Chapter Text
Winter closes in so slowly, Yasha doesn’t realize what she’s losing until it is too late.
In the wastes, the winter months mean rains, a cool damp that is inescapable and feels everlasting. It means waxed cloaks and warm fires and the staccato rhythm of the rain on their great tents. With the circus, winter had been a direction. They’d travel to the southeast, the Truscan Vale and the Menagerie Coast, chasing the good weather for as long as they could. The Nein had gone even further, spending the harshest winter months traveling all the way from the Lucidian Ocean to Rosohna.
Yasha had realized the winters would be colder this far north, had heard stories and teasing warnings. But temperatures drop from the hot, dense heat of Sydenstar into a pleasant crispness so quickly that Yasha convinces herself that she would enjoy the cooler months. Maybe Caleb and Molly’s stories of the cold had been exaggerations from childhood, maybe winters would be misty mornings pleasantly warmed by a fire. Besides, fall is beautiful. Between the pines there are a good number of brilliantly colored trees, creating gorgeous mottled paintings on the hills.
Then, as quickly as they had appeared, those brightly colored leaves fall. Yasha collects them for a while, seeking out the burnt oranges and brilliant yellows and reds to create bouquets for Beau, then some that she pressed in books. Col shows up when he's not being put to work and joins her, climbing and giggling all the while. But most of the time, she’s alone.
The nights begin to dip below freezing. Soon there’s no sense spending all day in the garden; everything is dry and brown or buried. The market stalls dwindle, the fresh fruits are replaced with preserves and furs. The sounds change - insect drones stop and the birdsong thins. The dry bite to the air reminds her too much of Eiselcross, and she finds herself staying inside more and more. Even Cordula stays away. Beau is as busy as ever, Pocket Bacon following her more often than not - a run to the Cobalt Soul is more exciting than a full day inside their house. The Cat stays inside her rag box.
Her world gets smaller, bit by bit, until she finds herself only leaving the cottage for the Lucky Fish.
And even with the Lucky Fish, there seems to be less and less of a point in making the trip.
There’s food, of course. Her foraging options these days are pretty thin, so a full meal that she doesn’t have to cook seems great. She has a pot of pottage going at all times at home, but it’s not something she wants to eat for every meal. There’s also Angus. But he’s as busy as ever, and she doesn’t want to distract him too much.
Everyone else shows up less often. There isn’t a requirement - nobody is coming out and making sure everyone is showing up three times a week or anything, but she’s still feeling a little abandoned. Like maybe she’s less important to them as they are to her. Or they all feel the winter less.
At home, she has Beau, but she learns she’s used to having a group - whether or not it’s the Lucky Fish regulars or the Nein or the Circus or the Dolorav. She’s always had the freedom to wander off alone, but she’s usually able to find her group when she needs them.
The only time she hadn’t - well, Obann found her.
She doesn’t do well without a group to return to.
But the only person who is showing up regularly to the Lucky Fish is Greer. When they’re the only ones there, she does her best to ignore them and eats her dinner alone.
She tries to ask Soren about spending time with him the next time he shows up at the Lucky Fish. She tries to not sound too insistent or needy and respect everyone else’s space and not mention the whole Obann thing or the whole Eiselcross thing but all of that’s a lot for her and in the end she’s not sure if she got the message across.
Soren looks at her, a little philosophically and a little drunk, and asks, “Going ice fishing next Folsen. Want to join?”
“Okay. I don’t really fish, though.”
“You’d make good company. Not so much talk that disturbs the fish.” Soren says, then slaps her on the back, laughing at his own words.
They head out early, reaching the frozen lake just as sunlight is making itself known on the horizon. The hole had already been carved out the week before, Soren explains, all they have to do is reopen it, then set up the poles. Then wait.
It’s mostly cold. And quiet. It’s beautiful out, the air crisp, but the cold gets boring after the first hour. Soren seems perfectly happy to sit his enchanted tankard of warm beer and to stare into the middle distance.
Then there’s an odd sound, unlike anything that Yasha has heard before. Almost like a metal wire being plucked, combined with an animal call.
“Ah, lake’s singing,” Soren says.
“The lake sings? The spirit, or?” Yasha trails off. Soren doesn’t seem bothered, but Soren doesn’t seem bothered by much. Yasha thinks he’d at least move if he thought that there was any danger of a giant fish monster coming from below, though.
Soren gives an impressively loud laugh. “No! Ice is cracking, far away. Sounds like singing."
Yasha doesn’t find this comforting. “It doesn’t seem like we should be on the lake if the ice is breaking.”
“Is expanding, is contracting maybe. Is very far away. Sounds very different up close.” Soren examines the fishing poles, jostling them to make sure their fishing hole doesn’t freeze over, then settles back in for another round of staring into the middle distance.
Maybe half an hour later, Yasha hears what it sounds like when the ice cracks closer to her, like thunder from beneath. Yasha jumps to her feet, already five feet closer to shore before she realizes that all Soren has done is shift position. She settles back down to wait.
They return home near sunset, a fish each for their troubles.
She doesn’t go ice fishing again.
Maybe she has to learn how to be alone for a little while. Maybe it’s for the best.
She has hobbies. Or, well, she does things that can become hobbies. She practices her bone harp - if Pocket is there he joins in - and spends more time making stews. She finishes going through the last of old Ingrid’s stuff, and then puts it all away. She sleeps a lot. The weather is good for sleeping.
She forces herself to go out. The world seems to be exceptionally, teasingly bright during the day. The skies a clear blue, the snow glittering on the pines. It seems like it should be warmer in the sunlight, but Yasha quickly learns those seem to be the coldest days. The world feels quiet, muffled except for the crunch of her boots in the snow, which is just deep enough to hide the forest’s textures, but not deep enough to create its own. She never gets herself to stay out long.
The storm hits few weeks after her ice fishing attempt. Beau and Pocket leave before sunrise these days, so Yasha thinks nothing of the darkness, but a few hours later it’s still the type of dark that Yasha associates with thunderstorms or pre-dawn light. Still, it’s warmer than it has been, and the fat flakes of snow look beautiful out the window, so Yasha goes out - she even plays a little, creating snowballs the way she remembers from Eiselcross and aims for the trees. By the time she grows bored, the snow is a foot higher and earlier forging through the snow has been completely erased. The snow hits her knees now, and she finds herself high stepping for a little while, before giving up and unfurling her wings to fly home.
Once inside, she’s suddenly aware that everything she’s wearing is wet. She shucks it off, stoking the fire and placing it on the hooks near the pottage. The steam is nice, and she enjoys the little bit of moisture in the air, even as it chills her. Getting clothes on suddenly feels like a lot of work, so she just dives in naked under the furs on the bed. It doesn’t take too long for her to drift off. She doesn’t know what time it is when she wakes - but her clothes are dry, and it’s still snowing. It might be darker than it was before. The warm clothes are cozy, at least.
She wishes Caleb was here, with his unerring sense of time - or Fjord, with his ability to read the stars. She doesn’t like the disorientation of not knowing how much time has passed.
Still, she busies herself until she finally hears something.
“A Message from Beauregard as follows: Hey, it looks pretty bad out - me and Pocket are staying in Rexxentrum for the evening. Love you.”
Yasha knows that Beau has to rely on others for Sendings - that she likely had to pull strings to get them to use their spells even as is. But she still wishes she could have heard Beau’s voice.
There’s nothing to do but to wait for the morning. It’s quiet, and while it’s nowhere near as cold as it could be; nowhere near as cold as it had been, even, it feels worse. The cottage feels so small, so empty. Filled with a dead woman’s things, still. What is she to do?
Yasha tries to play her bone harp, but it’s different without Pocket Bacon. The house is clean, but she straightens up again. She lays in bed, then leaves it. It feels wrong, too large and cold without Beau. She takes some furs and blankets into the kitchen and settles next to the fire.
There’s some meowing outside. Yasha opens the door and finds The Cat, petulant and covered in snow. The Cat has never once approached the house before, but today she darts past Yasha and finds her way to the kitchen fire, carefully curling up in a perfect circle on the tiles, her eyes still watching the door. Yasha approaches slowly, carefully, and lowers herself back onto the furs, intentionally turning to face away from The Cat. Then there’s the soft tapping of paws on the tiles and a warm, plush weight on her back. She can feel how tense The Cat is, and it makes Yasha afraid to move.
They fall asleep like that, warm but not quite able to give in to comfort.
The next morning dawns colder and brighter than the day before. Yasha wakes to The Cat pawing at her and then demanding to be released from the house.
Yasha opens the door again, but the snow is easily three feet high. The Cat is unimpressed. At least the tools are indoors. Yasha takes her shovel, rages as quietly as she can to not disturb The Cat, and gets to work.
She digs a path towards The Cat's rag box house - the tree cover still thick enough that the snow is a little lighter here. Still, Yasha thinks The Cat might prefer more of a stalking ground and half shovels, half pushes out another little clearing for her. After that, she shovels a clearing towards the road, and then decides to shovel her way to the Lucky Fish.
It’s midmorning by the time she reaches her destination, and her arms are starting to get tired. Angus is there at the door, some wide rackets strapped to his feet.
“Did you shovel your way here? Using a garden shovel?” he asks. He's blinking a lot.
“There are other types of shovels?”
“Yes. But. Okay - so most people get around in sleds or snowshoes or, sometimes, skis. Sorry for not mentioning anything before, I just sort of assumed you knew or could run across the snow or something.”
“No, that’s just Beau. I have wings, but they only work for short distances.”
“You have wings?” Angus says, sounding a lot like he does when someone has left their purse at home and plans to pay for their drinks tomorrow.
Yasha unfurls her wings. It seems easier than explaining.
“That’s, uh. No wonder Cordula thought you were from Tal’dorei,” Angus says. It doesn’t make much sense to Yasha, but she doesn’t know much about Tal’dorei. “You must be cold - here, get inside, I’m supposed to be relieving Lena from her overnight shift. We got a good number of folk who got stuck in the storm.”
“Lena?”
“My niece, the one who takes over when I’m not around? I know you’ve met her before. It’s…” Angus stops to shake his head, then motions at the door. “Let’s just get inside.”
The second Yasha walks inside, she’s greeted by what feels like a burst of hot air, and she quickly realizes that some of her skin feels numb from the cold. Angus grabs her some warm cider and porridge and encourages her to take off her wet coat and set it by the large fire. She finds herself thinking of the day before - though she’s wearing more clothes - and she finds herself eating and then just waiting, feeling pieces of herself come to life. She barely notices the other patrons in the tavern leave, one by one.
The door bursts open, and there’s a familiar cursing and barking. Yasha suddenly finds herself covered in cold wet dog fur that she hugs deeply and then she’s crying.
Everything she’d been trying her hardest not to feel since the storm started - since before - hits her all at once and it’s all too much. She can’t even process them as emotions; it’s the taste of acid in her mouth and a heaviness in her limbs, burning in her eyes and wetness on her face.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, are you okay, I’m sorry.” Beau is speaking, babbling maybe, but Yasha can barely make sense of them.
“I waited and it was cold and I was alone. I don’t always do good when I’m alone. I don’t know how to be alone anymore. I feel so alone all the time.”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” Beau says a lot more too, but it’s drowned out by the feeling of her arms around Yasha as she sobs and Yasha’s own tide of emotions.
Eventually, Yasha stops, and sits up out of Beau’s arms. She wipes her face with a napkin that Angus left there for her, and notices some slow movement out of the corner of her eyes.
She turns; Greer is there.
Had they been here the whole time? She always looks for Greer when she enters the Lucky Fish, but she’d been so distracted. Did she come in after Beau? They look like they’re warm and dry, and there’s a table with a half-eaten bowl of soup behind them. What are they doing?
“You should show up tomorrow. My place. You know the way,” Greer says.
There’s no anger or accusation, nor pity in their tone - not that Yasha can figure out.
They walk back to their table, betraying nothing.
“Let’s go home,” Yasha murmurs. She’s tired.
Beau doesn’t bring up Greer on the walk back through the path Yasha had made. Even Pocket Bacon seems to slow, getting low and close to her people.
She’s glad. She doesn’t have the strength to sort out why she feels like she needs to visit Greer, now that the offer has been extended. But she does.
Yasha starts her journey through the woods shortly before sunrise. She takes her time for once, walking instead of running, taking in her surroundings.
She’s not dawdling. There wouldn’t be a point in heading out so early if she’s planning on not going. It’s just - she usually Rages before she runs, and the temptation to Rage would be too strong. She wouldn’t be so afraid if she were Raging. But she doesn’t think it would be right to greet Greer that way.
Instead, she tries to center herself outside of her anger and fear. The woods help - the crunch of boots on snow and pine needles, the butter-soft light from a late dawn slipping through the trees. She thinks she hears some faint birdsong, maybe spies another white rabbit. The snow still looks new, two days in, though there’s definitely animal footprints and clumps that have fallen off the branches.
Greer’s house is not that far - maybe only an hours’ walk - but it’s through back woods and walking away from the road. If there is a more civilized way of walking there, one that involves signs and a front door, Yasha doesn’t know it. She’s following Col’s old path, and it’s a meandering one.
Greer was expecting this, apparently. They’re looking out the back window when Yasha arrives, the raised flower beds she’d seen last summer barren except for the odd straw-like stalk. They remind Yasha of graves.
Or maybe that’s just where Yasha’s mind is.
Greer opens the door, and looks over Yasha’s clothes. “Get in, take off your boots so you don’t track snow everywhere.”
The inside is surprisingly large and still cluttered. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling; bolts of cloth and stained tubs apparently used for dyeing - some empty and some burbling; cones of yarn and what Yasha thinks might be a spinning wheel. Portraits line the walls - some that might have been a younger Greer, a few of Col, but many filled with people Yasha didn’t recognize. Family members, maybe. A lot of them have the same dark hair or nose.
Everything else is dwarfed by a large wooden frame with pulleys and strings and treadles and plenty of other things that looked like they could go up and down in some sort of complicated way. It reminds her of some of the toys and machines they would sometimes set up in the circus; ones that would take a copper coin and use it to run a marble along a track, tipping over bottles and playing music along the way. Yasha takes a few seconds to recognize the low wooden block in front of a frame as a bench, and another one to spot the beginnings of a weaving near the front wooden slats. A loom, then. A lot more complicated than she’s used to seeing, but still, a loom.
Behind the bulk of the loom’s frame, she spies a familiar tin whistle, along with a few more tin toys, brightly colored leaves, some Col-sized mittens and a scarf that matches her stone goose’s Cobalt Soul robe.
All in all the house seems large for one person, or even two. Like this place was built for more in mind, and even at their best, a lifetime of effort and collecting and giant looms couldn’t quite manage to fill it up.
“Come, stop gawking and sit near the fire. It’s warmer and I’ve learned not to serve tea near the cloth.” Greer says, striding towards there herself.
Yasha obediently makes her way to the other side of the room, where there’s a fire and cabinets and a too-large table with only three chairs. She sits and takes the offered tea.
She remembers her meeting with Bryce, nearly a year ago, a different cottage and a different offer of tea. Only there’s no Beau to lead things, and Greer isn’t as friendly as Bryce. She’s still not sure what she’s doing here. Greer doesn’t look like they know what they’re doing either.
That’s not quite right. Not about Greer- they really do look like they don’t know what to do with themselves. But she knows what she should be doing - sitting at their table, eating their food.
“Greer. You should know - If you don’t already know. I was in Rexxentrum. Your daughter —“ Yasha starts, but then Greer cuts her off.
“War killed my daughter. Anything else is blaming a rabid dog’s teeth for the bite.”
Their voice is harsher than Yasha has ever heard it, and she doesn’t know how to react. Greer lets out a barking laugh at whatever Yasha’s face is showing, then turns away to rifle through the cupboards and continues.
“What, you thought the guards in Rexxentrum would not happily describe you to a grieving parent? Like Ema was the first person I’d lost. Every generation thinks they discover love and heartbreak, with barely a thought of what might have come before.” Greer says, with an extremely dry bit of humor that reminds Yasha strangely of Essek.
They’ve grabbed some crackers and cheese out from somewhere, and set them rather forcefully on the table, then gestures towards Yasha to eat their fill. Yasha does as she’s told. Just as she’s slicing the cheese with the tiniest knife Yasha has ever seen, Greer leans forward and says lowly, “You think I would allow my only grandchild to hang off you if I thought you were a danger?”
“I didn’t think much about it at all.” Which was true. She couldn’t get herself to understand what she should do so she ended up ignoring it entirely.
Greer snorts.
“Do I remind you of her?”
Greer breaks a cracker in half and then eats it, giving Yasha an unimpressed look. “No. She was nothing like you. She was loud and joyful and made friends wherever she went. Now, let’s quit these foolish questions, you’re here for a reason. Are you finished with the tea?”
Yasha nods, and hands over her cup and plate over to Greer. Then she goes toward the wooden bench, approaching the giant loom as if it were a moorbounder.
“No, don’t touch that. I had to sell my family bed to afford it, and you could probably pay for the damages, but I don’t want to deal with any more of your guilt. Sit here, and put this on, wide part on your back.” Greer says, motioning towards another part of the floor and handing her an odd thick belt.
Her people had weaved; of course they had. Nothing like Greer’s complicated loom, heavy and wide and impossible to move. Their weaving had been thin and light and could be done in the evening after a long day’s walk by quick fingers. She had watched some of them take their brightly colored yarn and move it lighting quick, back and forth, turning their bone tablets to make the yarns move up and down.
She remembers playing with the bone weaving tablets once, running her fingers along the grooves in wonder until it had been taken away from her.
“These aren't for you, young one. Look at your hands - already so large and strong. You’ll be a great warrior one day, and have no use for such silly things.” They had meant it to be kind, but all Yasha had heard is that she was destined to create death, not beauty. And it had seemed true for so long, she never thought to question the wisdom of their words.
Greer doesn’t have any bone cards, but they aren’t having them use their giant loom, either. They unfurl a set bundle of smooth sticks connected by thread and hook one side of the wall. Then they turn their attention to Yasha, making a few quick adjustments to her belt, and wrap the ends around one of the sticks.
It’s not all that different from what her tribe had used, once upon a time. Just larger. The repetitive movements remind her of sword practice when she was young. Greer coaches her, teaching her to lean forward and back, how to keep the edges tidy and the tension right, then after a period of watching and a curt nod leaving her alone. Yasha could hear them moving in the background with their own tasks, but mostly she focuses on the motions; move the shed, lean forward, move the shuttle, lean back, press the weaving down. She only comes back when Greer says that they should eat and drink.
Her legs ache a little - she’s not used to sitting for so long. The meal is as quiet as the first, but more comfortable for it.
“You sold your bed?” Yasha asks, eventually.
Greer shrugs. “Too large for one person. Took as much room as that loom - could only fit one or the other.”
Yasha notices the straw mattress on the floor near the fire - another smaller one hung in the rafters for storage. If the bed had been as large as the loom, it would have been meant for five or six people. She thinks about how Col’s father had talked about Greer, and how often Greer shows up at the Lucky Fish.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she says, in response.
Greer looks at her, and then at the hook holding Yasha’s weaving. It would be a simple thing to roll it up and carry it back to the house, to find a place to tie the other end to. It looked like it had been made to be carried.
They nod slowly, understanding. “Tomorrow, then.”
There comes a point in every deep winter where people are compelled to leave their houses, no matter how cold it is outside, no matter how warm their beds or enjoy their company. Resist for too long, and you end up running out into the snow with only your underthings - if that.
Zemnians, having dealt with cold winters since the Calamity ended, have realized this and had set up a few festivals to give people something to do besides run screaming into the snow - they could at least run screaming into the snow together, and do it on a frozen lake.
Or at least this was Angus’s version of the events; though as he describes it to Yasha, he also apologizes for implying that running around screaming wasn’t a perfectly good hobby.
All in all,the festival seems like a great time to get the rest of the Nein to finally visit.
Beau gives Caleb the itinerary to send to everyone else, mostly because if it’s coming from Caleb, Veth is far more likely to follow it. This also lets Beau give the Cobalt Soul advance notice about the group planning to teleport.
Which means that they never use the teleportation circle.
Instead, either Caleb or Essek (they both blame the other) decide it would be faster to just teleport everyone directly to the lake. Only, neither one had been there before. Essek teleports them to a mountain, then a place called Whitestone, where they spend a little bit of time discussing their visit with some armed guards, and then a little more time discussing Veth’s attempts to steal their rifles.
Being forcibly searched has the side benefit of reminding Caleb that he’d actually borrowed Beau’s writing tablet, and they use that to teleport directly to their house, just as Yasha and Beau are planning on heading out.
Even with all of the mishaps, they had ended up being right on time, something Caleb points out to Beau at the first opportunity.
Then he Shapechanges into a giant amber roc so Beau can’t respond to him and motions for them all to get on his back. Essek casts invisibility so that they don’t disturb the neighbors, and then they take off; the dots of houses and winding roads through the trees looking more idyllic from the skies.
The frozen lake is the same one that Soren took her to, back at the beginning of winter. But now there’s a section for ice skating, ice sculptures, booths and stalls that offer hot chocolate and tea, contests, kite flying, and a full band in a small tent. The Nein scatter on the ice, as each seems to spot something else calling to them.
Col finds Yasha before she can do anything else, and drags her to all of his favorites: some metal wires that allow visitors to hear the vibrations of the ice, sleds that are shaped like trout, a winding skating path that’s coated in Dancing Lights, then gets her to buy them cocoa from a mug that’s shaped like a boot. He’s making noises about another round of trout sledding when a pale haired teenager walks up, announces herself as Col’s cousin, and whisks him away to be with the rest of their clan.
She finds Beau and Luc inspecting a giant ice castle on the shore, talking about how they’d scale it. Not that far from them, there’s a familiar looking elven woman looking at them.
“Did either of you steal anything from anybody?” Yasha asks.
Beau and Luc’s twin looks of outrage are pretty funny, though Beau’s melts once she sees the woman staring at her.
“We didn’t do anything - that’s Alys,” Beau says. Yasha has no idea who that is. “You know, the person who sold us our house? Wonder what’s she doing here?”
“Oh, you know her? Tell her that she dropped this,” Luc says, handing Yasha a small bag and then runs away.
Yasha waves sheepishly at Alys in recognition.
They catch up, which is apparently what one does in this situation. Alys talks about her travels, Beau talks about the Cobalt Soul, and Yasha adds a few stories about Pocket Bacon, the woods, and killing rabbits. She’s not sure whether or not she should talk more about the house, or if she should talk less.
Eventually Alys finally asks, “I was wondering - did you keep any of Ingrid’s things?”
Yasha and Beau look at each other, not sure how to respond. Eventually, Beau decides to take point. “Some of them - why?”
Alys turns to Yasha. “I know you offered before, and I refused, but there’s something I think I left behind…”
“Not the plates,” says Yasha.
“Gods no. There were a couple of figurines by the bed. I think - I think I’d like to have them.”
There’s emotion in Alys’ voice that even Yasha could read. Grief, and bravery - the sort that takes years to appreciate, the bravery that’s harder than fighting a dragon. The willingness to face the harder emotions, and sift through them to see what remains.
She’s not sure if it would be helpful for Yasha to introduce Alys to Caleb and Essek, or if that would just deter Caleb and Essek from doing whatever they’re doing. Or if it had been the same sort of thing between Alys and Ingrid in the first place.
“Yeah, they’re still there,” Beau says, and Yasha realizes she never responded. She nods, belatedly.
“Come back with us. If you don’t mind. You don’t have to stay, but you can pick up the figurines,” Yasha says quickly.
“That makes the most sense,” Alys says with a sturdy nod. “Come get me when you’re ready.”
“Ah, the shapechange was only the once, and I believe we have used up all of our teleporting for the day except for one,” Caleb says when they all gather an hour or so later. “I can take all but two of you. Would you like to polymorph?”
Alys frowns. “I think I know the way better as an elf. I’ll just walk back.”
“I’ll go with her,” Yasha offers. “Also as a person.”
She’s still so grateful for their home, and feels some kinship with this woman who had spent so much time there. Even if it was begrudging, and she disliked the neighbors, and didn’t want to keep anything - they had cared for each other enough that Ingrid had left her the house, and Alys seems to know the way like she’s walked that path a thousand times before.
So they walk, and Yasha steers clear of stories of the house, and instead focuses on the circus and some of the Dolarov - places they’d traveled, sights they’d seen. Alys responds with some of her own stories and adventures, and a few stories about Bryce when they were a child. She seems to like the road - she chose it deliberately, something that it would never have occurred to Yasha to do. Like choosing to breathe.
They manage to make it back to the cottage before sunset, plenty of different pairs of boot tracks in the snow letting Yasha know that the rest of the Nein had gotten to the cottage first.
Alys stops in her tracks, and Yasha looks back questioningly.
“Sorry, it’s just - so different.”
Yasha looks at the house again. There’s all of the stone statues she’d purchased from the market, half covered in snow. The punching bag on the porch, the swing near the rock garden. The goose was wearing the Beau robes for the holiday, but it's missing now - she wonders if Beau or Veth stole it. Yasha doesn’t think that dick was on the porch stairs before, either.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“You’re allowed to make changes, it’s just. I wasn’t expecting this place to ever change.”
“No, I get it. There’s a lot more changes inside, are you ready?”
Alys starts to nod, then catches herself. She takes a breath and closes her eyes. “Yeah. Now I am.”
The noise level inside is as loud as Yasha has ever heard it. Cordula is there with Caleb and Essek, all three of them staring at the oven.
“Ah, so there are two enchantments - one to keep the temperature steady, another to create a small pocket dimension,” Caleb explains, peering inside.
“Who did you say enchanted this?” asks Essek.
“I don’t know - Ingrid would never tell me,” said Cordula, a little sulkily.
“It’s fine, it’s fine - you’ll want to make sure you’re careful cleaning around these sigils, but it’s perfectly sturdy otherwise. It’s just . . “ Caleb frowns. “Inefficient. I’m sure I could.”
“Caleb. I do not think Beauregard and Yasha invited us to their home so we could tinker with their stove’s enchantments.”
“Ja, I know. But they have it so the dimensional space is altered before the heating charm takes place, meaning that the heating charm is covering a larger space. All I need to do is switch the order to free up some energy, which will make for a larger extradimensional space and ... hmm.”
Cordula is looking at Caleb and Essek with open wonder and amazement. “You mean this could be an even better oven?”
“Caleb Widogast, you are not an enchanter.”
“The theory is simple, practically elementary,” Caleb argues.
Cordula interrupts them. “You could remove the oven? Even with the weight? It’s so heavy!”
Essek smiles, the way he does when people bring up gravity. “Ah. That would be no issue. One of my specialties is making things lighter.” He allows himself to float for Cordula’s appreciation.
Cordula, however, seems unwilling to be distracted. “And the hole in the roof from removing it?”
“Fabricate and Mending,” says Caleb.
Cordula frowns and furrows her brows, the way she does when a pastry collapses and she doesn’t know why. “No, the oven should stay here. I don’t want - it should be here.”
Caleb gives her an odd look. “Ah, no. We were not planning on taking the oven - I was going to take a few sketches away, that would be more than sufficient.”
“Oh.” Cordula looks stumped.
Yasha suddenly feels a tugging on her wrist. She turns back to see Alys, gesturing with her head towards the bedroom door. Oh right, they were here for a reason.
Yasha opens the door only to find Torbin standing right in front of her, stock-still. “Oh, hello!” she says, voice an octave higher than usual. “What are you doing?”
“I was told to be very still, that I was too skinny to be any good at this but that I’d do in a pinch?’ says Torbin.
With that, Veth pokes her head out from behind Torbin’s thigh. “Is she gone? Is it safe?”
“Cordula’s still in the kitchen, but she’s distracted - you should be able to make a run for it now,” says Alys.
“I’ll watch for my moment. You coming, honey?” She says to Yeza, who is quietly fiddling with something in Beau’s desk chair. He shakes his head, and Veth chances a look out the open doorway.
“I just don’t like parties much,” says Yeza. “I hope you don’t mind, it was the quietest spot.”
“Oh no, it’s fine. I get it,” says Yasha, then looks around the room. Alys is waiting impatiently. Torbin still hasn’t moved. “Uh. This is Alys, she’s picking up a figurine. Alys, this is Torbin and Yeza, Veth’s husband. Veth’s the one who just snuck out of here.”
“We grew up in Felderwin; she’s had some bad experiences with small town sorts,” and Alys nods knowingly.
Torbin thaws and turns around to look at Yeza in amazement. “Wait, are you Yeza Brenatto?”
Yeza raises his hand and gives a little chuckle and a wave. “Uh, yeah, that’s me! You … seem really happy about that?”
“I’ve read your research on different types of manure based on feed and their soil nutrient content - it’s fascinating work!”
“Oh, uh, thanks! It’s nice to know that someone appreciated it!”
“No looking at my husband that way in a bedroom!” Veth cries back, and then looks out again into the hallway. “Oh look, I nearly missed my chance.”
Veth vanishes into the hallway. Yeza gives an apologetic point out the door and an awkward smile at Torbin, then follows Veth out.
“I was really only in here for the cat? I think she got scared off with all of the commotion.” Torbin says. “Sorry if hanging out in your bedroom is weird.”
“I think Pocket Bacon is outside, you can try hanging out with him?”
Torbin quickly takes the suggestion, leaving Yasha and Alys in the room. Alys is looking over the furs and the quilt, Jester’s artwork on the walls, an adjustable side table that Soren made for them.
Yasha goes over to the windowsill. The small animal figures have been in the same place for the last year. “Take whichever ones you want. Except for the dog, that's mine.”
Alys looks over and selects a small cat statuette, slightly worn, and then quickly pockets it. “Thank you.”
“You could stay, if you’d like,” Yasha offers. “See more of the house.”
“No, thank you. I really can’t. It’s been … good. Seeing the place this way. And thanks for letting me take a little piece with me.” She checks her pockets again, as if making sure the statue is still there, then looks back up at Yasha. “I’ll give Bryce your regards.”
The Cat waits for Alys to leave to come out from under the bed, then hops onto the pillows and starts cleaning itself.
Yasha leaves her be. She goes to check on their spare room, the one that’s still a little empty looking - though the weaving hanging from a wall helps somewhat. Jester is in there, having stolen the goose from its typical place and making up a few more outfits for it, based on each of the Nein. It’s apparently time for Fjord’s goose outfit, because he’s taken off his coat and letting Jester inspect the detailing. Greer is in there too, looking like they’re sewing a few accessories by hand. They’re looking at Jester with the strangest, nearly naked expression on their face.
Yasha stops peeking in and goes out the back.
Beau is near the door, talking about something with Angus, Pocket Bacon circling between her, rolling around in the snow, and playing with Luc and Col at the side of the house. The kids look like they re setting up their own arsenal of snowballs from behind a snow embankment out near the raspberry bushes.
Caduceus and Soren are watching them, both of them sitting on the swing, their respective drinks (a mug of tea for Caduceus, some ale for Soren) in hand. The difference in height means that Caduceus is nearly folded over while Soren’s feet are just brushing the top of the snow. Caduceus shouts something about sight lines from where he’s standing. Luc nods and starts to build out the embankment a little further.
There’s an exclamation from behind her - Torbin has apparently found Yeza, again, and Yasha turns to see Yeza looking contemplative at Torbin’s expressive rant about beetles. And then, much further behind, she sees a pair of footprints in the snow, slowly making their way out to the road.
But then Beau calls to her and waves her over, and she turns away.
The locals take their time leaving that evening - long after it gets dark, the starlight supplemented both by Dancing Lights and a bonfire. Eventually, they head home, one by one, leaving only the Nein.
Well, also Yeza, and Luc, and Pocket Bacon.
Caleb checks for any stray children before summoning the tower - Col had been reluctant to leave, in the end. Luc passes out nearly the second he hits the warm tower air, and Yeza floats with his son up to their room, looking nearly ready to pass out himself.
The cats are quick with the cocoa, to Yasha’s relief. It’s nice to have an excuse to go outside, but she’s still not a fan of the cold. The Nein all drift towards the dining room, where there’s some small plates of fruits that seem even more rare during the cold. Yasha concentrates on the warmth from the mug in her hands for now, her cheeks burning a little now that they’re no longer outside.
Essek comes toward her from the side, floating just within her sightline. She thinks it’s so he doesn’t startle her. “I don’t think I had the occasion to tell you before, but congratulations on your home. It has changed for the better since the last time we saw it - more you.”
“Thanks. It’s good, but a lot, you know?” Something about the warmth after so much cold and the reunion of her friends after so much time apart makes her want to open up. Essek just raises his eyebrows in a question. “I just. I never had a home that I didn’t have to move before. There’s so many things and chores and they’re all different than before. It’s nice, but I don’t really know what to do. I’m glad I’ve had Beau.”
“I mean, I went from not being able to touch anything to dorm life, didn’t really prepare me for dealing with all of this shit.” Beau says, putting her arm around Yasha’s waist. “No that you can’t feel overwhelmed, but I don’t know what’s going on either.”
“Ah, hm. Perhaps we can try to swap stories. It can be difficult to be limited to what you can carry on your body, or to see it all disappear between spells.” Essek’s soft smile looks a little sad.
“You know you can always keep whatever you like at my home. Besides Echo, of course,” Caleb says, referring to their now nearly-full grown cat. He lightly touches Essek’s elbow to get his attention, then turns to Yasha, more quietly. “It has been a very long time for me, also.”
There’s more questions that Yasha wants to ask there - about how it feels to be in this place, if he’d celebrated anything like the frozen lake festival as a child. But the spirits seemed too high to bring them down right now. Maybe later.
Fjord chimes in with a, “Can’t say that I’ve had a chance to own things with the sailing life or the orphanage.” And then looks over to Jester, who shakes her head.
‘The Lavish Chateau is wonderful and nice but Bluud took care of all of the house stuff and chores.”
“Am I the only one who grew up in a normal house and has one now?” Veth asks, looking around at each of them.
Caduceus raises his hand. “I would think –”
Veth interrupts him before he can get any further, “You lived in a creepy bone orchard where your family has lived for hundreds of years, that doesn’t count.”
Caduceus shrugs philosophically, not looking so much like he agreed as much as like he didn’t want to argue the point. Next to her, Essek looks like he’s about to say something and then decides against it.
“Speaking of the Orphanage, and not having a stable home,” Fjord says, just loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the room. “I would like to ask for your help.”
The plan is, apparently, centered on Fjord’s old orphanage in Port Damali. He and Jester (and Kingsley, after a great deal of protest that Jester insists is a show) have spent the better part of the year gathering contacts, information, proof of their misdeeds and potential homes for the younger children and maybe spots on ships for those who were ready to leave. “So, uh, wait, are you thinking we take the children?” Beau asks.
Something in Yasha’s body cracks open. She’d never thought it would be a possibility before - she knew she never wanted to become pregnant, knew that she didn’t have a tribe that was strong and safe enough to take on orphans, knew she was for the sword and not the cradle.
She thinks back to the bone weaving card, of being told that she’d be good for killing, all those years ago. What other dreams had died unspoken that day? She’s great a killing things, but maybe she could be both - have both. Maybe the child would be a good friend for Col, or maybe they’d be as different as Greer’s daughter had been to Yasha. Maybe…
“Oh no, I was wondering if you would like to help with the raid.”
Oh.
Fjord clears his throat, then looks over, his voice pitched much higher, “I wouldn’t ask you to take on so much responsibility. Though, if you would like, you can?”
Yasha blinks, and tries to react naturally. She takes a sip from her mug, only to realize that she’d dropped her arms and the last of the cocoa was spilling onto the floor. Some cats were already busying themselves to clean it up.
“I think we should probably have a talk about the kids thing later. But we’re in for the raid,” Beau says, and Yasha nods numbly and focuses on the fight for now.
Later that night, just before they get into bed, Beau says “kids, huh?”
“I never thought about myself as parent.” It’s the easiest part to admit.
Beau sighs and sits on their bed, looking up into the mirror. “Yeah, me neither.”
“But, I kind of like the idea.”
“Yeah, I got the idea that you liked it.”
“Was I that obvious?”
Beau smiles. “A little.”
Yasha takes a moment to sit beside Beau.
“I think we could do it, at least together.”
“Hey, I’ve seen you with Col, I think you’d be great at it.”
“And - I want to. It’s what you’re supposed to do, you know. In the wastes. If you’ve got enough to handle the stragglers and you find them, you’re supposed to bring them in. It’s what happened to me.”
Beau doesn’t say anything, she just leans into Yasha.
“Would we need to do anything?”
“What do you mean?” Yasha can feel Beau’s head moving to look up at her, even as she doesn’t remove her face from Yasha’s arm.
“Would we need to get married? To get kids - not that I’m proposing or not proposing or…” Yasha gives up and flumps onto the bed, feet still on the floor, grabbing to cover her face with a pillow. She briefly wishes that Beau still had telepathy, it’d be easier than words. “With the Dolorav children wouldn’t be given to non-bonded pairs.”
Beau follows her lead and pulls the pillow from her face, before giving Yasha a quick peck. “You know most of your friends think that we’re married already, right? Col tells everyone that I’m your wife for some reason. But, uh, we wouldn’t need to get married to have a kid.”
“Oh.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t get married anyway. Not much would change. We could just get rings.” Beau thinks about it for a second. “Oh shit no, Jester would kill us both. And she can’t be distracted right now. We better wait until after Fjord’s plans are finished to bring it up.”
“I still worry that we won’t be good at it. I don’t want to be like the Skyspear.”
Beau leans up to kiss her again. “Hey, yeah, no I get it. I don’t want to be my dad either. But maybe that’s a start? And we’ve figured out this peaceful life so far, we can figure out the rest.”
Yasha nods, her hair pushing against the mattress. “We’d have to clear up the spare room.”
“Yeah, maybe move your weaving to our room. You’ve done a pretty good job cleaning up, though. You know what? If we get another, we might need more space.”
Yasha thinks back to their first time seeing their house - how massive it felt, how it seemed like they would never be able to fill it. She thinks about staying long enough that she might outgrow it - at least in its current form. Maybe Soren would consider a second floor, or an addition. Some place for people to grow up in, maybe even raise their own children, if they want. She allows herself to dream of it, even as she passes into sleep.