Chapter Text
The next day and a half pass without any further instances.
Tabris spends the first night after her breakdown in decently restful sleep, and then throws herself into keeping her mind busy the next morning. There is, at least, more for her to do; Tataru brings her the supplies she ordered, and so she devotes the majority of her time that morning to sorting through them.
She hadn’t been joking about traveling light. She has two waterskins, two bedrolls– sized appropriately, given that Zenos is easily twice her size– as well as a few rudimentary and useful tools, such as an axe, a hammer, a crowbar, and so on. She brings a few of her less-used tools, like her fishing pole and bait box, and her carpentry supplies.
She also adds her collections of journals to the well-made leather bag she intends to bring for the trip, although she hasn’t dared to open her most recent, somehow fearing the contents. At the very least, it will give Zenos something useful to read; she wants him to learn about her, about the things she has seen and done. It feels– important, somehow.
She has perhaps taken it somewhat for granted that her closest friends already know much of her past, having been there themselves.
Tabris has collected a large array of clothing during her travels, so it isn’t difficult for her to gather a few simple outfits that are durable enough to survive manual labor without also being gaudy or frivolous. As for Zenos, however…
“Don’t be rude,” she chides, the minute the plain outfits leave their carefully wrapped packaging, because she can already tell how Zenos feels about them.
Tataru, standing beside her, looks confused, and Tabris doesn’t blame her; to anyone else, the Garlean’s expression is just as carelessly neutral as it always is. If it weren’t for the faintest twitch of his eyebrow, the slight motion of the corner of his mouth, and the fact that she knows his tells better than probably anyone else on the star, then she would probably be just as in the dark as her friend.
Zenos looks at her, unimpressed, and doesn’t respond. Privately, Tabris wonders if he’s even aware of how spoiled he is, or if it’s never even occurred to him before.
“We aren’t going somewhere you need to walk around like a giant, threatening, plate-armor Behemoth,” she continues, her tail sweeping the ground near her feet, back and forth. “The island is uninhabited, there’s no one there to impress or intimidate, and it doesn’t have any natural predators, so just… be happy with what you’re getting, alright?”
He doesn’t look convinced, or reassured. Or happy. He says, “If there are no people, and no predators, then what is the purpose in going at all? Your reasoning yet eludes me, my friend.”
“I’ll explain once we get there,” she sighs, and rests her hands on her hips. “I know you know how to be patient, Zenos, so be patient. Also, go and try one of the outfits on. It’s better if we confirm they fit now, before we’re surrounded by too many trees and not enough seamstresses.” She shoves one of the bundles into his chest, and holds it there until he takes it.
She hears him heave the very faintest, yet somehow most put-upon sigh she’s ever heard, as he turns and walks into the attached washroom to change, letting the door close softly behind him.
Tabris and Tataru stand quietly for a moment, before Tataru says, “Well! That was unexpected.”
Tabris looks down, ears perking. “Was it? You saw the sort of things he wore before, Tataru– you had to know he wouldn’t be satisfied with anything plain.”
“Well, I did think he might be a little more pragmatic– but no, not that,” says the lalafell. “I was only rather impressed that he did what you said, even though I don’t think he wanted to. I’ve always known you were brave, Kallian, but I never thought I’d see something like this!”
“Oh.” Tabris frowns at the washroom door. “I suppose that is unexpected, but it isn’t really impressive. He’s been sort of… subdued, since Ultima Thule.” It isn’t the first time it’s occurred to her. She’s seen something of his former ferocity in a few of their conversations, but his overall demeanor is considerably less him than she’d imagined he might be in his proverbial down time. It makes her worry that perhaps they somehow left something of him behind.
She’d heard the rattle of death from his chest, after all, and she isn’t even certain how she managed to convince him to come back to life in the first place, if that was even what it was at all- she’s not a worker of miracles by any stretch of the imagination.
The idea sits uncomfortably in her chest. If he is missing a piece of himself, even if that piece is the murderous, self-serving piece, it’s her fault, and she would feel incredibly guilty about it. What right does she have to pick and choose what parts of himself he does and does not get?
“I think it’s just the shackle,” she adds. “It’s keeping his power in check. Maybe it’s making him less fierce? Or maybe this is just what he’s like when he’s recuperating. Or when he isn’t actively trying to sow as much chaos as possible. I don’t know.” She frowns a little deeper, and worries the claw on her thumb between her front teeth. “The chirurgeons haven’t said anything…”
“Hmm,” Tataru hums, thinking. “You still won’t see me ordering him around any time soon! Even if he is ‘more subdued’.”
“I think that’s probably a good idea,” Tabris says, and smiles. Then she sighs. “I just wish I knew why he’s being so… malleable.”
Tataru rocks back on her heels for a moment. “Maybe it’s sort of like– well, you’ve likened him to a lion before, haven’t you?”
“I think so… was that in one of my journals? I thought that was part of my inner monologue.”
Tataru giggles. “I’m fairly certain you wrote it down, yes,” she answers. “But lions spend a lot of time resting, don’t they?”
“Alphinaud said it was about eighteen hours a day.” Tabris scowls. “He’s not actually a lion though, Tataru. He’s not even a hrothgar!”
“He is rather like a big predator, though,” says her friend, clasping her arms behind her back. “Maybe it’s the same sort of thing. He’s just conserving his energy.” She smiles. “To be honest, I’m glad! I was worried he might try to hurt you again.”
Tabris shakes her head. “I don’t think he will,” she says. “Not maliciously, anyway. If we ever fight again, I can’t make any promises, but I doubt he’ll go for the jugular, so to speak.” She’s quiet, considering, and then asks, “By the way, how is business?”
Tataru gasps excitedly, and then launches into an intricately detailed anecdote about the trials and tribulations of launching her own line of custom clothing, and she only stops when the door to the washroom clicks open and Zenos steps out.
He doesn’t look much like his old self. The tunic fits well at his chest and shoulders, with ample fabric around his joints, and he’s left the laces undone up the front, so that the collar hangs open to just above the small triangle of flesh where his chest and stomach meet. He’s tucked the hem into the high-waisted, dark brown pants, and then slipped on the black leather boots, which are also, she notes, untied, and she briefly thinks of asking him if he has some sort of vendetta against laces in general.
All of that isn’t to say that he doesn’t look good, though, because he does. It isn’t even a compliment; Zenos is just the sort of person who makes everything look good, by virtue of his own physical appearance and his general demeanor blithe disinterest in the world around him which, for some reason, is attractive.
Tabris looks him over appraisingly, eyes roving across his muscular thighs, slim waist, and then further up towards his broad chest and shoulders, and–
She blinks in surprise. Visible through the open front of his tunic is a scar, freshly healed, the flesh pink and slightly raised. It’s a broad, jagged-edged imperfection, a flaw on a canvas of otherwise perfect pale skin, and she remembers quite suddenly the moment he got it, the moment she gave it to him, back at the edge of the universe, after she’d put her staff up to block his approach and he’d kicked it in two.
He’d lunged for her, snarling in triumph as she suffered the pain of a thousand splinters of wood and metal in her hands and face, and she’d taken one half of her shattered staff and used it like a the blade it was not, swinging it up between them both just to make him back off, not even knowing that the haft had broken at a sharp, pointed angle.
It’s the first time she’s seen him without bandages covering the majority of his chest, and it takes her by surprise, somehow, because she has never left visible scars on him before that she is aware of, not through any of their battles, and it isn’t until now, staring at his chest in a way that could probably be misconstrued as untoward, that she realizes that fact, and also realizes that seeing that scar, the one she gave him, a mark of hers forever enshrined on his skin, makes her feel–
hot and bright and powerful and possessive mine mine mine
–strange.
She only just manages to stop herself from walking over to touch it, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “Well,” she says, trying to ignore the way her heartbeat kicks up, and the faint burning in her cheeks and ears, because there is a very loud voice in her head screeching about how totally inappropriate it is. She clears her throat. “It doesn’t look bad at all, does it? Tataru, you’ve outdone yourself again, your measurements were just as perfect as always.”
Tataru walks over to Zenos with a professional glint in her eyes, tapping her bottom lip with one finger. “Hmm, it does seem to fit him flawlessly, doesn’t it? Another Tataru Taru original! Although I’m afraid it isn’t quite as elaborate as what I usually make.” She purses her lips, and then looks up at Zenos. Then, almost unbelievably, she grins at him.
“The next time you’re in need of a personally tailored outfit, be sure to let me know! I don’t know all that much about Garlean fashion, but I’m certain I could craft something for you that would pass muster.” She puts one hand on her hip and throws the other upwards in a thumbs-up.
And Zenos looks nonplussed, which is absolutely the sort of expression Tabris is going to remember forever, if only because it seems so wholly out of place on him. Tataru’s smile is infectious, though, and soon enough she’s grinning, too.
“The clothes are all well and good,” she says, “but he’ll have to go to the docks in disguise. We should have him try on the cloak.” She walks closer, clicking her tongue as she looks Zenos over. “And we should do something with your hair.”
He lifts his gaze from Tataru and blinks owlishly. “My hair,” he repeats.
Tabris nods. “Mm. I know you brush it pretty regularly,” she’s seen the hairbrush with long golden-blonde strands sitting on his bedside table, “and I won’t suggest cutting it, but we should probably change the style a little. How do you feel about… braids?”
Combing out and braiding Zenos’ hair is a surreal experience, but he lets her do it without fuss. He has been meticulous about brushing it out, but she can tell that it’s suffering from the lack of whatever no-doubt ludicrously expensive oils and soaps he usually uses on it. She makes a silent note to lend him some of her own special blend of hair care products– botany is useful for more things than Potions, after all.
She gives him a single long pleat down his back, and then loops it into a loose bun that she pins to the back of his head. Then she and Tataru both stand back to look at him; he’s sitting on the floor in front of her bed, looking at her in placid, silent amusement.
She frowns. “Still too identifiable,” she says. “Even with the cloak on. And if anyone sees your third eye…” she trails off, ruminating, and then asks, “How sensitive is it?”
One eyebrow lifts. Tabris rolls her eyes.
“Does it hurt when someone touches it?” She specifies. “Or is it uncomfortable? What about when it’s covered up?”
“Any discomfort is negligible,” Zenos answers. “No, it does not hurt.”
“Garleans do wear helmets,” Tataru muses. “Although they have those little pockets made right into the foreheads. I’ve never thought about it, but that really is rather ingenious, isn’t it?” She produces a small notebook and pencil and makes a few notes. Tabris looks down at her curiously; the lalafell beams at her.
“I plan to craft things for all sorts of clients! It’s useful to know what might make good additions, like little pockets of space in headgear for Garlean Third Eyes.”
“Right,” Tabris says, and smiles. “And I suppose Cid and Lucia wear their goggles and headband, respectively. Alright; let’s see what we can do.”
In the end, Tabris finds a piece of her old Ninja armor, a half-mask that, with some careful modifying, covers the bottom half of his face, and she ties a loose strip of white cloth around his forehead to disguise his eye. He stands up and allows her to pin his new cloak around his shoulders, which he seems to take some measure of enjoyment from.
She reaches up and pulls his hood down, a little too hard, scowling as she does it. “Don’t be so smug.”
Tataru giggles; she seems to be enjoying this brief bout of Dress-Up-Zenos. Tabris is too, if she’s being honest. It’s probably the most domestic thing she’s ever seen him acquiesce to.
Stepping back to look at him again reveals that, while the disguise isn’t precisely ‘high fashion’, it does suitably hide the majority of his distinguishing characteristics. The only visibly discernible features are his height, which can’t really be hidden, and his eyes, which he does, in fact, require to see.
It’s an effective disguise, but, as those all-too-familiar eyes meet hers from beneath the hood, Tabris realizes that she would know him anywhere, through any manner of shroud or veil.
“I can hardly recognize you!” Tataru cheers. “You could probably pass for a very tall Hyur, or a slightly tall Roegadyn.”
Zenos lets his gaze drift unhurriedly down towards the lalafell. “Should that please me in some manner?” He asks. His voice is almost mocking, and Tataru’s excitement wilts a little beneath his tone.
Tabris’ ears flatten, and she can’t resist the urge to step on the toe of his new boots with all her weight at her heel.
Zenos glares at her. “Ow,” he says, in that same dull tone that makes her wonder if it even actually hurts.
“Being rude to Tataru is strictly off-limits,” she advises him.
He looks at her for a long moment, and then tilts his head to one side and asks, quietly, almost teasingly, “Only her?”
Tabris snorts and grins, showing her teeth. “No. You also can’t be rude to Y’shtola or Estinien, but that’s mostly because they’re the only two I think could and would tear you to ribbons. Physically and emotionally.”
“Hm,” Zenos makes a sound that might be a laugh. “I might relish the challenge, should I recall who ‘Y’shtola’ and ‘Estinien’ are in the first place.”
“Oooh, he’s spicy today,” she says and crosses her arms, but she’s still grinning. “Next you’ll be telling me you don’t remember who ‘Asahi’ is.”
Whether or not he understands the joke, Tabris doesn’t know, but he reacts perfectly, tilting his head just a little further and, in a tone of earnest confusion, asks, “Who?”
---
Their ship arrives early the next morning. Tabris and Zenos are standing at the docks to meet it before the sun has even risen. The air is cold and there’s a promise of snow in the gray clouds above. The docks are blessedly deserted.
The ship itself is relatively small and not nearly as impressive as the one which had first brought her to Sharlayan. It’s the sort of vessel used for transporting small amounts of reasonably expensive goods– or possibly a pirate ship, although, if that is the case, no one has mentioned it. The sails, furled and tied, are a deep shadow of maroon.
The name on the side is ‘The Saucy Wench’, which Tabris both admires and appreciates.
From what Tabris understands, Tataru has brokered a deal with the captain, hiring him and his three-person crew on to ferry her and Zenos to an island that is far enough from any civilization that it can reasonably be considered ‘deserted’. She isn’t certain how much gil changed hands to complete the transaction, but she doesn’t imagine it was cheap. Still, the majority of it had been to ensure that no one but the crew would be joining them on the journey.
That’s exactly what Tabris wants, what she knows that she and Zenos both need. The ship crew will never know who he is, and they have, after all, been paid a good deal not to ask many questions about her.
Meanwhile, according to Tataru, the only creatures of sapience currently living on the island itself are mammets, designed specifically for the purpose of making the place habitable, a task Tabris plans to devote the majority of her time to, as well.
Her friends are there to see them off, of course.
“If anything should happen,” Estinien tells her sternly, “anything at all, call for me on the linkpearl. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Tabris laughs a little. “You’d actually answer one of my calls for once?”
And Estinien smirks, and dips his head. “Yes. But only the one time.”
“You must swear to be careful, my friend,” G’raha says, squeezing her hands in both of his. His eyes are bright and shining, his tail twitching nervously near his heels. “You’ve yet to honor our promise, after all– t’would be quite unbecoming of you to renege upon it.”
Tabris nods. “Of course I swear, Raha. You worry too much.”
“Oh yes, she’ll be as careful as she can be while she’s running around with a rabid animal beside her,” Estinien grumbles under his breath, with a glare pointed in the direction of Zenos, who is standing at the end of the dock, conversing quietly with Urianger and Y’shtola, although Tabris cannot hear what they’re saying.
“Stinny, you regularly ride around on dragonback to kill things in midair,” she says, dryly. “Don’t you dare lecture me on safety.”
He crosses his arms. “It was,” he says slowly, “one time.”
“It was at least twice, you oversized lummox.”
“Regardless of how Estinien spends his time, Kallian, his concern is entirely reasonable,” Alisaie cuts in, hands on her hips. “You’re to take absolutely no chances, do you understand? We almost lost you once! I won’t let it happen again.”
Alphinaud puts his hand on Alisaie’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Alisaie; our friend is fully capable of keeping herself safe, I am quite certain.” He smiles winningly at Tabris, but the expression falters a little. “Although, you… you will be certain to be cautious, yes? Not only with Zenos, but with yourself.”
She knows he means her own mind, that he’s thinking of two days ago, and her, crying, covered in chalk and ink, such a far cry from the Warrior of Light the people know and depend on. Perhaps, she thinks, that’s why she needs this; with no one but Zenos and the odd mammet to see her, there’s hardly any pressure to maintain the attitude and bright-eyed optimism required of the title.
At the very least, she’ll be able to find some measure of privacy if she needs to have another breakdown.
“I’ll be fine, Alphy,” Tabris says, and reaches out to muss up his hair. He swats her hands away, and she grins at his annoyance. “I promise.”
He doesn’t look convinced, as he fixes his hair, but Alisaie nudges his side with her elbow until he smiles back at her.
“You’ll forgive us if we’re all a bit concerned,” says Thancred. He’s been standing quietly with them, arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in thought. When he speaks, though, he’s smiling, and his eyes are shining. “You do have the rather unfortunate habit of throwing yourself into danger, my friend– or being thrown into danger.”
Tabris smiles back. “This is a strictly ‘no-throwing-myself’ into danger journey, Thanny,” she says. “And I doubt Zenos will toss me to the wolves, so to speak. If there were any real danger, I would imagine he would be first in line to face it. I think he might be bored to tears after even just a day of manual labor.”
Alisaie narrows her eyes a little. “His ‘boredom’ might be your ‘danger’, Kallian,” she says. “I think I might give our ‘friend’ a fair warning about his conduct, before you set off,” and she stalks off towards Zenos before Tabris can stop her.
Alphinaud clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Oh dear,” he says, and sighs. “I had better go and mediate…” He follows after his sister, jogging briefly to catch up with her.
Estinien watches them go, then gives a faint growl under his breath. “I’d like to put in a few words of my own,” he mutters, although Tabris is well aware that he is far more comfortable taking action than talking. He follows the twins, and she gives G’raha an imploring look, running a hand back through her hair.
“Could you make sure nothing… explodes?” She asks.
G’raha watches the others go and nods. “I shall certainly endeavor to try,” he says, and follows them.
Tabris sighs softly. She watches helplessly as Alisaie walks directly up to Zenos and begins to speak, not quite yelling, but using a sharp and commanding tone that Tabris knows well. She catches a few snippets of the one-sided conversation, something along the lines of, “...do not squander this chance to grow as a person…” and “If you hurt her, I will kill you myself.”
She rests her hands on her hips. “You know, the funny thing is, he might actually listen to her,” she muses aloud. “She got through to him back in Garlemald. Maybe she will again, although I doubt Zenos was planning any sort of mischief, regardless.”
Thancred is silent. Tabris turns her head and finds him watching her, his mismatched eyes focused and intent.
She’s about to ask him what the problem is when he says, quite out of nowhere, “You don’t need to do this.”
She blinks, startled. “What?”
“I said, you don’t need to do this,” Thancred repeats. “This journey to a deserted island, this… attempt to ease Zenos into something resembling a person. You are under no obligation to help him. Many would argue that you were more obliged to kill him.” He holds up a hand to stop her immediate protest. “Easy, my friend– I didn’t say you should. But you know that I’m right, yes?”
Tabris closes her mouth and clenches her teeth. She swallows hard, then nods, once. “I know,” she says.
And she does know, is the thing. Whatever skewed sense of responsibility she feels, whatever potentially unhealthy connection there is between them, the truth is that none of Zenos’ problems are her problems, aside from the fact that she would have to be the one to put an end to him if he decided to start being a nuisance again.
It is not her responsibility to change him. It isn’t even possible, because the only one who can change him is him, and she knows that better than anyone.
“He isn’t some feral behemoth cub you can ease into being a pet just by offering him kindness,” Thancred continues. “He is a murderer. He has killed hundreds, and enjoyed it. He’s a scourge upon the star, and, perhaps most damning of all, he regrets none of it. I know you are capable of doing a hundred impossible things before breakfast, Kallian, but even this might be beyond you. You can’t change someone who doesn’t wish to change.”
“I know,” Tabris insists, snapping the words sharply, and then flinching at her own harshness. Nevertheless, she continues. “I know, Thancred, and I’m not– I don’t want to change him. I don’t want to make him a pet. Even if I did want to, I couldn’t. That isn’t how it works; I can’t just snap my fingers and make him a good person.”
“He will never be a good person,” he says dryly.
“Probably not,” Tabris admits. “But he could be a better one. If he wants. I just want to give him the opportunity, and the resources. He and I are… connected.” Red thread, she thinks. “I want to show him that there is more to being alive than what he’s known before. If he is capable of caring about me– and I think he does, Thancred, truly– then he is capable of caring about other things. He isn’t a lost cause– he can want other things, for himself, and for others. It might not be likely, but it is… possible, and I want to give him the chance to atone, even a little.”
“Some things cannot be atoned for.”
“He can still make the effort.”
Thancred holds her gaze for a moment more, and then sighs softly and looks away. “I feel as though we’ve had this conversation before,” he says. “Or a similar one, I suppose.”
Tabris twitches an ear. “I think we did,” she says. “After Lahabrea… well, after you were yourself again.”
She remembers how guilty he’d felt, the weight of injury and pain inflicted by his own hand, while he, shoved unceremoniously into a dark corner of his own mind to make room for his Ascian visitor, could do nothing but watch, and wait, and agonize. She recalls how, for weeks after his return, he’d spent as much time with his head in a flagon as he could, absolutely bloody soused, and she remembers the splash of cold water when she’d turned a bucket of it over his head.
“I told you that, if you were so determined to be worried about having done those terrible things, then wallowing in bad memories wouldn’t help anyone,” she recalls. “Even though no one blamed you for what had happened. And I said… what was it…”
“‘If you really want to atone, then get your drunken, shapely arse up, go out, and do something to make the world better’,” Thancred quotes.
“I don’t think I said ‘shapely’.”
“Yes, well,” he shrugs, “you were thinking it.”
“Probably,” she concedes.
He sighs again, and closes his eyes. “It was different, for me,” he says. “For one thing, I was and currently am in possession of a conscience.”
“He can grow one,” Tabris says. “Or, if he’s very stubborn about it, I can beat one into him.”
“He would likely prefer the latter,” Thancred chuckles. He makes a thoughtful noise. “I only worry for you, Kallian. I care for you a great deal. All of us do.”
She nods, and then pauses, uncertain, before she says, “This journey, it’s… It isn’t just for him,” all in a rush, before she can talk herself out of it.
The admission makes her want to hide her face, and her ears pin reflexively. She crosses her arms, squeezes until her clawtips press into her skin. She wants to shrink back from his gaze, but she forges ahead, dogged and determined. “I am tired, Thancred. I am tired of saving the world. I’m tired of being the hero for everyone else. I’m tired of shoring myself up beneath the weight of countless lives. I need… I need peace. I need comparative solitude, and freedom. I need to get a handle on everything going on in my head right now.”
Softly, Thancred says, “You haven’t been sleeping well. Nightmares?”
There’s no point in hiding things from him; Thancred is a master of espionage, of studying people and finding their secrets. He also knows her well enough that he probably doesn’t have to try very hard to gather that much intel about her current state of mind. “Almost every night,” she admits. “They aren’t bad enough that I wake from them, but they… all of it is so, so close, and I can’t leash it here, not with everyone… not with the world waiting for me to be its hero again. It isn’t you, or any of the Scions–”
“Kallian,” he says, and puts his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. He waits until she looks up at his face before he smiles at her, warm and gentle, paternal, the way he used to smile at Ryne, the way she hopes he’ll be able to smile at her again, one day. “You need not explain yourself to me. If you say you need this, then I believe you.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she says, and means it.
He nods and says, ”I only wish you would bring one of us with you, for conversation, if nothing else. I have only ever heard Zenos speak at length when he’s waxing poetic about his nefarious schemes. You might wish you had someone else to speak with. Even Urianger might be better company, although he might simply talk you to sleep.”
Tabris huffs. “Don’t talk badly about Uri, Thancred,” she says. “Especially not when you’ve been mooning over him for the last year and a half.”
Thancred’s cheeks redden, and she silently marks a point for herself; it isn’t easy to fluster Thancred Waters, after all.
She reaches up and pats his cheeks with both hands. “I won’t tell,” she promises with a smirk. “Although you’re an idiot if you think he hasn’t noticed already.”
He breathes heavily out through his nose. “I’ve been called worse,” he admits, and then curls an arm around her shoulders. “Alright,” he says, and begins to walk towards their friends, ushering her along. “I’ve said my peace, and I know better than to argue with you when you’re this determined. I might be a fool, but I’m not stupid. Come along, O Warrior of Light; you have a ship to catch.”
They approach the others just in time to catch the tail end of Estinien’s warning, which consists of a single word: “Don’t.”
Zenos looks annoyed. She isn’t certain if it’s because he is offended that anyone feels the need to warn him against hurting her (either because he dislikes the insinuation that he cannot control himself or that she needs protecting at all), or if he is just tired of everyone talking to him in the first place, but Tabris has the sneaking suspicion that, were his current situation any different, he might well have bared his blade by now.
When he sees her approaching, he turns all of his focus towards her, his piercing blue eyes narrowing. “I grow weary of your companion’s ceaseless, vapid lectures regarding their stipulations on my behavior,” he tells her. “Shall I be forced to endure such loathsome tirades for the remainder of my life?”
“That is a distinct possibility,” Tabris tells him, shrugging, and she watches his eyes flicker to Thancred’s arm over her shoulders, then back to her, the faintest trace of further annoyance flaring to life in his eyes. She says, “It just means they care for me.”
“It is tedium incarnate,” Zenos drawls. Alisaie makes a quiet, offended noise, and Estinien glowers with all the simmering fury of Nidhogg reborn.
Tabris only rolls her eyes.
Urianger says, “Thou hath made an unfortunate and consistent habit of threatening the life of our mutual friend. Thus, thou must needs understand the caution we feel we must therefore extendeth, and the words of warning we feel it prevalent that thou art madeth aware of.”
Zenos merely grunts, whether in further irritation or in acknowledgement, she isn’t certain.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Tabris says to Urianger, ignoring the pouting former prince, and smiles up at him. Urianger smiles back, eyes shining with his quiet mirth.
“Oy!” Calls the captain from the railing of the ship. She looks up to see a male Seeker with green hair and a short tail in clothing that makes him look suspiciously like a pirate, further validating her opinion of his actual career. He waves a hand. “Apologies for interruptin’, but if we’re hopin’ to get to this island by tomorrow mornin’, we should be leavin’ about now.”
“Understood,” Tabris answers, and then takes a short breath and turns back to her friends. “I know you’re all very nervous, but this is something that I–”
“Kallian,” says Y’shtola, stepping forward to take both of her hands, squeezing her fingers lightly. She smiles, warm and gentle, her sightless eyes half-lidded. “We understand, truly. Take the time you need. We are forever your friends; if you must attend to this thing without us, then do so in the knowledge that, should you require any of us, for any matter, you need only call.”
The gathered Scions nod in agreement, and Tabris is momentarily overcome by the sight of them, this small group of familiar faces. Twelve above, she loves them.
She blinks back the tears welling in her eyes, and nods. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll be in touch, I promise. Zenos?” She pulls away from them before she can talk herself out of this admittedly foolish excursion, and turns toward her new traveling companion.
He is watching her, of course, and seems to read the question in her eyes; he dips his head minutely, and then turns, and makes his way up the gangplank, pausing on his first step onto the ship to wait for her. Tabris follows him, pauses once to catch one last look at the Scions, savors each and every one of their faces, their scents, their expressions, from the teary-eyed G’raha, to the tranquil Urianger, and feels a pang of grief, of strangeness at this new adventure she embarks upon without them by her side.
She waves, once, and smiles. “I’ll be alright,” she calls to them. “Take care of each other!” Then she turns, and boards the ship in a hurry, slipping around Zenos into the welcoming shadow of one of the ship’s masts, far enough from the railing that she doesn’t have to look back and see them all waving goodbye.
She puts her hand against the mast and leans forward, sucking in as much air as she can, fighting against the sudden rush of nausea, of anxiety, of fear and loss and uncertainty that wells up within her, because suddenly she is off on a new journey, an adventure, but quite unlike any of the others she has ever undertaken, and now none of her friends, her family, will be there with her. It feels– wrong.
It is, ultimately, her decision, and she knows she could turn back now, if she wished, and no one would even bat an eye, but she is also intimately aware that it isn’t really an option at all.
She feels Zenos’ looming presence when he steps closer, and stops just behind her. It’s a familiar enough sensation that it is almost comforting, although it is usually followed by the metallic swing of a blade– most recently a scythe– and there is a part of her, the feral, instinctive part, that wants immediately to parry. She ignores it and remains still and quiet, trying to focus on her breathing.
“My beast,” Zenos says, his tone lower, deeper, as close to a whisper as she thinks he might ever manage. “What manner of foe do you contend with, now? What enemy that I cannot see?”
That might seem callous, or mocking, to anyone else, to someone who has not become adept at reading his tone, but to Tabris it strikes her immediately as earnest curiosity, if not genuine concern.
She can’t help but gasp a little laugh. “Myself,” she tells him, without turning, and rests her forehead against the rough wood of the mast.
“Ah,” Zenos says. “A worthy adversary indeed, then, and yet I know you will rise above it, glowing like a beacon with your victory.”
Tabris laughs again, and shakes her head a little. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she says, steeling her nerves, and then turns to face him. “Wouldn’t we be evenly matched?”
Zenos tilts his head. “No,” he says, as if that should be obvious. “I have said it before, have I not? I believe you to be above something so banal as despair. Whatever darkness lingers in your mind, it is surely some manner of kin to that most pedestrian of emotions.”
He does not say it the way someone might if they were offering blithe and empty comfort; like always, he says it with a solid certainty, as if nothing could alter the immutable truth of his opinion, and she would, in fact, be a fool to argue.
She is beginning to learn the ways Zenos offers friendship, she thinks, beyond his desire to cross blades with her. Being honest is one of those ways. She takes a slow, deep breath, sinks into the feeling of her lungs expanding, of her heart beating, and the solid wood of the deck beneath her feet.
She says, “You’re right.” Then she reaches out, and up, to give his shoulder a squeeze, and she does not know if he understands the gesture for what it is, but she gives it anyway. “Thank you, Zenos.”
“Weigh anchor!” Bellows the captain from somewhere near the wheel of the ship, and a scrawny Hyur deckhand scrambles around them to bring up the gangplank. Moments later, the ship dips, lurches, and the sails release, filling with wind like billowing clouds.
Tabris says, “Come on!” And grabs Zenos’ hand– his Voidsent hand– in hers, finding that the textured flesh of his palm is warm and dry, supple and firm. She drags him forward, across the ship, and then up the stairs leading up to the forecastle. The wind is pushing steadily against the sails, and the ship is beginning to move forward, the wide blue sea and wider blue sky stretching out ahead for an eternity, and even though she has seen the edge of the universe itself, it is easy to imagine that horizon as endless.
She’s still afraid, still frightened of the future, of herself, of what will come now, when the star is safe and there is no fighting to be done, when there is nothing to focus on but herself. She is uncertain of Zenos, still, of what could become of him, how much change he might be capable of, if any. Of what she will do if it turns out he cannot change at all.
But looking out into that horizon, the ship dipping with the waves, Tabris lets the flickering light of her hope shine brighter in her chest, just for a moment, and lets the warmth of the sun and the smell of salt water wash over her.
Not a bad way to start a new adventure after all, she decides, and smiles.