing to call me wrong and take the time that you need to grieve. But to grieve before the worst has come to past will only attract bad energies… and you will soon come to find that nobody in Eyraille is going to tolerate that. So…”
Looking up at the former mercenary--Eyraille’s hero, Vega’s lover, and reformed Forbanne--Caris arched an eyebrow. “How you choose to move forward with this is up to you. Just know that if you want to be a part of this kingdom, you won’t make any friends by enticing bad luck.”
It wasn’t until late the next morning, awakening with a pounding headache and a sour, dry mouth, that Caris was informed of the arrival of yet more visitors to the kingdom. The rocs that Vega had sent had returned--with not one, but two extra passengers accompanying the knights. Rubbing his temples, the young monarch groaned and squinted against the painful daylight that assaulted his eyes. “Two… Vega informed me she was only summoning Alster.” He sighed, and twisted his body so his legs dangled over the side of the bed. The guard who had arrived to inform him twisted uncomfortably; the King wasn’t typically taken to excessive drink, so how he would react to the news was a mystery. “Have Vega and Haraldur greet them, then. I’ll be around once I put myself together. Oh,” Before the guard had a chance to leave, he made a final request. “Send for the Clematis healer, if you would… and bring a glass of water. If he has any quick remedy for a hangover, I’d be much obliged.”
Meanwhile, during the handful of days in which Vega awaited the return of her rocs, and with them, Alster Rigas, she had been nothing less of a model patient. On the advice of both Daphni and Elias, she spent most of her time in bed, wrapped in blankets and drinking a bitter, albeit hot tea several times a day to keep her body temperature average. It was a tiresome bore and left her alone with her racing thoughts for so long, that she feared she might have a breakdown before Alster could arrive. Yet, the moment she was informed of his arrival, nothing and no one could keep her in that bed.
She and Haraldur raced to the stables to meet with Sir Gleide and Sir Kallais, along with their passengers. Sure enough, Alster Rigas was among them, looking a little worse for the wear, and… different, with a single arm constructed entirely of metal. With him was a tall, lean woman with pale blonde hair tied back in a rope braid, and clad in warm animal furs. While she hadn’t been expecting another passenger, she was too relieved to see Alster to so much as comment on the woman. “Alster Rigas.” The Skyknight Commander smiled, though worry crept into her blue eyes as they, like Haraldur’s, drifted to his metal arm. Its steel gleamed in the mid-morning light. “Are… have you been faring well?”
Alster assured them that he was as well off as anyone with a strange, metal contraption for an arm could be, and went straight to introducing the blonde woman who accompanied him. “Pleased to meet you, Sigrid of the Dawn Guard.” Vega offered a smile, and her hand in greeting. “Any ally of Alster’s is an ally of Eyraille. You are welcome, here.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Your Highness.” The Dawn Warrior offered a shallow bow, before shaking Vega’s hand. “I do understand that you might not have been expecting my arrival, and I apologize for this. I came so that Alster might manage his chronic pain.” Not entirely a lie, but an omission of part of the truth. Though, perhaps that part made itself clear when she turned to behold Haraldur for the first time. Truth be told, he looked as unfamiliar to her as she likely did to him; just another person, save for something about his eyes… that warm green. She had seen those eyes somewhere, before, at some point. Sometime ago…
It was with embarrassment that she realized Haraldur had extended his hand to her, and in the interim, she’d only been staring. With an apologetic smile, she gripped his hand warmly. “Believe me, the honour is all mine, Haraldur.” She replied, warmly. And how she wanted to talk--wanted to tell him what she knew, what Tivia had told her. That she remembered him and his sister from long, long ago… But Alster was quick to redirect the situation to the more pressing task at hand. Releasing Haraldur’s hand, the Dawn Warrior took a step back. “Might you have somewhere private where I might treat Alster’s arm?” She asked, turning to Vega, who nodded. The Eyraillian princess suddenly looked nervous, however, at the prospect of discussing deeper, more pressing subjects.
“Of course,” was all the Skyknight said, nodding at the others. “Right this way. We can convene in my chambers. There are others whom might like to take part in the discussion, as well.”
Thanking Sir Gleide and Sir Kallais for their help, Vega and Haralur led the visitor into the palace, where they congregated in her chambers, as it was the most privacy she could hope for. Before she began her explanation, however, she had a servant send for two others to join them. Some moments later, Daphni Adela and Elias St. Rain appeared. Daphni’s face both relaxed and illuminated when she saw Alster. “Alster Rigas. It is a blessing to see you again.” She smiled, pale eyes drifting to the metal contraption that had taken the place of a forearm. Her smile faded ever so slightly. “I would ask if you were well… but if you new arm is any indication, my guess is that you have seen better times, my friend. Though this is likely something that you have tired of hearing, I imagine, so there is no need to explain your story to me. Forgive me,” she turned to Sigrid, who was reading her needles and tinctures as Alster gently detached the metal contraption. “I did not catch your name.”
“I am Sigrid Sorenson, of Braighdath’s Dawn Guard.” The tall, blonde woman explained cordially. “I accompanied Alster to help him manage the pain he’s been experiencing with his prosthetic arm.”
“Ah; a fellow healer, then?” Daphni asked, watching curiously as Sigrid placed the needles.
But the Dawn Warrior only shook her head. “Nowhere near, I’m afraid. This treatment is merely intended for temporary pain management. We learned it out of necessity over the years to enable our warriors to better manage and tolerate their injuries on the battlefield.”
“I’ve never witnessed your method of pain management, before. Perhaps Elias and I will someday have to make our way to Braightdath to become more informed on it.” The Sybaian warrior declared, without an ounce of condescension; on the contrary, like Alster, she was intrigued. But she was not about to let slip the matter at hand. “Vega,” she turned to the Eyraillian princess, then, and inquired, “Have you yet explained why we required Alster’s assistance?”
It was evident by the look on Vega’s face that she had not. Taking a seat, the Skyknight Commander pressed her lips together and sighed heavily. “No; I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to delay. It’s just that… it does not get any easier, saying this over and over, to new people.” Not even getting it off of her chest to her own brother had brought her much of a sense of relief. “Haraldur and I are…” She looked down, before gathering her courage to face Alster. She knew he would not judge; it wasn’t in his nature, and he was a true friend. But there was nothing that would ever make it easier to confess, particularly where she remained an unmarried woman. “We are expecting. I’m… pregnant. With twins.”
Finishing the placement of Alster’s needles, Sigrid listened without commenting. So he had been right; this woman and Haraldur were indeed intimate. Yet neither of them sported a wedding ring, and Haraldur had insisted she not use any particular titles for him… This, then, did not appear to be a happy pregnancy. And she had a feeling it extended beyond the fact that the princess was pregnant out of wedlock.
She was right. Vega continued, after a pause, and a reassuring squeeze of Haraldur’s hand. “But something is… wrong. The lives of our unborn children are threatened because of me… well, my condition. Of which I am sure you are no stranger, Alster.” She commented, remembering that he was the one who had tried so tirelessly to help her come back to herself, when her initial resurrection had left her with crippling amnesia. “Though I… am I not sure I quite understand the technicalities of it. Daphni,” she sighed again. “If you could help to clarify…?”
“Of course, Your Highness.” The Sybaian healer also took a seat, in an attempt to cover up her weariness. But there was no denying--especially to Elias, who had been keeping close vigil on her--that keeping Vega’s soul clear of the splotches of death that constantly threatened it were wearing on her. “When we arrived with Elias’s family some days ago, and Elias detected that the unborn children’s lives were in danger, I assessed the state of Vega’s soul and what surrounds it. Among the light, there was so much… darkness. Tiny abysses, everywhere, not strong enough to kill, but… like the equivalent of slowly bleeding out. As if at the same pace her body is producing and sustaining life force, it is sapped just as quickly by residual death. And, as a result, her chilled body temperature and erratic heartbeat isn’t providing the babies with the proper environment to thrive. Too cold, not enough oxygen…”
She trailed off, noting how the details of what Vega already knew weighed on her; withered her, inciting unnecessary guilt. The air had already become thick with the princess’s sadness and fear, along with her lover’s. With a soft sigh, she turned to the Rigas caster. “Alster--you have accompanied my into the depths of soul before; I daresay, for one who was not born of the Sybaian clan, you are very skilled at it. But you possess an ability that I do not have: your chthonic magic.” Leaning forward, she searched his blue eyes for understanding. “I have been able to keep the the darkness at bay, but I cannot eradicate it; I cannot banish it without a grip on chthonic magic. Something, some force, is keeping the gate of death open and accessible in her, and I am not able to close it. But this is something that I think you can do, if you are willing… ”
“I know I asked if you were able to heal me, before…” The Skyknight confessed, glancing up from her lap at Alster with forlorn eyes. “You told me you couldn’t; but if only you can try… maybe, between you and Daphni… I might have a chance. My children might have a chance. If you’d be willing to try…”
Haraldur wouldn't admit it to him, but Caris's words from the other day had penetrated his drunken haze, such that when he sobered, he remembered the context. More superstitious than was comfortable for him to accept, the mercenary believed that he was cursed with a bad lot in life. That, sooner or later, any favor or luck that graced him would realize its mistake and flee from him like a frightened doe afraid of the hunting arrow. It was the reason he was so resistant to any change that disrupted his established status quo, however beneficial. If he sought a better life for himself, would that life end in months, or in years? He would not tempt fate by exploring its offers; it was not worth the risk. Better to survive in mediocrity than hope for transient joy--for the latter would only leave behind a massacre of his ideals. And a warning: Why did you think this would end well?
But he had never tried to twist his superstitions to benefit him. Eyraille's celebration of eventuality was an alluring concept. They premeditated their victories...and it had worked. Fate, seemingly attracted to the positive energy, responded with their expectations met. If it were true--if he was flirting with bad luck--then was everything that had befallen him his fault? Was he alone responsible for his destiny? Did he have autonomy all along, and was simply attracting the wrong energies?
And was he now beyond help? A wheel that he'd locked into an endless spin of misfortune?
No. He had to break the wheel. If others would be affected by his self-fulfilling prophecy--Vega, Caris, his unborn children, all of Eyraille--he needed to end this mode of thinking. I'm tired of being your slave, he told Fate. Of accepting my lot. Of believing that this is owed to me. It's fine if you punish only me, but this harms innocent lives. I'm...not Forbanne anymore. I will not continue to end lives that I can save. I'll save them all.
I have to.
So, he had contributed to the festival preparations. He had visited Vega frequently, bringing her meals and never speaking a negative word, despite his liberalness with the drink (he still needed alcohol as his buffer; change would not happen instantaneously, after all). He did all these things, though painful it was to pretend everything would turn out well, or more than well.
Soon, Alster Rigas arrived, and it was all he could to do restrain his eagerness to pull the man with his good arm and demand he heal Vega's condition, post-haste. But that was an attitude not favorable with his fledgling concept of positive thinking--so instead, he distracted himself with Alster's companion.
She was a companion that, though introduced to him, was a mystery of both familiarity and strangeness. It was obvious, from her name and her appearance that she was from the North, originally. And Sorenson was a popular name, in certain parts. Though from where, he wondered. Why, too, was she staring at him? Was that how citizens of Braighdath, or soldiers of the Dawn Guard, greeted each other?
But before he could speak another word to her, they were all gathering out of the roc stables. He rejoined Vega near the lead, thoughts inevitably returning to the Rigas caster, and his abilities. Though he'd helped Vega before, would he--
No, he rebutted himself. He will help. He...already did. She's fine now. The future is ours.
When they entered Vega's chambers, Alster found a comfortable seat at the small table before the fire. And while the party waited for "two healers" to join them, he carefully shed all his outerwear, which Haraldur took for him and offered to another servant, who took them to the guest chambers. After unbuttoning his tunic for full access to his affected arm, Haraldur saw where the steel was fused to red, raw tissue, and his brow furrowed. "That's a Mollengardian construction. Only they would think to fuse metal with man, so violently. Who fitted that arm for you?"
Alster rested his back on the chair, and closed his eyes when Sigrid's practiced hand pressed the needles into his inflamed skin. "A healer named Atli. That was back when the nation was overt in their 'friendly relations' with Stella D'Mare."
"Atli. I met him." He remembered the man's flustered state, when he walked into the tent with Elespeth, and was introduced. At first taken aback by his sudden enthusiasm, Haraldur began to understand why his existence meant so much to the beleaguered healer. His daughter, who was training as Forbanne, was not yet lost in the mind, and rehabilitation was more than possible for her...if she was ever found. "I've agreed to help him in his plans against Mollengard," he said, vaguely, omitting Elespeth's role, as he had a feeling that Alster did not know.
A rap on the door brought them to attention. In walked the two healers that Vega had sent an attendant to fetch. Alster opened his eyes and about disrupted Sigrid's treatment, for how quickly he'd moved to an upright and forward-leaning position. With quick apologies to the Dawn Warrior, he looked excitedly to the two healers that entered--Daphni and Elias.
"Daphni. Elias." He smiled, grateful for their presence. "We wondered what became of you, when you left Stella D'Mare. I'm glad to see you're here in Eyraille. And Elias," he appraised the sickly healer, and though the man was still pale, gaunt-cheeked, and more bones than skin, he seemed...healthy. "You're...not ill anymore?"
"No," was his immediate, terse answer. "Daphni used some unholy magic to 'revive' me from the water. It was all very theatrical. You had to have been there."
"I could only imagine." He flicked his eyes to Daphni, who in comparison, was bleary-eyed, favoring one leg over the other, and breathing with a troubling quickness. "Daphni--I must ask the same of you. Are you well? I," he sighed, and turned his head to the prosthesis that, so long as he wielded it, would always be the object of curiosity. "In generating the amount of magic required to send the Serpent back to Its world, my arm dissolved. I was given the opportunity to undergo an experimental surgery for this contraption, and I said yes. Because if I wanted to remain useful to my family and to others, I needed both arms. However painful the acquisition of a cold hunk of grafted steel would be to me," he gave a tired smile, "and my sanity. But it does its job. It can move and cast magic. So it will do."
But the "casual" conversation and the catching-up of old companions was short-lived, when the subject returned to Vega. She, needing a chair to relay the news, hunkered before Alster, while Haraldur stood from behind, resting his hand on hers in silent support, for the subject matter was anything but pleasant. And when she mentioned the word "pregnant," Alster, who had reverted to the relaxed state that Sigrid's needled treatment afforded him, jolted in his seat a second time.
"Pregnant?" His eyes traveled to her stomach, then back up to her afflicted expression. "Despite your condition, you managed--" But he smartly shut his mouth and nodded for her to continue. As expected, she made mention of the death still trapped inside of her, though she spoke of it in vague terms. Daphni, pulling up a chair and joining the circle, went on to clarify, detailing the status of Vega's soul, using descriptive terms that he corroborated with a nod, for he had seen a similar phenomenon, in part, when visiting Vega's dreams.
"I experienced it, too, when I contacted you," he told Vega, who was sinking into herself with every anticipated response from him. "Black smoke, bleeding out into the atmosphere. The essence of death, leaking out from the gate--your runic seal." He pointed to her chest. Though covered with clothing, he knew its location, and that it was a literal stigma that she carried with her, and hid with shame. "Daphni is correct in her assessment, and in far more eloquent terms, so I won't belabor the point by repeating what she said. We know that this is happening. So let me offer to explain why this is happening. And you're not going to like any of it--including where I've learned this information." With a courageous puff of air, he uttered the name, "from Vitali."
Unsurprisingly, Haraldur went on the offensive. "You consulted the necromancer?"
"Yes. Because if anyone is going to know how to undo this, it's him. And take comfort, Haraldur." At Sigrid's completion of his treatment, he gave his shoulders an experimental roll. "When we found the hidden kingdom of Galeyn, he was attacked so savagely, he was left with gaping wounds that would not heal. Though he's since recovered, his eyes are so light-sensitive that even the faintest glow causes him excruciating pain, and he's been rendered blind as a result."
That seemed to satisfy the mercenary. With a grunt, he nodded for Alster to continue.
"According to the necromancer, and I agree with him, the reason that you're exhibiting these symptoms, and why your soul is combating the persistent energies of death, is because something is keeping you connected to death. So I will ask this, and please don't think I'm being accusatory. But I need to know, if I am to help you. Are you hearing, experiencing, voices of the dead? Specifically--are you still communicating with your roc?
Haraldur's hand shuddered over her own. "You told me you could hear Aeriel. That you could feel her presence. You almost walked off the balcony one night in pursuit of her."
"And we had to pull you away from the edge of Andalari's pit for the same," Alster added, clasping his metal hand with his flesh hand. "Do you hear and feel her regularly, Vega? Do you seek her out?" At her uneasy silence, his tone became softer, gentler. "It's a comfort, knowing that your loved one isn't truly gone. If given the chance, so many of us would do the same. I did, once. My chthonic magic, which is receptive to death energies, summoned the spirits of my parents, because it was impossible for me to move on from their deaths. So believe me when I say that I understand. But the rune that the necromancer marked on your chest is to assure that death stays out. When it bleeds, it's indicating that vestiges from the other side are getting in."
He lowered his eyes, turning both of his palms face-up. "Back then, I didn't have the confidence or the time to help you. Stella D'Mare was on the verge of collapse, the Serpent was about to break free, and I was dying quickly of a degenerative magic disease, the same disease which later took my arm. While Stella D'Mare is again in danger, I'm no longer at risk of death. I've been 'blessed' with the stamina to address your problem without tiring or dissolving, and I've been offered insight into your condition. I've even succeeded in opening and closing portals, when I banished the Serpent to Its home. I'm better able to be of service to you. But..." he looked up and took in her terror-stricken eyes, "I can't do anything unless you let go. If you want these children to live, and not only that, but if you want to enjoy a better quality of life without this ever-worsening threat, you must say goodbye to Aeriel, Vega. We'll help you do it," he indicated himself and Daphni, "but you have to want to. You have to let us. ...Will you?"
The necromancer… As Sigrid finished up the placement of the needles on Alster’s arm, let them sit so that the tincture would take, and noted the Rigas Caster’s relaxed demeanor, she listened to the conversation unfold, as any bystander was apt to do. She had known that, as a consensus, Vitali was relatively disliked among the small party because of devious acts that he had performed in the past. Alster had alluded on more than one occasion that he had done something dastardly to the Eyraillian Princess, but had also been responsible in restoring her life. And for that reason, Sigrid found herself wholly unable to dislike him to the same extent as his comrades who had known him for longer--hence her lack of hesitation in providing him relief from the intense nerve pain in his newly revived arm.
But what the Dawn soldier had not witnessed was just how this had impacted the young woman before her--the Eyraillian princess and Skyknight Commander, who had such a strong and unbreakable air about her. She sat before her group of comrades, wilting like a flower, in the aftermath of the necromancer’s ministrations. And the visceral way in which Haraldur, the Skyknight’s lover, reacted to the mere mention of Vitali… There had obviously been significant developments that had occurred prior to the Dawn warrior’s involvement. And it appeared to all be coming to a head, now.
“So you think that you can determine the source of the leak?” Daphni asked Alster, leaning forward in her seat. “That is something I was not able to do; and as a result, all of my attempts to mitigate the damage are little more than useless… The darkness always returns to threaten her soul. And those of the unborn children.” She did not go into detail, however, about her own condition, or why she looked worse for the wear. How each and every time she ventured into the depths of Vega’s soul to clear away the inky blackness that blocked the full intensity of the Skyknight commander’s light, it rendered the Sybaian healer exhausted and weak. Fortunately, she had Elias nearby to help guide her to bed, to help treat her own symptoms while she rested and, slowly restored her strength. But each and every time, her treatments seemed to benefit Vega less and less; and to leave her affected more and more…
Everyone, Vega included, waited and listened patiently as Alster explained what the necromancer had told him--and what he had derived from it all, knowing Vega the way that he did, and knowing what she had been through; what she had endured, what she had suffered. And, in the end, Daphni was astounded at how simple the solution, the reason, was: her roc. A beast with whom she had spent the majority of her life, to which she was so attached, that even in death, they could not be separated. Not with Vega’s heart still reaching out, tugging the giant avian back. An overwhelming sadness descended upon the Sybaian healer’s shoulders; and she wasn’t entirely convinced its origin emanated solely from the Eyraillian princess.
Vega’s response was strange, however. The Skyknight paused and straightened, squaring her shoulders as if she were being accused or threatened. “What would Aeriel have to do with any of this?” She inquired in a flat tone that suggested this was not territory she cared to delve into. “She is dead... It isn’t as though I’ve contacted the necromancer to raise her from her ashes. She cannot possibly be the cause of any of this.”
Haraldur was quick to follow up in pointing out her somnambulance, which had gone so far as to bring her outside onto the balcony of her bedchamber, in pursuit of Aeriel’s voice. Furthermore, Alster reminded her how, soon after she had returned from Vitali’s “errand”, soon after the roc’s untimely passing, she had pursued her voice in Tadasun, almost walking directly into that deep pit. A fall that would have surely cost her her life. The Skyknight felt her cheeks warm. “I do hear her, sometimes. But I do not seek her out. It has been months since her death; I’ve come to accept it. I am not holding onto her ghost, Alster.”
“Have you yet chosen a new roc as your permanent mount?” Daphni inquired gently. By the way Vega’s expression contorted, she knew the answer. “I understand how difficult it must be. To feel as though you are betraying your longtime companion by choosing another as your mount. But… perhaps it would be a reasonable place to start. To assist you in letting go, Vega.”
“How can you all be so quick to blame my freedom of will?” No longer desperate and despondent, Vega rose from where she was seated, her eyes fierce and lips pressed into a firm line. “I am not clinging to what is left of Aeriel. I’ve already grieved--and many of you witnessed we do it!”
“Many of us saw that you were very sad, Vega. Very lost without your roc. But sadness and grieving are not the same.” Daphni was treading thin ice, and she knew it. That the Skyknight princess responded with such defensiveness to the passing of her roc, and to her maintained connection, suggested that Alster was correct in his assessment. She was keeping the lines open for Aeriel to reach her--even if she was not doing it intentionally. “Grieving only starts when you have accepted loss. If you are still seeing, still hearing your roc, then you have not truly had to accept that she is gone, have you? Not when she is still there, for you, quite literally within reach…”
But now wasn’t the moment that they had hoped for. Because for all Vega decried that she would do anything to save her children and pave the road for her future, she wouldn’t be able to close the gate if she could not come to terms with the fact that she hadn’t moved on. And in a room full of people, some of them strangers to her, the environment was not safe enough for her to be--for all intents and purposes--called out. Not safe enough for the truth.
Daphni could sense that the conversation was over before Vega could shake her head. “You are asking me to do something I’ve already done.” The Eyraillian princess snapped, clenching her hands into fists. “So you’re wrong. This isn’t about me reaching for Aeriel. Maybe it is that she is reaching for me; why is that not a possibility? She was torn from me so abruptly, and so violently, who is to say that she does not understand that she is dead? Or that it is not possible for me to be her rider anymore?” Tears had gathered in her pale blue eyes, but she did not stall long enough for them to fall, before heading for the door.
“Vega…” The Sybaian healer’s heart sank. “We are only here to help you; all of us.”
“We’ll talk later. The Festival of Equinox is nigh. Caris is counting on me to help him finalize preparations.”
She left, then, but the intensity in the room did not leave with her. Daphni pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled a deep sigh. “She wants space… allow her that. But what we might not be able to afford her is time.”
“She asked for Alster to come to her aid… enough that she sent roc to retrieve him. I don’t understand.” Sigrid frowned, folding her arms. “Why is she suddenly resistant?”
“I don’t believe that she means to be. Not consciously. My guess is that she was not expecting, nor was she prepared to hear that she is preventing death from closing its door.” The Sybaian healer’s voice was sad, but also betrayed an understanding for the reason why Vega had seen fit to walk away just now. “She felt attacked. Likely thinking that we assumed she values the ghost of her roc more than the lives of her developing children. We took the wrong angle; but we couldn’t have known. At least, now, we know what not to do.”
“Something wrong? Any way I might be of help?” Seeing her chamber door open on a crack, Caris invited himself inside, just moments after his sister had taken her leave. Immediately noting her absence, his brows furrowed. “Are you waiting on Vega? I’ll see if I can retrieve her.”
Daphni only shook her head. “I’m afraid she was already here, Your Majesty. And she was not receptive to what we had to say.” Sighing softly, the Sybaian healer rose from her seat. “Your Majesty, might I present Alster Rigas of Stella D’Mare. He has come to offer whatever help he can to Vega in her plight. And this is Sigrid Sorenson, of Braighdath’s Dawn Guard, here to help Alster with pain management--as I’m sure you can tell by his prosthetic arm.”
The young king nodded to both Alster and Sigrid, who in turn offered shallow bows, but he did not dwell on pleasantries. “Excellent. So, then, am I to assume that nothing has come of this little congregation, yet? That my sister is still living with one foot in death’s doorway?” While he did not sound at all impressed, Caris knew his sister’s obstinacy well enough not to point fingers. If she did not like what they had to say, then there most probably wasn’t any way in which they could have worded their piece to make her understand. He knew this, because he was much the same way. “What seems to be the trouble? What is keeping her connected to death?”
“Alster believes… we believe that she has not yet accepted the passing of her roc, Aeriel. And that she keeps a crack open for her to continue to communicate. To hear her, to see her…” Daphni explained quietly. “She has not moved on, Your Majesty. She has not properly grieved, because she has not had to. Aeriel never really left…”
Squinting against the painful rays of sunlight that caused that dull ache from his hangover to resurface behind his eyes, Caris stepped away from the windows. “You went about this entirely the wrong way,” was all he commented, sounding as disappointed as he looked. Which, of course, only incited disapproving glances from those in the room who dared to shoot such looks in his direction--namely, Sigrid.
“We were only doing what we believed would help, Your Majesty. Her Highness asked Alster why death still dwelt within her; and he told her.”
“Of course, that is entirely rational. And for anyone who has not spent their life born and raised in Eyraille, that would be the correct way to go about it. But when you have not been presented hope for the future, what else do you have to lean on but the past?” That was when he turned to Haraldur, with a knowing look in his eye. “Haraldur and I have already spoken at length about Eyraille’s approach to seizing the future, just as we would like to have it. And this, mercenary, is precisely what I was trying to tell you. She might not be as forthright about it, but my sister also harbors these ideals. And, given what has happened to her, what she has learned, and what she believes she has to look forward to… can you blame her, really?” He folded his arms across his chest. Judgment did not cloud his azure eyes, and what he said next was very matter-of-fact. “Twice, she has found herself in difficult situations; and, twice, you left her when the water was too hot. Now, she discovers she is pregnant, but she hasn’t had a chance to be happy for it--and this was long before our esteemed healers delivered her the bad news.”
Daphni, trying to follow his rationale and failing to do so, furrowed her eyebrows ever so slightly. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I feel that this runs far deeper than to lay blame upon Haraldur.”
“Oh, I agree, most definitely. But, I also believe wholeheartedly that he can turn this around, and make it possible for her to accept the loss of her roc. To help her heal. Be honest, Haraldur,” he said, turning back to the former Forbanne after glancing temporarily at Daphni. “Have you dared to plan for your future with my sister--with your children? Have you thought about names, sat down and contemplated decorating a room to serve as a nursery? Because if I know you like I do, then I am willing to be not. And that must change.”
Lowering his voice, he reached up and clasped Haraldur’s shoulder, intensity finally creeping into his blue eyes. “You haven’t, and for that, Vega doesn’t fully believe she will have the future that she wants--because you do not full believe. Your pessimism is contagious, my friend, and what you choose to do about it will determine how this path unfolds for you, for Vega, and for your children. Make her believe that these children are not just a possibility, but a guarantee. That your happiness is a guarantee. Because until you believe, she will not… Do you understand what I am saying? Put away the threats of death and despair, and remind her of what she can have. What she will have, if the both of you can imagine it within your grasp. She might already have a reason to let go; but what you must assure her of is the security to do so.”
Caris let his arm drop and stepped away from Haraldur, and pressed two fingers to his still aching temple. “I’m not a healer, or any semblance of one. But I know my sister. And if she doesn’t see a point in being saved, then she won’t open herself up to help. Give it a try. If, even after that, she is still not receptive, then I invite each and everyone one of you to berate me and call me wrong--without consequence.”
And he left it at that, respectfully bowing out to take care of the remainder of his throbbing headache. In the silence that followed, Daphni sat in fierce contemplation, having weighed each and every word that the young king had said. For one so young, and with a reputation for being so crass… he was right. Absolutely everything that he said made perfect sense. “...he is right.” Glancing around the room, from Elias to Alster and Sigrid, and back to Haraldur, the Sybaian healer’s eyes were alight with possibility. “If what has happened to Vega had conditioned her not to dare to hope, then of course she is subconsciously allowing death to maintain a hold on her life. Even if she isn’t at all aware of it--even if she knows she wants a future for herself and these children, the mental mechanisms that she has developed are preventing her from truly believing it is possible. And so, she continues to hold relentlessly onto what she already has… Aeriel. Or, what is left of her.
“Haraldur. Here is what you need to do.” Daphni turned her attention to the mercenary, who looked positively stricken with guilt, after Caris’s less than tactful speech. “Do not go to her yet. She is still stinging from what we told her; allow her time to breathe. But in a few hours, approach her as if nothing ever took place here, today. We went about this the wrong way. We cannot scare her with ultimatums; we must reassure her with hope, and why it is worthy to dare to hope for the best. Her brother had the right idea: talk to her about your future, about your children. Celebrate it. Let her know how much you want it, and how proud you’ll be to have a family together. Do not mention her roc… If all goes well, then you won’t have to. She will, herself.”
Looking to Alster, then, she added, “Can I ask you to remain on standby? Do not give up on her just yet. She will want our help; but she must come to that conclusion and her own acceptance, first. Nobody here will be able to help her, until she herself has come to embrace what it means for her to heal.”
Every word Alster uttered was like twisting the knife into an already open wound. Vega, as a result, writhed from the pain. Her blue eyes widened, then grew livid. She seemed to shimmer with heat as she rose from her chair, her arms drawing forward in physical defense, as by reflex. Her strong reaction to his assessment nearly caused him to renege on his words, or to second-guess the diagnosis--if only to redirect her anger. He knew that it was not lobbed at him, and that her vocal protests were a sign that he identified the problem correctly. Or that he hit a sore point with all the tact of a battering ram. As such, regret plied at his tired limbs. Why didn't he enter her mind, and saw to the open gate, himself? No explanation necessary. Alone, he could have explored the crossroads between her life and her death, and possibly sealed the tear, without needing to bother Daphni, who was too haggard to stand, or by mentioning Aeriel to her rider at all. But to throw Vega, unprepared, into the vulnerable subconscious, where she would likely encounter her roc, and for him to suddenly announce that she needed to banish her companion into the gate, was a purely reckless maneuver on his part. It would destroy her.
No. He had needed to consult her on the process, and to warn her about what to expect. But the guilt still weighed on his chest, such that no words would sputter from his lips in a hurried effort to reach her. Though Daphni had tried, it wasn't enough. Why can't I say anything? Why didn't I find the right words, before? I forged an empathetic connection with her, once. I should have known...
While Alster was trapped in his own head, Haraldur, along with Daphni, had tried to reason with her. "Nobody is blaming you for anything, Vega." He'd placed a hand upon her shoulder when she rose, but she shrugged it away, and retreated from him. "Alster and Daphni--they're only trying to understand what it is you're experiencing, so they can tailor their help to your needs. Yours...and the children," he muttered, but his words were lost in the scramble of voices.
That was when she had had enough, and marched out of the room. While she tried to direct calm on her face, a facade to present to the public, her heavy footfalls betrayed her disposition. He watched after her, unsure if he should follow. No; if she wanted him along, she would have said so, or would have grabbed his arm and tugged him out of the room. Of course she didn't want him nearby. This had to do with their unborn children. He, as far as she thought, was of the "accusing" party, and thus had more "right" to accuse her than the others. To place blame on her for putting the babies in jeopardy. But he didn't. Above all, he wanted her to be well.
"I should have been more delicate," Alster said, his first words since Vega's tirade. "Nobody wants to hear that they're the cause of their own misfortunes. And yes, I had known how she'd react...but I said it all anyway." He pressed his good hand to a knot forming along his temple. "I was not in the right mental place to dispense this information. Tired from the ride, in pain...and I haven't been myself, lately."
"Better you than me," Elias said, crossing his arms over his chest. The Clematis healer had remained largely silent throughout the tense exchange, aware that any words uttered from his imprudent mouth would have worsened the proceedings tenfold. "But you're doing no favors by blaming yourself. As a would-be healer, you're going to need a thicker skin."
Alster nodded, but wasn't reassured. "I have a very small window here. If she doesn't agree to this treatment before I leave for Stella D'Mare..." he traced along the white scar of his prosthetic palm, "I can't afford to 'take the wrong angle.'"
Haraldur opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the arrival of King Caris, who'd heard them speaking through the crack of the door.
"Your Majesty," Alster stood up, though with difficulty as he needed to cradle his weighty arm and push himself out of the chair without losing balance. It worked in his favor, as evidenced by his respectful bow to the Eyraillian king. And when Daphni explained the situation at large, and what had happened when he made mention of Vega's departed roc, the monarch's accusatory response had teetered him even more off-balance. "My apologies. I should have known better. I've worked with your sister in the past. I've seen, in memories, the depths of her love towards her roc. Saw how much Aeriel's death had shattered her. I confronted her too harshly, and the onus is on me."
But the young king was not finished with his criticisms; in fact, they had only begun. When he turned to face Haraldur, the mercenary naturally straightened his shoulders, as he did in Caris's presence. Like an at-attention soldier, he stood--but also, as a mechanism to hide the inner wounds. It was the classic prey animal response; feign wellness so that predators would not target the weak and defenseless. And in that moment, Haraldur was defenseless. Eventually, the barriers surrounding him had dropped, revealing a pensive, overwhelmed man, who, despite his efforts, had given in to hopelessness.
"I've been employing your methods," he said, a shade of indignation appearing in his olive green eyes. "Remaining positive. Culling my attitude. I haven't left her once. And I've never hidden my desire for these children. I want them. She knows that I want them. But I can't force her to harbor the same enthusiasm as I do. It's a big change for her, and I figured she'd come around in her own time. We've only found out about this recently, after all. And it's too early to make any arrangements or preparations. Again--I've only known about a week. To pretend that they're already a sure thing, when numerous complications could...are occurring..."
Trailing off before he could further lodge his own foot into his mouth, he looked at Caris, at those intense eyes so alike to his sister's, and sighed in surrender. "...I have to distance myself from hope, Caris. At the very instant when I believe that it will turn out fine...that's when it all ends. I may be able to train myself to think more positively, but to be so overt about the guarantee of my childrens' birth...that's only inviting disaster. It will find me. It sees when I'm happy. Like a beacon at night. And it takes. And takes." His shoulders fought to remain stiff. He fought to stand sturdy, and steadfast, especially in front of this North-featured stranger from Braighdath, whose eyes were on him. All of their eyes were on him. "I can't gamble their lives away on the off-chance that my mindset change is what will save them."
"Oh for crying out...are you in denial? Do you not see that you are damning your children's lives, right now?" Elias said, his lips pursing into an austere line. "It's not a gamble if you know the outcome. And you do; they will die. If you accept that you can do nothing, they will die. Let that sink in a moment, Haraldur. Are you more invested in proving Fate correct, or in saving your children? Because at this rate, they have days to live."
That last, bitter fact seemed to snap Haraldur out from whatever gloom had clung to him, like dust motes sticking to his magnetism. No wonder why the room seemed dustier, to Elias. He sneezed, for good measure.
"Days!?" He said, turning both a frightened and bewildered stare at Elias. By then, the king had already departed the chambers, leaving them all to share their options for the Skyknight princess. "You failed to mention that time-frame."
"I found no need to startle you when we hadn't the resources to make a difference. But," he waved to Alster, "now, we have the means. But it's up to you, Haraldur. By giving up, you abandon her. You abandon your children."
I'll be killing children all over again. It was part of what Haraldur admitted to Caris, the other night. They were there in nightmares, pleading for him. Pabbi. Pabbi. Help us... They knew. They knew that it would come to him. Didn't you say that you'd save them all? That you'd prove Fate wrong?
"...Tell me what to do," came his drowned, yet resolute voice. "And I'll do it."
As instructed by Daphni, he waited a few hours before searching for Vega. With Alster's reassurances that he'd stay for the "duration" (their euphemism for his children's lifespan), barring a grave emergency from Stella D'Mare, Haraldur forced himself to hope. He started along his path to positive thinking by envisioning his children. Twins. How sweet they looked in his mind's eye. How they scrambled for his arms, and giggled when he spun them up high. They had their mother's fiery Sorde countenance, tempered with their father's ground-gripping feet. But oh, would they fly. Fly on rocs, fly with someone beneath to catch them should they fall. They would always know love. And safety.
Mollengard would never have them.
No, he chastised himself. Positive. Positive...
He found Vega in the ballroom, checking the decorations while consulting a ledger that she gripped as if it were all that linked her to reality. As it was now evening, the other attendants and servants had retired for the night, but she toiled on, not seeming to notice that she'd been left alone in the capacious space. So as not to startle her, he closed the ballroom doors behind him with a soft thunk, not loud, but enough to inform her that someone had arrived. When she turned to see who it was, he greeted her with a wave and a smile.
"Caris told me that I'd find you here," he said, stopping about arm's length from her, in case she still valued her distance. "I worked on this room a little earlier this morning. You will find that the garlands are arranged perfectly straight, with no margin for error. While your brother has abandoned his foolhardy quest in making me play the Fool, he now thinks I should go about the ballroom, presenting every guest with garlands while I coat myself in ivy like some wild-man. He called my role the 'Green Spirit.'" He made a face. "But I will admit, I'm more invested in the coming together of this festival than I was, before. The arrival of Spring...it helped me to remember that I was born, then. Well, late Spring, anyway. The days were long, and the wildflowers were at their peak. It didn't improve the weather, any," he recalled, with a reflexive shiver, "but it always heralded hope for something better. And now...it really is true."
He looked at her stomach, and braced himself for the words that he hoped would vault himself past the doubt that comprised his very being. "...They'll be born in the Fall. Our children." Slowly, he edged closer to Vega. "Appropriate, that when they open their eyes, they'll not only see the fire in their mother's hair, but the fire of the leaves as they shed from trees and swirl across the mountains and valleys. It's an impression that won't leave them, I take it. That's why I'm convinced that they're going to have your flame-hair and your impulsiveness." He chanced a grin. "Brash, or loud, playful, and very convincing. They'll get what they want out of me. As you did."
With a note of warning, he took his hand and rested it gently on her stomach. "I'm not very creative with names. I lived much of my life in a society that stripped and murdered them, as a way to dehumanize us. But if one of them is a girl--what would you think of Klara?" He gazed out, for a moment, at the cathedral-high window before them, which was dimming into darkness as the world outside shut its eyes to slumber. "She wasn't given a real chance at life. Died too early, when there was so much she wanted to see. To do. The name, in a way, would honor her. I think...I think she'd like to be remembered. She would like that."
Before he could stop them, tears had welled in his eyes and steamed down his face. He slid his hand from Vega's abdomen, and pressed it against his leaking lids. "It means...more than I can express. To be a father. I never thought that I deserved it, never thought I could have it. But I do. We do, Vega." Giving up on concealing the steady fall of his tears, he took both her hands and looked into her uncertain eyes. "This is all I ever wanted. You, me, and our children. A family that we created. A family that, against all odds, is ours. And I," the tears would not stop, but he smiled through them, "couldn't be happier for the opportunity. Thank you. For making it possible. Your life is so strong, that you created life, when all thought it would never happen. That's a miracle." He leaned forward, and kissed her. "You're a miracle."
The room seemed completely unravel, all emotions running erratic and high as soon as the Skyknight princess took her leave, that evening. Naturally, Vega left guilt in her wake, likely emanating from her own sense of remorse given that they had suggested she was part of the problem that plagued her and threatened her babies’ lives. What was supposed to have been a potentially fruitful meaning had really fallen through in a bad way… Realizing the core of the problem had not brought them any further toward a solution. On the contrary, it had caused them to stagger backward, and now they were further from solving the problem than they had been before.
But it was nobody’s ‘fault’ that this unfolded as it had. And Daphni was eager to get that point across, if not for everyone else’s sake then for her own. To her aura-sensitive eyes, the air in the room no longer appeared clear, but deep shades of red and blue and gray. Anger and sadness and disappointment and guilt… “Nobody is at fault, here.” When the Sybaian healer finally spoke, her tone was hard and authoritative--wholly uncharacteristic of the typically mild-mannered woman, whose emotional control was typically rivaled by none. This was just too much. “No one could have anticipated that it would turn out this way; perhaps if we had consulted her brother, first, but His Majesty only decided to make himself known when it was too late, and Vega had already left. She sought help, and answers, and we provided her with both. If anything…” She exhaled to illustrate her own frustration. “I should be held accountable. I saw how she was taking it, by the colors of her aura; I did not temper myself in time for her to adjust.”
“It is my understanding that time is of the essence… from what little I know. It occurs to me that action must be taken, feelings aside.” Sigrid mentioned, placing a reassuring hand on Alster’s good shoulder, and turning a sympathetic eye to him. “She’s right, Alster. You did what you could--what you came here to do. You cannot control that someone might not be ready to hear the truth…”
“I would also like to point out that we will not get any further by bemoaning what went wrong.” Daphni added after a moment. “If Elias’s assessment is true, then we haven’t much time. And we cannot expect the Princess to come around and face the truth on her leisure. Haraldur…”
She offered the mercenary a soft look, as if an apology on behalf of Elias’s bedside manner, which had far to go, in her opinion. “Though I would not put it in quite the same terms, necessarily, Elias is on to something. His Majesty is not wrong; an attitude or approach can be as contagious as communicable disease, if not moreso. And if the reason that Vega holds so tightly onto her past for fear of never securing a happy future, then you are the key to changing that. But if you cannot change your own mind, then you do not have a hope in changing hers… or in giving her the security to let go of death. To take her foot out of the door for the sake of contacting her roc. I’m… sorry that all of this falls upon you,” she went on, and touched his arm. “It is a responsibility that I would not want to bear, either. But Vega is depending on you… and so are the rest of us, in order to help her. Here is what I want you to do.”
Daphni turned to face him square on, her eyes meeting his. So much determination and passion swam within those green depths… If he wanted to do this, if he really put his mind to it, then she had no doubt that he would succeed. “Find her--not right away, but tonight. Do not bring any of this baggage. And I want you to talk about your future, together; about your children. What will you name them? What will they be like? How will you fit into their lives--what are the details? I don’t care if it is all speculation. The point is not to dwell on the possibility that you might not have this, but make it a certainty. Make her believe that this will be your future. Belief goes both ways… and if you can encourage her to believe it, then perhaps you, in turn, will believe it as well.”
With their next plan of action firmly in place, everyone departed Vega’s chambers to attend to themselves, or other daily activities. Sigrid and Alster were led to their respective rooms, Haraldur left to ponder his course of action and build himself up for when he faced Vega that evening. Daphni and Elias were the last to leave, and only because the Sybaian healer needed to sit while she waited for the air to clear around her. “We desperately need to work on your bedside manner,” she told Elias, who insisted he stay with her so as to ascertain she made it back to her bedchamber safely when she found the energy to get to her feet. “Whether or not you said what you did for effect, or because it was true… these are very delicate matters we are dealing with. Although… I must admit, it did seem to motivate Haraldur.”
A half-smile curled the corner of her lips, as she took Elias’s proffered hand to climb to her feet. Either he was much stronger, regaining muscle mass that his former illness had eaten away, or she was growing rapidly weaker… “I wonder if adopting this method of thinking is the key to maintaining my strength, as well. The Sybaia are, as a people, terribly resigned to the fact that our magic burns us out like candles lit for too long… I am curious as to what your skeptical nature has to say about that.”
For the remainder of the day, Vega, to her word, busied herself for the final preparations for the festival of Equinox, which was to begin its week long festivities for just a few days. It was a blessing, to have something demanding enough to take her mind off of what had transpired that morning, even if her innermost thoughts condemned her for her own neglect. The lives of the babies she was carrying, still hanging in jeopardy, while she harbored resentment for an entire room calling her out on an attachment to the ghost of a roc who no longer existed. But she was too angry to process it, and had it not been for decorating and finalizing lists and supplies, the Skyknight commander might have ended up dealing with it in a far less favorable (and highly more reckless) fashion.
Among the servants and other palace staff, her main focus was the ballroom, where anyone who cared to partake in dance, music, and wine would celebrate the last night of the festival. It was just as important for the celebration to end on a high and vibrant note as it was to begin that way, and it had always been one of her favorite aspects of the festival. Even as a child, her kingdom and everything around it always seemed slightly less corrupt, with everyone jubilant for the mere joy of celebrating the coming of spring. Seeing to the finishing touches, to make the final night as memorable as every other that she’d had a hand in organizing brought her a modicum of comfort with the pit of constant turmoil that seemed to be her life, recently. She didn’t even take notice when the day made way for nightfall, and everyone else had cleared out of the room to retire for the evening, leaving her alone with her thoughts in the vast, ornate space; but not for long.
Vega cast a glance over her shoulder as someone approached, and at first, her stomach twisted into knots at the sight of Haraldur. Was he here to berate her for her behaviour, earlier that day? Would he point accusations at her, for turning away at the chance to save their children? It was likely no less than she deserved, but… Haraldur’s countenance was not accusatory in the slightest. He smiled at her, and pointed out his handiwork with the garlands that he had strung up along the ceiling and windows; all very well placed, as he pointed out. She couldn’t help but smile. “You know, the Green Spirit is an honour to play; consider it the utmost compliment from my brother.” She mentioned, her eyes traveling from the garland to the mercenary. “It represents fertility and life, new beginnings, fortune, and good days to come. Besides… the green ivy would bring out your eyes.”
The Eyraillian princess put down the ledger and lent her lover an ear as he began to explain the significance of spring, to him; how he was born in the spring, and the memories he had of springtimes passed, no matter how far away they seemed. But the topic of spring soon moved to that of fall… and Vega followed the path of Haraldur’s eyes, to her stomach. Without thinking about it, her hands drifted to her abdomen. Their children… they’d be autumn children. Born among the vibrant colors of the trees, the pink and orange skies at sunset…
If they were born… there was no guarantee. And yet, for the first time since she disclosed this sensitive information… he seemed so sure of what was to come. And what he wanted. “Eyraille’s falls are beautiful.” She said softly, offering small smile. “Not too hot, not too cold, and the world is whirlwind of color. And our harvests are always successful, plentiful; a time when the earth gives back to us, after all the care we showed it during the spring and summer. Some of the more superstitious areas of this kingdom claim that it is the most prosperous time to be born…” Should it happen, the children would be very lucky; at least, according to Eyraillian superstition.
It had never occurred to her just how deep Haraldur planned to delve, suddenly so fixated on the future he was sure he would have with her and their children. The princess felt heat gather behind her eyes as he began to talk about their personalities; their disposition for fiery recklessness, that he was certain they would inherit from their mother. Then names, as he placed a gentle hand on her stomach. Klara… the name of his sister, the one who he had not been able to save. Unbidden, tears gathered in the princess’s eyes. But they did not fall. “Klara is a beautiful name.” She whispered, meeting his eyes. “Any child of ours would be honoured to have that name. Your dear sister’s name. But, Haraldur…”
She was about to mention that they were getting ahead of themselves; that they could not rely on the possibility that any of this had come to fruition, and up until now, she had thought that he was of the same opinion… but her demeanor quickly shifted when she beheld the tears in Haraldur’s eyes. Tears which he let fall freely, as he proclaimed all of his joy and longing for a dream that he never thought he would realize. Children of his own--a family of his own. And not just one, but two children, conceived under impossible conditions. She watched his tears fall… and let fall her own.
“You have always deserved this, Haraldur.” She told him softly, resting her hands over her stomach, which had yet to show signs of the precious life it harbored. “You are only now realizing that you do… but you always have. We will have this.” Just a moment ago, she hadn’t been so sure. Her mind had dwelt upon that plain of uncertainty… the possibility that all could be lost at any moment, given the prognosis of the Clematis healer and the Sybaian healer. She hadn’t dreamed that Haraldur would ever believe it was a certainty, either. Not when he was always so careful to invest in hope, due to all of the misfortune and tragedy he had experienced over the years that life had taken him for a fool. Yet, here he was, suddenly so determined to believe in miracles… while she had coldly walked away from the possibility of making this a reality for them. And all because she did not want to discuss Aeriel; a fact of her past that had been long lost to her, by now.
The tears that had gathered in Vega’s eyes finally cascaded liberally down her cheeks, as she closed the distance between them and returned his kiss. “...the universe wants these children to be born.” She whispered when at last she found her voice again. “We conceived them under impossible conditions. They’ve made it this far… nothing will prevent them from being carried to term.”
Drawing herself into him, reveling in the comfort of having him near, she added, after a moment. “If one is a girl… she will be Klara. And, if a boy… When I was young, my father’s brother--my uncle Kynnet--showed my mother kindness in the face of my father’s cruelty. Up until the day that my father killed him. He wasn’t much older than Caris is now… I’d like his name to be given another chance at life.”
Something about those names, giving names to children who did not yet exist, felt so meaningful. They were no longer concepts or possibilities; they were real. And they would be a part of their reality…
But only if she chose to make it so.
When her tears subsided, the Eyraillian princess gently pulled away from Haraldur. “I was scared to tell you… because I was so scared that you would not want this.” She confessed in a whisper. “I was scared I would lose you. But I didn’t, and now I’m afraid I’ll lose them… but why would they exist if they weren’t destined to survive? Why would we have conceived at all, with my body as broken as it is? I need to believe that this has all happened for a reason. I… I never realized how much I wanted children, how much I wanted a family. Until the possibility was before me, and was threatened to be taken away…”
Wiping her tears on her sleeves, she pressed her lips together resolutely. “It is my fault. Alster and Daphni are right: I’ve kept the door open for Aeriel because I didn’t have it in my heart to tell her goodbye. I never thought that life would improve without her. But now…” Turning her eyes toward her lover, she said, “I need to fix this. Aeriel… is already lost to me. I will not get her back. But these children still have a chance. We still have a chance, to have the family that we deserve.”
Taking one last glance around the grand ballroom, realizing that there was no way the decor could possibly be improved upon at this point, the Skyknight commander turned towards the heavy wooden doors. “I’m going to find Alster and Daphni… I’m not risking the lives of these children for another moment, if I can help it.”
Daphni was already fast asleep when she knocked on the Sybaian healer’s chamber door. Elias, who must have been keeping vigil over the exhausted woman, was the one who answered. “Elias. I… need to speak with Daphni. What… what she and Alster said earlier, they were right. And I need her help, now."
Though she was sleeping, the Sybaian healer did not sleep deeply, and the voices at the door were enough to rouse her. Climbing out of bed, still weary but no longer feeling weak as she had earlier, her blue eyes lit up with hope at the sight of Vega, accompanied by Haraldur. Vega, who, on seeing her, was quick to ask for her help. “Daphni… I’m so sorry. You were right; I was insolent and in denial. And… I need you to help me.”
“It would be my honour, Your Highness.” Throwing a robe over her nightgown, she tied the sash at her waist. “But I cannot do it without Alster. Between the two of us, we’ll help you, Vega. Your children will be safe.” Shooting a knowing and thankful look at Haraldur, who had obviously followed her instructions and approached Vega just as she had suggested, the Sybaian healer turned to Elias. “Since I seem to have a poor record from emerging from these treatments unscathed, lately, I’d be much obliged if you accompanied, as well. Someone capable should be present to pull any of us out, should danger somehow make itself present… although, given the nature of this issue, I don’t really foresee that happening.”
Elias of course agreed (and likely would have insisted he come, even if she hadn’t asked), and the small group made their way quietly through the palace corridors. Alster wasn’t situated far from where Daphni was staying, and in was with nervous fingers that Vega rapped on his door. The Rigas caster answered, of course, looking weary himself. “I’m sorry, Alster. I’ve woken you…” The princess apologized, but the apologies did not stop there. “And… I owe you an apology for earlier, as well. I asked you to come here, and turned your help away when you offered it. That was wrong of me… I’m so very sorry. But…” Hope filled her eyes as she asked, one last time, “I need your help, now. Please help me protect the lives of my children. Earlier, I said that I would do anything… and I will. But I need you to help me.”
As everyone slowly filed out of the room, Elias remained behind when he saw that the Sybaian healer chose to sit rather than walk about on her weakened legs. While waiting for her to gain her second wind, he used the afforded silence to divest himself from the heavy quilt of emotion that had smothered them all with its overbearing bulk. "Daphni," he began, with a patient air, "we both know that I am not one for bedside manner. I am about results, and I will not sacrifice my strengths to humor my weaknesses. Now you know why I let you speak for the both of us." Pushing himself from the wall where he leaned, he wandered over to her chair when she hinted signs of rising. "But that man is a soldier. Saddling him with vague concepts was not productive to his action-taking instinct. I needed to make clear the threat; of what he will lose if he does not fight. As with Vega, we had to address Haraldur differently, too. Now that he knows his children are forfeit if he does nothing, he's more inspired to prevent this outcome."
Propping Daphni to her feet with an arm more capable of hauling poundage than months before, he pondered her suppositions. In doing so, he had lingered on their skin to skin contact for longer than he realized. A slight flush of his cheeks and he released her, but transferred his arm around her shoulders instead, to the sanctioned and less intimate method of conveying patients from one space to another. "Did you care to ask the Sybaian in Ilandria the secret to her longevity? If the answer is 'happiness' or 'fulfillment,' then...I can't entirely say that she is wrong." He paused in his movements to look at the fire in the hearth, the antithesis to the water of rebirth. It was a dancing thing of vitality, bright and brilliant, but quick to burn away into cinders.
"I daresay a mindset change would be beneficial. From my tenure with the Clematis Order, I know well the importance of faith. The concept of a secure future and a secure afterlife, made possible by individual belief in something greater than the self. It's miraculous, the rate of recovery in patients who prescribe to the idea that their lives are saved, no matter what is to occur with their bodies." Then, with a wry smirk, he added, "do you want to become a convert to my religion? It needs practitioners after St. Thorne's untimely destruction. I am technically qualified to accept acolytes, though I'd make a piss-poor teacher. Would probably draw people away from the Eight-Colored God. But whatever you end up believing," he pointed to the fire, "you can start with this hearth, right here. Think of yourself not as an ember, liable to snuff and die when your fuel source is depleted, but as the sun of your own universe. You sit central to a swirl of energies that revolve around you, which you can take into yourself, when needed. Draw energy from outside; not inside. Too much inside, and you deplete yourself. Your body might be finite, but the world around you is not. And since emotions are energy--could you not use the very thing that's killing you as the thing which saves you?"
He wasn't prepared for what she'd say, good or bad. So reduced was he, so insignificant to the crushing pressure of Fate and its wily machinations, that all he could do was watch Vega. Eliminating all thought, lest he invite the negativity that this kingdom, and its monarch, banned him from experiencing, he focused on his surroundings. He glanced at the floor, buffed to a opalescent shine. The ceiling, lined from end to end with rock-salt chandeliers so massive, they could rival the length and width of a modest man's hut. His garlands of ivy, spun from stiff fabric to simulate the appearance of abundant growth; a trick, Caris had told him, to ward winter attachments away from the awakening land. Each unblinking window, like the compound eyes of a fly, surrounded them, all spectators to the drama played upon her stage. And in them, the actors. Himself--and Vega. She stood opposite him, lovely even in her distress, tears washing down her eyes. A mirror in blue. Was he worsening their situation? Guilting Vega into compliance with his wishes? Stirring bad luck by tempting Fate, boasting that their unborn children would live? No. No doubts, he thought. Be in this moment.
Once she surrendered to his favorable rendering of the future, he pooled her into his arms, resting her head against his shoulder. Listening to her slow, erratic heartbeat, but it was a heartbeat, nonetheless. It was proof that they, too, would survive; like their hardy mother, who even death could not keep. "You had every right to doubt my loyalty to you," he whispered. "I haven't been forthright, or reliable. I seldom considered myself worthy. Of you, of this life...this opportunity. But you're right. We're meant to have these children. I'm," he took a shuddering breath, "meant to be a father. The more I keep saying it, the more I'll believe it. Because I want to believe it. They're ours. Kynnet and Klara--a well-coordinated naming pair, between us." He kissed the top of her flame-kissed hair. "I'm already in love with them. So let's show them...that we'll be good parents."
Renewed by Vega's decision to fight for their children, Haraldur pulled away from her embrace to wipe his tears--and her own. He could not believe that it had worked. That he broke her denial to such an extent that she admitted her trysts with Aeriel, and was determined to let go of a past with her in exchange for a future with him. With them. It nearly squeezed more tears down his cheeks to hear that she wanted the children, a family, enough to sever her ties with death, sacrificing comfort for the unknown. As one who regularly chose familiar misery over nebulous hope, he knew it was incredibly difficult, and challenged every instinct of self-preservation. Being there with Vega in the ballroom was proof that he'd stepped forward and defied the teachings that had kept him alive for so many years. Now, the two of them tread upon an unknown road--and he could think of no one else he'd rather travel there with than the mother of his children.
"I'll be with you the entire time, Vega. Come on; we'll go together." With another kiss, he took her hand, and the two of them wandered out of the ballroom...in search for their future.
Elias was awakened by a sharp knock on the door. When he rolled out of bed to answer, he wasn't surprised to see Vega and Haraldur on the other side of the threshold. "Well, the two of you came around eventually; which is better than never," he said, with a hard smile. Daphni was soon to join him in time to hear Vega's solicitations, to which she agreed. And before he could insist his participation, the Sybaian healer suggested just that. Pulling his robes over himself and hefting his physician's bag, in case of emergency, he gave her a gruff nod, and followed her out the door. "If you've ever had a positive record, it was never when I was acquainted with you, formally. Every procedure you've participated in so far has put you at high risk. So consider me here to rescue you from your many blunders. Again."
When the group, which had now become four, knocked on Alster's door, he answered with an immediacy that suggested he hadn't slept. Though he was weary in face, the Rigas caster was fully clothed, and the lantern was still aglow at his bedside table. "No worries. I wasn't asleep. This is just how I look," he said, with a faint attempt at humor. He listened when Vega expounded on the fate of her children, and the will to do whatever necessary, for their lives. Seeing both her and Haraldur, shining with hope, tugged a smile to a face that hadn't much reason to smile beyond politesse and the illusion of wellness. "No need to apologize, Vega. I'm more than happy to help. Let's convene in your chambers. A familiar place will help to ground you."
Minutes later, they were settling into Vega's apartments, each contributing to the comfort of the expecting mother. Haraldur lit the hearth-fire, which had since sputtered into smoke. Alster was fluffing pillows and setting aside the warmest of quilts, in preparation of Vega. Elias was setting a basin of water on the table beside the bed, along with a pitcher of drinkable water. They all dragged chairs to the bedside, with Haraldur's near the front, for ease of gripping her shoulders and whispering support into her ear. Alster and Daphni's chairs were beside each other, in the center, where her hands would be resting, while Elias positioned his chair behind them all, affording the clearest vantage point of the proceedings. After instructing Vega to lie on the bed, Alster took a few calming breaths, and looked to Daphni.
"I know that this procedure is too taxing for you, but I also know you won't reconsider your role in it. And admittedly, your expertise is needed here. So...if you keep near me, I may be able to cocoon you in a protective barrier, and that will help to keep any harmful or draining energies at bay."
"This sight is so familiar, it's like I'm experiencing deja vu," quipped Elias from his advantageous corner. Pray I won't need to resuscitate anyone, namely, you, Daphni."
"So how this will work," Alster explained to Vega, "is that you'll close your eyes, as if you're sinking into sleep. It will be similar to a dream. Aeriel will be waiting for you. Say what you need to say, and then...let her go. When you're done, she'll ideally cross over, through the gate--and that is when I'll close it with my chthonic magic. Do you consent to this?"
Haraldur leaned into Vega's ear. "I love you. I'll be right here, this entire time. You're safe." He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
At the Skyknight's determined nod to proceed, Alster took another breath, and reached for her hand in tandem with Daphni. "Relax. Drift, if you can. Reacquaint yourself with the state where you are most likely to experience the voices of the dead. Hone in on the cries of your beloved roc. Find her, as you've done before. Think of her golden wings, her graceful flight, those inquisitive, intelligent eyes. Concentrate...and we'll meet you there."
With Daphni's assistance, the two of them appeared in Vega's mindscape. It was similar to the dream where Alster met the Eyraillian princess, several days ago. They were surrounded by mountains, towering purple and blue, topped with white coronas. Those jagged peaks met with the plumes of clouds, all feather-down and winged tips. Wildflowers dotted the land, bobbing along the shrub grasses of the mountainside. They proliferated in waves of gold and blue, adding color to a country still ladled in places with highland snow. But Spring showed promise, and tenacity, and pushed the snow farther up the mountain peaks like a gravity-defining avalanche. It was all a picaresque vista, but as with their shared dream, flakes of black ash spiraled skyward, like upside down rain, or like locusts erupting from their burrows. It scratched at the scene, leaving smears of soot and puncture marks. Though it was small, incremental damage, once marred, nothing was replenished. Death was hungry. And its greed for the life before it, insatiable.
Luckily, those feather-down clouds from up above revealed themselves to be Vega's loyal mount, Aeriel. In her current iteration, she was white, an offset to the soot that bellowed from the ground like eddies of dry, desiccated leaves. The elegant roc materialized from her heavens, and landed before her rider, keening with eagerness, in her want for their reunion. As he and Daphni watched from nearby, Alster pressed his hand into hers. "Keep hold of me. Like I said, I'll protect you if events become too draining. Also, I need you to act as my tether. I'm going to delve deeper than here, to reach the gate. When Vega is ready to move on, tug on my hand, or call to me, and I'll close it. I should know when to, if I see Aeriel approach, but let me know, anyway. And...in case I get lost in there, pull me out. I'm afraid death might call to me, and that I'll answer."
Closing his eyes within the dream, Alster probed for the death that coiled around Vega's soul. With the help of his necromantic-seeking magic, he found the gate. It constricted, serpentine in its construction. With every revolution, the coils tightened, vising the life out of the pulsing thing at its nucleus. As with many souls, what he witnessed was a colorless blind of energy: pure, and whole, and alive. Pulsating, eternal...and resilient. It pounded against the serpentine fetters of death, but to no avail. With every struggle, hairline cracks began to appear upon its impossible surface, threatening to break into many pieces.
Vega's encounter with Aeriel...was breaking her, it seemed. Or was this the natural appearance of a soul burdened by revival and an unhealthy connection to the afterlife? He wondered if his soul...was similar in form. While he did not die, his chthonic energies were fascinated by the concept. Of soundlessness. Peace. A pain-free existence, floating in the void. Perhaps his soul was cracking like an egg trapped between the embrace of the Serpent. And he fain would break, to be done with it all...
But he had made a promise to Elespeth. I'll stay alive. For you, I'll stay alive.
Then, he saw it. Another, smaller light, melding with the one before him. Once those two spheres met, the hairline cracks had vanished. It was as if the smaller soul provided nourishment for the larger one. It was Aeriel; she had returned, seemingly dispersing into the soul of her rider. Whatever occurred had smoothed its fractures. Whether it was the ease of closure, the return of a restless spirit, or both, it had mended, and was made whole, once more.
That did not, however, solve the issue of the gate, which, in its serpentine formation, still remained entangled, intent on splitting open the sutures of the soul it terrorized.
Now, it was time to close the portal.
He remembered the sensation from when he'd banished the Serpent, and returned It to Its homeworld. He remembered a oneness with the universe. An understanding of infinity; how infinities resided within the individual. Every being, composed of their own eternity. The transference of energy from one plane to another; he was not restricted. He could roam wherever he pleased. In death, in life, in countless realms beyond the familiar. But in death, he chose not to roam. He'd close that door, rather than step through it. Much as he wanted to step, and forget it all. To be nothing. To disappear.
But he closed the door, and the coils disappeared, unobstructing the soul, which pumped with ardent fervor once again.
You're safe, Vega. So are your children, he thought, as he slowly dragged himself back to the surface. Back to a reality he didn't want to face; not yet.
There wasn’t a moment that evening that Vega didn’t feel herself intensely lucky for what she had: for the people who were both so intent to save her, and so patient for her to be ready for it. After her behaviour earlier, walking away from those from whom she had so desperately sought help, she would have deserved no less to witness them shrug their shoulder and walk away; not to entertain the insolent feelings of a stubborn Skyknight, whose very being had become so intricately entwined with the life (and death) of her friend and trusted mount that she could not let go, not even in death. But Alster, Daphni, even Haraldur… none of them were of the opinion to turn their back on a friend in need. Such that so late that night, when they all should have been finding rest and solace in slumber, they all congregated to her chambers once again--to finish what they had started that morning. To save her life, and the lives of her children.
Kynnet and Klara… they had names, now, or at least some semblance of budding identities through the ideology of names. No longer just concepts or a possibility; and so much more than a couple bundles of cells, developing in her womb. They were a reality--and she would ensure that they remained a part of her reality, and Haraldur’s. No excuses… not even death would hold her back. Not anymore.
It was strange, how lying comfortably on the massive expanse of her bed could feel anything but comforting. But in that moment, as Daphni and Alster helped her to prepare for what was to come, the Eyraillian princess couldn’t feel the comfort in the room. Not the warm down of her quilt or the soft knit of sheets, nor the heart emanating from the fireplace, into which she piled enough wood to ensure it burned throughout the night. Not even the consistent and unyielding presence of Haraldur, who had never really given up on her; who, despite his propensity toward pessimism and hesitation to hope, had never truly though her gone. All of it should have lulled her into a sense of security; and yet, her erratic heart raced at the idea of facing what is to come.
Of course, Daphni was instantly aware that the princess had yet to fall into a state where she was receptive to help--even if she wanted it. “You are safe here, Vega,” she tried to reassure her, grazing her fingertips soothingly over the Skyknight’s knuckles. “Safe to relax into that state which allows you to see Aeriel… We are all here, watching.”
But Vega as not convinced, as evidence by her racing heart, and the pinpricks of fear and uncertainty swimming in her azure eyes. “Whenever I see her, hear her… I want to go to her. I want to be with her, and I… I am not sure how to resist that urge. Not alone; Haraldur has always woken me in time. But I do not know how far my own willpower extends… I knew I was tied to Aeriel. But until I lost her, I didn’t realize just to what extent I was tied...”
“You are among the most capable team to ascertain that you are not lost.” The Sybaian healer went on, gesturing to everyone in the room. “Elias and Haraldur will remain present to monitor vital signs and bodily functions; they will be ready to pull you or any of us out of this, should it go wrong, which I doubt it will. I will do my part to keep an eye on the shape and presence of your soul. It would not be the first which I prevented from crossing over.” She offered a ghost of a smile. “And Alster will help to close the gate to ensure this does not happen again. Truly, Vega, you could not be safer.”
On a cognitive level, Vega was well aware that she was in good hands; sadly, it did not make it any easier. To be instructed to ‘relax’ amid a terrifying situation was close to impossible, in the same fashion that instructing someone not to worry did little to alleviate their apprehension. But she looked at Haraldur, whose eyes were so warm and full of hope… and in spite of what she felt, she knew that this had to be done. So when she closed her eyes, at last, it was not with the reassurance that accompanied relaxation, but with the sheer determination to put an end to this dark period in her life, once and for all.
After all, there wasn’t room for both the past and the future. And only one of those things carried with it the essence of hope.
Understandably, it took some time, approximately an hour for the Skyknight princess to relax and find that place, that dangerous middle-ground, where she had met with the spirit of her deceased roc many a time, over and over since Aeriel’s death. It was a beautiful place, this haven where her soul resided, drawing comfort from its surroundings. The perfect picture of springtime in Eyraille, where warmth and wildflowers banished the frost and snow, and carried the promise of prosperity and fertile earth on the air. It was real, this place; she had beheld it along with Aeriel many a time before, on their leisurely flights to escape the unforgiving reality that always awaited her at the palace. A beautiful place where they had revelled in one another’s quiet company, and where nobody else could reach them.
But, like in the dream where she had encountered Alster, something was amiss with this beautiful place. It was being antagonized, as if eaten alive by flecks of darkness that made themselves known in Vega’s peripheral vision, but whose presence flicked out of sight when she tried to face them head on. Death hiding in the wings of her world, quite literally.
She could not see Alster or Daphni anywhere, but drew comfort in the sense that she wasn’t alone; that they were there, on a different, perhaps deeper plane, in order to repair the mechanisms of this world that death so threatened. She had to believe she was not alone, or she would have gone running from this place, so uncertain was she that she wouldn’t follow the spirit of her roc into death. For this place, however safe it seemed, bent and bowed to the will of her soul, amplifying and complying with its desires. And if her desire was to be with her roc… then, really, what was stopping her from following her through the gate?
Vega hadn’t long to ponder the possibility, as it was not long before she saw it; saw her. Aeriel came to her, as she had many times before, like a silhouette of pure light. So golden and beautiful and ethereal that the princess could nary make out the roc’s features, beyond feeling that deep recognition that it was her. An identity that only two bonded souls could recognize. Instantly, as had occurred time and again, she was moved to tears at the sight of someone she’d thought she’d lost forever…
“I knew you’d come.” She whispered, cautiously approaching the avian made of pure light. “You always do; always have, when I needed you. Some things don’t change…” But… they had to. Now, things had to change forever, lest she lose this chance and never find an opportunity. Never see the future that she and Haraldur desired so fiercely.
But it was not as simple as that. Not like passing up a piece of cake to maintain a certain level of fitness and health; no, this extended beyond willpower and choice. She was drawn to Aeriel, just as Aeriel as drawn to her. Badly, so badly, she wanted to reach out and touch those feathers, which appeared softer and warmer than she remembered. Wanted to bury her face in their warmth, and feel the wind beneath her as she rode Aeriel into eternity. Perhaps, just one last time, they could ride together…
Vega. A voice that seemed to resonate from nowhere and everywhere all at once called to the Skyknight, as if anticipating her intent to approach. Stay.
Such a simple command, like one such that you would give a dog. But it was powerful, and resonated through her very being, enough to shock her back to the task at hand. No, this was why she was here: to ensure that she did stay. And… to see to it that Aeriel did not.
Swallowing hard, she took a single step backward, away from the brilliant presence before her. “You have served me so well; but I have kept you captive for long enough. First, as my loyal mount, and now… even now, when you deserve to find your peace.” She felt her voice begin to crack and break. It hurt--physically and mentally, on all planes of existence, to speak these words. “But I… am letting you go. We are not meant to ride together, anymore; someday, we will again. But… not now. Our destinies have finally diverged. And I will not tether you to me any longer.”
In an ideal world, that would have been all that it would have taken to get the apparition to disappear; to vanish Aeriel from her life, forever. But it was something that the roc did not understand, and wouldn’t have understood alive, either. For she had become so attached to her rider that it had not felt like captivity. She did not budge an inch.
Vega could feel her heart breaking. “Aeriel--you need to go. That is an order.” Though her voice carried the authoritative undertones that every Sorde possessed, the Skyknight did not feel the power behind it. And every word that she spoke hurt her more than it likely hurt Aeriel. “This is the last order I will ever give you. I am telling you to go, now, through that gate. Go… and find a place for us to meet again, someday. Wait for me there. I will see you again.” She paused, then added one last, resounding, “Go.”
There was a moment’s delay, where the roc made of pure light stood, still as a statue, before exploding into a million shards of light, so bright they were almost blinding. As the glowing fragments hit her skin, they felt warm, like embers that would not quite burn. And in their wake, the Eyraillian princes watched as the tiny flecks of darkness disappeared from her peripheral vision.
The gate was closing, and taking all of its inky blackness with it, leaving the Skyknight to stand in the unrivaled warmth of late spring in all of its beauty…
The Skyknight opened her eyes with a start, gasping as she sought upright, like she couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart raced and her skin felt hot, impossibly hot, as though she were burning up with fever. For a moment, disorientation assaulted her, and she kept her head between her knees to fend off vertigo. When at last he dizziness passed, and she had the courage to look up, it was into the faces of friends who surrounded her. Haraldur and Elias, whose countenances bore a contrary mixture of relief and concern, and Alster and Daphni, both who appeared exhausted, yet triumphant.
“Vega--you did it.” The kind, lilting voice of the Sybaian healer cut through the silence, as she squeezed the princess’s trembling hand. “It is done. The gate is closed; your life and your that of your children are safe.” She did not mention that moment of weakness that she had sensed in the princess; that moment when she felt compelled to reach for Aeriel, to touch her, to join her in death, for it would serve no purpose to point that out, now that the young woman’s future was secured. Nor did she mention it to Alster, who himself had fallen victim to the seduction of death and the afterlife. Daphni had found herself holding them both back, one in each arm, so to speak, and for that, she appeared positively drained. Recalling Elias’s suggestion to call on the energy around her, and not from inside of her, the Sybaian healer took the time to focus on that. To draw back into her what she had spent, in this endeavor to save a soul, while simultaneously preventing another from seeking a path through that death gate.
Fighting to catch her breath, and feeling as though she had literally been running for her life, Vega’s cerulean gaze flitted between the different faces, at last settling on Daphni and Alster. “It’s over…?” She breathed, one hand falling to her stomach. “They’re… are they safe, now? Is it done?”
“I am certain of it. But if you are looking for reassurance, let Elias assess.” Daphni suggested, and moved aside to grant the Clematis healer access to the princess.
After checking her vital signs, as well as the condition of the two tiny lives growing inside of her, and confirming that all as well and on the right path, the Eyraillian princess expelled a long sigh of relief, her arms shaking as she raked a hand through her hair. “If I’m well, then why am I shaking?” And why am I crying? She wondered, noting the hot tears that stained her face. This moment should have been happy, victorious. Her future with Haraldur and their children’s future were safe and secured. So why, then, did this feeling of profound sadness weigh so heavily in her chest? Like a cold stone dropped into a boiling soup broth, she suffered the uncomfortable dichotomy of hot and cold. But she said nothing.
“You body is returning to its rhythms; it is bound to be erratic for a short period of time.” Daphni soothed, smiling gently at the distraught woman. It’s over, Vega. You’ve done it; you won.”
Taking a breath to calm her frayed nerves, Vega forced a smile to her lips. Relieved; she should be relieved, she should be happy. So she would pretend to be until it was true. “...we did it.” She spoke at last, looking at Haraldur and taking his hand. “I told you, this--these children were meant to happen. I told you so…”
When it was clear that the Skyknight princess was all right, and coming to terms with the drastic transformation that had just occurred, the Sybaian healer turned her attention to Alster. Whether he realized it or not, she had seen--had felt what being in the presence of that death gate had done for him. There had been a moment of hesitation, before he had reached for his chthonic prowess and pulled the seams of that gate shut, indefinitely. There was a possibility, however slight, that it could have gone terribly wrong; a risk that not only would the Eyraillian princess be lost, but Alster, as well.
While Vega and Haraldur were preoccupied with one another, she leaned toward Alster, her voice low. “I know what you did.” She told him, her voice low, albeit supportive. “I understand the willpower that it takes to resist… what you saw. What you could have done. But you did it. You thought of her, didn’t you? Of Elespeth?”
She smiled, then, and added, more quietly, “It is not unusual that someone other than ourselves ties us to this plain; keeps us grounded. For the princess, that someone was Haraldur. He reached her, when none of us could. Just as Elespeth, in her absence, was able to reach you. I know that you have not given yourself credit for your strength, in the past, but this… this was all you. My own presence was merely a precautionary measure. Thank you.”
Briefly touching his hand, the Sybaian healer, of her own folly, made to stand--which nearly caused her to rapidly collide with the floor, Elias only catching her in the nick of time. All heads turned, concerned for Daphni’s pallor and sudden fragility, but she was quick to wave them off. “I’m all right. It has been… some time, since I have had to exercise my abilities as part of the Sybaia. It seems I am out of practice.”
“Daphni… are you sure you are well?” Vega, still trembling in the aftermath, sat straighter in her bed. She seemed different to her, the Sybaian healer… As if, in Elias’s recovery, she had taken a turn for the worst. “If there is anything you need…”
“Just rest. I’ll be fine after rest.” She assured her, and flashed a genuine smile. “Your kingdom will celebrate Equinox in just a few days. I hope to be adequately rested by then, so that I might enjoy it. After all, since arriving here, I’ve heard nothing but spectacular accounts of Equinox in Eyraille.”
When Alster opened his eyes, it was not to darkness, but to a fire, flickering gently in a room. Confusion seized him, but it didn't persist, when he turned his head in time to witness the woman in the bed rise up from her supine position, alert and gasping for air. The fingers of his good hand were still entwined with hers. The woman was Vega Sorde. Slowly, he unraveled himself from her while his mind pieced together what had happened. He was before the chamber of her soul, before a gateway into the Beyond--and he had considered entering. Had considered oblivion; and it was far from the first time that he came so close. That he chose to go close.
Growing pale from the memory, he distracted himself by watching the Eyraillian Princess revive from her ordeal. Haraldur had moved from his chair to sit by her on the bed, a relieved smile on his face and with arms itching to envelop her with the love and warmth she so deserved. Elias was not far behind, insinuating himself between the couple so that he could take measurements of Vega's vitals, including her pulse, her breathing, and her temperature. "As you've just awakened, your heart and breath will naturally be erratic and hurried," he analyzed, "but your temperature is stable; exactly where it should be. The procedure, far as I can read, was a successful one."
But it almost wasn't, Alster thought. He hadn't said a word since he opened his eyes. Because of me.
Once Elias shimmied out of their way, Haraldur scooped Vega into the crook of his body and held her tight, a quick laugh escaping from his mouth. "No; you did it," he said, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. "It was you who freed her. You who has made it possible. Thank you, Vega." Eyes traveling to Daphni and Alster, his smile broadened, and Alster could tell that he was nearly on the verge of tears, so clenched was he with worry. "Thank you. For saving them. And for bringing her back to me." He withdrew from Vega, his sorrowed yet elated eyes searching her expression. "How are you feeling?"
As the two of them spoke amongst each other, Alster, who had drifted into something of a waking sleep, startled and almost jumped out of his seat at Daphni's proclamation: I know what you did.
"...Did?" came his squeak of an answer. But as he listened to her favorable assessment of his resistance to death, he nodded, though it didn't rise beyond where it hung sagged, chin to chest. "That shouldn't have happened at all. Not when so much was at risk for them," he whispered, in case Haraldur or Vega overheard his near blunder that could have forfeited her life. "That I had the willpower at all to step away, when the thought of ending it all has been on my mind every single day, since sending the Serpent home...you're right. I have Elespeth to thank, as always. For keeping me here."
Speaking of...
Perking up, he physically shot out of his chair and turned to the Skyknight. "Vega--"
But all conversations drew to a close when Daphni careened forward, preventing her forward momentum only because Elias buffered the trajectory with his steadying arms. "We'll be heading back to our chambers," he informed the trio of concerned glances. "I have my own techniques through which to aid in her recovery; carry on. I'll come to call on you in the morning." But he cast a meaningful look at Alster before departing with the fatigued Sybaian healer. Alster nodded back, in understanding; she was dying, following in the tragic wake of her many sisters before her. Yet another casualty; would the ill fate of their empathetic burdens ever find them a reprieve that did not result in a wasting death? And, he wondered, if the nature of the disease shared similar symptoms and causes to Mariana Rigas, was there any way for it to be cured, short of making pacts with greater entities?
At Daphni and Elias's farewell, Alster painted on a smile and readdressed the couple.
"Perhaps I'll stay for the Equinox festival, since it's so near; I can't even remember the last festival I attended. The Rigases loved to throw lavish parties, and often...in our heyday. But," he sighed, running his good hand through his hair, "my attendance really does depend on the state of Stella D'Mare. Which reminds me. Vega; do you have the resonance stone that Chara gave you? I want to inform her that I'm in Eyraille."
When Vega complied by pulling it from her inside pocket and offering it to him, he took the cracked green rock with the care that one would give to a newborn. Now he knew why Lilica had carried hers like it was the one thing keeping her alive and connected to the world. He drew the stone towards his mouth, and spoke.
"Chara. Chara. It's Alster. I'm safe here in Eyraille. Can you hear me?"
Silence.
He repeated the message. More silence. Three more times, he tried, and was about to resign and try again in the morning, at a more reasonable hour, when he heard a response. And it was not Chara.
"Elespeth?" It needn't even be a question. He knew her voice, distorted though it was, in its faraway and dampened tone. It was her. Not through the unreliability of dream, where their connection had an ephemeral lifespan, liable to end at any provocation. No--this was a steady, unbroken communication link. And it was her.
In spite of where he'd been moments before, the gate he was tempted to enter, the life he was so ready to end, his throat tightened and the words choked out of him, in a barely-contained stream. "El. I love you. I miss you; I'm sorry. I'm sorry for leaving you. I'm sorry for everything." He pressed the stone to his forehead, squeezing it so tightly that his hand shook. "I'll be home soon. ...Thank you...for saving me. Thank you."
The next morning, Elias, as promised, arrived to knock on Vega's door. Haraldur answered a few beats later, naked but for the baggy trousers that hung, insecure, around his waist. Apparently, he had become quite comfortable in his new living arrangements, enough that it warranted halfhearted attempts at decency. When the healer raised a brow at the sagging trousers, the mercenary followed the path of his eyes, coughed uncomfortably, and hiked them up to his waist-line, in lieu of the belt he'd forgotten to don. "W-we...overslept," he said, in a sputtered mutter. "It was a long night, as you know, and--"
"--No need to explain. I've seen enough, so I don't need to hear the accompanying story, either." He swept through the threshold, ignoring Haraldur's flustered expression. The mercenary closed the door and shuffled on after him, grabbing a belt along the way.
"How is Daphni?" He buttoned his trousers and slipped the belt around his waist, cinching it so that it was snug and in place.
"She is on bed rest, presently. Anemic, light-headed, and shallow of breath, but improved from last night. How is her Highness?"
Shrugging on a tunic from the floor, he nodded towards her bed. "She's awake, now, if you want to give her a check-up."
As they approached, Elias set down his physician's bag and opened it, fishing out his gloves, a flat metallic disc attached to wires, and a few probing instruments, one of which looked like a clamp. "Good morning, your Highness," he said, electing for 'polite' conversation in his attempts to practice proper bedside manner. "How are you faring from last night? I'm going to perform a more 'thorough' check-up, if you'd allow it at this time. And," he motioned to Haraldur with the wave of his hand, "you are not obligated to stay for it. In fact, I recommend that you leave."
"I've assisted pregnant women before," Haraldur said, crossing his arms over his chest, testily. "My late wife was a healer."
"I've no doubt as to your prior 'assisting.' So tell me," he pointed to the metal clamp, "are you willing to use this in order to explore the innermost reaches of her Highness' reproductive system?"
Haraldur didn't respond, shifting from one foot to another with an unease he failed to hide.
"Well, I have my answer." Elias dipped his hands in the wash basin and dried them with a fresh cloth. "Do make yourself scarce, warrior. Her Highness is more than cared for."
At last, he complied. After pulling on his boots, he reached for Vega's hand, and gave it a comforting squeeze. "I'll tell your brother the news. And lend my aid to the festival's final preparations. I'll return as soon as I'm able."
However, he wasn't far out of the door or down the hallway when he spotted a somewhat familiar figure leaving from the guest chambers, the wrapped-up sword still strapped to her back, as though she were loathe to part with it. "Are you looking for the training grounds? Ah...Sigrid, was it?" He offered her a shallow bow of greeting. "I'll accompany you there, if you'd like. The palace is confusing, especially if you're unused to massive, labyrinthine structures. It took me weeks to orient myself, a far cry from my comparatively easy navigations through strange wildernesses and mountain ranges."
Falling in step beside the Dawn Warrior, he continued to chat--finding himself unable to stop in his new, buoyed state-of-mind. Vega was well; the children were safe. No doubt she was distraught over Aeriel, but they would work through the grieving process, together. "I could not help but take note of your northern name and appearance," he said, in as casual an air as possible. "I don't run into such people often, unless they're Mollengardian, or Mollengard defectors. But your surname places you in a specific region, one that enjoys a good deal of popularity up there. I'm from that ways, myself. What brought you to Braighdath?"
"My apologies," he said, knuckling the side of his nose with a self-conscious rub. "I'm not usually this talkative, but last night, Vega sought out the Sybaian healer and Alster Rigas, and their procedure was successful. She," he lowered his voice, mindful of eavesdroppers, "and the children--they're safe. It's news that I feel obliged to share with everyone. Though you're the only other soul who knows."
That morning, Alster woke, bone-tired and groggy. Though, it was not exactly from his brush with death, or the emotional strain thereafter--though that certainly played a part. It was from his late-night talks with Elespeth over the stone. Shamefully, he commandeered it from Vega and retreated with it into his chambers. For hours, they spoke; she, about the goings on in Stella D'Mare; he, about what he experienced in Galeyn, and his flight to Eyraille (though he did not yet share news of Vega's pregnancy, as it was much a secret within her own kingdom). He listened to her speak of Atli's sudden death, of Chara's incarceration of the wolf-shifter spy, and his news of Captain Solveig's true intentions for Stella D'Mare. It was a lot to absorb, and though it was imperative that he analyze the news and discuss strategies for their best course of action, Alster was too exhausted to think beyond the comforting tones of his fiancee, which, before long, lulled him to sleep.
With all the resolve he could muster, he kicked off the sheets which encased him like a fly to a spiderweb, cleaned himself before the wash basin, and slipped on his clothes. Though the process took twice as long with the complications of his arm, for some reason, he hadn't much trouble, or much pain with which to contend. Soon, he was ambling down the corridors, en route to Vega's chambers--but the guards at the door turned him away, citing the Clematis healer's need for no disturbances as he saw to the health of the princess.
"I understand," he bowed his head in compliance, and about returned to his bed for much-needed sleep, but another thought crossed his mind. "Could one of you point me to the direction of your library?"
While he would find no tomes expatiating upon the complexities of magic or the theories therein, considering Eyraille's torrid history with the art, he was curious about the kingdom's library. About any library, for that matter. It was a locale that brought him succor from the multitudinous stresses of his life, an escape that was even sanctioned by his overbearing mother, who'd expressed to him the importance of knowledge. Of reading everything his inferior brain could retain. Luckily for her (and perhaps unluckily, as his insatiable curiosities lead to her undoing), he thirsted for information. Every subject fascinated him; magic theory, science, linguistics, history, mathematics--and even the racy stories he discovered stashed away in the restricted section, his first foray into the "dark corner" of the Rigas library.
As he entered the massive atrium, he was already impressed by its expert organization and cleanliness. Shelves upon shelves fanned out before him in concentric half-circles, each aisle wide enough to see from his vantage point within its nucleus, including the large block letters that denoted the categories of books that were available.
In his marveling of the library and its aesthetically-pleasing construction, he didn't notice her approach until too late. When he caught the movement from his periphery, he whirled around, surprised, towards the source.
"I'm sorry. I didn't think anyone else was in here," he said, wearing a sheepish smile. She was an elderly woman, her eyes a foggy blue, and the color bleached from her long hair. She, however, was not stooped with the tell-tale signs of old age. She stood with a regal bearing. A familiar stature. And when he caught sight of her pointed ears...
"You're a Rigas." With his good hand, he tugged at the tip of his own tapered ear, as if in reflex. "In Eyraille? Are you," his wide eyes drank in her form, recognition setting in; though he never met this woman before, he knew her, in other ways, "Alta Rigas?"
"Is this your doing?" He swept his eyes around the cavernous book forest. "It must be. Let me just say," he took in a steady breath, struggling to maintain the bubble of emotion in him that threatened to pop, but to no avail; it popped, "it is an honor to meet you. I know you don't know me, but you have a reputation in Stella D'Mare. I know you by your deeds. Not the obvious ones, though." He could feel his excitement growing with every word, an exuberance that rocked him on his heels. "The resentment and derision expressed by your departure. That was well-documented. But...you designed the filing system at Main House's library. Rearranged the outdated materials, compartmentalized according to relevancy, afforded space for easier perusal...We still use and maintain your system today--though you're not recognized by name. But I found your notes in the restricted section, stashed away in a dusty corner. That's how I know. It's an ingenious system. I never had trouble finding what I needed. A welcoming environment--which was your aim, all along. Again," he took her hand in his, unaware that he'd used his prosthesis to engage, "it's an honor. My name is Alster. Alster Rigas. I mean," he laughed nervously, "you knew that. That I'm a Rigas, that is, not that you know of me...though my antics have made me infamous in Stella D'Mare. Did I mention that this is an honor? I think I did. But I mean it, sincerely."
Late night, chilled and damp with the coming of early spring, had already descended upon the broken city of Stella D’Mare, and Elespeth continued to find herself tossing and turning upon the cot in her lone tent. Sleep still eluded her, as it had since Alster’s departure. In part, she figured it was her body’s response to rejecting and putting off her usual nightmares; ones that involved her brother dying, over and over again. So much had happened since she’d found herself back in Atvany, confused, disoriented and devastated as she bore witness to Farran’s death. The battle against Andalari, the Serpent near-destroying Stella D’Mare, and Alster’s fluctuating health and state of being… all had weighed on her mind since then. Yet Farran was the one that her troubled thoughts always returned to. It made her wonder if any amount of Sybaian healing could possibly close the wound that her older brother had left behind…
And yet, part of her didn’t want it to close. She did not want to stop feeling for her brother’s fate; though she did wish that it would cease to continue haunting her, to the extent that it did.
But Farran wasn’t the only reason that sleep eluded her so. There was the looming threat of Mollengard’s shadow over Stella D’Mare, and while none of her “inner circle” (which now consisted of Teselin, Hadwin, Lysander, and Chara) knew what Solveig was up to, someone had to keep their eyes open for suspicious movement. And it might as well be someone who had difficulty closing her eyes of late.
That night, however, as she lay awake staring at the roof of her tent, while raindrops pattered softly outside (these ones decidedly not a result of Teselin’s outrageous power; it was far too subdued), a dull hum and vibration from deep inside the pocket of her trousers caught her attention. Sitting up, the Atvanian fugitive shoved her hand into her pocket, just in time for a voice to come through the gently vibrating stone. It felt warm and reassuring in the palm of her hand; but not as reassuring as the voice that emanated through its energies. “Alster… Alster, is that you?”
A smile and a quick laugh escaped the warrior, and she lay back down on her cot, holding the stone before her face. “How are you… contacting me this way? Did you make it to Eyraille?”
Evidently, he had. He went on to explain how Vega had sent rocs to retrieve him, and how he was resting before his trip to Stella D’Mare. That alone had Elespeth’s blood buzzing with excitement and relief; to see him again, for real, and it would not be long now. Not long at all…
“Alster… things have turned dire, around here. Atli, the healer who helped fix you with your arm. He’s… he took his life. So that Mollengard could not interrogate him.” She swallowed hard; it was never any easier to say, no matter how many times she repeated it. “Mollengard as gone suspiciously silent. And now there is word that Solveig wants us to evacuate, so that she can have Stella D’Mare for herself. I’m not even sure of Chara is bent on following through with Teselin summoning a tidal wave, anymore… it’s a mess. Too much to explain in one sitting…”
And yet, still, they talked on--if only to hear one another’s voice, for hours upon hours. Until at last, Alster stopped responding. “Alster?” She asked gently, once, and then again. “Are you still awake?” Given the silence that followed, it did not appear as though he was. Yet despite that he was miles away, knowing that his voice could be reached through this stone that she clutched warmly to her chest… it was enough to lull her into a sense of comfort and security. As if he really was right there, lying next to her. “I love you.” She said once, and then again whispered, as she closed her eyes. “I love you…”
Vega did not awaken the next morning until she felt Haraldur shift next to her, groggily throwing his legs over the side of the bed and scrubbing a hand down his face. “What is it…?” She asked, her voice scratchy and sleep-laden. He murmured something about someone being at the door, and not to worry as he answered it. All the same, she hastily buttoned up the top of her nightshift, in case she was required to make an impromptu appearance. For the first time in a long time, she’d felt so warm the night before that she’d been half-tempted to shed her clothes all together. She hadn’t, only for the sake of the unborn children inside of her. They had been kept in the cold long enough; and she felt she had a good deal to make up for.
It wasn’t until Elias rounded the corner that she remembered the Clematis healer had promised to check in on her the next morning. While preliminary assessments of her health the night before had looked promising, it was impossible to be clear when her heart had been racing, and her breathing so erratic. She felt alive; she felt well, truth be told. Warm and no longer dizzy or weak. But what those months of living with her foot in death’s door had done to her--had done to her children--remained to be seen.
“I’m well enough,” she told the healer, and it didn’t feel like a lie. She was as well as someone who had just emerged from her unique condition could be. As well as someone hiding a pregnancy from the majority of her own kingdom, save for those in her closest inner circle, could be. Though she did eye Elias’s medical bag dubiously; over the months, she had become so accustomed to healing and treatment the way that those such as Daphni and Alster practiced, it wasn’t without disappointment and a little bit of reluctance that she realized just what the Clematis healer meant by being more ‘thorough’. There were some things for which even magic could not entirely suffice, it seemed. “Of course.” She sighed. “If you see fit, then do what you must.”
Of course, it didn’t help matters that Haraldur seemed just as reluctant to leave--and, just as quickly, reluctant to stay, when Elias very bluntly pointed out the nature of this check up. The mercenary’s discomfort only served to heighten her own; she groaned softly. “Honestly, Haraldr, let’s not make this more uncomfortable than it needs to be.” She suggested, which appeared to be much to the warrior’s relief. “I’ll be just fine. Do tell Caris the good news; and let him know I will be out to help finalize whatever must be done, later.”
As much as she always welcomed Haraldur’s reassuring company, she felt an odd sense of relief to part from him temporarily, for a number a reasons. Not only to spare him the awkwardness of enduring a very thorough and decidedly intimate examination, but because it gave her the opportunity to drop the curtain of optimism she’d been toting since the night before.
“...is it really over?” She dared to ask, when she was left in the room with only Elias. “I know that Daphni said it was. I feel different; I’m not chilled anymore. I don’t feel as fatigued. But are… are they really safe?”
She was, of course, referring to the unborn twins. Subconsciously, she placed a hand upon her abdomen. “I don’t know how far along I am; but I’m guessing it must be at least a couple of months…” Of course, she was considering the timeframe in which she and Haraldur had stopped being ‘careful’; had ceased in taking any precautions when they made love, because, at the time, she had believed conceiving to be impossible. Meaning it must have occurred some time after their first visit to the mountains, where the mercenary had reconnected with the refugees he’d saved. “If they started developing in less than ideal conditions… how do I know they’re all right? When will I know of something is wrong? If something I did--or, I suppose, didn’t do… has already hurt them in some way? Maybe even irreparably?”
The nonchalance she’d maintained in Haraldur’s presence, for his sake, had completely dissolved at this point. And the Skyknight princess appeared no more reassured than she had the day that Elias had informed her that her children were bound to die, if her body remained compromised. “I can’t discuss this with Haraldur; he’s so… happy. I cannot shatter that. But I need to know. I need to know that they’re all right, that they’re safe… or else, this isn’t over, is it? If I have to wait and worry for seven more months just to see if my children will be born strong and healthy… I don’t know how I am going to do this.” Feeling defeated, Vega rested her forehead in her palms, russet curls falling about her shoulders. “They’re going to expect me to be happy--to act happy. How can I, when I just don’t know…? How in hell do I forgive myself if they are born unwell, all because my body was inhospitable for their first months of development?”
She pushed a sigh from her lungs and shook her head. “I’m sorry; I realize you probably don’t have any of these answers. I just… needed to say this, out loud. To someone who can handle it objectively.” Something which Haraldur--much though she loved him--could decidedly not do.
Sigrid had awoken the previous night to Alster abruptly leaving in the wake of hushed, urgent voices. While she knew the nature of his departure--it had to have to do with the Eyraillian princess’s curious condition--she did not ask questions. Not even when he returned, some long hours later, retiring to his bed and talking softly into what appeared to be a glowing stone, similar to that which he had given to Lilica. But by the sound of his voice, the gentle lilt and the love she heard in it, it was not Lilica with whom he was speaking. The Dawn Warrior inquired into none of this, however, for none of it was her business. It wasn’t until that realization that Sigrid felt just how out of place she was, in this kingdom. One she’d always heard of in stories, but into which she’d never actually set foot. Stories of cruelty and tyranny… none of which she had witnessed, much to her relief. But it did not escape her that no matter how inviting this place was, she was not acquainted with the residents (or even its visitors), and was largely alone in a crowd.
Save for one person; an old friend, allegedly, who nonetheless did not recognize her. And might as well have been another stranger.
Much though she longed to speak with Haraldur, Sigrid was acutely aware that she might not have the chance to do so. Not if he was caught up in this whirlwind of emotion and tension that involved the princess, his lover. Perhaps another time, she told herself, trying to allay her own disappointment. When the dust settles. But since she could not do what she came to do, and felt otherwise entirely useless (save for treating Alster’s pain daily), the Dawn Warrior chose to make her way to the training grounds to pass her time and burn off her nervous energy. It didn’t occur to her that in the vast expansive of Eyraille’s palace, she would chance running into the very person--the only person--she wished to see.
“Haraldur.” She greeted him with surprise, and nodded her head. “I was, in fact. Do you know where I might find the training grounds?” He was quick to answer, and to offer to guide her there. She did not turn him down, and fell quietly into step beside him, her stomach in knots and her mind a jumble of unintelligible words. How do I even begin, this…? But what if it was her only opportunity?
As it turned out, so much as getting a word in edge-wise would prove difficult. She hadn’t pegged this man as the chatty sort, but he went on about the significance of her name, following up with the good news about Vega and his children. Sigrid cleared her throat, suddenly unsure of her words when at last she found a pause to speak. “Braighdath… is actually a long story, for me. But… Haraldur, I must be honest with it. It is not solely because of Alster that I am here… I came looking for you.”
Face flushed with the heat of nervousness, Sigrid looked pointedly at the dull toes of her boots, avoiding his gaze altogether. “There is no straight-forward way to say this… but among Alster’s companions, one called Tivia took an interest in my name and appearance. She knows you; I believe she is a seer, of some sort. But anyway…” She cleared her throat again, and scratched the back of her neck. “She had a vision… of sorts. And realized that the familiarity she saw it me was tied to her familiarity to you. She told me things about my past that no one else should know; nothing she could possibly have gleaned from anyone else. So I trusted her… when she said that our paths had crossed, once.”
Finally looking up, her blue eyes met those of Haraldur’s; a familiar, warm green. Her heart skipped a beat. I do know those eyes… “Did you… grow up in a small fishing village? One with tight, close knit families? And, perhaps… a sister with a different sort of mind?” She tapped her temple with two fingers. “Because I remember, vaguely, I used to play with a girl, around my own age as a young child. She had an older brother who was always so kind… he had green eyes. Like yours.” Swallowing a lump of emotion in her throat, she sighed heavily. “But, one day, very late at night, my parents took me from my bed and put me on a horse. We traveled for days until we reached Braighdath; and there, they left me, indefinitely. I thought for years they’d abandoned me, but now I realize… they were saving me. I didn’t see you or your sister again, after that. Do you…” She paused, her voice tight, like her vocal cords were seizing up. “Do you remember… anything? From that time, Haraldur?”
Grandmother Alta had not had visitors since Haraldur had last stopped by, followed by Vega shortly after, who had quietly confided in her about her pregnancy, seeking comfort of any sort. The old woman was of course happy to be there for the both of them, but in her ever introverted and quiet nature, she never sought them out, herself. Often, she likened herself to an old doll that collected dust on a shelf, save for those times when someone reached for her. It did not bother her; she had made her imprint on Eyraille’s grand library, tending to it with the same care she’d tended her children, when they were young. Frankly, she had grown too used to this quiet life among paper, glue, ink and dust to feel lonely, anymore.
Nonetheless, it was always a pleasant surprise to find someone meandering the stacks of her carefully organized books. The occasional scholar or child would pay her a visit, from time to time, seeking something enlightening or invigorating, but the young man she found among the piles of books today was not one she recognized--and she had spent enough time in Eyraille that there were few she didn’t recognize.
Brushing off his apology, she shook her head and picked up a handful of books to be replaced. “No need to apologize. Is there something that I can help you find, you man?”
The gently pointed tips of her ears had never drawn attention to her, before; perhaps due to the fact that everyone paid so little attention to the kingdom’s head librarian, as it was. But this young man--one with similarly pointed ears, and curious eyes… he was not fooled. She raised her eyebrows when he used her name. “So that name still resonates in Stella D’Mare, does it? Evidently, it takes more than a handful of centuries to forget someone. But yes; I am Alta Rigas. Here, however, I am just Grandmother Alta.”
The deluge of words that spilled from this young man’s lips were enough to overwhelm, but the old librarian couldn’t help but feel terribly amused, if not a little confused. “An honour? Young man, I am not a hero, for goodness’ sake. Just an old woman who cared about books and education a little too much.” She shook her head sadly. “And what deeds am I known for, exactly? Challenging the Rigas status quo? Having more than one child against Rigas law? Or deserting the city when I realized it could no longer be my home? My oh my, I truly hope that I am not your long sought-after role model, Alster Rigas.”
He certainly knew how to flatter; making mention of everything she had done for the Main House library back in Stella D’Mare. She almost wanted to laugh, but the sincerity and genuine excitement in Alster’s eyes stayed such a reaction. “I made the library my own personal project when I was wed to Adalfieri. It helped me feel as though I was working toward something positive, despite that I could make so little impact elsewhere. I believed reading should not be for the elite; I am glad that they saw fit to keep going with the system I instated.”
Glancing at his prosthetic arm, she gave Alster a curious once-over, not yet so blind that she could not make out weariness in his body. “And what of you, Alster Rigas? How does your story bring you all the way to Eyraille?”
Once the hovering mercenary had left the room, Elias pulled on his gloves and voiced a hmph from behind a sideways smirk. "Congratulations, your Highness. The father of your unborn children is likely to become quite involved with every nuance of your pregnancy. Rest assured, you will have ample support from him, though watch it does not become too smothering. Or invasive. It looked as if he was considering handling this instrument." He picked up the instrument in question, a speculum with elongated steel lips. "But based on his reaction to it, I take it his healer wife shooed him out of the room for this part of the examination. I'll try to be quick," he scooped out a generous dollop of green goop from an open tin on the table and slathered it on the speculum. "But I will not lie; this is uncomfortable. Take off your clothes from the waist-down, scoot as far from the foot of the bed as you can without falling, and spread your legs as wide as you're able." When she complied, he met her on the edge of the bed, speculum in hand, and knelt to the floor. After first pressing on her stomach and rounding the rim with his finger, he gave her a verbal warning, and carefully launched the cold metal device up and inside of her.
The invasive procedure brought out different reactions in patients. Some fainted; others would tense and say nothing; and sometimes others spoke through the discomfort, to mitigate the pain. Vega opted for the latter. He listened to her concerns as he examined them for himself, nodding along with understanding. Many of the questions were shared amongst equally concerned mothers, regardless of their station or health, even though Vega held the unique condition of residing in a living-dead body, a contradiction that undoubtedly caused its own complications throughout the months.
At last, Elias pulled the speculum out of her, and climbed to his feet. With another clean rag, he wiped away the goop and other residues that clung to the speculum, then wandered over to the fire to sterilize it under heat. He was methodical and silent, his preferred method of being, even in midst of a consultation with a patient. But after he completed his cleaning, packed away his supplies, and proceeded to the routine of checking her pulse and breathing, he alighted before her, hands clasped, and offered the answers to questions she was yearning to hear.
"I am no master of obstetrics; my specialization is in terminal diseases. But death is not a disease--though it is certainly terminal--your previous condition is difficult to classify. I will emphasize the word previous, though, for it is no longer in effect. Your pulse is hurried, which is to be expected, after violating you with a cold steel prier, but it is no longer as erratic. It is definitely showing signs of regulation. Your breathing, too, while rushed, is sounding fuller, less beleaguered. And your temperature--normal. Have you been noticing any differences in your body since last night, positive or negative?" When she announced that it was much the same as what he'd mentioned, he nodded, and continued in his assessment.
"From what I can glean, you are about seven weeks into the pregnancy, though that is wild guesswork on my part, based on what I know of you and your lover's sexual activity. As for my examination of your cervix," he hesitated, "it is not as purple in color as other expecting mothers, an indication that it has not received as much blood. As the first trimester is the most delicate time in the development of an embryo, I cannot yet say the effects this will have in the later stages of your pregnancy. However," he pointed his finger skyward, "if your body was inhospitable, they would have been long dead before you even realized you were pregnant. They are still alive and carry heartbeats of their own. Considering the incongruity of your earlier state, they are doing as well as can be expected. Of course," his voice took on a gentle bent, "pregnancy for all mothers is rife with complications. Even the healthiest of women are at risk. I can't with any confidence predict what will become of your children. I can only offer you my expert opinion, and this proviso; it isn't over until they're born, and even so, there is no guarantee. This is not what you wish to hear, I know, but I do not lie to my patients."
After dipping his hands in the basin and scrubbing them dry, he handled a pitcher of water, the contents of which he poured into a clean goblet. He offered it to her, then hefted his medical bag. "Here is what I do know. They will stand a much better chance at survival if you learn to manage your stress. But this does not mean that you ignore your grief and put on a front of unperturbed joy. Ignoring your pain will exacerbate your stress, and mothers are especially susceptible to melancholy, both during and after pregnancy. Speak to your lover, to your brother. Do not hide your concerns. Even if you can't speak to Haraldur about them, I and Daphni will lend an ear. Though," he shrugged, "she's better at ear lending than I am. Also, keep active--though I would advise against riding on a roc. You are no longer consigned to this bed," he pushed against a pillow, for emphasis. "I would recommend fresh air. A walk. Find cause to celebrate for your Equinox festival. Only," he gave her a sour look, "do your best not to celebrate too much. You are banned from consuming alcohol until your children are born. It's a simple rule, and an obvious one, but you'd be surprised to know how many conveniently forget to practice temperance."
Haraldur, so engrossed in his own words, hadn't noticed the shift in the Northern stranger's mood until her pace had slowed to dragging along behind him. Adjusting his long-legged stride, assuming he was blustering by without keeping cognizant watch of his charge, he looked over his shoulder at her. It was there that he saw the conflicted flicker of emotions pass over her face like the phases of the moon, darkening with every second. His shoulders stiffened, suspicion propping him into high alert. While he wasn't armed with a sword, he'd sheathed daggers in his boots. One practiced movement and he'd have them in his hands. By the time she unwrapped the sword at her back, he'd have his blades to her throat. Fortunately, he wasn't sensing an eagerness to attack from her, and the mummified state of her weapon seemed to confirm that her intentions, whatever they were, did not instigate violence.
Though his stance relaxed somewhat, he gave the Dawn Warrior a more thorough glance-over. Perhaps she was a spy from Mollengard, preying on Alster Rigas and his propensity to befriend rather than kill. She took advantage of the opportunity to fly into Eyraille unquestioned, due to her favorable company. Why hadn't they evaluated her before inviting her into the chambers of a vulnerable Eyraillian monarch with several onerous secrets? Because they had trusted Alster implicitly, and by extension, his companion?
As the woman struggled to speak, his eyes hardened. And when she revealed that the reason for journeying to Eyraille was because of him, his hands flattened at his sides. Any pretense of movement ended. He stopped, stock still, a frown deepening the lines of his face.
"You...were looking for me?" His stare threatened to penetrate her gaze, but she didn't engage. Head averted towards her feet, she made herself smaller and smaller in his towering presence. These were not the antics of a would-be aggressor, but a spy, a very good one, was still a possibility.
Until she mentioned Tivia. His entire demeanor shifted, then, the jagged wrinkles between his brow softening. "Tivia mentioned me? Our familiarity? What...did she see?"
Despite his attempts to adopt the Eyraillian philosophy of a seized future, he feared the worst. If Tivia had posited correctly, and he met with this woman in the past, under what circumstances was that meeting? Did he slaughter her family as Forbanne? Was she a rehabilitated Forbanne, herself? No, he reasoned. While there was an intensity in her eyes, they did not exhibit the dead-calm that his would often display, even after a decade following his flight from their control. But as he drew closer to this blonde-headed woman and her glacial blue eyes, a stab of...something, burrowed a pathway into his chest. Her recollections of their family ties from so long ago only served to confirm that sensation. Everything she'd uttered sounded plausible. And she knew about Klara. Knew of her different mind, knew of the fishing village. Short of forcing the information from Vega, how could she have such a memory, unless she'd experienced it all, as a child?
"I," his shoulders relaxed as he relented to her story, trusted her story, "don't remember much. Slowly, the pieces have been returning, since my session with a Sybaian healer." With Shayl. Buried with the last reminder of his mother, a necklace that, while in absentia, he held tightly in his palm. He did so, now. "Klara. Her name was Klara. We'd...I remember visiting a midwife, often, who would help me in caring for her. Often, she'd watch her while I went off to find myself some odd jobs around the village. I...believe she had a daughter around Klara's age. Blonde hair...like yours. Then," he pressed a hand to his forehead, aching to scrounge for any ounce of recollection, "she disappeared one day, with her husband and daughter. We didn't know what happened. Klara....I remember she was distraught. She wanted to go with her 'sister.' People were fleeing the country, but we couldn't. We had no money, Klara was too weak for travel, and my father," he sighed, "a drunken mess. But that winter, the harshest one yet, Klara, she," his voice dropped, "she died from malnutrition and the cold. I should have fled, then. Should have seen it as a sign of something worse to come. But my father...he reached out. Showed me kindness, when he never had, before. So I stayed. And a few months later," he rubbed at the scar over his wrist, "Mollengard arrived. They secured the island, and they found me. Wrenched me from my father. Killed him when he dared to fight back...to protect me." He closed his eyes. "It cost him his life. They took me, because I was young. Because I displayed signs of magic. Because I was strong, with a fighting spirit. And so they added me to the ranks of the Forbanne."
He opened his eyes and looked across time. From the past, with its inculcation of brutality that stripped from him all ties to his humanity, to the present. He saw a composite of the little blonde-haired girl over the warrior woman who she had become. It impelled him to ask, for he needed to know: "did you live well, Sigrid? Did you find a home in Braighdath?" A small, wistful smile stretched across his face. "You were spared from the Forbanne, and for that, I'm...relieved. At least someone got away, before it was too late."
Without warning, his feet began to move forward. "Let's...move out of this corridor. I believe I was going to show you the training grounds. I would love to spar with you, but Forbanne don't spar; they kill. For the most part. And if you really are family, then I wouldn't want for that to happen." He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, but it was a brief touch; it slid away when his steps increased in quickness. "Sorenson...do you think that's my surname?"
When Alta Rigas reintroduced herself as Grandmother Alta, he could not help but smile, tickled by her charming epithet. "So you've established yourself well here, to earn that moniker. You found a place to accept you, and a library to maintain, without the hegemony of Rigas life pressuring your every move. Though I don't know how you managed to remain undetected, even during the witch hunts of Eyraille's past. Or," his smile faded, as he looked at the kindly woman's overall mien; was she concealing a great deal of pain? "did you?"
As she tried to dismiss her significance within the Rigas ranks, he shook his head, an embarrassed flush creeping across his cheeks. He pulled his clunky contraption from the librarian's purview, not wanting to interrupt her book balancing with an inopportune handshake; he'd already made a long-dreamed for meeting with Alta Rigas completely unpalatable, with his awkward, flubbing mouth! "No. You," his flush deepened crimson, "you understood me, when nobody else did. I...will admit that along with your notes about the library, I found your personal diaries. You wrote about your isolation. About how you felt misplaced, unwelcome. An intrinsic alienation. You often lamented that you were born in the wrong family, that no one could...see you, as you wanted to be seen." He rested his good hand over his chest. "Those words were a comfort to me. I never felt like I belonged. Others treated me differently because of my power. My mother insisted that I was different, and separated me from everyone else. Whenever I tried to mingle, the others were too wary of me, or envious of my power, or afraid. But you...you knew. And like you, I fled the city. As a child, I...wanted to search for you. I often daydreamed that you'd," he tried not to laugh, "that you'd take me in. Adopt me. And we'd sit and read books together and tend to the library. A ridiculous sentiment, I know." To prevent from squirming in place as his account had become too personal, too quick, he took a few of the remaining library books off the table so that the elderly woman would not need to overstack, or return for the second pile. Though the weight strained against his prosthesis and agitated the inflamed skin, he pursed his lips, but made no other sign of discomfort.
"I fled, many times, but they always found me. Brought me back. Emphasized...that I could never leave. I belonged to the Rigas family. But not in the way I wanted. They saw me more as a symbol. An object, a belonging; that was what they meant. And the depersonalization and the pressure...got to me. So I fought against my imprisonment." The books began to weigh as heavy tablets in his hands. "I decided I'd kill them all, by unleashing the Serpent on the Rigas estate. On Stella D'Mare. There was...so much hate in me. So much anger, and..." he set down the books when they reached their aisle destination, "...I awakened It. That was all I was able to do at the time. But it was enough. Over a hundred people died that day; two of them were Rigases. And I was given my initial wish. I was exiled from the city. From my family. I no longer 'belonged.' I still don't."
He lifted one book from the pile and stared at the title, then slotted it into the correct position on the second shelf. "Because of me, because of what I'd done, I started a chain of events fifty years in the making. When I returned to Stella D'Mare four years ago, Adalfieri was determined to see me finish what I had started. But," he heaved a sigh, "to make a long story short, the Serpent was unleashed, It destroyed our city, and I was able to send It home. I lost my arm in the process, but the Rigases...I know they wanted a greater sacrifice. They wanted me to die. And I didn't. I didn't, and now the Serpent is inside of me, and now I have more access to my power than I did before, and..." He trailed off, running his fingers down the spine of the book, "it's all a mess, now. I'm in Eyraille as an in-between point before returning to Stella D'Mare, so I can help with the evacuation. I was elsewhere, before, because," he gave an ironic laugh, "the Rigases had exiled me again...despite my efforts to undo what I'd caused. And now, I'm going back, to offer my magic and my skill. Maybe this time, it will be enough. That I'll be enough. That they'll finally accept me...but I doubt it."
Because he was familiar with Alta's cataloging system, he put away all the books from his pile without needing instruction. Though he wasn't sure if it was because he'd done it well, or if the kindly matron was rendered speechless from his story. She'll hate me now, he thought, with a fatalistic certainty. "I'm...sorry," he said, dipping his head contritely. "I said too much. I...I didn't mean to overwhelm. I...had always wanted to meet you, but now that I'm here, I realize," he lowered his sorrowed eyes, "that maybe you wouldn't want to meet me. I'm the scourge of the Rigas family. Serpent Bane. Better off dead. ...I've heard it all. But it's all true. I deserve it, for all that I've instigated, and all that I've done."
The Clematis healer wasn’t exaggerating: Vega felt uncomfortable as soon as she took note of his tools, and long before she was asked to remove half of her clothes. Even though the only thing on her body aside from her light night shift was a single undergarment on clothing her nether regions, made mostly of lace (admittedly, more for show than practicality; something she’d made a point to wear more often when she and Haraldur were intimate), discarding it was enough to make her feel as though she was entirely naked. She might as well have been. “I can’t blame him. Not when I kept all of this a secret from him for weeks… he only found out, not long before you arrived with Daphni and your family…” She remarked at Haraldur’s reluctance to leave instead of assist. Talking took her mind off of the awkwardness of exposing herself to another man. Had Elias not been as impassive and professional as he was, she’d have been far more reluctant to agree (and, frankly, she would have preferred Daphni perform such an examination, but even if it was within the Sybaian healer’s realm of practice, she knew better than to ask after her, considering her obvious decline in health).
“Even then, I did not tell him directly. He’s observant… and put two and two together, when my behaviour changed. At this point, I believe he just wants to stay informed, is all. Wants to know he can make a difference. I trust him. Though… this is most certainly not his area of expertise.” she went on, reluctantly complying with Elias’s instructions as she mentally braced herself the second she felt his hand press gently upon her stomach. It wasn’t so much pain that got to her as it was the sheer discomfort of excessive pressure, enough to twist her face into a grimace. If this was typical procedure, then she instantly hated every pregnant woman she’d ever met who gloated about the wonder of carrying new life. There was nothing ‘wonderful’ about this; particularly knowing that an awkward check-up such as this would in no way compare to what was in store for her at the end of nine months down the road. Far more awkwardness, discomfort, and… She wouldn’t even deign to think about labour.
No sooner did the Clematis healer withdraw his invasive instrument from her body that the Eyraillian princess pulled her shift back down over her knees. She’d never felt such an urge toward modesty before, but after this experience, she felt apt to dress back in her full winter gear. “Is it reasonable to hope that… this isn’t to become routine?” She joked, trying in vain to clear the air of its awkwardness and tension. But that was difficult to do, when Elias couldn’t provide her with the answers--or the hope--that she so desperately sought.
Pressing her lips together in a thin line, she raked a hand through her unruly red hair. “So what you’re telling me is that my children have been developing in less than ideal conditions for the most delicate time of development… and I am supposed to ‘manage my stress’? When I have ample reason to be stressed in the first place?” Suddenly feeling too vulnerable, sitting where she was upon her bed, the Skyknight commander stood and wandered over to her wardrobe to pick out something to wear. Anything to keep her hands busy; to keep her from ruminating too much. “It was difficult enough explaining all of this to my brother; and I only did so because I did not have a choice. It would have been worse for me to allow him to find out through other means.”
Pulling out a simple tunic and leggings, she threw them over her arm and all but slammed the wardrobe doors. “Rest assured, I haven’t imbibed in any alcohol since I found out. Frankly, I’ve been too much of a nervous wreck to stomach it, anyway, much though I’ve wanted to. Why else do you think I’ve been so susceptible to stress?” She smiled, wry and humourless, but it was the truth. Alcohol had been her primary means of stress management, prior to all of this coming to a head. “I am going to have to explain to my Skyknights why I won’t be able to lead them, for some time. Eventually, I am going to have to reveal to all of Eyraille that I am carrying children out of wedlock, and I think you can imagine how that will go over. Much though I value your advice, there aren’t enough words and there isn’t enough fresh air in the world to alleviate what I am feeling, right now.”
But none of that amounted to the concern she felt for those children developing in her womb. Judgement on behalf of her kingdom and Skyknights did not measure up to the possibility that she and Haraldur might not obtain the future they wanted; nothing was for certain. Even if she did everything right. And seeing the mercenary broken-hearted all over again… She did not think she could bear it.
He had a point, though; the fact that she should not have been able to conceive, and that her children still managed to live and grow despite the poor and compromised state of her body… That had to mean something. It could not be chalked up to mere luck or coincidence. They are destined to be born. That much, she knew; without a doubt, she would carry to term. There was nothing to be done about their condition, not this early on. Whatever awaited them, they’d have to deal with that when the time came. And, as he said, there was always risk when it came to pregnancy. Whether or not a mother had conceived post-resurrection. “Nonetheless… I value your advice. I’ll heed it. I said that I would do anything to ensure the safety of these children, and I meant it.”
Before Elias took his leave of her bedchamber, she mentioned, “Do let us know if anything can be done for Daphni. I can arrange for a more comfortable place to sleep, meals with specific nutrition… anything that you think might help. You’ve both already done so much for myself and Haraldur; please, do not hesitate to ask favors, in return.” Vega knew she was not the only one with complexities that resonated from a ‘special condition’; and Daphni’s near fainting had not surpassed her attention, the night before.
Speaking of the Sybaian healer…
She was nowhere to be found when Elias returned to their chambers, that morning. But Elias did not have long to search the quarters, for just moments after he stepped in the room, so did Daphni, quietly closing the door behind her with the hand that was not currently holding a large, pewter pitcher. She met Elias’s eyes with a brief look of guilt, and quickly held up one hand. “Before you reprimand me--just know that I’m feeling fine, today. Like I said, I only needed some rest. I thought I’d retrieve some fresh water for the basic; I know how deep your phobia of uncleanliness runs.” With a half-smile, she placed the pitcher near the wash basin, which she seemed also to have emptied and cleaned. If anyone were to shirk the heal of the waitstaff at this palace it would most certainly be Daphni Adela.
“I encountered Imogen when I stepped out. She is in good spirits; after some commiseration and discussion with high Majesty, King Caris of Eyraille, they finally found grounds of agreement. Caris is willing to lend funds and aid to your mother in her wish to restore and reunite St. Thorne. In return, she has promised that the Kariji will help to foster a lasting friendship and alliance with Ilandria. A kingdom known for their unrivaled weapons crafting is a powerful ally to have, indeed.” She paused, after filling the wash basin, and added, “Rest assured, I do not expect you to care. I only thought you should know; to save you from having to ask after it, yourself.”
Turning away from her task, she noted that he had his medical bag in his hand, which could only mean one thing. “How is the princess?” She asked, out of genuine curiosity and concern. Listening to his explanation of what he’d found, and what she had told him, Daphni felt relieved; really, considering what Vega had faced prior to their intervention, it was the best they could hope for. “Well… she would not be the first mother to spend her entire pregnancy worrying for the health of her children, only to later find that they are born without issue. Her body seems to already be recovering, from what you’ve said.”
The Sybaian healer paused, then, and added, “...I’d like to stay here. Until the children are born. While I have faith in Eyraille’s healers, none of them know her Highness’s past brush with death. They may not understand how, when or why complications may come into play. I respect whatever decision you make, to leave or to stay, but… at least one of us who understands her prior condition should be here for her. Besides…” A small, teasing smile curled the corners of her mouth. “Someone with bedside manner is going to have to be present when she goes into labour. I fully trust you to talk her through the process, but someone will also need to talk her through the mental, emotional, and physical pain. With all due respect, Elias, no matter how many children you deliver, you will never fully understand a mother in labour. Though… I suppose, aside from my empathic abilities, it is possible to argue that I won’t, either.”
It was perhaps one of the most somber thoughts she’d had, since she’d warned Elias that she felt her days were close to becoming numbered. To die without legacy, or even the hope for one… But Daphni knew better than to dwell on that thought. “Anyway; that is neither here nor there, for the moment. Have you been outside, today? The air is mild, and grass is sprouting. Come and see for yourself.” She rested a hand on his arm and smiled. “You know, there might yet be some credibility for Eyraille’s tendency to get what they wish for, by pretending they already had it. Drawing on and coaxing the positive energies that surround. I am seriously considering adopting that mindset.”
Sigrid could sense that Haraldur saw something off in her features, from the way he’d adjusted his posture and his stride. She recognized that stance as preparing for attack; and, really, she couldn’t blame him for his hesitation. After all, she hadn’t put down Gaolithe since she’d arrived, keeping the sword strapped to her back and tightly wrapped in its fabric; of course she would come across as menacing. Still, she was loathe to leave it out of her sight, and even went as far as to tuck it under her mattress as she slept. She would not be responsible for another unnecessary death at the hands of the legendary blade.
And, honestly, were he preemptively to attack, based on suspicion alone… she still won’t so much as consider drawing it.
But the mercenary relaxed his posture when she began to explain; specifically, when she made mention of his sister. Klara… yes, that name rang familiar to her, though she had not heard it in a very long time. “I vaguely remember my mother spending odious amounts of time around children… around babies, in particular. It didn’t occur to me, so young, that she was a midwife. But… what you say makes sense.”
Sigrid’s throat tightened, however, when he mentioned Klara’s fate. Against her will, the Dawn warrior’s eyes misted. She looked down at her shoes. “I was so confused, when my parents spirited me away in the night. I didn’t know what was happening; it didn’t occur to me that it was something so serious. Or that… that I’d never see them again.” She swallowed the emotion rising in her throat. “They left me all alone in Braighdath. Just… left me. I wasn’t very old; old enough to remember, but not enough to understand. I was so afraid, and I looked for them, and for years, I thought they’d abandoned me. Until… until I learned of Mollengard, and what it had done. How it had torn families apart, taken their children… now I understand. I don’t know if my parents are even still alive, at this point. I…” She met his eyes again, hers just as sorrow-filled as his. “I’m sorry. About Klara. About all of your family… but if ever you were Forbanne, you must have had the strength to shed that identity. Because I know of the Forbanne, and I see not a trace of it in you.”
As to his question about her life, she shrugged her shoulders. “I lived as well as someone could, being abandoned in the middle of the night. A few families tried to take me in as a child; I pushed most of them away, for years. I was too distraught and confused, and I didn’t want a new family. But then, the last couple I stayed with, finally directed me to the Dawn Guard when I was around 10 years old--as a punishment, I’m sure. Thought I needed more discipline… and they weren’t wrong. I was belligerent and stubborn, but oddly enough, I found so much validation among the Dawn Warriors. It didn’t feel like punishment when I trained with the younger warriors, and reluctantly, I began to enjoy it.”
A small smile tugged on her lips. “And as I grew older, I was no longer reluctant in caring for the new family I’d found. For that is what the Dawn Guard stands for, first and foremost: unity. Fighting as one, being there for the brothers and sisters who need it. No one’s pain is too trivial. Even as an insolent child, they saw that in me; saw my pain, and helped me through it. I am who I am today, because of them. So… I suppose, the answer is yes. I did live well. I only wish you had, too. Although…” Her smile grew. “It seems that now, you have found the happiness that you deserve. A loving woman, and children on the way. I am glad that things came full-circle, for you.”
Following him into the corridor, and toward the training grounds, she mentioned, “But you are not Forbanne, anymore. I could use a sparring partner--if you have the time. Warriors of the Dawn Guard are at their strongest when we fight together, of course, so I’d be much obliged to bear witness to other fighting styles. I’ll show you some of my own, in return.” At the mention of her last name, she paused, thinking hard. “I don’t know. But I remember that my family… our family, perhaps, was tight-knit. There was never a day that I recall spending with my immediate family, alone. I always recall my mother talking so fondly to your sister, I’m sure there was a point in time when I thought she was my sister, as well. Maybe it is just wishful thinking, to feel close to my bloodline again, but… I think it is entirely possible that we might share a last name. After all, it was a very small fishing village.”
While she was her own self-proclaimed control freak, in a sense, Alta did not stop the young Rigas man as he began to aid her in replacing books in their respected stacks. But it was only because he professed a keen study and understanding of the system that she’d created in Stella D’Mare, and had brought to Eyraille, that she trusted he wouldn’t royally screw it up. Nothing bothered her more than books haphazardly shoved into the wrong places. “I did come to grow roots, here. It was not easy; especially when Eyraille had banned magic for so long, and persecuted those who wielded it, or drove them out. But I came to realize that no one suspects a lowly librarian. The children of the palace referred to me as Grandmother, when I began to show my age; I suppose it just stuck.” She raised her shoulders in a shrug. “Even her Highness’s own father once referred to me as Grandmother. He also had me incarcerated, for a small amount of time, in a Rigas’s lifespan… but if you are wondering, I did not ‘suffer’ hear, young man. Not like I did in Stella D’Mare.”
The kindly librarian lent an ear to Alster, as he went on to explain his life; how he had come to know of her, to idolize her, someone whom he had never met. It surprised her when he mentioned that he had, in fact, read her private journals. Frankly, it embarrassed her that she’d been so careless as to leave them where they had been found, but… recalling her sentiments in her younger days, those strong feelings of not belonging, not being able to make a difference, perhaps a part of her had wanted them to be found. “You know, in my lifetime working as a librarian and archivist, I’ve found myself to have ‘adopted’ a good number of children. Many who spent more time with me, in this library, than with their own families. A library is a place where the unwanted, the confused, and the afraid often come to seek refuge. Though,” her pale gaze softened. “I am sorry that I did not allow you the same opportunity, Alster Rigas. I would have liked to have been there for a fellow lost soul.” Especially when she listened to the end of his story, thus far.
Pausing, Alta placed the books she’d been holding upon the table, and took a seat in a nearby chair. “You aren’t alone in those sentiments, Alster. I, too, wanted to make the Rigases see what they were creating. That the social hierarchy they had established would be their downfall. And, it appears, that with you… in a sense, it did lead to their downfall. At least partially. But none of this has to do with you, or who you are.” She voice was gentle, and her smile was sad as she reached up and lay a hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “You are a product of your environment, as was I. It drove us away; drove us to do things that we now regret. I, too, suffered a good deal of failed attempts at leaving, before at last I was able to break away when no one thought I would. From my husband, my children… my family. I left them behind, and now, word has it that they are all dead. Adalfieri and my children.”
The archivist shook her head and dropped her hand to her side. “My books, this library, are literally all that I have left. But you… at least you deigned to help, but sending the Serpent home. Though I… apologize, on my late husband’s behalf, for any pain he caused you and yours. He was always an intense man, when I knew him, but never… never cruel. Not back then.” For a moment, Alta’s gaze was faraway. Perhaps recalling a time, when she had been no older than Alster, and so happily in love that she thought she could make it work; thought that she could learn to love Stella D’Mare, as much as Adalfieri. “I often wondered if he ever remarried.” She said softly, mostly to herself. “For I never stopped loving him… not really. But I suppose, that is neither here, nor there.”
Standing up from her seat, Alta picked up the books she’d placed on the table, eager to get back to a task that took her mind off of memories upon which she would rather not dwell. “On the contrary, Alster Rigas, I am happy to have met you. You have not yet given up on Stella D’Mare, which is more than I can say for myself. I hope that in your selflessness, the Rigases will eventually see what they have been missing, all along. If anything, I should be the one looking up to you. I gave up; but you… you have kept fighting.” With a gentle smile, she added, “I do hope that I will live to see the day when Stella D’Mare recovers from itself… even if I can never again call it my home.”
"Oh, won't you be elated when I tell you that pregnancy is all about routine," Elias retorted, returning her wry smile with one of his own. "Expect frequent check-ups, especially during this, your most formative development stage. We have to make certain your body is pumping enough blood to the embryos. Again, I recommend you increase the amount of iron in your diet. Red meat is the most common example, but if you are still averse to meat, it depends on which vegetables you can obtain this early on in the season. As for stress management," he shrugged, "I cannot tell you what's best for your emotional health; I can only recommend exercise, nutrition, and forming good habits early on. Listen to your body, foremost. Rest when you need it. Drink plenty of water. Use common sense and you will fare just fine."
Tugging his bag underneath his arm, he was about to take his leave, but paused when he was halfway between Vega's bed and the door. "...While I am not one to dispense life advice beyond the realm of the physical body and general well-being--as you know, we have a Sybaian for that very reason--if it's to lessen your stress, and if one of your largest concerns is revealing to the kingdom that you have conceived out of wedlock..." he thrummed his fingers against the hard leather casing of his bag, "marry him. He seems to be accepted by your brother-king, and tolerated among the palace staff. While the more astute of your citizenry may calculate the date of conception and realize it does not correlate with the date of marriage, it will matter less if the father of those children is also your husband. That is my not-so-professional opinion. Take it if you may." And with the dip of his head, he opened the latch of her door and disappeared down the corridor.
Elias didn't spend long frowning at Daphni's empty bed before she swept through the doors with a fresh, clean pitcher of water. He maintained his frown of disapproval as she placed the pitcher on the table and floated excuses on the air, as was her wont. Setting down his bag, he lifted the frown, as though by releasing the symbol of his profession, so too did he undress the article which he wore across his face. "I am trying a new tactic. It's where I stand by, shake my head with obvious disdain, and then say nothing. So here it goes." He proceeded to shake his head...and then said nothing else on the matter.
"I do appreciate your conscientiousness, though." He sidled over to the pitcher and poured himself a drink. "You are learning. If not for your own benefit, then at least for my peace of mind. The less choleric I am, the better it is for your emotional sanity." And with a twitch of a smile, he took a satisfying gulp of water.
"It is not that I don't care about Imogen and her arrangements with the king. I for one am invested in the future of St. Thorne. If I can one day return home, then yes, I will support her project for harmonious relations for all. Not without a hearty dose of skepticism, but that is my nature. But as I've 'gifted' myself to his Majesty of Eyraille, I'm a fixture in this kingdom, for an indefinite period. Imogen is aware, as are Myron and Felix. I don't know where they're to go, afterward. Perhaps to solicit another kingdom. But," he sighed, brushing away an unruly curl from his forehead, "I've no doubt Imogen will try and make contact with me before her departure."
Though he hadn't spoken much on the subject of his mother, electing to focus on more pertinent matters, like Vega and Daphni's condition, when she made mention of the estranged woman, his demeanor, try as he could to deny it, had shifted to something approaching bitter...and remorseful. Perhaps it was his preoccupation with Vega's journey to motherhood, but the miserable Kariji woman had been on his mind for more than he cared to admit. And for that, Elias was glad that Daphni had changed the subject, even though it was related...to mothers. He summarized his examination and the conversation, omitting the his suggestion that she wed the mercenary.
"I too am invested in the health of the children. Conceived, as they were, under exceptional circumstances, it would be a grave loss for them not to survive. Of course, it is always a loss when an expecting mother miscarries, or delivers a still-born, but after everything that was done to ensure the mother's health, I want only to ensure their lives." He drained the cup and set it on the table. "I may not understand a mother in labor, because I am not a woman, but I've witnessed, and delivered, many losses, myself. It can be devastating for the mother, and the family present. The expectation of life, dashed. A birth and a funeral, simultaneously. One doesn't need to be an empath to feel fragile mortality, at its terminus."
Another shift in mood, as instigated by the Sybaian healer. While he was not opposed to her adoption of the Eyraillian philosophy, and had encouraged it just the other day, he wondered when belief would tow the line with denial. "If you are adopting this philosophy to realize a wish," he hesitated, "I know that your life is foremost, and that is what I will preserve, no exceptions. But," he supported her arm as they headed out the door, towards the garden, "if you're wishing for a child of your own," he lowered his voice, "well...you can wish for that, as well."
Despite the return to a less stationary position, Haraldur kept his stride leisurely and led Sigrid through the winding halls. As he listened to her side of the story, he was just as confused about her parents' disappearance. Why hadn't they settled with her in Braighdath? It seemed strange that they would risk their collective safety for the sake of their child, and then not remain a unit when all three had succeeded in finding sanctuary. Unless...
"We can't know for sure what happened to your parents, and you've probably conceived of a thousand explanations for their disappearance, good and bad. But, and I only say this because I've done it myself, and also because I want to remember them as good people, but...they could have been involved in a smuggling operation." They turned the corner, past an elaborate wall paneling of inlaid wood flowers that was commissioned for the festival. "There are plenty of smugglers that work the borders. They deal in goods...and in people. Far too many are desperate to leave the abysmal conditions of Central Mollengard, and so the demand for such smugglers is high. I hired myself out as a mountain guide over the Mollengard-Eyraille border and led refugees through the passes for years until I retired. It's how I've obtained such a high standard of living for myself at the palace; I impressed the right people," he said, with a grin. "But maybe...your parents were trying to do the same. To establish a safe route between Mollengard and Braighdath so they could ferry in more refugees. They could have planned to return to Astrador...to get me and Klara. Hell, even my father. And, for whatever reason, they didn't make it. I'm only guessing, but," they stepped outside, into the courtyard, "it's a possibility. But I don't know...giving credence to that theory almost makes it worse. For me, anyway."
It was the first day that the weather in Eyraille was above freezing. And with the thawing sun coating them with extra warmth, Haraldur, who'd grown accustomed to the chill, was surprised by how balmy it felt on his skin, in comparison. "You could say it was destiny. Eyraille likes to believe in destiny's more positive aspects. Create your own luck. Accept that all will transpire as you desire. But I still believe, and it's a belief I'm trying to change, that we can do nothing about the lot life has given us. So if your parents truly were returning for my family and were detained in the process...then that only confirms that I was meant to be indoctrinated into the Forbanne. And I would wish that fate on no one, even if they happen to, like me, 'snap' out of it and find something better down the line. I'm a very rare exception, and the process is forever ongoing. Even if you don't 'see' it in me, it's there. So many years of brutal influence...don't just vanish."
When they arrived at the training grounds, he navigated her to the open air-armory. "But," he allowed a place for the positivity to return, which had manifested in his smile, "I'm glad you found a family with the Dawn Guard. It took a while for you, and it took a while for me, but...we both received what we longed for. I've always wanted children. And, if we have a daughter," he walked to the stand of swords, testing the weight and balance of each one, "we're going to name her Klara. Maybe...the name will attract her spirit, and she'll be reborn again...and I'll have the chance to raise her well, in far better conditions."
After choosing a sword that fit his needs, he slid it back into it sheath, and wandered over to the armor display. "I always thought that your mother was someone who bore no relation to me. In my hazy memories, I didn't think I had any other family at all. There was so much dysfunction in my early life, and I blocked most of it out. But even if we're not related, you were like a sister to Klara, and that's what matters." Resting his sword against the counter, he slid on and buckled a leather cuirass across his tunic.
"Though," he turned to Sigrid, eyeing her stature and the sword lashed across her back, "I'm curious about this upbringing of yours in the Dawn Guard. So I'm all for a demonstration. I'll show you what I have, and maybe, if I feel like I won't try to run you through...we'll lock swords. The king can wait a little longer for my news," he said, with an exaggerated harrumph. "Are you going to use that sword?" He jutted his chin at the mummified weapon at her back. "It hasn't left your person since you arrived here. I'm never without a weapon, either, but...why do you have it wrapped up? How would you be able to use it if you needed it in a pinch?"
At mention of her status as a "lowly librarian," and her relative anonymity because of it, Alster nodded her truth, for he knew it well...by being the antithesis. "I'm envious of that ability. To blend. To disappear. You're a tree in a forest...an apt analogy, in our current surroundings. As for me... I know vanishing spells, and I still can't walk in Stella D'Mare without someone noticing me. But your status here in Eyraille does explain how you were able to go undetected for centuries. You could probably teach our resident stealth-master a thing or two about the art." But the mirth in his voice faded, when she mentioned her incarceration. "I'm sorry that that happened. Living among shorter lifespans, a 'small time,' can sometimes feel like eternity. I'm only ninety-eight, but some days, it feels like I've lived too long. But if you say you didn't suffer, then I believe you. I suppose it's better to face confinement in a place that you love than wander free in a place you despise. Though I'd hardly call the Rigas estate a place of unrestricted movement. A prison is still a prison, no matter how well-dressed it is."
It shouldn't have surprised him that the woman referred to as Grandmother would be so accepting of him, regardless of her prior associations with the family that he'd ruined. Even with distance and time, the Rigases were her kin, once, and any news about Stella D'Mare would undoubtedly affect her. It did; he saw how she'd seemed to wilt from his words. Though she bridged distance from the pain with physical movement and busywork, he knew that she was processing it all. But instead of reacting as it related to her, she returned to his side and stroked his arm with comfort. Her eyes were kind and nonjudgmental, her words like a salve. Bowing his head, penitent, he wanted her to forgive him for his past transgressions. But in her eyes...perhaps there was nothing to forgive. "I'm...still lost," he whispered, reluctant to admit, out loud, what had been plaguing him since his merge with the Serpent. "Trying to hold on, but my grip is loosening. I contemplated walking into death yesterday, when--" but he bit his tongue, and silenced the confession, uncertain if Alta knew about Vega's pregnancy or the complications of her resurrected body. "No...I'm sorry. We've just met and I'm already making the worst impression, aren't I?" He forced a smile, and kept a more reasonable distance when he noticed he'd moved uncomfortably close to her.
"Adalfieri," he chose his words carefully, "was idealistic in his approach. He wanted the best for Stella D'Mare and his family, but in his later years, could not turn from the vision he'd created in his head. He was so determined to see Stella D'Mare liberated, that he tried to weaponize the Serpent to defeat Andalari, overconfident in his belief that I could control It. His intentions...while I understand them, they were misguided. The intensity of his love went beyond reason. He had detached himself from our reality, and lived in his own. And when he died, it was of the satisfaction of having done right, even while the city crumbled around us. He never remarried." Though he did not elaborate, he'd remembered, once, that the Rigas Head had remarked that his heart could not be reassembled and that it beat for only one cause, one love: for his home. Losing Alta...was the catalyst to his obsession, he'd feared. But how could he tell her, when he only wanted to spare her from the tragedy that he heralded, wherever he went?
He took a seat in the chair across from her, respecting the space he'd so indecently tried to violate before, and afforded her the silence to mourn. "Your sons...they were killed in action when Andalari, led by the Mad Prince, razed the Rigas camp to the ground. But when I knew them in life," he twitched a smile, "they were my teachers, for a brief period. Always encouraging in my instruction. Took me for frequent trips outside of the gates because they knew I was restless. Then," he frowned, "my mother found out, and I no longer saw them. Kind, though. They treated me like a person, which I appreciated."
Standing in tandem with the matronly librarian, he trailed her at a safe distance, again soothed by her continuing words of solace and empathy. "Contrary to my negative picture of them, our family...they're not all beyond our reach. There's Tivia. I've been traveling with her these past few months. She's a star seer and a self-proclaimed exile from the family. But we're there for each other, even if she can be coarse and defensive. There's Glaucus, who designed and smithed my arm," he stretched it outward on full display, all sleek black steel and flexible parts. "He's pledged his loyalty to me. Him and a few under his guidance. There's Lysander, the aforementioned master of stealth, who dearly loves his daughter and fought against Adalfieri for her. Then, there's his daughter, Chara, the current Rigas Head. She's," he paused a beat, "most certainly a Rigas, and all that one entails, but she's striving to rebuild Stella D'Mare. She watches out for me, in love, and has sacrificed for me, though her love is for another. An outsider, who she's adopted into the family, despite objections from the traditionalists."
"I've adopted someone, myself." He traced the white scratch etched into his palm, smiling with longing. "Elespeth. My fiancee. Also an outsider. She's been at my side since this fight began, and she's...she made me better. She kept me alive, when all I wanted to do was curl up and die. I fight because of her. I fight because Stella D'Mare is my home. She makes it home." With a burst of intensity, he swept into the woman's space, and took her hands, now unladen of books, into his flesh and steel ones. "I'll make it a home for you, too. If there's hope for my redemption, then there's hope for you, too. To find acceptance, which they've denied you for so long. The Rigas family, as they are, cannot sustain their legacy on outdated morals. There's been an upheaval, and in order to survive, they have to change. And if they don't...I'll make it so." He blinked, momentarily taken aback by his fierce proclamation.
"When the city is secure...consider returning," he said, his voice returning to its soft earnestness. "There's a...library that is in desperate need of tending. I would welcome you, and I'm certain that Elespeth would, too. If you'd rather stay in Eyraille, though...I understand. It's your home. But if this library is all that you have, now...wouldn't you want more, if you could have it? But...if I don't see you again," when he looked into her glossy pale eyes, his were pooling with tears, "can we make up for lost time...Grandmother? Before I leave, might we...might we read together?"
Daphni knew better than to push too far on the topic of Elias’s mother. The Clematis healer already knew well that she preferred to remain impartial with regard to their situation; it did not suit her to directly antagonize Imogen, even knowing what she did of her history with regard to Elias. How deeply her neglect and eventual abandonment had hurt him… At times, he really tried not to care, or at least put up a front of ambivalence. She never mentioned that she could see the way thoughts and discussions of Imogen clouded his aura; it was likely that he already suspected as much, though trusted her to have the decency not to question him about it. “I know your conscience well enough to feel confident that you would lend aid to St. Thorne, if your mother manages to broker peace,” she said with a solemn nod. “All I am saying is that you needn’t feel more involved than you are inclined to be. That said, I am sure that if you explained to his Majesty the necessity to return to St. Thorne when the time comes, he will not deny you.”
She knew that Imogen would want to say goodbye. There was too much regret on her shoulders, too many things left unsaid. Perhaps it was for that reason that she could not bring herself to buy into Elias’s resentment. Even then, she could sense that part of his reluctant to engage further with his mother was for fear that she would somehow manage to change his mind. And he wasn’t ready to feel much more than resentment.
The Sybaian healer listened his his account of what he’d found during his visit to Vega that morning. None of it came as a surprise, particularly the princess’s deep concerns for her children's’ development; none of which was abnormal, for any woman, regardless of their health. It brought her a good deal of relief to hear that Vega was at least feeling well enough to vent and complain. Oddly enough, those mannerisms always seemed to indicate a good prognosis. It was when people tended to withdraw into themselves that gave her pause for worry. “If you are as invested as I am, then I suppose we are on the same page.” She mentioned with a small smile, but it quickly faded. “However, I did not mean to imply that you cannot understand grief. I’ve never born children; frankly, my take on the strenuous labour of childbirth is almost as limited as yours. I may only have more insight into the emotions of the mother, at the time being… but those are certainly not so vague. You understand enough to know the importance of taking every measure to see that these children survive. And that,” she managed to smile again, “is precisely what the mercenary and the Princess need. I don’t mind waiting in the wings as emotional support.”
Their arms linked, they left the guest chambers and made for the courtyard, where Daphni had taken note of the first sprouts of spring had begun to bloom. “I am glad you support me in adopting this mindframe, you know. Evidence has been sprinkled throughout time how mind can overcome matter. Sometimes, acting like a sick person is precisely what makes you and keeps you a sick person. So I ask in advance that you forgive me for not confining myself to bed.”
The warm air--warm in comparison to Eyraille’s winters, at least--caressed their faces as they stepped over the threshold and into the gardens of the courtyard. Though far from its prime, the promise of life to come was already beginning to make itself known in the form of skinny blades of grass, and even some buds on the branches of drooping willow trees. Daphni carried Elias’s words with her for a moment, considering their meaning, and wondering if that meaning coincided with her interpretation. The Clematis healer had such a tendency towards stoicism and logic that even she, one able to read the colors of auras otherwise invisible to the naked eye, sometimes found it difficult to read him accurately. At last, she turned her face the sky. Early morning had been cloudy, on the grey side, but now those clouds had parted to make way for clear azure. “Admittedly, I’ve never lent much thought to the potential for children of my own, for a number of reasons. But, namely… I suppose I always thought that there would be another day, another month, another year to consider. Isn’t that our mortal downfall, though? Always thinking we have time, when time is neither permanent nor guaranteed?”
The Sybaian healer paused as they passed a rosebush, one which, despite the chilled temperatures up until today, had begun to bud early. Tiny green bulbs were forming among the thorns… perhaps Eyraille’s celebration of Equinox was more than mere superstition. The kingdom seemed to have me it a reality. “Is it selfish of me, to not want to die without leaving something behind? Without… some sort of a legacy? Even if I do not endure for the majority of their formative years…”
Pressing her lips together, she resumed her leisurely pace throughout the yet-to-bloom gardens. “Honestly… it wasn’t until I saw Vega in her plight that it occurred to me I would have to make a decision about this, and soon. I am not getting any younger… or any healthier, at that. I realized this was an experience I don’t want to pass up, never really knowing. But… I also realize,” she hesitated, then turned to meet Elias’s eyes, “...this isn’t a decision that I can make, alone.”
While she had spent so many years resenting and silently condemning her parents for leaving her, alone in a strange place, with no guarantee that she would be all right. Even now, knowing the truth--that they must have fled, at risk of being captured by Mollengard--she couldn’t help but feel stung for all the years she’d grown up, feeling like an orphan. But what she had never considered was that she might not have been the only one they’d meant to save. And if Haraldur was right… then, that made them heroes.
“It is a noble theory. Though to be honest, I am not sure that I wish it to be true,” the Dawn warrior confided, hardly noticing the elaborate decor throughout the palace, for her eyes were pointed downward at her boots. “I spent a very long time resenting my parents, for what they did. I don’t believe I ever got over my anger… but the Dawn Guard helped me to find my way through it. To accept it and navigate it, and turn it into fuel when I fight. I’m not sure that now, after all this time, I want to revere these people, for the possibility that they saved lives… I’ve grown too committed, too comfortable feeling that I never needed them, anyway. That I’ve long since moved on. Do… you think,” she hesitated, and glanced at him, sidelong, “that makes me horrible? To be so reluctant to adapt a different sentiment, now that more truths have been set before me…?”
His theory was intriguing; that one could not fight or change destiny, and that everything happened for a reason. It wasn’t one she had ever considered, for destiny wasn’t something she’d pondered. Since her childhood, Sigrid had lived day to day, prepared for whatever may come. To think that it might have been written in the stars--that her parents would leave her, and whatever life she might have known in her small fishing village was never to be realized… “I am not sure how well that sits with me.” The blonde warrior confided, with a ghost of a smile. “Though, I am certainly no seer, and no expert on fate. And it does strike me as odd that years and years later, I would encounter Alster and Tivia, who would then bring me back to you… it does seem far too specific and unrealistic to be a coincidence.”
Sigrid squinted against the glare of the sun as they stepped into the daylight, shielding it from her eyes with her hand. “To be honest… I do not regret finding my way to the Dawn Guard. They are my family; they raised me, helped me to become the person I am, today. I owe them a great deal, more than I can ever repay. Part of me feels treacherous to think that way, but I cannot miss what I never came to know… a life that I never had.” Rolling the shoulder that bore Gaolithe’s weight, she added, “It is hard to say that you wouldn’t have had children of your own, had none of this come to pass. If you had stayed with your family, and remained safe. But… I feel it is reasonable to say that those children would not have been with her Highness.” She smiled gently at him. “And here, with her, is where you seem to have found happiness. I cannot begin to express the sadness that I feel for what you’ve endure, but it sounds to me as though you, too, have worked tirelessly through your demons. And I know how irritating unwanted pity can be.
She perused the armory lazily, quickly taking stock of the nature of the training blades. They were of a different form than what she was used to fighting with in Braighdath; less tapered at the tips, and perhaps more symmetrical. She picked one up at random, testing the weight in her hand. “Well, the Forbanne fight to kill; the Dawn Guard fights to protect, themselves and one another. I have a distinct feeling that you might already have one up on me, in this match.” Sigrid flashed a wry grin, replacing the sword in her hand and reaching for another. None of them felt right… but that had less to do with the foreign nature of the swords, and more for the fact that since handling Gaolithe, it had oddly become the only weapon to feel comfortable in her hand. All the more reason not to use it; for the last thing she desired was to get comfortable, wielding that deathblade…
“But don’t underestimate me; I am agile and can hold my own. Don’t think me such a surefire target.” She playfully nudged his shoulder, though all of the elation that had built since she and Haraldur had opened up to one another vanished, the moment he asked after the sword strapped to her back. Her smile was gone, and blue eyes, intense. “It isn’t a weapon to be toyed with… or used lightly for that matter.” She said, hastily removing it from where it was strapped to her back. She lay it in a dark corner of the armory, where no one was likely to wander and accidentally come upon it. For good measure, she pulled an empty sack over the length of it, concealing it completely from view. “It is another story, for another day. But just know that it is dangerous… and I am only removing it now because I’d rather not risk it becoming unraveled, and having you come into contact with it.”
Sigrid left it at that, and finally grabbed a blade at random, ignoring that the weight did not feel quite right in her hand.
“Have you ever heard men make the remark toward women warriors, that one is ‘good, for a girl’?” She asked, rolling her shoulders back as they stepped onto the field. Her lips curled into a smile. “They do not say that about me. Instead, they say, to our members in training, ‘no; you’ll want to avoid her, until you improve’.”
The two of them sparred for the better part of an hour, a unique clash of entirely different fighting styles. Haraldur, who was used to going on the offensive, seeing a weakness and exploiting it, while Sigrid exhibited no weaknesses, and parried to wear him out, relying in feints and throwing him off guard. Neither was better than the other, that much was obvious, as by the end of the hour, the two of them hardly sported anything more than a few bruises and sweaty brows. At last, they agreed to a stalemate, exhausted in the astonishingly warm sun. Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, the Dawn warrior returned to retrieve Gaolithe after replacing her sparring sword, and strapped the enchanted blade to her back. “I know your home is here now, Haraldur, but should you ever find yourself in Braighdath…” She turned to face him, a sheepish smile on her face. “The Dawn Guard would welcome you; even honorarily, with no expectation of commitment. Your spirit is the very type that they value.”
It wasn’t until they ventured toward the palace again that they took note of Vega, who appeared just as surprised to see them as they were to see her. “Your Highness,” Sigrid offered a shallow bow. “Haraldur relayed the good news; I am glad to hear you and your children are doing well.”
“It is not over until they are born,” the Skyknight commander remarked, looking somewhat bewildered. Not for the fact that Haraldur had obviously been training, or training with another warrior, at that, but… the proximity between the two was startling. And it certainly had not been there, yesterday… What the hell had transpired in less than twenty-four hours? “Anyway; I regret to ruin your fun, but the training grounds must be prepared to be decorated for the jousting tournaments during the festival. So I’m afraid they’ll be off limits for a while.”
“Duly noted, your Highness. Is there any way that I can be of help?” Sigrid inquired, straightening her shoulders. “Alster only requires my assistance once, at most twice daily. If there are still preparations to be made, it would be my honour to assist.”
Of course, there were always loose ends to tie up, even up until the moment of the festival. Vega could have easily put Sigrid to work anywhere. But… something unsettled her, about the Dawn Warrior. Not in a threatening way, but on the contrary, she seemed… too friendly. Too pretty, in that completely unintentional way, with her pale, blonde hair, bright eyes and lightly tanned skin from spending ample time in the sun. Perhaps it was entirely irrational, but… the Eyraillian princess couldn’t help but feel a distaste for this uninvited guest. “Perhaps it would be best if you continue to place your time and efforts toward Alster’s care,” was all she said in response, before clearing her throat. “Well. I am glad that you were able to make the most of this lovely weather. I may be returning late, tonight; I’m headed to check on the progress of preparations in the city proper. To see if the locals are in need of any more provisions or assistance.” All of this was directed at Haraldur, whose arm she brushed affectionately when she passed, making for the stables to ride deeper into the city.
Understandably, the brief encounter left Sigrid feeling very confused. She scratched the back of her head, and glanced at Haraldur, as if he would have an explanation. “Have I… said or done something to upset her? I didn’t realize they were preparing the training grounds…” But something told her there was more to it than that, though she couldn’t hazard a guess as to what it might be. Pregnant women certainly cycled through strange emotions…
“Alster.” Grandmother Alta shook her head slowly, her gaze focused on the careful placement of her books. “Of course you are lost; we all are, and if ever someone tells you that they have found their forever roots, then either they are lying, or suffering a state of arrested development. The difference with being a Rigas…” She blew air from her parted lips and shook her head. “Is that our own family is so assured of themselves that they go out of their way to make us feel lost, when we are not precisely where they want us to be. But if you ask me…” Again, she offered him a kind and reassuring smile. “The fact that you are questioning your place at all--just as I did--assures me that you have ventured further with your own growth than those who follow the status quo. Really, you do not give yourself enough credit.”
What the young Rigas caster had to say about her late husband did not come as a surprise; not when Alta herself had seen the fierce passion he’d felt for Stella D’Mare. In the end, that was what had parted them; even if, unbeknownst to her, she was the catalyst to his eventual madness, the former Rigas Head had long reserved his love first and foremost for the city. She had tried to find that way into his heart, which the city predominantly occupied; had born him not one, but two children, to express her love, though their second child was not celebrated. Instead, he’d reprimanded her; for going against convention, for refusing to terminate her second pregnancy. That was when she realized, no matter how she loved him, she would never fit his ideal role of a wife. Yet it wasn’t until many years later that she finally had the courage to break her own heart, and leave him, and their children, forever.
But Alta’s sons had been another story. Both had been so adamant in following in their father’s footsteps, to the point that they would openly express how ashamed they were of her. Ashamed that she sought to ‘fix what wasn’t broken’. Yet, what Alster had to say about those two boys… “...they were kind to you?” Her voice was so hushed, it might as well have been a whisper. Alta’s hand hesitated, where it reached to replace a book in its rightful place. “My sons? I never… I gave up on that hope. I so tried to form them into decent beings, ones with regard for those above and below them… but it seemed so fruitless an endeavor that I left them, along with my husband. But to hear that they treated you well…” When she smiled, it was notably sad. “I can rest easy knowing that they were capable of kindness. It was all I ever wanted, for them…”
Alta listened to Alster’s account of other Rigases, who were not so far beyond reach. Of course, she had always known there were a select few who did not fall victim to the stereotype. In particular, word of the new Rigas Head falling in love with an outsider was enough to make her smile. So it did seem that the times were changing, and along with them, the Rigases… “Your fiancee is very lucky to have such a doing beau, as you.” She chuckled. “I don’t recall a Rigas ever speaking so fondly of their betrothed; not with the tradition of arranged marriages. And I have no doubt that you and yours will make it the home that it deserves to be. But…”
She gave Alster’s hands a gentle squeeze. “Stella D’Mare, however beautiful and accepting that it might become… you must understand, that it can never be my home again. And not for your lack of trying. It is just that…” She looked past him, her pale eyes faraway, seeing something other than the library beyond her. Memories, that would never let go. “Everything that I have known, good or bad… it is gone, even if the city is still standing. I just don’t think that I can walk among the ghosts of my husband and my sons… it wouldn’t feel right. Eyraille was my decision, and I cannot turn my back on the choice I made hundreds of years ago. Of course… I am not so old than I cannot travel.”
That kind smile returning to her face, she cupped Alster’s cheek with a powder-soft hand. “I would like to see Stella D’Mare again, someday. Perhaps reassess the library and perform some well-needed maintenance on it. After all, I’ve improved my system, over the years. But. as long as you are still here,” she spread her arms wide. “May this library be your playground. And until you must depart, we have all the time in the world to read, together. That is, if you don’t mind that my old eyes have slowed and tired, over the years. I’m not as spry as I once was."
Half-expecting a blast of Northerly wind to assail him in the courtyard, what he experienced, instead, was a gentle wisp of sun-heated air, which meandered lazily along their path to the garden. It pushed in front of them like an overeager child excited to show his parents all the flowers and shrubs that his studies in a book had taught him. The bluebells rattled with the tot's invisible hand. Then, the snowdrops. The marigolds and mountain daisies. The whip-like branches of a willow lashed out at the child of the wind, chasing it off the path in a hurried rustle.
Why had he mentioned children to Daphni? They hadn't even reached such a level of intimacy, let alone her frail condition, which would only make the childbirthing process a difficult and dangerous one. Carrying to term, or carrying for any number of months, could spell an expedited death sentence for both her and the child. And yet, he, the paragon of caution and prevention, had suggested it. Him; the man who lambasted patients for wandering out of bed while recovering from a collapsed lung (Daphni), or operating on two mentally-unstable magic-users while compromised (Daphni), or saving a healer from a terminal disease and nearly dying in the process (Daphni). What had transpired between them, that he even thought to give credence to her inkling of an idea by inflating it until it was full-blown and floating before them?
Because...like the brunt of Eyraille's citizens, even he was falling victim to their greed. He wanted it all. But if he could not have it all, if Daphni, like all her sisters preceding her, wasted away into death, perhaps a child borne by her would survive. He could lessen the impact of her departure, a worst case scenario he hadn't even wanted to discuss. She knew, at least, he thought he'd made it clear, that her passing into the other realms was unacceptable. It would...devastate him.
"We do have time," he said, following the Sybaian's gaze to the bud of a rose on a tree. "It may be nonsense-talk, but while under the influence of the moon-dial, time had no factor. Yes, days still rose and fell, and I could feel the change that comes with transition, but it was all too inconsequential to matter. While I've since recovered from my dismissals of mortal time-keeping--as I'm sure you're relieved--I've still retained the notion that if time is scarce, then we simply make time where it's available." He stopped to squint up at the sky, noting where the sun was gliding. Though ceaseless in its movements, it was imperceptible to the denizens of the world. To them, it appeared as a burning fixture, notched into the cosmos. "It's all about perspective. If we stop long enough, is it possible to feel the grass growing around us? To see the flowers bloom, or to hear the scrape of this world as it keeps on spinning? As of now, we don't, because we've disconnected ourselves from the collective nature of our universe. But who is to say that we can't reconnect? Finding the time, of which there is plenty, hiding within these buds and in the ancient towers of mountains? So," he returned her gaze with consenting eyes, "I'd be willing to see this into fruition, with you."
"You best watch yourself, Elias; you are sounding more Kariji than Thornian by the day," a soft voice remarked from behind them. The Clematis healer froze; he knew the source, the dream-like cadence of her whispering lilt. "Imogen," he said, flatly, but did not turn to greet her. It did not matter; the Kariji diplomat passed from behind to stand perpendicular to himself and Daphni. Her large, sonorous eyes were contrite, but not contrite enough to move along to allow them to conclude their private conversation, organically. "I could not help but overhear. My apologies."
"So you thought it relevant to interfere just so you could apologize for interfering?" Elias broke contact with Daphni to cross both arms over his chest. "I heard you brokered a deal with his Majesty. If you've come to inform me of this most fortunate news, don't bother; I know. Is there anything else that you want?"
"Yes." She transferred a piteous stare to Daphni. "As I've made mention, I have nothing but respect for the Sybaian clan, but I am also well-aware of their shortcomings; in particular, their tendency to waste into death far before their prime. It is a phenomenon that has not escaped me, for, how could a clan of empathetic healers continue to be prolific, or if not prolific, how do they continue to exist, if their populace continues to sunder, and at progressively earlier stages in life?"
Elias's brow unexpectedly shot upward at Imogen and her...reasonable, logical, observations. "You have my attention."
"And why would the Sybaia resign themselves to what they've accepted as an inevitability? It seems counter to their moniker as healers and as, well, people. I mean no disrespect, Daphni," she added, in disclaimer. "But a healer is not effective if they cannot survive individually for more than a handful of years. And if every clan member falls under similar circumstances, then it makes no sense why the Sybaia wish to exterminate themselves from existence, so quickly, instead of researching methods for longevity and more effective practice for their patients."
"So what are you suggesting? A conspiracy?" His sudden opinion of Imogen as an intelligent creature was sudden to rescind.
"Sometimes I wonder," she said, with a sorrowed sigh. "One can chalk it up to tradition. To stubborn pride. To indoctrination at birth. The simplest explanations, as I've heard told, are usually the correct explanations. But I do like to consider the outrageous. The what if. Consigning ourselves to the easiest, most plausible modus of thinking will not always solve our conundrums. Especially if they relate to saving or elongating the life of a loved one. So in my roundabout way, I am saying, "she turned again to Daphni, "that I can help you. If you let me."
"No, that doesn't make you horrible." Haraldur slipped on a pair of bracers and tied the laces taut with practiced speed. "Then again, I'm the last person to ask. I've inflicted too much horror to truly know the differences anymore. I too am resistant to change, or to anything that challenges the status quo I've built in my head. Just ask Vega how long it took for her to 'win' me over," he snorted a laugh. "I did not want to budge, but she broke me down eventually. So I get it. The comfort of routine. Accepting what you've come to understand about a situation, because it's easier than uncertainty or ambiguity. I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with avoidance, as long as you don't take to the point of denial or self-neglect. And if you're more than fulfilled in your family with the Dawn Guard, then you may not even need to reassess the character of your parents. But if one day, you ever feel ready to revisit the role they played in your life, there's nothing wrong with that, either. You're not betraying yourself or succumbing to weakness.
"Sometimes," he lifted his sword, buffing the streaks of dirt that ran down the blade with a sleeve, "I think about my father. He was a miser and a drunk. He lashed out at me, and lashed out at Klara, though I wouldn't let him hurt her. He'd force me to work so he could stay at home and sleep, and drink...and then he'd take all my earnings so he could purchase more swill. When I started bringing home rations and peat for burning, or tools for maintaining the house, he raged, and threatened to beat me until I could no longer walk. But when Klara...when she died, something in him...changed. He was helpful. Began to wean himself off alcohol. Supported the household, and began to look for work. At Mollengard's arrival, he even hid me away. They found me," he tapped the edge of the blade against his boot, "of course. And even though he died trying to save me from my fate...on some days, I still can't forgive him for how he was to us, before. Even after knowing how it all played out. That Klara would have died, regardless--because Mollengard would have killed her. Even with that knowledge, of how deeply my fate was sealed...it can be hard to forgive."
As they were about ready to head back outside to spar, Haraldur watched the Dawn Warrior in her deliberate removal of the sword. With her back turned to him, and the blade pointed away, she whisked it from one area to the next, as though to hold it for a second longer would incur severe burns all along the palms of her hands. Suspicion, though unbidden, returned to command his impressions on the Dawn Warrior to which he knew so little, and yet shared so much. A stranger from the past--and he had told her everything, more than he'd ever revealed to Vega...or to anyone else alive, or dead. For her to be so dismissive over the details of the mysterious sword...part of him wanted to dispose of it before it, or its owner, could toll its damage.
"Should I be worried?" he asked of the sword, the warmth draining from his voice. "It's in my best interest to know if this is a threat to the kingdom." By "this," he meant her. "If it's so dangerous, then I will have to ask you of the specifics of your warning. What will happen if I make contact with the sword?"
If whatever she said next had placated him, he didn't show it. Instead, he focused his attention on their upcoming spar, setting aside his apprehensions over the foreboding weapon in the far corner of the armory, and what it would do if left unattended. Again, he was left to wonder if Sigrid were a spy.
However, with every parry, evasive twisting, and redirected attack, Haraldur, for the second time since meeting her, began reconsidering his bias. It could be said that one could understand a person's intentions by how they fought an opponent, and based on Sigrid's modus operandi alone, he sensed no ill-will. No shifts in demeanor, or betrayal of ulterior motives. Her concentration was on the spar, the clashing and release of sword. Her artful dodges, and the circles she spun around him, in a bid to confuse. Even if his Forbanne bloodlust was in activation, would it even matter, when he doubted he could place a hit on her? It was the exact strategy that Haraldur suggested Caris employ, were he ever so unfortunate to encounter a Forbanne: speed, finesse, endurance, and tactics. She had used such techniques with a flawlessness that even he found difficult to exploit. Her weaknesses were concealed too well, and when they'd finished, he huffed a faux-exasperated breath.
"How is that possible? I always find a weakness. I think you caught me on a bad day," he joked. "You've represented the Dawn Guard well. Hell, even got me interested in going down there to train among their ranks. Endurance fighting is an asset, and for fighting against the Forbanne, we'd gain a huge competitive edge. If Braighdath casts its lots with us," he gave a respectful bow, "we might stand a chance against Mollengard, if your Dawn Guard joined with Eyraille and Stella D'Mare. Maybe you can even give the king some much-needed lessons," he gave a devious smile, wondering how Caris would fare if they attacked him simultaneously.
After returning the weapons and armor and cleaning themselves of the offending dust and detritus, they returned to the palace, only to see Vega headed in their direction. He grinned at her, about to reveal what he had learned of Sigrid and her relation to him, but when the Skyknight did not return his enthusiastic greeting, he tempered his attitude accordingly. He knew she was still grieving the loss of her roc, but the hot-headed princess seemed...perturbed, for some reason.
"Well, at least we got some practice in, while we were still able," Haraldur said to Sigrid. "Take care of yourself on the road. ...Do you need me to go with you?" As expected, she told him no, and proceeded to walk from them with an aloof, almost chilly air about her, despite the improvement to her core body temperature. He frowned after her retreat, concern plying at his eyes.
"I don't know," he said, shaking his head for emphasis. "The last time I saw her like that, it was shortly after the discovery." He didn't need to elaborate for Sigrid to know what he meant by discovery. "I hope there's...nothing wrong. The Clematis healer was giving her a check-up, before." Suddenly, he was back to expecting the worst. It's not over until they're born. He repeated her phrase in his head. That's true. It's...too true.
"She's been through an ordeal; we can't expect her to be back to normalcy so soon after everything. That's my best guess." After accompanying Sigrid to her room, he looked towards whence they came and pointed his feet in that direction. "I have to speak with his Majesty, so I'm afraid we'll have to part ways here. But if you're staying here a while--I don't know if you're going with Alster to Stella D'Mare--we'll talk again. Because if fate saw fit to reunite us, and since I'm such a damn slave to it anyway, then I'll follow through." And with a wave of farewell, Haraldur turned towards the king's chambers to deliver the good news--though he didn't know how "good" it was, anymore. Despite what happened, though...he still intended to ask Caris for his sister's hand in marriage.
He wanted to believe her; wanted to believe that his was the sort of lost of one trapped in a labyrinth. No dead-ends or boxed corners; only a long and tedious loop, of loop upon loop folding over the other. While lengthy, it was not eternal. Eventually, a straggler found the center--or the exit. But his concern was the loss of his personhood. What did it mean to assimilate aspects of the Serpent into his being? To live with his tormentor, to become his tormentor, and to find himself drifting farther from his plane, and closer to Its realm? If he attempted to explain, would she view him as less than, or an alien, too incongruous to benefit from the comforts typically reserved for a human being. But he felt closer to space than to earth, closer to death than to life, and closer to an object than to flesh and blood. Despite his building friendships, his goals for Stella D'Mare, and the promises he made to Elespeth, he was both terrified and desirous of the day when he would disappear. I'm too much of a contradiction to survive, even with the Serpent's 'blessing.' Especially with the Serpent's 'blessing.'
But he would not depress the compassionate Rigas woman a moment longer. Not with his hopeless musings or nihilistic tendencies. She was too kind to him, despite his numerous neuroses and overzealous nature. So eager was he to make connections, that he'd often give too much of himself, and to expect equal reciprocity. You cling, his mother's words reverberated. Until I choke.
He brought a hand to his throat, tracing over the faint lines of his self-inflicted scars. I'm trying, Mother. Trying to turn my need away. Only I have to suffer. Not them.
"You're right," he concluded, with a smile. "After my ordeal with the Serpent, it's only natural that I second-guess my place here. I was so ready to die for my family, and it didn't happen. I'm still alive. But because I'm alive, it means that I have the opportunity to reconnect with the Rigases. To understand them, and hopefully, to change their minds. Not by forcing change necessarily, though that will happen whether they like it or not, but through living according to my wishes. By being who /I/ choose to be, however much that clashes with Rigas doctrine. So that's what I'll do."
Liar, his mother's voice seethed.
"We've lost so many to our ranks...and I'm sorry that your sons perished in the fire. That you lost every connection to Stella D'Mare, and all in a matter of months. A few years ago, I lost my parents," he left it at that, omitting the grisly details. "I only returned to Stella D'Mare out of desperation, because I had nowhere else to go. But returning...felt like imprisonment all over again. I cared nothing for the city. I only wanted to make sure the Serpent wouldn't rise for my own peace of mind. Not for a greater purpose. Not to save lives, or those of my Rigas brethren. And maybe it was through meeting and falling in love with my fiancee, but it was then when I started to see...that all these lives are worth saving. That as long as they're still alive, our story continues. Maybe it can be that way for you, too. There may not be anything for you now, but it doesn't mean that there won't be, in the future."
"I can't make you change your mind...though I want to," he admitted, his face drooping into a sadness he tried to prevent. "I want you to be there, because I believe there's a second chance for all of us. There was, for me. More times than I'm able to document. Haraldur and Vega...they're prime examples, too. I just want you to know...that you have the option, Grandmother. Whatever you want Stella D'Mare to be...it will be there for you."
Returning her kind smile with one of his own, it was obvious to see the relation that they shared, even though they were exhibiting traits not often displayed by their birthright. An alikeness brought together by disparity and time. "I wish I met you sooner," came his emphatic whisper, as they walked from the shelves to a private nook in the corner. And during their shift in location, he could not still the tears that spilled down his cheeks. "But I'm glad for this, nonetheless. Do you have a book to recommend me? When your eyes get tired...I'll read it to you."
