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Thyra has never liked the idea of an ambassador. She’d be the first to say it: she has little love lost with the Orerines. It’s so much more than simply her dead sister—there are generations, centuries of grief and murder that they have to answer for. The Orerines could do penance just as long and it would not bring back those the Ferines have lost.
If they do, maybe the Ferines of the future can forgive them.
Thyra, in the present, cannot.
There are some Orerines she is forced to consider family, if not friends, in the ways in which one never wants to invite relatives to holidays. There are even some she might consider friends. That does not mean she would want to spend a single day beyond what she must with them.
“That’s why I came to you,” Shirley says, as if that might convince Thyra to agree to her request. “Because you don’t want to trust as much as I do.”
Thyra considers the offer.
In the end, she says yes. She says yes, because she owes it to her sister to do what she would want. Even if she does not agree.
“Thyra, correct?” Madame Musette smiles and proffers a very fine curtsy when Thyra arrives in her home in Werites Beacon. It is a beautiful building, well-kept, every inch cared for. After living there ten years, Shirley’s touch is everywhere: a small altar to Nerifes, the entire back garden converted to an inset pool, full of aquatic plants. A Ferines garden. Relares tapestries hang on the walls, artifacts from the Kingdom of Terises that Shirley went on excursions with Norma to find, artifacts that have been repatriated to the Ferines.
It is no open-air home, part and parcel of the water, but nevertheless, Thyra does not hate it.
“Yes.” Thyra stares Madame Musette in the eye. She knows who and what this woman is, and she is both unafraid and disinterested. Orerines politics are Orerines problems. Madame Musette’s smile does not falter in the slightest as she shows them out the back into the open-air yard, and this close to the water, Thyra immediately relaxes.
“Shirley has explained your—ah, perhaps not interest, but willingness, to join in our efforts.” Thyra does not trust Orerines food: she does not touch the small lunch of finger sandwiches that are laid out on the table on the back patio (at least, not until Shirley murmurs that she’s the one who made them).
“I don’t trust you,” Thyra replies. Shirley winces, but Madame Musette smiles more: it seems she appreciates bluntness. “Frankly, I don’t entirely trust the Merines either, but Fenimore would tell me to do it.” It is an old hurt, this gulf between them: dead sister, dead lover, dead. They have built a relationship that is not defined by Fenimore’s corpse, but it will always haunt them. Their shared ghost, burned beautiful and bright and perfect—
And gone.
“Shirley told me that she had only explained the basic idea of the project.” Thyra hadn’t needed more. Shirley had spent three years on the Mainland with Senel, Will, and Chloe, crossing Rexalia, Crusand, and Gadoria with the intention of finding every hidden Ferines village, following maps and stories and oral traditions. Now, they were going to go help those Ferines reconnect, to build networks and communities over the imaginary Orerines borders.
“I’ll help,” Thyra says, at last, and does not look at Shirley as she says: “On one condition. The Ferines get to leave.”
There is a long silence. Shirley finally clears her throat. “Thyra...they don’t want to leave. That’s the point. They want to stay, in their homes, and know it’s safe. Not everyone wants to come to the Legacy or move out into the ocean.” Thyra bunches her hands in her skirt. She takes a deep breath. “So...this is something else. To do for them, I mean. I—“
“What do you mean they want to stay?” Thyra swaps to Relares without even thinking, turning her glare on Shirley. “To stay? In Orerines lands? That polluted expanse, at risk of war and conquering and genocide?” Shirley shrinks under her words, staring down at her lap, fingers curled in the cloth of her skirt. At times like this, where Shirley seems to shrivel down into herself, Thyra can only see the teenager she was when they met, afraid of her own shadow, no backbone at all. Completely reliant on everyone around her to do anything. “What are you thinking? This will make them even more obvious targets!”
“Not...all Ferines think and feel like you,” Shirley finally manages. Her voice does not shake, but her words are unsure in her mouth. Thyra has always hated that Shirley barely speaks Relares, hates that she ran away to pretend to be Orerines and lost their language. She hates that Shirley has never learned it again. She hates everything the Orerines have stolen from them: their ocean, their history, their Merines (all of them, past and present), their children, their elders, their loved ones, their language, their homes. “They, they should be—they deserve,” she finds, after a moment, “They deserve happiness too.”
“And you think this will be happiness?”
Shirley looks up to meet her eyes, and Thyra cows for a moment beneath that look: her eyes are all sharp like her Eres.
Shirley is her Merines.
Shirley always will be her Merines.
“Maybe you’re right,” Shirley says, back in Rexlalian Common. “I’m the Merines. People don’t...talk to me the same as they might talk to you. You’re the one who really speaks Relares. So come with me, and you talk to them, and let’s figure out what to do.” She takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders. “If the Legacy is meant to be neutral ground, then it can’t be Rexalian. If the Ferines are meant to live on the Mainland if they want to, then it has to be for the Ferines, too. That means we have to learn to know each other.” She looks to Madame Musette. “We need to learn when to let go.”
Madame Musette, to Thyra’s surprise, is smiling—almost indulgently. “How I wish you were in our line of succession,” she shakes her head. “But you are right. I am not getting any younger, after all. Yes, the Rexalian military presence must leave the Legacy. Yes, the Orerines of the Mainland must learn to grow and learn anew. We cannot repeat the sins of the past.” No, they can’t. They—the Orerines, Thyra thinks, but perhaps the Ferines too—must learn to do better. “We can only move forward.”
Thyra will go to the Mainland, for the first time since she was a child, since they ripped Fenimore from her arms while she screamed for her sister and dragged her away, the last time she felt whole. She will go, and she will mourn, and she will grieve, and she will hate, and she will see her people.
See her people and, perhaps, try to make their lives better.
It is not a field trip, this interminable traveling between a half-dozen hidden villages, days or weeks apart, their movement slowed by their companions: Chloe Valens as their guard, Elsa Alcott and Harriet Campbell as naturalists looking to learn more of Ferines flora to help re-seed the Legacy, and Norma Beatty as…
An annoyance.
Were it not that over half their number are Orerines, Thyra could do nothing but enjoy the experience: she has been around women, yes, but never so many and for so long, days that become weeks that become months. They watch the stars at night and spend many long days in rivers and lakes and the ocean. She finds herself, begrudgingly, teaching Harriet and Elsa the beginnings of Relares, for they need it to catalogue the names of the plants and seeds they get. She sees the love that has blossomed between Chloe and Shirley, still fragile and nascent and tinged with sadness.
She sees her people, her Ferines. All of them: old and young, jaded and naïve, and alive. So many of them alive. Children who still have parents; elders who cradle their newborn grandchildren. And, for each of them, a different desire. A different, burning, raging hope.
In Crusand, most of the Ferines are already gone—they have moved to the burgeoning cities of the ocean or to the Legacy or over Orerines borders, flying or swimming or both. Those few who remain seem to do so for no reason but spite, stubborn to the last, clinging to their homes and a way of life they want to die with them. It is never the young; the old are all that stay, locked to the past, those who survived Vaclav and worse.
These are the people who long for community the most, who listen, rapt, to Shirley’s explanations of a mail network run by Teriques, flying along streams and waterways across borders, guaranteed protection by treaty, for elders to reach distant relatives. For these Ferines, they want nothing more than to live their lives out in their homes, however imperfect, and this grants them that. It is the community they long for, and now they have that. Their thanks are heartfelt, but Thyra worries, as she always does, about what happens when those treaties break down. When someone shooting through the water, carried by the wings of their Teriques, may be seen as sport, not as a person with a job.
It is too soon to know, but still she fears, and she confesses those fears to Shirley, who mulls them over and then starts to wonder about planning routes ahead of time: can they go around cities, through unpopulated areas, or places where the Orerines are already friendly?
In Gadoria, where the Ferines bear less scars of occupation and grief, their thoughts are different. Certainly, community is nice, but what will happen if they begin to use Relares again? Will their children be ostracized? How will they integrate into a world that is, for better or worse, run by the Orerines? Will their language, their heritage, their connections with the outside world be used as a blade to cut once more into their tender flesh?
The final village they come to within Gadoria’s borders sends a representative to meet Thyra and Shirley at the gates. “Go away,” the old woman says, her eyes grey with cataracts and her hands shaking atop her cane. “We don’t want you here. You came and our children left, chasing dreams.” She taps her cane against the ground, her mouth twisted with sorrow. “Merines or no, we were safe enough before you brought Orerines to our walls.”
Shirley tries to say something. It goes nowhere. Thyra stands, still, and cannot think of anything to do. Eventually, they leave, Shirley crying silent tears that she does not wipe from her face and Thyra’s back tensed in a way that will leave it aching in the morning.
When they return to camp, Norma takes one look at Shirley, and then finds some excuse to spirit her away into the woods, squealing excitedly about a rare rodent she saw. Thyra, left alone, sits down beside the fire pit, her knees pulled up to her chest.
Across the clearing, Chloe practices her bladework, stripped down to her breastband and breeches, her hair pulled from her face with a half-dozen pins. As Thyra watches, she goes from simply block and riposte motions to full swordplay circles, dances with the blade, that are almost hypnotic in their beauty, her skin glistening with sweat. Elsa and Harriet are nowhere to be found, and without them, Thyra realizes what it is Shirley sees in this woman, more than simply their friendship, her innate beauty.
Chloe has given her silence in which to think, and that is a rare gift in and of itself.
“Why do they want to stay?” She asks, at last, more rhetorical than anything. Chloe, who has stopped to drink water from her canteen and wipe her face, makes a questioning noise, as if to encourage her to continue. “In Crusand, there have been purges of the Ferines every fifty years. In Gadoria, they live in hiding, the government acting as if such a thing is out of sight and out of mind—but it’s never certain. How many ruins have we seen here, destroyed villages and communities? How many Ferines have died, and when it comes to the chance to make things better…” she trails off, clenching her fingers in her skirts.
“I don’t trust Orerines paper to not burn faster than it is signed, but it is something. It is more than we have ever had. If we don’t start to rebuild our connections, restore our language and our communities…” she trails off.
She can’t bear to even imagine what it might look like for the Ferines in another two-hundred years. Another thousand. There are already so few of them left, and each generation loses something that they can never replace.
“Nobody wants to lose what they know,” Chloe replies at last, staring off into the distance. “In Crusand, things can hardly get worse for the Ferines than they are now. In Rexalia, where the alliance has made it relatively normal to see the Ferines out and about, people want to restore the parts of their lives that they lost. The Ferines of Crusand are used to agony—the Ferines of Rexalia are used to hope. Both of them see a way forward.
“In Gadoria, staying hidden has kept the Ferines safe for all of living memory. Gadoria has never led purges—out of sight, out of mind.” Chloe pushes her hair out of her forehead with her wrist, gives Thyra a pained, tight-lipped smile. “If everything fails, staying locked up behind their walls will keep them safe. It’s better to live a lie if that lie is certain.”
Thyra stares at her, sneers, “You’d know.”
“I would,” Chloe agrees, unperturbed by her tone. “I can’t understand what the Ferines have gone through, but I lived a lie rather than face the truth, because a lie was easier. There’s nothing wrong with it. I can’t blame them; give them time. If Shirley’s new world falls apart, then it falls apart. If it doesn’t, you’ll be waiting when they’re ready.” Thyra’s heart aches for, as much as it is a fact—these are her people. Her people, who she cannot blame for fearing death over a new future, however imperfect it is.
The messenger finds them at a Ferines village hidden along the Rexalian border, and she stumbles when she lands, her Teriques so exhausted that Chloe steps forward and catches her, easing her to the ground. She’s nearly grey, her eyes rimmed red, and she looks up at Shirley, nearly pleading.
“Elder Maurits...Merines, he’s. He’s so ill, he might be dying, you must go to him.”
Shirley gasps, both her hands covering her mouth, as Thyra holds onto her shoulder to steady herself. “He’s—“ Shirley looks to her, and when their eyes meet, Thyra isn’t so sure she understands what it means, but she knows they have to be there. She knows.
Shirley turns to their companions. “We’ll,” she starts to say, “We aren’t far from the coast, we can get a boat—“
“Shirl?” Thyra has known Norma ten years, and should know better, but it is all-too-easy to forget that under Norma’s bubbly exterior is a woman who is as stubborn and unyielding as iron. She has seen more than her fair share, and when matters call for it… “You can’t wait for us.” Her face is serious, her jaw set. “It will take us days, maybe weeks, if we go like that. You need to go.”
“I can’t,” Shirley pleads. “Not without you and Chloe.” Chloe comes forward, takes Shirley’s trembling hand, holds it tight. Her eyes are concerned, but her expression is just as stony as Norma’s.
“You can,” Chloe says. “You must. We’ll be fine here. We’ll stay in the village, help out as much as we can, and if it becomes an issue, we’ll go visit my family. You know where to find me.” Shirley is trembling. “You have a responsibility.” The way that Chloe says it is gentle, so gentle, so terribly kind. “Shirley. You have to go to him.”
“We need to leave,” Thyra tells her. Harriet and Elsa have run off to get traveling provisions, calling out to the village elder. “Merines. We must.” Something about using Shirley’s title shocks her, wakes her as if from a stupor, and she looks at Thyra, her blue eyes wide and guileless. “Can you make the flight?” Shirley’s Teriques, she knows, has never been particularly strong.
“I’ll be fine.” One of them is shaking—Shirley or Thyra or both, it’s impossible to tell. Shirley turns once more to her friends. “Are you sure?”
“Go,” Chloe says. Norma adds, “Fast, Shirl. You gotta get there in time.” Thyra tugs on her, and it is like dragging her away from their arms. They take the food Elsa and Harriet bring them, and then their Teriques lift them to the sky.
It is a long way home.
They do not make it in time. When they arrive on the Legacy, the Village that greets them is somber. Shirley runs to Maurits’ house as if it’s not too late, crying his name, and Thyra follows, every step like lifting the world upon her shoulders. His family is there waiting, he is laid out on the bed—they’ve made it in time for him to return to the sea.
They take him down to the water that night, and Shirley, voice shaking, reads the rites and the prayers to Nerifes before they let the ocean take him. He disappears beneath the water, and Thyra finds herself standing alone as Shirley watches his body disappear beneath the waves. They both stay there for a long time, neither of them speaking, lost in thought and grief.
Maurits let Fenimore die. Perhaps it was the wrong thing for the right reasons, but Thyra has always had a hard time believing that killing her sister was the only route forward. That there was somehow...nothing else that could be done.
“Thyra?” She looks up to find Maurits’ daughter looking at her, the other woman’s face drawn tight with grief. “I…” Thyra waits, unsure, for her to continue. “He wanted to speak to you and Shirley both. He…my father wanted you named as his successor. He wanted to tell you himself, but—“
Thyra finds she cannot speak, her mouth and throat both sealed shut. When she does finally manage words, they come out strangled like something dead. “He what?” There are so many other, more deserving Ferines, here on the Legacy and on the Mainland. Elders. Lore-keepers, carriers of knowledge, known to their communities. Thyra is.
Thyra is just a poor replacement for her sister. She has always known this.
“Just think about it,” Bron’s smile does not reach her eyes, and after she leaves Thyra stands there for a long, long time, until the sun has set.
Shirley finds her, late enough at night that it’s nearly morning, crouched by Fenimore’s grave, one marker among many, now. She hears Shirley’s footsteps, and neither calls out nor invites her to join, but still, Shirley comes and joins her anyway, knees pulled up to her chest and leaning back into Fenimore’s marker, her face turned up toward the open bowl of the night sky.
“I think you should do it.”
Thyra stares at her.
“Maurits was not a good person,” Shirley continues, choosing to ignore Thyra’s flabbergasted expression. “But he was the elder we needed. You are a good person, and you’re the elder we need. You’ve seen Shining Blue from all over, not just the Legacy or the Mainland. You want to help the Ferines. All of them. You want us to go back to the ocean.”
“You’re the Merines,” Thyra points out, when she finds her words again. “You’re the Merines, and I can’t stand you.” Shirley laughs, an oddly light sound. “How I that going to work out? What happens if all we do is disagree?”
“Well,” Shirley links her fingers together, still smiling, “If there are two Nerifes, what’s to say there can’t be two Merines, one to speak for the voice of each? We’re building a new world for the Ferines, after all, aren’t we? Maybe I speak for the Quiet Nerifes, where I want peace and safety for our people, but I want to do it without storms and squalls. I want a world built for all of us. I’ve never been a good Merines for the Great Nerifes.” Shirley looks over at Thyra, who feels cold and unsure under that brilliant smile. “So I’ll speak for Nessy, and you speak for Nelly. That way we do the right thing. We find a way forward together. We do something new.”
Thyra speaks before she can stop herself. “You don’t want me.” It tastes like ash in her mouth. “You want Fenimore.”
“No,” Shirley corrects her, reaches out to take Thyra’s hand. “I want you. Fenimore…” she swallows audibly. “Fenimore is gone, Thyra. We can’t ever bring her back. We can’t ever know what she would want, either. But I want to know what you want, because you remember her, too. She was always raging, just like you are, just like the sea is. But she loved me.”
“I’ll never love you like she did.” It hurts. It hurts. Thyra has never been able to say it, this thing they both know, this awful truth. “Never.”
“I don’t want you to.” Shirley pulls her into a hug. “I want you to love me like you love me, if you do. I want to go meet all the Ferines with you. I want to give them something better. I don’t want anyone else to ever die like Fenimore, ever again. I want our people to be happy.”
Thyra shuts her eyes.
In the end, she says yes. She says yes, not because she owes it to her sister to do what she would want. Because she owes it to herself, to build a future she wants to see with her own two hands.