Chapter Text
The cleansing ends a handful of hours after dawn. The sun crests the horizon, a shining beacon of hope in the days after Ultimalius. The clouds are an angry red that cool to orange then a paler blue. Sandelia sighs, head bowed when Mindania stops dancing. She groans when Cindaia prods her shoulder, back bending in relief.
The drain upon her aether has ceased, leaving a prickling sensation behind. She can feel the pins and needles from her ears down to her toes. She rolls her neck and shoulders, scowling when she finds kinks in her spine. She’d sat still for hours, never moving – her mind upon the cleansing. She growls when Cindaia prods her again.
“Enough”.
“You are awake”.
Sandelia nudges her back, snorting when Cindy chuckles. She shakes her head, rolling onto her knees with a grimace. Her joints popping loud enough to wake those dozing around them. Tarja stirs beside Jill, the physicker having fallen asleep during the night. Jill rouses too, blinking bleary-eyed – her mouth opening in a jaw-cracking yawn.
“Good morning”, she mumbles – refreshed despite floating inches above the ground.
The spell wears off, gently lowering her and Tarja onto the wood decking. It is so cold; she shivers in the crisp morning air. Tarja frowns, stretching though her focus changes the instant she spies something odd. Her eyes widen till Sandelia can see the whites of her sclera. Her hair mussed; her clothing rumpled. She has a smear of dirt on one cheek.
Her eyes are crusty with salt, though that matters little when she sees Torgal. The frost wolf lounges in the sun, head upon his paws. His ears twitching as he watches those tending Clive. Mindania sits with Metia, far from fatigued. She is on Clive’s left.
Metia is to his right.
It seems to Tarja that Torgal supervises as they cleanse the muck from Clive’s skin. Together. Their hands damp as they dunk and rinse cloths to wipe the dried paste away. The earthenware bowl they share, filled with water is fast turning grey. Tarja tenses, sitting upright when Mindania turns Clive’s left hand.
She runs the damp rag along the heel of his palm.
It comes away grey, the paste reabsorbing the water till its slick as mud. She continues to wipe away the remnants of the cleansing, revealing rosy skin. Skin that was once slate-grey and hard as granite. Now it glows – healthy – without a single bruise, graze or scar. Clean.
Tarja leans forward, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“His skin is flushed”, she says aloud. “Flushed”. She stares when Mindania’s ministrations reveal the rosy length of Clive’s forearm. “Flushed”, she reiterates when Mindania smiles, sharing a candid look with Metia. “Clive’s left-hand was petrified yesterday, but today that same hand is flushed”.
Jill is too groggy to realise what she means. “What?”
Tarja blinks – startled. “It worked”.
“What?”
“I can’t believe it”.
“You’re not making any sense”, grumbles Jill, still half-asleep. She glances at her friend, brows furrowing when Tarja goes still. “Are you all-mwah!” she cries when Tarja squeals – giddy with excitement. Jill wakes up the instant she’s hugged tight enough to crush her ribs. She jolts, back smarting when Tarja hammers on her spine with the flat of her hand.
Her ears ring when their chief physicker shrieks.
“The cleansing worked! Clive’s healed! Do you know what this means, Jill? The crystal’s curse is curable! Curable!”
Metia tuts when Mindania giggles. “Hush”.
They continue their task with quiet dignity, ignoring Tarja’s caterwauling. The healer laughing, crying and wailing her joy (and relief) loud enough to wake the rest of the Hideaway. Sandelia walks the circle again, dispelling the barrier that’d separated them. Cole, Dorys and the Cursebreakers leap to their feet – swearing as they wake still groggy. Jill shivers when the wind picks up, ruffling her hair and clothes.
It’s strange to feel sudden coolness when the air had been still.
She stares, eyes widening when she sees something sparkle around them. It is tall and concave like the underside of a bowl though it is transparent. A dome of glass that Jill can see through as if it were a window. It disappears in segments reminding her of stained glass inside an iron-wrought frame. Red shards, then blue and yellow. The pieces flashing once before vanishing with a crystalline chime. It is gone in a matter of moments, letting in that crisp morning wind.
Cole struggles with his sword, the blade stuck in the scabbard as he jiggles the hilt.
“Fuck!” he swears, thinking they’re under attack. “It’s stuck”.
He doesn’t get the chance to draw it. Tarja sprints passed Sandelia, grabbing him by the collar of his gambeson. “Tarja. What in the-mmmmph”. He gasps, so surprised when she kisses him that he stumbles. Astounded. Then she’s shaking him so hard his teeth chatter.
“Clive’s healed! Healed!” she cries – elated. “The crystal’s curse can be cured! The cleansing worked! Metia performed a miracle! A miracle, you magnificent bastard!”
Cole doesn’t have long to catch his breath before she’s kissing him again. He chokes when she sticks her tongue in his mouth. He’s certain she tickles his uvula till she’s shaking him again. She squeals like a giddy adolescent, skipping in place – her face wreathed in a smile. She leaps on Dorys, kissing her cheek then the cheek of the person next to her and so on in a dizzying rush.
“Wait! Tarja!” hisses Cole – envious. “Kiss me not them!”
“I have to tell Otto! He’ll be so relieved!” she cries, leaving behind several blushing and bewildered Cursebreakers. They blink bleary-eyed, too cowed by her sudden burst of enthusiasm to protest when she runs off. “I need to send a stolas! Yes! A stolas!”
A red-haired whirlwind that’s battered them all with kisses. The men are embarrassed and not sure what to do. Their leader – Dorys – realises that their enigmatic chief physicker likes her lieutenant. A great deal more than she’d expected. Dorys doesn’t like secrets that slip in under her nose.
“Tarja kissed you”, she tells Cole.
“She kissed you too”, he retorts – pouting.
“On the cheek. It doesn’t count. Tarja kissed you on the mouth. Twice. Is there something you want to tell me?”
He shakes his head, preferring not to answer. He retreats before the rest of the lads can get their bearings. “I’d better go help, Tarja”. Then he’s off before Thomas, Stephan and Kyle can tackle him. Cole leaves his comrades behind, Dorys grinning when Thomas remarks aloud.
“Did he run away from us?”
Stephan shrugs. “Who cares about that. Didn’t Tarja say that Clive was cured?”
Kyle picks the crust from an eye, turning around to face the training pit. “Fuck me”, he curses. “Hey, Jill! Is Tarja right? Is Clive healed?” Thomas turns as does Stephan. They frown, backing away when Torgal lifts his head.
An irritable bark cows Kyle.
He blanches – sheepish. “Sorry for yelling like that”. He fidgets when Torgal huffs, flicking an ear. “I got excited is all”, he explains, aware that Thomas and Stephan are watching him apologise to a dog. “I’ll be quiet”.
(Kyle scowls when his friends snicker).
Torgal ignores them, snorting as he lays his head in Clive’s lap again (having snuck closer). He peers at Jill, yellow eyes blinking when she stares. His ears twitch when Clive’s breath hitches. His nose wrinkles, though he doesn’t growl. Torgal turns his head, never lifting his muzzle when a shadow engulfs them. Jill watches, heart in her mouth when Metia reaches out, brushing her mussed hair back from her face.
She smiles, nods and offers Jill a handkerchief. She takes it with gratitude, her cheeks wet when Metia rises to her feet. The grimy bowl and cloths in her hands. Jill is glad to have Clive back again. Hale and whole of mind and body. He will live free of the pain and fear of the crystal’s curse deadening his limbs.
“Is there a place where Clive and Joshua would be more comfortable?” asks Metia.
It’s so gentle a question that Jill nods. “Clive’s quarters”.
“Do you need help to organise pallets, blankets and such?”
The offer is kind, but Jill knows that Clive won’t appreciate them being in the Hideaway. The training pit is the closest outsiders have come without being invited. Clive had made an exception for his uncle, but he’d never go so far for someone like Metia. Jill doesn’t want to be rude after what she’d done for them, but she’s still wary. Jill frowns when she feels Shiva coil beneath her skin.
The eikon’s gratitude like a gush of cool water when she replies.
“No. My friends and I can get everything ready”.
“As you wish”.
Shiva hovers on the edge of her awareness, still uncertain of Metia.
Jill is surprised that Metia hasn’t asked for more. She had expected insistence that they be allowed to stay in the Hideaway. Jill gazes at Clive, asleep upon the ground – wondering if she’d made the worst mistake. She frowns, reaching for the thread of awareness that ties them together. Her breath hitches when she feels the heat and warmth that is Clive.
The smell of ash and brimstone fills her nostrils - signifying Ifrit.
The relief is profound.
She watches when Metia speaks to the youngest of her attendants. Mindania loses her enthusiasm when she realises what Metia intends. Jill sees her smile dim, the corners of her mouth turning down. Unhappy. She’s doesn’t complain, but Jill can tell that she’s saddened by the news.
She nods when Metia smiles, stroking her cheek with her knuckles. She says nothing as she turns and walks to Cindaia.
Mindania’s shoulders slump. “All right then”.
“Is something wrong?” asks Jill – concerned.
“No”.
“But you’re sad”.
Mindania’s smile is half-hearted. The light has left her eyes. She looks at Jill, pouting. “Clive’s healed. Metia says that we don’t need to stay now. He’ll recover and awaken by week’s end”.
“You’re leaving?”
She nods.
Jill panics. “But what about Joshua and Dion?”
She shrugs. “Clive healed Joshua, and we've performed the Cleansing. He needs a good long rest, but he'll wake in a few days time. Dion awoke during the night. He’s tired, but very much alive. We’ll take him with us, but Joshua will stay here with his brother”.
“Oh”.
Jill glances at Clive, still asleep. Torgal’s head in his lap, the wolf watches her – golden eyes never blinking. He whines when Clive stirs, the fingers of his once petrified hand flexing. Jill stares when his fingers stretch, his arm sliding over the ground. Torgal growls when his face contorts. His breath hitching when he tries to reach for someone no longer there.
Jill follows the line of his arm, the stretch of his trembling fingers.
He points to a person across the training circle. The grey-haired woman that’d healed him. Cindaia stands with her, as does the eldest of her attendants. Mindania darts back to him, her footfalls loud as her skirts swish. She stares when Clive twitches, his brows furrowing when he pleads.
“Mother!”
He starts to move, shoulders rolling. Torgal bolts upright, growling.
“Hold him down!” cries Mindania, her pale hands pressing down upon his chest. “He’s not strong enough to awaken yet!”
Clive writhes. Distressed.
Jill plants her hands upon his shoulders, pressing down with all her might. She hisses when his knee strikes her hip. “Torgal! Sit on him!”
The frost wolf flings himself down upon his master’s legs. Clive flails, his lips peeling back from his teeth. Jill can smell the burn of aether as magic sparks on the tips of his fingers. The air around them grows warm, Clive’s canines elongating into jagged fangs. Torgal snarls whilst Jill cries.
“He’s trying to prime!”
“METIA!” shrieks Mindania.
Jill hears the thud of footsteps, shouting – though her gaze is on Clive. She stares – bewildered – when his lids slide back. His eyes are open, but when she looks – she sees a stranger. His irises are a vibrant yellow, encircled by a ring of scarlet. His sclera are black rather than white.
“You’re not her! Imposter!” he snarls, voice gruff – each word punctuated by an animalistic growl. “Where is she?”
Jill flinches, thinking Clive hasn’t recognised her at all. It hurts. “It’s me! Clive!”
“LIAR!”
“Clive!” calls Jill, the tears spilling over. She cannot believe that he doesn’t know who she is. “Please!”
Jill gasps when someone grabs her shoulders, holding tight. She latches onto the hand that comes down – offering support. She doesn’t know who it is that comforts her – doesn’t care when Clive’s focus shifts. His eyes slide from her to the woman that kneels beside him.Tall, willowy – her hair the same shade of grey.
Her face fair but her eyes are as red as flame.
“That is not Clive”, Metia tells her. “It is the eikon with whom he shares his body and mind. The youngest and most irascible of my sons. The eikon tied to Logos. My dearest, Ifrit”.
Clive’s eyes widen. The recognition instantaneous. Jill gapes when he slumps, the relief palpable when Clive’s shoulders sag. His back bending as if he were shedding a burden so heavy he’d carried it all his life. Then he moves lightning fast, throwing himself forward – his arms opening wide.
“There you are!”
His arms close around her, his clawed fingers gripping tight. A shudder rolls through him, small at first till he’s shivering. Metia embraces him, one hand sinking into his hair, the other patting his back. She croons, the lullaby soft and gentle though she doesn’t say a word. A rumble fills his throat till he’s howling.
“Mother!”
Jill stares when Clive buries his face in her shoulder. She presses a hand to her mouth – stunned – when he sobs like a little boy. She has seen Clive cry – quiet and with dignity where the tears had rolled down his face. Ifrit is wild and unrestrained – his keening reminding her of a wounded animal. He holds tight to Metia with the fierceness of a kitten clinging with claws unsheathed.
“My boy”, soothes Metia. “Hush. It is all right”.
He wails, claws digging in though she never flinches from the pain. Jill watches alongside Dorys and the Cursebreakers. They dare not move to intercept Clive, to move him away from Metia. They stand – shocked – while Metia endures Ifrit’s heat, grief and fierce embrace. The eikon that shares Clive’s body shakes so hard that Jill wonders if he’ll come apart.
She stares when Cindaia and Mindania converge upon them.
She hears Dorys gasp, the Cursebreakers clear their throats. Discomforted. Bootheels clip the wooden planks underfoot. Belts creak. Pauldrons clank.
They shift upon their feet, exchanging worried looks unsure of what to do.
Jill blinks through the tears when the attendants of Metia bend their knees, when they sink to the ground. She sees a family when the sisters embrace them. She hears Ifrit’s voice hitch when Cindaia lays her head upon his shoulder. Mindania mirrors her upon his left, leaning against his side as she snuggles close.
Sandelia stays with Jill, grasping her hand – offering the strength she needs. Silent. Supportive.
“Let it go, Ifrit”, coaxes Metia. “Neither you nor Logos were at fault. Forgive yourself, my son”.
Jill hears him whine like a frightened pup. The sound shrill and piercing as a baby’s cry. Her heart hammers against her ribs. She counts the beats, feeling the well of Ifrit’s sorrow overflow through the thread that binds them. She sniffles, upset as Shiva responds.
The tears that fall freeze before hitting the ground with a dull plink.
One after another till there is a pile of tiny silver-white beads around her feet.
“You and Logos are safe now”, states Metia. “Your sisters and I will watch over you both. Sleep, my son. Fear not the past or its shadows. There is only light here. Light and healing”.
“We’re so tired, mother”, admits Ifrit, his voice strained.
“I know, my boy. You have done so well – so well. I am proud of you both”.
“Don’t leave us”, he pleads – afraid.
“Never again”, agrees Metia. “Now rest, my dearest Ifrit”.
“You’ll be here when we wake?”
“Always, my heart. Sleep now”.
Clive smiles with such relief that Jill’s breath hitches. She flinches when he groans, slumping forwards – limp. She sniffs, wiping her eyes when Metia kisses Clive’s brow. A mother’s love obvious as she combs his hair back from his face. Her ministrations gentle. Her face soft and concerned.
She hums a soft wordless lullaby. The same tune Jill remembers from the night before. She frowns, finding something about it – familiar.
Torgal distressed by Clive’s outburst, noses Metia’s shoulder. He pleads with a lupine whine, seeking reassurance. He slips closer when she smiles, ears perked as she speaks to him. Her words are kind. Her tone gentle.
“Fear not for your brother. He needs rest, but he will recover. Guard his sleep. Be there when he wakes. Remind him that he will always be loved”.
“We will”, promises Jill as she places a hand over her heart. “You have my word, lady Metia”.
Metia looks into her eyes, remembering the man that’d fathered her. Black-haired and grey-eyed with a heart as large as a mountain was tall. He’d been kind, quiet if reserved. A man of few words – strong, stubborn and proud. His brashness had so offended Ultimalius it’d hastened his end and that of his people.
Her estranged husband had always been possessive.
“I know you will”.
“Lower him gently!”
Tarja watches with the eyes of a hawk as the Cursebreakers lower Clive onto his pallet. The mattress is new, the sheets clean. His blankets replaced by a heavy coverlet that’s thick yet velvet-soft. She’d be envious if Metia hadn’t turned her ship over to Obolus. Its hold stocked full of supplies from grain to medicinal herbs.
Enough to keep the Hideaway going for weeks (much to Jill’s shock and relief).
Tarja hopes she’ll stop crying. Soon. Metia’s kindness makes everyone within two feet of her bawl like a baby. Tarja is red-eyed herself after discovering crates of medicinal herbs on the docks. She knows there’s still more aboard Metia’s ship, the unloading supervised by a delighted Gav.
“I said – Gently!” hisses Tarja.
Clive groans in his sleep, face twisting in a grimace. A sharp smack on the shoulder jostles a poor beleaguered Cursebreaker. Stephan smiles – sheepish – when everyone in the room glares at him. Dorys’ brow furrows in consternation. Her nose wrinkles as her mouth thins, the line of her jaw tense with frustration.
“Do you want to wake, Ifrit?”
“No”.
“Tarja said – Gently – you, oaf. Jill will forgive you for being a clumsy fool, but Otto will flay you alive. The old grump loves Clive like a son. If he hears about you bumping him about like that, we will never hear the end of it. Be more careful”.
“Sorry”.
Stephan ducks his head, shoulders hunching. Together with Cole and Dorys – he helps to lower Clive onto his pallet.
Their enigmatic leader is washed and dressed in a clean shirt and hose. His hair damp, the stubble upon his cheeks and chin scoured away. Tarja is glad Sandelia had insisted upon helping them. The eldest daughter of Metia had taken charge of Clive as if he were her baby-brother. Overseeing his care as if she had always doted on him.
Tarja wonders what Clive will think about that when he wakes.
She smiles, pulling the new coverlet over his chest. She sniffs, knuckles brushing his cheek as she tucks him in. He is home, healthy and hale if in a deep and healing sleep. The lines upon his face softened. The new streaks of grey in his hair adding do his debonair charm.
“I’m so glad your home, Clive”, she tells him. “Everything will be all right now. Sleep and recover. Dorys, Jill and I have the Hideaway in hand. As for the eikon sharing your head. Metia said that you can hear me, Ifrit”.
Dorys fears the worst though she doesn’t speak.
Her fellow Cursebreakers share apprehensive looks. They expect Clive to burst into flame. Stephan jumps back from the bed when Clive’s brow furrows. The thump of his bootheels loud when Clive’s head turns towards Tarja. The corners of his mouth turning down.
His eyelids stay closed.
He doesn’t awaken, but Dorys is certain that was Ifrit not Clive. She can feel the wash of heat. Smell the tinge of sulphur in the air. Clive’s eikon is far pricklier in mood and temperament than his Dominant. Metia had recommended that they be blunt yet honest in their dealings with Ifrit. Her son wasn’t one for patience or subtlety.
(Neither was Clive when he got into a mood).
“Clive is exhausted”, says Tarja. “You need to let him sleep, so that he can recover, Ifrit. That means no waking him up. No forcing him to prime. Metia isn’t going far except to settle Dion and Bahamut in her castle above. Your sisters are staying behind to help us too, so you’ll have plenty of minders”.
“With permission from Jill. Sandy asked if we could stay, so it’s fine”.
Tarja smiles. Dorys flinches. Cole swears. Stephan reddens when Metia’s youngest daughter smiles at him. He smiles back when she winks, cheeks aflame.
“You can call me Mindy”.
“Isn’t that too informal?” asks Dorys, not wanting to cause offense.
Mindania giggles. Amused. “No”.
“Oh”.
Tarja jabs Cole in the ribs when he doesn’t answer. He scowls then opens his mouth. “Hello”. He doesn’t like the speculative look on Mindania’s face. He likes it even less when she glances from Tarja to him and back again. The spark that ignites glows in her eyes with sudden understanding.
“Are you both together?”
“No”, he replies – voice tight. “Stop elbowing me, Stephan!”
“He’s lying”, says Dorys. “They’re together-together like two birds in a nest”.
Tarja smiles, saying nothing as she smooths the coverlet under Clive’s chin. Her cheeks tinged pink. Cole splutters – flustered and red-faced. He is horrified when Mindy squeals in delight – clapping her hands. He tries to escape but Dorys steps forwards, blocking his way. A gentle push sends him back towards Mindy.
“Oh no you don’t”, warns Dorys. “Talk to her”.
“It’s private!”
“Tarja doesn’t care. So be sociable”.
“Dorys!”
Mindy asks him questions about Tarja’s favourite colour, flowers and hobbies. Tarja is delighted. She is more delighted when Mindy fusses and flounces around Clive’s bed to help tidy. Metia’s daughter is a breath of fresh air. A ray of sunlight in the gloom. She flits and flutters about like an excitable bright-feathered bird.
“This is so romantic! Oh! To be in love! How wonderful! Tell me how you met!”
“How much do we owe you for all this?” asks Gav as he surveys the dock.
“Nothing”, replies Metia.
“Clive won’t like that you know”.
“I do not need nor want compensation”.
“Milady”, he whines. “You’re not going to let me haggle?”
“I will not accept coin, but I will trade in stories, songs and knowledge. Books will do as you have a library. If you would prefer to keep your tomes than I would consult with your lorekeepers. Tarja for example, your chief steward Otto, your gardeners, bakers and so forth. Would that be acceptable?”
Gav counters with a question. “Wouldn’t that be very boring?”
“How can you suggest such a thing? Your people are amazing! I am most impressed by their forbearance, ingenuity and courage”. Metia lifts her chin, her cheeks dimpling as she smiles. “I have been away from Valisthea for a very long time. I have much to catch up on including gossip. I suspect Dion has been romancing Joshua under Clive’s very nose. How scandalous”.
Gav whistles, offering to escort her around the Hideaway. He chuckles when Metia slips her arm through his. “It is”, he states – candid. “Dion’s as fancy as they come. A prissy-pants of a prince. Real old-fashioned. Does romance with flowers and a fancy speech. It worked. I’ve never seen Joshua so flustered”.
He’s delighted when Metia laughs.
“How adorable. It is Bahamut’s influence. He is very staid by nature. Mild-mannered even for a dragon. You would think him rather loud, scaly and frightening being a serpent but he is quite the opposite. Takes after me too much, less so than Ultimalius not that they ever got along”.
“Really?” asks Gav – startled.
“It is true”, says Metia. “Ifrit is the wild one. All of that fire – so ornery. Typical of an eikon of fire. The Phoenix is calmer but has fits of pique as you would have seen from Joshua”.
“I could tell you stories, milady. Joshua is a good lad, but he’s made Clive come into his grey hairs early”.
“He is that rebellious?”
“He’s an absolute shit when he’s got a bee in his bonnet. Goes off on his own to play the hero. I thought that was Clive’s thing. But Joshua’s got the spark too, not that he doesn’t listen when Clive rants about it. He does but he still goes off when he feels the need too. Worries us sick. We love him to bits, but sometimes he needs a right kick in the arse”.
Gav guides her away at a slow pace. They walk together while the Cursebreakers watch them – chatting amiably. Sandelia rolls her eyes when Thomas comments.
“Did he abscond with your mum?”
“Yes”.
“It that all right with you then?”
Sandelia shrugs. “Mother wants to know about your people. She will keep him out of mischief until your chief steward returns. Mother is also a terrible gossip and she has missed having someone else to talk too besides my sisters and I”.
Thomas still isn’t sure he’s allowed to joke with her, so he stays serious instead. “Is she really Ultima’s missus?”
“Was”, she corrects with a growl. “She is a widow now”.
Thomas flinches. “Was”, he repeats – smiling a tad nervous when Sandelia bares her fangs. “Right”. He goes quiet when Jill glowers. “Sorry. But between us. Ultima was an absolute bastard”.
“Agreed”.
Clive’s beloved and lieutenant flaps her hand at the rest of the Cursebreakers. “Let’s go over the shipping manifest”, she tells them, as she scans the list of inventory Sandelia provided. “I still can’t believe you managed to stow this much in the hold of your ship. It was stuffed to bursting. And you didn’t sink”.
Sandelia snorts – her mood lightening. “Magic”.
Jill grins. “Magic”.
“Stop flirting with him”.
“I am not flirting”, replies Alfet – certain that he’s acted the gentleman towards Metia’s newest guest. “He simply prefers the company of males. You intimidate him, Belgemine. If you were less severe and far kinder, he would not flinch at the sight of you”.
“I am not severe”.
“Then why won’t he speak to you?"
Metia’s chief stewardess pokes her tall friend in the arm with a stern forefinger. She is shorter than him by two feet, garbed in a robe of black, green and gold. Her hair decorated with two large and ornate black and yellow discs. The traditional dress of a Summoner, a cleric of a kind that hasn’t existed in Valisthea for centuries. She like many of Metia’s people is the product of another time.
“You had best remember your manners, Sir”.
Alfet scowls. “I am viera not a hume nobleman that puts on false airs”.
They glare at one another over the kitchen table. Tense. A giggle breaks the stalemate, making the moment awkward. Belgemine huffs, turning her head. Alfet sniffs, following suit.
He smiles – charmed – when he spies the source of their consternation.
A cherry-cheeked ex-Dragoon whose ears are a fetching shade of red. Terence raises his hand, grimacing when Kihel laughs again. A spoon in her hand as she eats breakfast. She swings her legs, back and forth between the legs of a chair taller than she is. Terence tries not to focus on the handsome creature that’d made them such a hearty meal.
The long furry rabbit ears sticking out of his pale hair give him an unfair advantage.
Alfet’s adorability is fast wearing away Terence’s reticence.
“Did you need something?” asks Belgemine with such bluntness the ex-Dragoon flinches.
Her viera companion tuts. “You see”, he states gesturing when Terence recoils, his shoulders hunched. His head ducking so low that Kihel snickers. “You intimidate him. It is disgraceful. Lady Metia will be quite upset. We were to be welcoming not frightening, Belgemine”.
“I am welcoming”.
Alfet sniffs – his nose wrinkling. “As welcoming as a wart on the face of a pretty lady”.
“By face you mean arse, don’t you?” accuses Belgemine.
“Do I?”
He bustles over to them, lifting the kettle from its stone plate. He shakes his head, unimpressed as he refills Terence’s mug with to the brim. His nose twitches, nostrils flaring though he makes no comment. He can smell the saccharine-sweetness of Terence’s embarrassment. Alfet is used to humes finding him attractive.
“Are you well, Sir Terence?” he asks in that thick vieran accent.
Poor Terence chokes on his toast. Flustered.
Again.
Belgemine smiles while Alfet pats him on the back. Again. Terence sucks in breath after breath till he’s as red-faced as before. She watches – amused – when Alfet makes noises of sympathy. She gives Terence a grim warning.
“Alfet isn’t the only Viera that lives here”.
“Really?” cries Kihel – elated. She grins when Alfet winks at her.
Terence groans. “No”.
“Yes, I’m afraid. Gird your loins. It’ll be rough going for the next few days. Alfet has several brothers. All of whom are as handsome as he is”.
Alfet glowers at her. Irritated. “Now you are being spiteful”.
Belgemine shrugs. Uncaring. “Better forewarned is forearmed”.
Kihel reaches across the table to pull Terence’s bowl of porridge to safety. She watches when her guardian’s forehead hits the tabletop. Again. She hears him whimper into the tablecloth.
Overwhelmed.
“Do you like lords instead of ladies?"
Terence isn’t one to lie even when he’s embarrassed. “Yes”.
She sits back in her chair. Contemplating. A glance at Alfet makes her eyes widen in understanding. “Prince Dion is a lord. Oh”, she says, recalling how concerned Terence had been about him. “But Alfet isn’t a lord, he’s a bunny-boy”.
“Bunny-man”, corrects Alfet. “I have not been a boy in many years. The proper term for my kind is Viera”.
“Vee-air-ah”, repeats Kihel though it sounds odd coming out of her mouth. She lacks that odd lilting accent that defines Alfet’s speech. “I can’t say it like you do”.
“You’ll get better with practice”.
She smiles. Pleased. “Would you teach me, Alfet?”
“I would be glad too”.
“Thank you!” She flaps a hand, nodding to her flustered guardian. “Don’t mind, Terence. He’s very pink because he thinks you’re handsome. Which you are. Is a hume a human like me?”
“Yes”.
“How odd”.
“Stop talking to him!” cries Terence – scandalised.
“That’d be rude after Alfet has been so kind to us”.
“Kihel!”
Otto shakes his head, frowning. He eyes the stolas, the bird blinking placidly back at him. The gem upon its feathered forehead is a curious shade of red. He’s never seen this owl amidst those kept in the rookery at the Hideaway. It is white like all stolas, but its eyes aren’t blue or the bewitched white of enchantment.
Its irises are as red as the jewel upon its forehead.
“Who might you be then?”
The owl’s behaviour is odd too. It chitters, beak clicking and looks at him as another person might as if its listening to what he’s saying. Otto is wary when the bird’s head rolls on its short but supple neck. He wonders if he’ll hear its thoughts till the owl lifts a clawed foot. It extends said foot to him, pecking at the cylinder attached to its leg.
That raises several eyebrows.
Blackthorne rumbles – suspicious. “You really going to open that thing?”
“What choice do I have?” grouses Otto – bewildered. “You saw how it followed us. Tried losing it in the marshes, but the little shit persisted. Didn’t give a rat’s arse about the hornets, crabs or the scorpions in its way. Brave little bastard”.
“But it was squawking at them, Otto. I’ve never seen a crab scuttle away so fast. You’d think it was scolded for being an inconvenience”.
The stolas chitters again, flexing its clawed toes. The gesture seems impatient to Otto.
“All right”, he concedes, reaching for the cylinder. He gets a fright when the owl nibbles at his knuckles. “Oi! I’m not a mouse you can gobble up!” He snatches his hands back, afraid of that wicked hooked beak. He freezes when the stolas shrieks – indignant.
“Did it just scold you too?” asks Blackthorne.
“I think it did”, he agrees, giving the owl a wary look. It glowers at him. Aggrieved. Otto wonders what madness has come over him when he explains himself to the agitated bird. “You’ve got a beak sharp enough to tear my skin to pieces. You can’t go around nibbling on people as if they’re mice. It’s dangerous”.
The stolas hisses at him. Offended.
“Don’t you take that tone with me”.
The owl huffs, puffing out its chest and resettles its pinions. Its pale tail flicking up and down. Otto knows he’s being judged when it lifts its beak (like a peeved nobleman). The haughtiness of the gesture irritates him. He’s got a hand on his hip, another with an index finger extended in moments.
“You came out here to find us not the other way round”.
The owl clicks its beak – imperious – as it looks down its nose at him.
“You arrogant, shit”.
Charon tired of their theatrics, bustles over. She inclines her head to Blackthorne, urging the blacksmith to step aside with a look. He doesn’t say a word, moving out of her way - grim. He nudges Otto, informing the chief steward that Charon is present. The old boy huffs when he sees her, knowing better than to argue.
“Two grown men afraid of a stolas”, she grumbles.
“It’s not one of ours”, says Otto. He glares at the bird, determined to make a point. “Ours have better manners”.
The owl blinks, chitters and ignores him as if he were a gnat.
“Says you. I’ve been bit enough times to know better”, counters Charon. “It came from the Hideaway. Or didn’t you two old fools recall that in an emergency. The stolas don’t carry enchanted messages? Clive insisted that we train them to carry that cylinder on their legs instead. If you two had bothered to notice, the cylinder is tied with a white ribbon. It’s from Tarja”.
Blackthorne flushes under his beard. He hadn’t noticed at first, the ribbon disappearing into the owl’s pale plumage. “Oh”.
“Forgot to use your eyes, did you?”
“Charon”, says Otto – when she reaches for the cylinder around the stolas’ leg. “It could be a trap. The owl could be a decoy for the imperial army. We’ve got the children, the sick and infirm to think about. They’re all Bearers. It’d be a massacre”.
“It’s not a trap or a decoy”, replies Charon with certainty. “Are you lad?” she asks the owl, who preens – beak snapping. It chirps at her, feathered head shaking back and forth. “I didn’t think so. I’ll be taking that message if you don’t mind. It’s from our friend”.
The stolas chitters when she unties the ribbon, unbuckling the cylinder. It slips into the palm of her hand. Charon nods to the owl, her brows arching when the bird bows its head in return. The exchange of courtesy – strange. She’d never known a stolas to bother with being polite.
“You’re an odd one”, she remarks. “Got better manners than those featherbrains we have back home. Thank you for coming to find us. I’ll read this now if it’s all the same to you”.
The stolas chirps, short and sharp as if it agrees.
Charon snorts, removing the cylinder’s cap – it hangs upon a leather cord. A thin piece of parchment rolled up inside. She slips it out, holding the cylinder in one hand as she unrolls it. A brief scan of the cursive lettering makes her breath hitch. Her chin trembles, the tears rolling down her cheeks when she thrusts the missive at Otto.
Goetz calls out when her sees her crying. “Nan! Are you all right?”
“Read it”, she orders Otto.
“Charon”.
She turns round with such abruptness that Otto flinches. “READ IT!” she snarls – glowering at him with her one good eye.
Otto cowed – complies with a frustrated grunt. He shares a brief look with Blackthorne. The blacksmith shrugging. Otto takes the missive Charon shoves into his hands, brow furrowing when he unrolls it again. He stares at the message, hands shaking as he reads.
“What is it?” demands Blackthorne.
Otto glances at Charon. A moment of understanding passing between them. He blinks, eyes turning watery when she nods. He sniffs, hands shaking as he pushes the missive at their blacksmith. Blackthorne accepts it with more finesse, his calloused fingers closing around the parchment.
He frowns, uncertain till he looks down too. The missive unfurling in his hands. He reads, eyes widening. “Fuck”, he swears, voice cracking. He lifts his head, sniffling like a child. He eyes the stolas with gratitude. “You’d bloody well not be a decoy for those imperial twats. I’ll pluck and roast you alive if this is fake. You hear me?”
His thick fingers close around the missive. He cracks his knuckles – glaring at the bird.
The owl chitters, cooing as it rocks upon its clawed feet. Head bobbing.
“You’ll do no such thing”, hisses Charon, wiping away her tears with the heel of her hand. “That’s the Lady’s bird. I’d know it anywhere. Red eyes with a red jewel, white as snow with the Lady’s mark upon its left wing. It has been ten years since last we met, but I’d know him anywhere”.
The stolas’ eyes close in pleasure when Charon rubs a finger against its feathered cheek. Her touch gentle. Reverent.
“What’re you talking about?” asks Blackthorne while Goetz ambles over.
“The Lady saved my life", states Charon. “I’ve never met her, but my people know her stolas. Wings its way into our lives when we’re in the worst trouble. Gets us out when we need help the most. It’s her way”.
“Whose?”
“The Lady of the Red Star. Those fancy-pants Sanbrequois call her – The Moon’s Messenger”.
Blackthorne gapes at her, astonished. “You’re talking about Metia”.
“The right same”, agrees Charon.
“She’s just a child’s fable”.
“Says you. She’s real, I tell you. Real as you and me. She helps us all, she does or that owl isn’t sitting on that branch right there with a message from the Hideaway. Go and poke it if you don’t believe that it's real”.
Blackthorne shakes his head. “It’ll bite”.
“You would too if a lummox was poking with you like a damned fool”.
Goetz is followed by Midadol, Harpocrates, Vivian and the Cursebreakers that’d accompanied them. The rest of their people wait near the lake’s shore, quiet, nervous and tense with dread. Children, the infirm, elderly and the rest – all adults crowding around the boats beached on the sand. The oars still inside. What little they’d brought with them nestled within in sacks and satchels.
“What’s going on here?” calls Midadol.
“Quite”, agrees Harpocrates. “You were yelling, lady Charon. I also see a stolas perched on the branch of that tree. You’ve received a message from the Hideaway. Would you enlighten us to its contents?”
“That would be appreciated”, echoes Vivian when she sees their faces – slick with tears. “What’s happened?”
“You tell them”, urges Charon.
Otto sighs, his shoulders slumping. He hands the message to Midadol. “Read it, dove. You’ll understand after you do”.
She accepts it – frowning. “All right”.
The next few moments pass in a tense hush while Mid unrolls the missive. She reads its contents, her eyes widening in disbelief. She doesn’t cry like Charon, Otto or Blackthorne. Midadol Telemon squeals like a giddy little girl, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She screams – triumphant – running in place.
“I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! Nothing could keep him down for long!”
She twirls, slapping the missive into Harpocrates hands. “Midadol! What’s gotten into you?”
“Clive’s alive! Alive!” cries Mid – beaming with a flash of white teeth. “I’ve got to tell the others! Oh! This’ll lift their spirits!”
“Mid! Wait!” calls Vivian. She huffs, rolling her eyes when Mid runs off, leaving a cloud of dust behind her. “That girl. Oh”.
“I know”, says Harpocrates as they watch her dart to the rest of their group. The adults and children huddle close as Mid gives them the news. He sees happy faces, a few shedding tears and hears many a relieved voice. “She’s just like her father, may the earth lie light upon him”.
“Nan!” calls Goetz. The giant hovers – concerned. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine”, grouses Charon. “Stand still. You’ll make me seasick, weaving back and forth like that”.
“Sorry”.
“It’s all right”, she tells him. “Don’t get comfortable. Once Mid’s finished her gabbing. You’re going to help ready the boats. I’m not staying in this midge-infested swamp”.
Goetz gapes – uncomprehending. “Why?”
“We’re going home, lad”, says Charon – smiling. “Home”.