Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once upon a time you were my everything

It’s clear to see that time hasn’t changed a thing

So just what do you think could ever take you off my mind?

Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark

For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

          There is a woman following him, who keeps running her shins into his tail. He can’t fault her for this because it is invisible, after all; but she doesn’t seem to be learning from the experience and that he does find fault with. Even with these crowds.

          This competition drew all sorts into the city. Mortals congregating beyond reckoning, either here for the race or the celebration. Fairfolk with reality rippling like a mirage around them - unknowable how many of those there are. Some Dragon-blooded, in elemental pentads, family teams, or with coteries of mortals. Other Lunars, mostly in packs; seeing him, they wait for more in his party before scrutiny turns to suspicion or curiosity when it’s clear he’s running the challenge alone. The few who are also lone in the crowd nod in passing before moving to find friends or other Exalts to form teams.

          A settling sense of disorientation comes from the heavens; he stops, perplexed (the woman behind nearly falls again, swears and finally moves around him). Head and shoulders above the rest, faces blur under his gaze, except — there, those women talking on a bench. Something nearly familiar, but... The one facing him shifts and her gaze tracks across his for a moment, livid color flaring at her brow where her caste mark might show - Undead. Like as not denizens of Hell both alike. Here for the prize, providing a presence of darkness which the others feel, causing all to falter, to move themselves far away from them. The embarassing loophole in Luna’s code of survival at all odds; why wither in a failed vessel? Better to just stay dead, let the cycle of reincarnation take place and start again. He would avoid them as well, given the choice. So why this almost feeling?

          It must be nothing. One of the Fairfolk having a go at him in his relative isolation. A couple dart in front of him startling him from his considerations, the boy dragged along laughing while his lover runs lightly through the crowd. On his other side, a panther-eared Lunar ghosts past him, his friend a shadow beside. His friend who, when the light hides him a moment later, reveals himself Solar.

          His throat tightens. The Solars are returning. They have begun to come back. The sins of the past, the mistakes — all was to be set in motion a second time. There would be no failure, no -

          This time, grief stays at bay managed by a near desperate hope. The prize for this race is a wish, unlimited. An unlimited wish can atone. An unlimited wish can set everything right again. It will set all to rights.

          That sense of disorientation while turning away; what is causing that? Not Fairfolk, as he searches for it. It’s the Hellborn. One of them causing this, or perhaps Fate herself is telling him to look again for reasons hidden close to her breast. He pushes past three stalls and a group of Sun-chosen — why are there suddenly so many here?

          The dead woman sees him again, gestures to her friend do you know him? and her friend turns to see. Skin so white it is salt and nearly prismatic, dead and lovely enough to turn heads as some of them are, eyes like fresh, wet blood, seeing him as stranger. But the shape of her face - mirrored memory reincarnated in flesh.

          Destiny’s compass settles.

Impatience claws into his throat, sets his heart racing. It’s her. No moments of dashed dreaming, this time. It’s her, but why is she so pale? Why doesn’t she at least recognize him? Anger he would have expected, disappointment, or betrayal, or anything but not just...

          He pushes past the first man easily. He must have been following her here, but for how long? How long had that kindly, gentle pull been guiding him, that this preordained meeting might take place? But while Fate has been kind enough to let him see, she now teases him by closing the crowd between and when he looks up from passing by a mother with her three small children she’s gone. Her friend is staring at him, tiny and militant, the three piece suit perfectly straight and smooth. He comes out the side of the crowd close to her, tastes the air.

          Death and ink on this one.

          Death and white roses lingering.

          “Who are you?” this dead one snaps. “What are you doing here?”

          “Where did she go?” he asks, trying to find that feeling of needled-North.

          “She didn’t want to talk to a random stalker. Why are you looking for her?”

          The feeling still diffuse. Out of practice. Fate would never tease him this way, needlessly; he just has to breathe and let it guide him again. It’s only right that this moment would finally come; it wouldn’t have been proper to meet her again in front of this one. This one is shrill. The suit is at odds with the weapon he can see now, a bone scythe rotating at the end. Typical weapon of the undead. Her briefcase is beside her. It’s likely just as full of nasty surprises. This wouldn’t be the way She would want to begin again, so of course she isn’t here anymore.

          “Hey! I’m talking to you here!”

          “I don’t care. I’m not looking for you, I’m-” There. A elucidating caress and the wind change.

          “Hey!” The hellspawn small enough to push aside regardless of weapon.

          An alleyway, dark and muddy and made of stone, mazelike; and another, and there she is again. She’s leaned her back against the wall, hair rippling loose now in a curtainy cascade of black, longer than he remembered. It’s to the ground, glossy and dark like obsidian. It had been lighter, then.

          Soreness in his throat. Stress tensing the vocal chords. Words escaping him as they always have.

          “Hey - Hi. Can— can we talk?” Smooth. How long? Thousands of years to think of the perfect thing to say, and yet again reduced to a child’s vocabulary.

          “And what ought I to say to an unknown man who has followed me through the opening festivities to corner me in an alley?” The voice is wrong. Even when she was losing herself, she had never sounded so... bitter. Something as unsettling to his ears as the heavy sickening honey in her scent, as her skin in his sight. But despite all of these things, all the clear reasons this can’t be her, fate can’t be wrong. Then again, time has changed him. Why wouldn’t it change her also? It could be okay. It could be good. Why try to find fault? It’s her. It’s actually her.

          “Look. I just want to talk to you. That’s all.”

          “Charmed, I’m sure. I’m not particularly interested in what you want. I’m leaving; find someone else to corner.” Wrong smile, too tight, and wrong movement, tossing her hair aside. He can follow, perhaps out of the alley she’ll be willing to at least entertain the idea, or he can make her friend tell him where to meet her under less complicated circumstances and explain —

          She falls. Trips on stone, or air, or nothing. As reflex he catches her with his tail wrapped around her chest, same as always after several lifetimes’ absence. The netted and twisted up controlled guilt slips loose and he can’t walk away.

          “Please, just hear me out. I need you —” don’t stop there, idiot,” I need you to listen. I know you. We knew each other a very long time ago, and-”

          “Oh, truly? Set me down, then; shall I listen while you remind me when?” Levelly asked, but mocking all the same. He lets go when he’s certain she’s steady on her feet again. She doesn’t seem to be able to see his tail, as she once had, and he doesn’t want her to fall again.

          “You-”

          “Yes?” Her eyes widen ever so slightly. “I?”

          “We - we were close - do you really not remember any of it?”

          “We’re very close now,” she purrs, her hand on his chest, pressing her advantage as he tries to think how to answer. “Very close.” There’s a glint of metal and the very slightest movement of her fingers, to give him warning; it’s enough, after years of being hunted, for him to catch her other wrist before she can drive the sharpened kanzashi into his neck or heart. He isn’t entirely sure if she herself knows which she had been trying for, but she hadn’t dropped the smile until the moment that the metal fell from her fingers.

          “I’m not trying to hurt you,” he says, coiling his tail around her again so that he doesn’t have to hold her wrists. “I swear on my life. Please. Let me explain. I just need you to listen. That’s all.”

          Quiet as she considers him. Her fingers wrapped around one wrist as if it hurt; he can feel the chill her skin left against his palm and even more worrying the absence of a heartbeat or blood flowing in her arteries. Her stillness absolute.

          A roar from the crowds outside. Opening rituals must be beginning, but what could a wish matter now? she is here, even if she doesn’t remember, and even the subtle suspicion of wrongness (none of the other Solars had returned this way) can’t stifle the jubilant panic of his heart.

          “Very well,” she says. “I will hear you. You will explain to me how it is that you think you know me. But I will not do it here. I know alleyways very well, but I prefer to watch the people who will act as a safeguard against any further untoward behavior. Is this amenable? Or will you continue to hold me here against my will?”

          A ghost; I ordered thou thus; how then dost thou manifest such a desire against my will?

          “Of course,” he says, and uncoils. “Please, lead the way. I will go wherever you are most at ease.”

          A harsh laugh, but it sounds of amusement instead of pain or anger. “I sincerely doubt that. Tell me your name. We will at least be strangers no more when Hearts asks me about you.”

          Shedding the name others used like an old skin, he smiles, a tiny space of relief fitting to open his ribs. “You always called me Virgil.”

          “How interesting.” The edged smile graces her face again, though it still doesn’t reach her eyes. “I have never entertained a Virgil before.”

          They reach the end of the alley. She glances down, wipes the smallest smudge from the white brocade of her outermost kimono, and twists her hair up, knotting it four times before driving the kanzashi through the center to hold her hair away from her face. The movements are practiced, controlled; he sees her shoulder blades move, finds it strange to see her like this. Bared skin beyond propriety. So nearly vulnerable, raw sensuality as obvious entrapment. He looks away, sees others in the crowd who can’t seem to, staring slack-jawed as she glides through the people like a pale shark through a reef.

          “They all would do whatever I asked.” she comments lightly, over her shoulder. “Was that true for your mistress then as well?”

          “Yes,” he says, slight unease returning despite his best efforts.

          But all she answers is, “Fascinating.”

          Children dart through the crowd tossing glowing orbs back and forth. Moments later, a youth with a messenger bag appears, handing out inert orbs that flare to life when a bystander touches them.

          The youth offers one to him; “Would you care for one, my lord?”

          “Whatever are these for?” she asks, turning to the messenger.

          “They’re part of the contest, my lady...” the boy trails off when he turns to her, breath nearly audibly escaping his lungs. Her smile has grown dazzling, a shadowy darkness like a cloud overhead causing her to light up all the more. She steps close to him, takes his hands in hers. “You were going to offer one for myself as well, were you not?”

          The boy nods, slowly, the pulse in his throat leaping; swallows and licks his lips in answer to the full intent of her attention. The messenger bag shifts lower on his shoulder.

          She drops her voice conspiratorially and standing beside her, Virgil hears claws in wet silk. “But you want me to take the prize more than any of the others, don’t you.” 

          The boy nods again, relaxed and enticed. He isn’t even sure the boy even hears the rest of the crowd.

          “You could give your bag to me. I won’t tell. And you could say you’d given them all away, which isn’t even untrue. Would you do that, for me?”

          The boy smiles, nodding, takes the bag from his shoulder and gives it to her. “If ever you need luck, my lady, I know it will come to aid you.”

          “Sweet boy. Run along now, we wouldn’t want anyone else to know our little secret.”

          The boy takes off running, crashes headlong into a vendor’s tent pole and stands there dazed while the keeper and his child berate him.

          Virgil looks back to her, but she’s already turned her back, the same calm gliding taking her away from the scene and back to her bench.

          “But-” he starts, hesitates watching the boy come to the attention of the small circle of potential customers who move past the tent with murmurs about the clumsiness, the overreaction, or the scene caused.

          “You may stay if you like,” she calls, looking over her shoulder as gracefully as any masterwork of sculpture. “I for one have no need. Follow if you will; or don’t.”

          He follows, but when the uncertainty rises again he can’t quite convince himself that all will actually be well.

          She tosses the satchel beneath her seat carelessly, but even when she turns and sits casually every gesture is exquisite. He sits more carefully, trying to think where to start. Being near again is intoxicating. He hasn’t felt so certain, so stable for a very long time. The current of wrongness is strong, but the whole is a reconciliation of fractured pieces and relieving. His lungs fill with air properly again.

          “So.” She draws her fingertips along the wall behind, wrist turned outward and forearm exposed. “Virgil.” She tilts her head, oblique. “You are a Chosen of Luna, yes?”

          “Yes,” he says, startled from the beginning he expected.

          “And your Mistress is dead; but you are not. Was this a recent affair?” It is careless, disinterested in tone.

          “No,” he says, a burning turmoil of questions trying to bubble through. Where to start? “No. She - you - were murdered. A very long time ago, during the Usurpation.” Where have you been for so long?

          “Ah yes; the famous Usurpation.” She tosses the word aside, as if it is meaningless. “Ought I suppose that you telling me this is a sign that you were not part of that planning committee? Because it would have been simpler to make another go of protecting the world from dangerous chosen when we were back in the alleyway.”

          “No, I-” She’s enjoying watching the control reassert itself every jab. How quickly she has moved toward implacable needling. This is just how this conversation will be. “I was not part of the plans, except as a name on the list to be cleansed.”

          “Yet I take it that your memory is a sign that you escaped. Turned tail and ran. Did she know you’d abandoned her to her fate? To save your own life?”

          His knuckles whiten on the stone, wrapped around the seat. “I didn’t abandon her.” Deep breath. In and out. Give her nothing more. “She-You made me leave. You made me run as far as I could from your side, the same as you made that boy give you his bag.”

          She rolls her eyes, leans her head back. “Does that story help you sleep at night, Virgil? That your mistress sent you away?”

          “It’s the truth.”

          “Whatever it is you need to tell yourself. It’s not folly to acknowledge that love leads to loss; it’s fairly universal. Many of your fellows might even ask why you didn’t tear out her throat yourself, since you paint her quite a little nightingale. What was her name?”

          “Beatrice.” Softness, mellowing, a loosening of the coils around the heart.

          “Beatrice?” That stirs her; she turns toward him with some humor lighting her smile towards a grin. “Surely that wasn’t the name Heaven gave her. It’s too... simple, for their tastes.”

          “Sol named her as Dreams of the Empyrean.”

          “There it is.” She leans back against the wall again.

          “What am I to call you?” he asks, trying to level his tone, keep need from creeping in. She would take it for weakness and laugh.

          “Living poetry of a sort; Hearts calls me Sonnet, so why not that? It riddles the thing inside itself, which pleases me, and is simple enough for anyone to commit to memory.” She crosses her legs with a sharp motion. “One hopes, anyway.”

          “Sonnet. Who is Hearts to you?”

          “Hells thaw, will you protect me from companions in honor of your mistress? She is often a friend, though at times an entertaining foe; her name fills a brief, that concise summation of cases won for her master (may he forget where all of his plots begin) and I enjoy the read on a slow morning.”

          “Her master?”

          “You may ask her yourself, I have no interest in spreading word for her for free any more than I have, and I grow tired of this.” Her arm drops from the wall to her lap.

          “Who is your master, then, if not Sol?”

          She lifts her chin. “I serve no master. But you are going to have to work much harder at this game if you want any more of an answer to that question.” She sighs. “Tell me who your mistress was, or leave me be. Both, if you must that.”

          “She’s you - or, you’re her - and I’m not like to leave you again.”

          Thoughtfully she turns to regard him. “Let us assume that I was your late mistress. If I ordered you from me again, now, would you obey?”

          “No.” The emphatic voicing of this truth is irrevocable. Never again.

          “Despite my wishes?”

          “I will not fail you a second time.”

          She sighs, deeply so that the entirety of her chest rises and falls; until now, he realizes, she has not needed to do so when not speaking.

          “Then start at the beginning. Since I will not be rid of you, you will do me the courtesy of explaining what it is I will be compared to.”

          “You were Chosen, before I was-”

          “No. Begin with the day that you met her. Before. We will work from there.”

I’ll never forget you - You’ll always be by my side

From the day that I met you - I knew that I would love you til the day I die

And I will never want much more

and in my heart I will always be sure

I will never forget you

And you’ll always be by my side

til the day I die

I cannot really say how I entered there, so full of sleep was I at the point when I abandoned the true way. But

when I had reached the foot of a hill, where the valley ended that had pierced my heart with fear,

I looked on high and saw its shoulders clothed already with the rays of the planet that leads us straight on every path.

Then was the fear a little quieted that in the lake of my heart had lasted through the night I passed with so much anguish.

          Elgar gives me a gentle shove out the door. “You’d better get out now. Dad is going to be looking for you any minute. Go to Alec and bring home all of the black and gold you can from him for this -” he shoves a pouch at my chest, almost knocking me off the front step “- then run back as fast as you can. They’re going to be here any time so you’d better not screw this up. I’ll tell Dad where you are. Go!”

          He slams the door, and through it I already hear the shouting begin.

          “He just left, Dad! We needed more paint.”

          I crouch under the window, flat against the wall, to pass the open part of the workroom.

          “He didn’t clean your Mother’s shrine, Elgar, how could you let him leave?”

          “I’ll do it for him.”

          “He needs to work on making the space presentable. You need to work on keeping the business alive. Four generations of hard work is not going to end because my sons can’t keep the household running on a commission day!”

          I’ve heard this one before, so I take off down the street before the lecture can really begin. Elgar won’t truly appreciate the craft the way I can, and we both know it. Even though at eighteen he’s been apprenticed wholly for two years, and at fifteen I’m still running supplies here and there. Elgar has had little interest in finding proper inspiration to “fuel his work”.

          The streets are beginning to bustle even this early; there’s no end of inspiration for a hundred paintings or more, but nothing truly worth my time. A truly talented artist can draw beauty from anything, a kid with his donkey to the old crone cackling out the window at her neighbor, but to find the source of inspiration that requires no draw, no effort, that source of beauty that forces innovation and growth in a sheer effort to capture the slightest margin of grace, which brings the pigments to life and causes all to see the painting to wonder for as long as the canvas holds form - to find that muse, that source of constantly surpassed imagination given form. That is the true purpose of an apprentice. To truly capture the radiance and complexity of such intensity — that is the work of a master.

          “Good morrow, Cailen — do try to run into the corner again, you’ve missed it twice.” Alec is leaning over the counter, watching. His green eyes sparkle like darkened koi ponds, muddied by business and stirred up by humor.

          “It would be beneath my dignity,” I say, abruptly aware now of how close my hip is to the counter.

          He snorts. “It would be beneath your dignity. Of course. So what did they send you for this time? Have you started learning your lists yet, or are we still remembering?”

          No one has time to teach me to read, less now than when Mom was alive. It would be a waste of everyone’s time to send a list to Alec with me, since he can’t read either. But what would reading ever have to do with my painting career? All I need is an ample supplies and my own artistic sensibilities and keen eye for detail. The precise tint and hue, the-

          “Hey, snap out of it, kid. You gonna buy something, or not?” This is probably the third snap. Being the only local merchant who has access to the particular sort of supplies we need, he puts up with my susceptibility to daydreaming.

          “Oh! yeah. I need as much black and gold as you have - no, the lighter gold. And some of those brushes, the ones you just got in. The fine tip ones? from Nexus?"

          “About time,” he says, deftly and swiftly bottling the paints. “Your dad must be making up an important piece if he sent you to spend the extra jade script on my best. Anything you can share?”

          “That he is!” I look about theatrically before leaning in. I have to stand on the tips of my toes to reach across the counter and create the proper effect, but it’s worth it to whisper loud enough for the next person in line to hear, “We’re painting the local royalty, today. As it were. Those uppity folks from Aphelion Manor need to get their daughter to be looking presentable. Or something.” I wave my hand like I’m brushing away the thought. “I heard she never leaves the house. Dad might have to work hard to make this a good one.”

          Alec laughs. “You don’t say. So their family colors are gold and black, right?”

          “That’d explain the need for the paint, so yeah, probably. Why?”

          He shrugs, sets the second bottle of black on the counter, beside the gold. “No particular reason. Only,” he nods his head behind me, “that’d be their palanquin, wouldn’t it?”

          I turn to see the once crowded market street being parted before two groups of four men, casually carrying two palanquins. The long ornate vessels are decorated with all manner of gaudy fixtures, all with the distinct, popping colors of black and gold. Heavily embroidered curtains hide the occupants from sight.

          Ignis damn, that is definitely Baron Aphelion’s palanquin. And even though running late is commonplace for me, I cannot afford to be late today. Being late now would ruin my father’s reputation among the royals and that would not do well for business...

          “Alec! forget the brushes and just give me my change in jade coin!”

          “You sure, Cailen? These brushes are of the finest craftwork, and if you don’t use them to their fullest potential someone will ruin them for making up their face instead.” The temptation is pouring out of his mouth now, smooth as glass, the softness of the bristles flexing against his fingertip.

          “No- no, no! I need the coin — now please! — I have to be going!” Forget Dad, Elgar will never let me live this down.

          “Fine, fine, get going on then. I have my other customers.” He nods at the woman behind me as he drops the coin into my hand. I sweep the bottles off the counter, shove it into my sack and run. Normally I would be spending my father’s hard-earned jade on supplies. Some for the shop, and a couple extra for my private stash. It isn’t really stealing, so much as an investment in his son’s future studio business. He would probably give me the money if I asked, I know, but it’s just easier to do it this way. Besides. That extra money is about to become real handy.

          Times like these, I am glad to be scrawnier than most. I’m able to squeeze between the commoners who are all tightly packed on the sides to allow the palanquin through; watching with slack-jawed interest in the ornate decorations.

          Once I break to the street, I run alongside and chuck the jade in an arc over the palanquin so that it lands, scattered all over the road in front of the servants. The peasants decorating the sides change their slack-jawed stares into opportunistic greed and turn into a handsy, bent over mob, who grab for every piece of jade they can get.

          As for me, I take this opportunity to mourn the loss of what could have been new fine-tipped brushes and quickly sprint past the huddled masses. The distraught look on Aphelion’s servants is nearly worth the loss of those extra supplies. Perhaps I’ll immortalize this moment later on canvas so that I can look back and remember how dashingly smart I am. With the paints sparingly collected from the artisans in the South which glow in even the slightest light perhaps! Perfect for capturing the moment a deeply noble and clever up-and-coming artist gracefully avoids the responsibility of being shackled to the constraints of time and authority. Perhaps with the sun setting behind me to show the light is always brighter in my direction? Yeah. That’d make me feel better.

          I saunter up to the studio side of the house, winded but victorious, I feel a sense of satisfaction over my own cunning. Even Elgar wouldn’t have been able to get himself out of that spot, and he wouldn’t have done it so well even if he did. I enter the newly-painted door to find my father busily counting his brushes. He must be nervous; that is never good for one’s artistic spirit. Or so I’m told, anyway. He turns and once again I’m caught in his frustration in full force. His eyes are brown as birch wood, lighter now with tension. His brow is all furrowed and his eyebrows scrunched close enough that it nearly looks like a caterpillar trying to creep across a tree trunk.

          “Do you realize what time it is? Your brother and I have been trying to prepare for Aphelion’s portrait, waiting for you to bring crucial supplies back, while your own tasks have been unattended to. This is maddening. Truly maddening.” His pace is stern as he takes the supplies. Elgar behind him rubs his palm down his face. “I swear, if you had been late —”

          “You needn’t swear, master painter; we ran into a rather large gathering on our way here and were delayed. I’m certain it won’t be an issue for you?” Standing in the doorway behind me is a well-dressed woman with a quaint look on her face. Her black and gold clothes scream Aphelion. I really need to try to shut the door more often. My father’s face changes faster than I have ever witnessed from heated anger to polite host. He must really want this commission.

“Lady Sage, how good to see you! I apologize that you saw that. I was educating my son on the necessary manners of timeliness. Please, come in. There’s tea at the table, and seating for yourself and Her Ladyship.”

          She nods and steps aside, allowing two more newcomers into the workspace. The Lady of the House steps in, covered in stiff gold brocade, with gilded silk in a floating scarf over her arms, and more jewels than could feed us for a year on her fingers, her wrists, and in her hair in clattering strings. Sage offers her a hand as my father and Elgar drop immediately to a full low bow. After a hesitation I remember to as well.

          She sounds bored when she speaks. “You may rise. Aurora, please be careful to listen to what he says; we do want this to be a good portrait of you.” She looks to my father. “Where did you want her to stand?”

          “If the young lady would please come up here behind the gallery, we will ensure the perfect lighting, my Lady. Cailen,” his face and voice are still pleasant, but his eyes are hard. “Why don’t you welcome our guests and then help your brother set up the easel?”

          “Of course, Father,” I turn and bow deeply in the direction of the doorway and the last person to enter, crossing my leg in back for deeper effect. “Welcome to our home. We desire nothing but your satisfaction with our work.” Elgar coughs, and I add on “My lady” a second later than strict politeness demands.          

          Upon aligning myself that I might give her a parting smile, I blind myself in the rays of the sun. She steps from the threshold into the slightly dimmer settings and I see her clearly.

          She. Is. Remarkable.

          Gorgeous beyond compare. Her skin shows no sign of blemish or wear and is fairer than I have ever encountered, moon-gold as in the old tales. Truly she is careful to have avoided life’s normal beatings and stayed so well kept. Her hair, pinned up and dark smoothed rippling curling where it escapes braids as dark as burnt oak, held together with threads of pale gauze star-silver, indigoed red, plums at midnight, turquoise as midday, white and blue like truth in the hearts of fires. Her hands, as light and shifting as serpent tongues, quick and precise and ever so delicate against the frozen rest of her body. Her eyelashes as the hollows of the gibbous moon, delineating her gaze with feathered shadows, and — those eyes, oh those eyes! Clearly she is celestial in nature, to contain such storms inside so small a form. She is a contemplative woman, for even at this most important introduction, her thoughts are elsewhere - here, there, as fish in the shallows dart from shadow to shadow. She is taller than me, but not by much. Surely I will grow taller to better accommodate a proper kiss, as I know it to be my destiny to have that pleasure.

          I need her to notice me. I need to know more of her. I need-

          “Cailen! You need to set up the easel, already!” Father buries his fingers into my shoulder, guides me towards the far side of the room. “And for the love of Gaia, at least close your mouth if you must stare,” he hisses into my ear before offering her his hand to lead her to the place in the room where the light converges. It’s a clear reminder that I should focus on my responsibilities for this project, but that is unimportant now.

          What is important is her, my newly discovered muse — soul and substance of everything I desire. I will know more of her.

          Her smile to Father in thanks for his guidance shivers me, but then Elgar, the blind oaf that he is, pulls me from the room.

          “Just a thing.” He takes a breath. “A few things. If you value your skin or our business at all, never let Lord or Lady Aphelion actually see you look at her like that. You’re lucky Father caught you first. And if you ever want me to cover for you again, you will not be late as you were today.” He looks over his shoulder, steps just out of sight behind the door frame and takes a swig of some alcohol he has tucked away; but truly, if he had truly understood, he would not need anything to steady his hand.

          “Not a word,” he warns and turns back. “Oh,” he says, remembering. “You’re making the egg paints today. Dad has then set out for you in the kitchen. I would have helped you make them before they got here but-” he shrugs, “you were late.” And closes the door.

          Hours of grinding and blending portions together later, with my thoughts racing, Elgar comes in with a dry palette and begins to clean his brushes carefully.

          “Does Dad need my help? I have these ready, and the rest is mostly ready to go. I can take your place, I know what I need to do, truly-!”

          “It’s no use,” he says, blandly, setting my teeth on edge. “He saw you earlier and doesn’t want to risk it. It’s for your sake as much as anyone else’s. Not only do you not want her mother to see you, do you really want to present yourself as the kind of idiot who can’t even do his job, or are you going to act professionally? One of those things will bring her back. The other one you’ll likely be beaten for.”

          “Did she see me? Did she say anything?” “No, idiot. She’s talking to her mother in some other language right now. She barely knows father’s there.”

          Of course, she is well-versed and learned as well; her intellect must be very keen to be able to converse in so many tongues. “You have to let me see her again, just for a moment. I won’t make any noise, and I’ll swap you for dinner this week. Please? please-!”

          He sighs. “Dad’s going to kill me. Look, I’ll leave the door open just a hair when I go in. That’s it. Don’t push it, Cailen. Trust me, it’s not worth it. All Court women are out of our league. There’s no way you’re even in the same corner of Creation with that one. Try to just ride this out.”

          He brings back the new paint and true to his word he does leave the door behind himself open.

          Father has said something to make her smile again, but it is likely not the one he intended to see. It’s gone stale now, as she loses interest even in these mundane matters and turns her eyes upon the heavens towards loftier concerns. She fans herself absently, languidly, each movement as discreet as that of a dragonfly’s wing. What must she think?

          “Aurora! Focus,” her mother calls from her seat, and returns to eating a full bowl of summer strawberries with the other woman. How coarse a thing, to detract from heaven-sent contemplations.

          She returns to the present, the smile nearly painted on her face as it will be on canvas soon enough. No doubt my father will claim credit for its accuracy. Her fan rests open but stilled against her waist. But then - ah! Destiny must have whispered to her upon the flittering of necessity, she looks aside herself to the door!

          She sees me. I’m nearly faint with momentous portent. She sees, and the very lightest hint of heat along her cheekbones, the slightest tilt of her lips, she smiles at me. Her gaze penetrates to the marrow of my soul before she tears herself away, straightening her shoulders the tiniest amount.

          But how to wrest another such smile from her? It must be a subtle gesture, nothing crude or imperfect. And it must be private, for her eyes and no one else’s.

          I sink down, my back to the door and try to breathe.

          Too soon, far too soon she is excused from her duty and gathered by her hen-like mother and that vinegar-faced servant woman to return home. But even stiff from standing for several hours, she makes her gestures beautiful in simplicity, and while she takes my father’s hand in aid she presses no weight into his palm. The gesture itself she uses as a clever ploy to distract attention while she looks again for me and I feel the solemn sweetness descend into me once more, the fullness of the rays of her smile warming me before she is gone, and the workshop the uglier for her absence.

          Dad is in a much better mood after hours of paint staining his hands and a contract all but irrevocably his. He doesn’t even care when I come to watch him work, sketching swiftly from memory the way the shadows touched her, where the light began. A rough outline, to be given flesh and blood within six months. I can see now that this will never do to adequately express her presence upon the canvas. Even so, Dad is almost as susceptible to dreams as I am and spends a very long time after dark, using the lanterns to provide himself with additional time already towards this project.

          Elgar has to collect both of us for dinner. Father returns immediately to work afterwards, draping silk over the canvas to protect the surface, preparing and testing his brushes, ensuring there is enough paint in every color he might need.

          In our room, I take the paper I’ve saved up and try to put to paper instead the heavens of her gaze, the curve of her brow, the mercurial melting of her expressions and perhaps even capture the smallest ray of her radiance. It’s not good enough. Elgar comes to bed with paint flecks still in his hair. “I thought you might like to know - she’ll be back tomorrow for certain. If you’re very lucky maybe Dad will give you a second chance. Night, Cailen.”

          I shove the papers and charcoal back into the cache and lie on the mattress next to him, staring out the window into the light of the stars, less luminous than her presence, until I fall into dreaming.

Chapter Text

Now are you that Virgil, that fountain which spreads forth so broad a river of speech?

For this beast at which you cry out lets no one pass by her way, but so much impedes him that she kills him; and she has a nature so evil and cruel that her greedy desire is never satisfied, and after feeding she is hungrier than before.” 

No matter how many deaths that I die, I will never forget No matter how many lives I live, I will never regret There’s a fire inside this heart and a riot about to explode into flames Where is your God? Where is your God? Where is your God?

     She smirks. “Such a paragon, at so young an age. Are you certain your view was so unbiased as to be truthful? The eyes of Lovers often are belied with betrayals of truth.”

     He looks out into the crowd, watching the Sun-chosen as they move about. They’re the easiest to pick out of the crowd; the light favors their mood. “You were brilliant, then, but certainly no paragon. Try harder to remember. You can argue your flaws with me then.”

     “It is impossible to remember something that happened to someone else. Is this to become a guessing game?” Something stirs, repressed and mutilated. An awakening, a shard of uncomfortable truth. Hidden from him, she swallows it down, drowns the inclination in darkness. A usual habit, made harder by his presence. She would frown, examine the cause if she were alone. As it is, she shrugs.

     “I do not remember your mistress.”

     An imperfection, a moment of revival, of surrealism, renders this a lie.

     And all along I knew I had something special with you

The time was the beginning of the morning, and the sun was mounting up with those stars that were with it when God’s love first set those lovely things in motion.”

     Finally, after hours of hovering and fluttering, and mind-numbing babble about fashion and manners, I am allowed downstairs where Hashi hands me into the palanquin. I find it strange that this is included in his duties as steward; truth be told, I think he may be bending the rules, using some loophole. But I am glad at least that he is here. He slips me an orange unbeknownst to Sage, with a smile, and closes the tapestry curtains.

     If I could ride to the workshop without mussing my clothes I would be much happier, but this is impossible; I must seem perfect, for this painter to capture. I am not certain how much more preparation for perfection I can take.

     It is so frustrating to know that the entire world is outside such thin curtains! and I am carried along like an invalid or a child through town. One is not supposed to peek out to see the commoners, but every time I can I push the brocade just the slightest bit open. I have seen so many people I would love to speak to, to learn from; but I have also seen how they step aside for me and close ranks until a guard shouts at them to let Sage through. My status is a heavier dividing curtain, I suppose. At least the orange tastes sharp.

     When we arrive, Sage nearly rolls out of her palanquin to come and guide me out as if I needed the help. She smooths my hair where it has begun to shift out of place and snatches the orange peel from the cushions. I am certain someone will hear about this later.

     But we are here! The workshop, a test and a surprise all at once.

     What Cailen must think of all of this formality! I would speak to him if I could. Out of everyone, he has been the first truly genuine person I’ve met.

     That first day — there is a warmth in my cheeks and my chest to think of it. I have never felt myself anything but ordinary, and O! Whenever he is in the room, the day is more beautiful. I could stand for months like this if it meant I could talk to him.

     But today, once I have been settled and all the folds of fabric aligned properly for the effect of light and shadow, the master painter excuses himself; his eldest son takes up the brush. There is no sign of Cailen.

     The sigh that escapes me meets with Sage’s disapproval of course. But the window is nice; a different set of things to see than at home. Living here with the neighbors so close beside, their wall pitted enough that one could creep onto the rooftops in the night, with no one about. Breathing nightening wind-whispers, seeing the world bend toward sleep. Mice in woven-grass balled up nests, owls with lemon sour faces flying overhead, tyrant lizards and long-limbed wolves in the long grass and in the trees. My house, and the town from far away, must all be lit with brilliant starlit, starlike people and their lanterns passing through town as it begins to darken. Eventually it would be just lone sparks traveling nervously along, wavering with every second.

     Sage clears her throat; but for once the reproof isn’t for me.

     Cailen is suddenly there, rustling around behind her - cleaning, I think. I’m not certain I masked my startlement well, but his brother doesn’t say anything so I’ve at least recovered well.

     Cailen’s very professional, the slant of his spine says; but when I look again, he’s behind Sage making such faces that I have to try to focus on keeping the bland expression intact. When Sage tracks my gaze a moment later, he is back to innocently wiping down a palette for later use. As soon as she looks away, he starts again. He makes the most absurd expressions, cheeks puffed out, eyes crossed or winking, nose wrinkled, tongue lolling, his timing is perfect. I cannot help but laugh.

     I turn this into a cough. Sage raises a warning eyebrow. Smiling as I’m supposed to, the strange ‘enigmatic’ expression, I try my hardest not to give him away.

     But he persists! The imitations are the worst. Standing behind Sage, the impression would start me laughing or choking, so I steel my spine, try to think of sad things. Small animals left out in the cold. Starving children in Nexus. My sister’s funeral. But even this last is to no avail, the old pain startled from me by sheer good-natured effort. I resort to biting my cheek until the wretched taste of blood makes me nauseous and helps ground me towards keeping my face straight.

     Finally, the light changes too much to continue to work on that section. The elder son nods. “My lady, we must cease for the moment. If it would please you to rest?”

     I sit down with my legs burning from exhaustion, my back stiff and tired, while Cailen comes to help his brother clean the brushes.

     I steal a grape out of the bowl on a table nearby; Sage doesn’t notice until it’s already in my mouth. She looks livid, but there’s nothing she can do besides tell my mother later.

     The elder son - Elgar? I have only heard his name the once - bows, wiping his hands on a cloth to clean them. “My lady Aurora; my lady Sage; if it would please you to return tomorrow instead, we might begin again when the light is fresh. Would this be acceptable?”

      Sage sniffs hard; a bad idea, I’m certain, with the chemicals they are using to clean their tools with. “Is it so difficult for you to continue now?”

      “My lady Sage, I would never want to produce any work that is less than the standard my father would set and because of this would like to be certain that perfection is ensured. Without the light, I would hesitate to lay color and shadow without causing undue textural buildup. My father will have finished the sketches for the rest of the composition by morning, and will be able to attend in the morning.”

     She stands; I see a stain on her sleeve from the cherries she’s been eating while I stand here. “We shall return in the morning then. First light again?”

     “At your earliest convenience, my lady.” Cailen’s brother bows lower than is strictly speaking her rank demands, but I see her preen in the attention. Perhaps I’m not the only one sick of being at home all the time after all.

      “Come along, Lady Aurora. We have lessons to continue. Perhaps even time to try to save your flametongue, if we hurry.”

      It’s Cailen’s brother again who moves to help me step down from the gallery platform. Now that he’s done painting, he won’t even meet my eyes. It’s as if I’ve become more irrelevant than usual; not even worth seeing. For once, I don’t mind.

      I catch Cailen’s eye and set my foot wrong. In the ensuing near-tumble I both drop my fan and kick it under the nearest table. The sigh of relief as the moment resolves is real; in the immediate concern over my dress and well-being (I always can count on Sage for her caring nature) I know no one has seen the lapse as anything other than accidental. But maybe Cailen will take the hint.

      It’s a silly enough gesture, I know; I read it once in a novel one of the maids smuggled in for me, but it had the best potential of all the options I thought about.

      He looks worried, until I am standing again without pain.

      “I beg your pardon; I misjudged your step,” I say to his brother, who half-caught me.

      “Not at all, my lady, so long as you are well, we are grateful for your safety.” Elgar has panic written all across his face.

      Sage is not nearly so worried. “You must be more cautious, lady Aurora, especially when you are already aware of this space. Imagine if you had made this misstep on the stairs at home! I will speak to Master Renshu to work with your balance, and perhaps Mistress Bai. These mistakes must not be made if you are to dance with your father’s guests. Can you imagine the embarrassment?”

      I duck my head and bite my lip to stop smiling when I see Cailen strike the pose Sage has taken. “Of course. I will be more cautious when we come again. Thank you for your assistance, Master Morag; I apologize for causing you distress.”

      “It is no matter, my lady. I am very pleased you are well.”

      Sage takes my arm firmly, and I am hurried away.

      Father has invited guests to dinner, who arrive at nearly the same time as we do. As we ascend the main stairs, I hear the clatter of horses. Lucky them.

      I am not required to make an appearance, so Sage has food brought to me and tests my calligraphy. At least she can’t tell Mother about the grape, or my ‘fall’.

      Every unexpected sound makes me jump; a burst of laughter, or what I presume is someone’s drunken attempt at song. Sage passes by my shoulder, watching for when my hands shake with startlement. Every so often the ink speckles minutely and I pretend the driplets are constellations over Nexus or Lookshy. I wonder if Cailen knows more constellations, or at least different ones. I wonder if he’s been in either city before.

      A burst of raucous laughter from below makes me jump, and I ruin a sheet entirely, spilling ink on it and myself all at once.

      “My lady Aurora, it is highly unrefined the way you continue to respond to these predictable events as if you were a frightened scullery maid rather than a young lady. And what a waste you’ve made of this! Look at the mess. And all over yourself as well! I don’t know how I will explain to your Mother that we will have to have another set of clothing made for you. It really is too bad of you not to have been more temperate in your reaction. Do you think your Mother behaves so?”

      The ink is only briefly sticky on my fingers. “Of course not. I am sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

      “Just think of the time wasted in remedying this sort of clumsiness. There is already so much to be done this time of year. Of all times for you to do so!”

      I feel my face burn. “I would like to make up for my error, if I might-?”

      “It is beneath you. Instead you may set to perfecting your self-control so these moments don’t become practiced habit. Between this and the incidents this morning, you clearly have not absorbed the lessons taught to you. We will begin with those in the morning. I will call in Korcha to help you change your clothes, and will handle this myself. Go, before it stains through to the under layers as well.”

      “Yes, of course.” And Korcha is gracious, even helping scrub the ink from my hands before I am swathed in different silks. She bundles the ruined layers so the ink stains are isolated; I know the fabric will be cleaned or teased apart fiber by fiber to be reused, but I really ought not be quite so clumsy. The red brocade must have been a great deal of work even before it comes to me. All destroyed in an unfocused moment.

      Korcha excuses herself. I spend a moment longer, trying to still my nerves. There’s a knock at the door, but in the interest of not repeating the incident, I wait until I’m certain I’ve steadied myself.

      Sage says nothing to me when I return, but the stirring outside in the hall has resulted in my fan reappearing on the table. I set down as close to perfectly the same lines again before it’s time for bed.

      After the usual bedtime flurry when the fires are banked and the candles smothered, I creep from my bed and take it into my hands to think in the cool night air spilling moonlight through the window.

      Clearly deliveries aren’t the answer. He’s either not capable of talking his way past the front door or unable to pass for one of the underservants. I fan myself slowly, and watch the sentries make their rounds. The garden rises fragrances of petrichor and jasmine, and the faintest smell of our rare bamboo blossoms. At length I return to bed to puzzle out an answer in sleep that doesn’t present itself in waking but there’s sweetness to the thought that he found the fan. He saw and cared to make the effort. It is a pleasant warmth that accompanies my rest.

Do you really want?

Do you really want me?

Do you really want me dead or alive to live a lie?

Ah, how hard a thing it is to say what that wood was, so savage and harsh and strong that the thought of it remains my fear!

It is so bitter that death is little more so! But to treat of the good that I found there, I will tell of the other things I saw.

      He looks up at a trumpet blast from the other end of the main street. A man has climbed upon the stage constructed so he can look over the crowds. Beside him she yawns.

      “If you’d like to go and hear the rules and such, now would be the time.”

      “Won’t you need to know them as well?” he asks.

      This time it is an honest grin, though chilling. “It is much easier to beg forgiveness rather than permission if I have the information from Hearts instead; if I should happen to err, it will be blamed on her. Besides, we’re travelling together; so it doesn’t matter practically speaking.”

      “Gooood afternoooon citizensss!!” The voice booms out over the assembled players who jockey for position or vantage points more to their comfort.

      “Go on then,” she says, nudging his knee with her own, exposed and deliberate. “Take your place or tell your tale. We don’t seem to have a good deal of time remaining and I would have the bulk of it before we depart. How long did the escapades of the fans last?”

      “It was months before we worked it out. You studied your sentries patterns so well that you noticed the weaknesses that they were probably not aware of themselves; I was resourceful.”

      She laughs again, the same harshness in the timbre as before; ancient pain captured within the breath. “Very well. Tell me of your cleverness.”

Thou art my master, and my author thou,

Thou art alone the one from whom I took

The beautiful style that has done honour to me.

Oh, thinking about all our younger years,

There was only you and me,

We were young and wild and free.

      Another day goes by where I am forced to endure her departure.

      That wretched Lady Beige or whatever her name is never lets me close enough to speak with her. Between her overwatching and Dad sending me on errands, I rarely even get to see her. The little time I am there to see her is filled with silence, as I cannot possibly start a conversation with her during the portrait. The few times I have ever heard her speak were goodbyes, as she needed to return to her manor.

      Oh, how soft her voice was! I can scarcely imagine anything sweeter than the way she speaks. Truly this is inspiration that will fuel great works, but I require more. I yearn for a true conversation. I need to know more of her if I am ever to truly capture the beauty she inspires in me. I know I have her favor in this endeavor, for when I catch her attention during the painting sessions I am able to force her true smile forth with my usual guile.

      The smiles she gives, concealed as she tries to keep them from the others, send joy and elation through the core of me. Knowing that I have caused such emotion in one so noble, truly she must be of sound mind to understand the deep humor I emulate. Even now, my body trembles with nervous joy when thinking about those smiles. The bottles clatter as I trudge around the empty studio, stocking the paint on our shelves and cleaning up after another successful day.

      “Cailen.” My brother’s rough voice snaps me back to reality, as I suddenly notice him hovering right beside me. He points over to the studio floor by the chair offered for her to rest between sessions. “I thought I told you to return that daft girl’s fan?” There, neatly tucked under it by the leg, is a delicate paper fan.

      I had returned the fan, though. Much to my own dismay. The beautiful Aurora had left it by mistake weeks ago, and I seized it like the golden opportunity it was. I had imagined striding up to the manor, heroic in my own way, knocking on the door to find her opening it. This would allow me to show her my gallant and good nature, as well as start up a conversation for once. Alas, it was a servant who answered! He insisted I hand the fan over so he might return it to Lady Aurora. It was all very disheartening, though I am not one to quit.

      Looking over this fan, however, I am faced with several questions. The last one had a pattern of lotus and azalea blossoms against black leaves. Quite the elegant piece, really. Very fitting that she would be the one to own it.

      This one, on the other hand is... odd. The structure is designed elegantly, same dark wood frame and silk fabric, but the decoration is atrocious. As if someone had just made vague smears all over the fabric with heavy ink. Is it supposed to resemble something? There is a long rectangle, some blotch in the middle, some square, and some.... encircled crescent above it all.

      What if this is a message? Perhaps Aurora had someone make this so that I could see her! I should let her know that whoever did this has little skill. Still thinking, I lay down against the wall farthest from Elgar and his practice on the desk. The circled crescent must be the moon, or someone’s poor approximation of it. The ink has bled into the silk badly and haloed each piece.

      Elgar looks up. “Are you going to give it back to the girl, or not? I can have someone else deliver the fan to her house if you’re sooo busy.”

      Her house! This must be the wall around her house. Of course! “Oh! No, no, I’ve got this. No sense paying good money when you have free labor, right?” I gather myself up and quickly grab my bag, running out the door. “I’ll be back later. Thanks, Elgar!”

      “Just return the damn thing!” His painting must be going well for him not to get after me more. Normally I would be getting more work stacked on top of me, but he always forgets to tell me when he is in a good mood. I have more important thoughts, for the time being, though. My hands trace over the fan again and again. Knowing that I’m holding something that belongs to Aurora somehow lifts my soul. I must meet her soon, waiting is weighing on my soul. Deciphering this message is top priority.

      Walking down the road with purpose, weaving through the people here and there by instinct, I open the fan again. If these longer lines are the mansion walls, the box near the center would be the house itself. What about this smaller square, thought? And what is the blotch, or whatever was intended to be represented by these brush strokes? Maybe it’s a side door? What else would it be?

      When I finally reach the House, and start pacing around the walls I do my best to look busy, looking back and forth between my surroundings and the fan. I am trying to make a connection to these symbols, but I can feel frustration spreading from my hands to my face. There has to be a better way. I can’t think of it.

      I turn and bang my head on the wall a few times hoping to divine the meaning of all this and be done with all of the waiting. Pain echoing through my head I grit my teeth. “Why. Can’t. I. Get. This.”

      Ow.

      “Can you stop that?” I look up in dizzy surprise to see a guard atop the wall staring down at me. He is young for a guard, handsome nonetheless. He is also clearly concerned.

      I try to compose myself, straighten my clothes before starting in on him. “I’m so sorry. I was just having a moment, you see. I had no intent on vandalizing your walls with my blood. I’m just sort of stuck.”

      The guard looks stern, but still worried. “I’m not worried about your blood. I’m worried about why you’re hitting your head against my employer's wall.”

      Truth comes more easily than a lie with my head still ringing. “I’m lost, you see! Lost in thoughts that lead me nowhere. I am an artist without his inspiration, and without that, what good is an artist?”

      “Calm down there, boy!” He leans back looking down the long stretches of the wall. “I don’t want to have to run you off without due cause.”

      Aha. The man is sympathetic to my plight. Perhaps Fate did deliver an answer. “My good guard! Well, not my guard, but he who guards that which is precious, may I have your name?”

      Suspicion immediately clouds his expression, even under his helm. “My name? I don’t give that out to people over the wall. Why would you even want it?”

      “Did I not mention I was an artist? You see, I am in need in of inspiration. In my time of need, you should appear, gallant and imposing, standing on that wall. Your uniform is dashing, with that perfect contrast of black and gold, your features screaming to be immortalized. Please sir, give me your name, and let me offer you my service!”

      “What are you going on about, boy? Did you hit your head too hard?” He holds his spear tighter now, but his eyes are intent.

      “My dear friend, you are in the prime of life. Anyone can see that. You are young, appealing, and holding a steady job. Young women must fall for you on a daily basis.”

      The guard lets out a genuine laugh, takes a look about himself and removes his helmet. “Not as much as you’d think, but I do well for myself certainly.”

      I am pressed close to the wall now, gushing enthusiasm towards him. “I could raise your status, and your appeal, by twofold, in making you a portrait. Everyone knows that owning a portrait of oneself in one’s prime is a sign of nobility and solid stature! The job you occupy is a harrowing one, my friend! Filled with peril, and guaranteed for strife. Your features will fade, turn dull, accumulate scars. Do not pass this opportunity by! Let me immortalize the man you are now!”

      He is leaning over the wall now, trying to be just a few inches closer to keep the conversation as quiet as possible. “Are you so gifted as to accomplish such a portrait?”

      Now I know I have his interest - thank Sol for Elgar drilling me on my pitch. “Yes. I am young, but highly talented, and doing my best to constantly improve. Will you help me improve? Will you let me be your painter?”

      He leans back, putting his weight on his spear. “I don’t earn much. I can’t pay you.”

      “No need! I do not require your payment, merely inspiration. By immortalizing you, others will see the talents I contain and wish to be immortalized as well. I would just ask one favor of you.”

      Suspicion returns but is heavily muddled by the eager interest. “What would that be?”

       “Let me on the wall so that I might capture the stunning background scenery. I want to make your portrait something special, so a plain background won’t do. I just need to come onto the property to really solidify the scenery.”

      “I can’t just let you up here. I could get fired for that.”

      “Come now, surely there must be a time when no one would notice? It is imperative that I capture your scenery. Please sir.”

      He is silent for a long moment, clearly considering a great deal. I can feel myself further and further on the edge. My limbs practically scream to just rush up the wall and shake the man already for delaying my destiny for so long.

      “Fine, but come as it gets dark. There are fewer guards on the later shifts, and we might have a few private minutes then.”

      “Thank you, sir! Thank you! You have no idea how impactful your decision is on my inspiration. I won’t let you down. Where should I meet you?”

      “Meet me at the westernmost wall when the sun’s setting. We’ll go from there."

      “You will not regret this decision, my friend, I will meet you later tonight.”

      I run home as fast as if I had the limbs of one of the grassland-lizards, to gather all of my sketching supplies. I am filled with renewed spirit, enhanced sense as everything around me is joyous. I will make his portrait; I would not lie to such an honest man. I will gain entrance to the mansion and be able to secure a more private means of entering on my own. Once I have put together all the clues and figure out a clear path, I will finally speak with Aurora.

      I can hardly wait - just before sunset I return. The guard told me to meet him along the western wall, but - why is life so hard on the gifted? In my excitement I forgot to ask which that was. I have never been gifted in navigation, and regret that I never thought such things would become relevant. How cruel fate is to flaunt this in front of me when I am so close to my goal!

      But I will not let this adversity break me. It cannot be the wall of the front gate; I have hidden on the side bordering the forested slope, dodging between trees to prevent any other guards from spotting me. But if this were the right place, he would have shown by now. That leaves the side of the wall facing the meadow steppes, or the cliff edge. It must be the cliff side wall.

      I keep myself low to the ground, stepping lightly between the trees until they start to disperse and the ravine below becomes fully exposed. I can barely recognize the Karun river at the bottom when looking over the cliffside. Moonlight dances and shimmers across the surface, though, appearing as bright silver snakes slithering in place among dark terrain. I would rather not plummet that far down to meet them, so, hugging the wall as much as possible, I travel along.

      The stones making the foundation of the wall are neatly placed together, built taller than me standing on my toes. Different sizes and shapes all perfectly placed as if they were made to be assembled in just that way. They feel cool and gritty to the touch, with small amounts of hardened mortar sticking out of the crevices where they are sealed together. Above the foundation, the wall is pristine white plaster rising far above my head. If I had three more of myself, we could stand on one another’s shoulders so one of us could reach the top.

       As it’s unlikely I’ll be able to duplicate any time soon, I trace my way along the wall, never letting my hand leave its surface. In the unlikely event that I should find myself too close to the cliff I want something to grab so I may prevent a gruesome death smashed upon river rocks. Or at least delay it. I can’t imagine such an event to be one you would want to rush towards, though I suppose it would make quite the painting. It could be a vertical piece, showing Aurora in the highest part of the House, nearest to the stars with gentle and cool colors surrounding her. Transitioning down to the walls and earth that separate us, the color scheme would remain the same, but with harder lines and rougher edges as I am seen plummeting down into the valley just before impact with the water and rocks. I would call it “An Era Lost”, how fate stole the world’s greatest painter. Or maybe “Artistry without Inspiration!” How the artist falls in pursuit of his muse. Wait, I’ve got it, I really am brilliant; I should call it-

      “Boy! Are you listening? Get over here!”

      A hand grasps my arm hard and I am nearly sent spiraling down out of pure shock. I am pulled into the wall, as it appears I may have drifted slightly. The guard I met earlier turns back into the crack beneath the foundation, which turns from flat, placed stone to a narrow slip in the rock, rough hewn and ill-kept. The ground inside is scarred with the marks of years of work. The tunnel inside sharply curves one way and then the other so that any light from the outside is lost after the first few turns. The guard leads on, while I can barely see anything surrounding us. The ground is rough, and I catch on small cracks here and there, but always maintain my balance. Even though I can’t see his face, I swear I hear him laugh around the third or fourth stumble. I’d like to see him try and carry all these supplies in a foreign, slick, enclosed space and try to keep his balance. Bet he couldn’t....

      We keep going. After more turns, three or four maybe, I see a light, pale yellow like salted butter. We emerge from the narrow passage into a small chamber where a candle rests on the ground; he picks it up. Clearly he left it behind earlier when he came to find me. Candlelight flickers across the room; one side of the little room has a low tunnel. On the opposite wall, a similar sized passage as what we just exited, far more reasonable than the low one. I couldn’t fit through that without crawling on my stomach like some kinda lizard, let alone the soldier twice my size.

      “Quit squinting and come on.” He starts down the taller passage on the other side of the room, and I follow the faint outline of his presence dimly cast. The path winds back and forth for what feels forever. We come across four intersections along the way where two paths split off in front of us, or at least I think so. I see an extra tunnel that seems to go back the way we are coming from, but it is hard to see anything too far down them.

      “It’s easy to get lost in here, boy. Best keep up.”

      “You wouldn’t honestly leave me down here. You’d never get your portrait then!”

      “If any other guards find out you’re here, I’d be in trouble. More trouble than your life is worth. So no one’s coming to help you if you wander off.

      That’s troubling... I start running through the turns and intersections in my head just in case as we come around another corner, one right then we come out of the tunnel on the left, and left, and another left. The scars on the walls are deceptive. They seem perpetually different and the same. The guard keeps on forward and finally after hours or minutes or years we run into a flat stone wall with a makeshift ladder resting on it. He holds the candle out in front of me.

      “I’m going to check and see if anyone else is around. When I give the signal, you’re going to blow out that candle and make your way up quietly. Otherwise this night will end very badly for you.

      “Don’t you mean for ‘us’?” I whisper as he starts up the old brittle ladder.

      He stops mid climb and looks down on me. His eyes shine in the candlelight and I think I see a smile across his face. “No. See if anyone catches you up there, I’ll just treat you like any other trespasser and start the conversation with my spear.”

      That’s a morbid thought.

      I take a moment to strangle the idea of being chased around by a bunch of armed guards in the middle of the night. Aside from the piercing headache I would undoubtedly catch in trying to avoid their wrath, it would utterly ruin the moment if Aurora saw me in such an unpleasant light. Something which sounds like smooth wood over smooth wood accompanies a faint grunt above me. A pebble promptly falls down, hitting me square between the eyes. That stings. I wonder how stable these tunnels actually are if small parts of the ceiling are coming loose. Best keep that in mind.

      "Hey!" I look up to see him waving frantically at me. Not the most subtle signal, but who am I to judge?

      I pinch out the candle to leave minimal smoke trails and find myself in immediate and complete darkness. My eyes haven't had time to adjust. I am surprisingly glad that no one is here to watch me stumble around in the dark. I crack my knee against the wall before I find the first rung and the pain makes me acutely aware of just how much I envy wolves their night vision. I should work on that some day.

      I have never been so pleased to feel old, splintering wood beneath my hands. I climb up ten rungs before I feel a hand on the back of my shirt, hauling me up through a hole in the wall.

      As soon as I'm out, I start to see moonlight filtering in through paper-coated windows. It's a hall, planed wooden floors stretching away from me in both directions like a heavy dark ink. I'm not sure if it's the darkest wood to have ever been grown, or just painted black by lacquer and shadow. The walls are crisply divided into wooden panels along the bottom and heavy white paper separated by slender, straight wooden crosspieces. There are stone walls beside where we came out, smooth and covered every two feet in costly, woven tapestries that I can't quite see the patterns on. Classy. This is to be expected of such a noble family.

      "Don't touch anything. We need to move quickly." I take a step and the floorboards groan like a falling tree, as loudly as a thunderstorm. I grimace and try to lift my foot away. They creak again as the pressure releases and I can feel my whole body tighten wishing desperately to take back the noise. I open one eye and look around quickly, but the guard only sighs and pulls on my shoulder.

      "Can't do anything about that right now. We just have to get out of here quickly. Hopefully they'll think it was just me doing my rounds."

      He rushes us down the hall, and out into a yard. He presses me against the wall and closes the door behind us. I look around and see that we've come out of the Northeast wall into the courtyard of the mansion. The house looms dark up ahead, triple levels cutting perfect crescents of faintly moon-touched tiles intersected by dark lines of black, shadowed walls. The guard pulls me across the yard back behind the house, where the narrow alley between the porch of the first floor of the house and the wall don't quite meet in case of fire. We creep along the edge, which turns from steps and railings to a wall of an enclosed area. I hear footsteps on the wood, still swinging lazily with the pace of a casual stroll. The guard swears and picks me up under his arm. I’d be offended at how easy it was for him to lift me if it weren’t benefiting us right now. He hurries to the back alley corner and around to the northwest. We duck out of view just in time for the lantern the sentry is carrying to send a clear beam behind us. This wall is dark and we slip into a door in the wall. The guard closes the door. There are more stairs, lit by pale light through arrow slits. Once we reach the top we're on the wall right where I need to see. I wiggle out of his arms and straighten my clothes.

      “Quick thinking back there! Little rough, but nonetheless effective.”

      “Whatever you say. Let’s just get a move on before anyone spots us,” he says looking around.

      “Keep your armor on and stop looking so nervous! It’ll ruin the moment.”

      I pull the paper from my waist and the charcoal from my pocket and start making the sketch. A bunch of quick hasty strokes to mark out the bare outlines of the view from the wall. As I stretch, I look over the wall into the enclosure, which turns out to be a gracefully planned pleasure garden with a pond, large weeping willow tree, and a boulder big enough to house a small family if it were hollowed out. There's a dense thicket of bamboo in the same corner as the gardener's shed and I can see from up here the thin strip of stones that border it and the door the bamboo hides.

      The guard is growing more nervous as I outline the portrait. The sketch is rough and doesn't make sense to an outside eye but shows me the placement of sky and stone and man. If I take any longer, the guard might bail on me. As I finish and wrap up my paper I look over. On the second floor overlooking the garden I see someone carrying a candle to the window frame.

      As the light hits her face I recognize Aurora, as if she alone were haloed by the soft gold and orange flame in a world of dark blue and silver white. She smiles when she sets it down on the window sill, and looks out into the night. I can tell that she cannot see beyond the light, but for a moment the world was still as our eyes crossed paths. I feel so very sure that our fates are meant to be interwoven. Time never truly stops, no matter how pleasant the view; our moment passes, as I see her turn and vanish. Only a tiny star is left behind, the candle burning steadily as if beckoning me inside.

      “Let’s be on our way!” The guard bundles me off but I know that it was fate that allowed me to see her tonight. Certainly that glorious glow surrounding her was more than just candle light. She is a beauty seldom seen in this world and I cannot wait to capture every aspect of her in my next piece of work. Just thinking about it makes me...

      “Watch it!” the guard grabs hold of my chest as I nearly slip down the stairs.

      I have got to get a better handle on those daydreams or I could end up in some serious trouble.

      The guard peeks and gestures that someone is there. He sees someone and we have to wait in the darkness until they have gone. As we creep by the north wall, I hear a woman's voice talking to someone else inside.

      "We've another emissary coming tomorrow. Make sure you have the peacock refeathered before it's served, and also a separate dish for my lady Aurora. Her mother says that she will be taking her dinner in her room until she's less enthusiastic about asking difficult questions of important people. The last ambassador nearly choked from embarrassment during the third course."

      The guard snorts and mutters, "Butler says she got the answer she wanted, though."

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “Internal matters. Nothing concerning our arrangement. Come on.”

      He opens the door on the far side and shoos me inside before he scans the outside for prying eyes again.

      Then he walks over and pushes a tiny part of the carving twenty degrees to the right and out on the seventh panel from the left corner of the hallway. The panel four over slides open and he pushes it aside. He gestures me into the wall and then down the ladder then pulls the strap on the back of the door to close it. A second later I hear flint strike, and a spray of sparks lights the candle again. He carefully climbs down the ladder with it.

      "We have to get you outside quickly, I have to get back to my post soon or they'll know something is going on. This picture of yours better be worth it."

      "I swear it will be! I would never let down such an illustrious patron as yourself, who has been so kind as to go out of his way in the name of Art. Lead the way, good sir!"

      He grumbles but I see a smile when he turns away.

      I'm careful to pay attention to the turns on the way out, running the order against what I remember from our journey in. It seems simple enough, but I'll have to spend time some day figuring out where the other tunnels go. Carefully. Don't need any more pebbles, or larger, knocking me on the head again.

      He doesn't go with me all the way; as soon as there are no more side passages he points me in the direction out, and says, "Remember, if they catch you, I didn't know anything and I don't know who you are. "

      "Of course! I would never betray my employer!"

      "Let me know when you've finished. We'll figure the rest out from there."

      "It will only take me a short time, but it will be a piece of artistry unlike any other! I promise you sir, this will elevate your status among any who should see it. "

      "Good luck, kid," he says, and chuckles as he turns to go back.

      I wander through the darkness feeling along the walls and wonder if I'll find the exits before I fall off the ledge. As luck has it, the moon is still shining bright and illuminated the exit, guiding my safe passage. When I edge out onto the stone, I start to hear the river roaring distantly far below. I slide up the slope, determined to go back. I've got a way in, now it's just a matter of acting on it.

Chapter Text

Where there's a will, there's a way, kind of beautiful

And every night has its day, so magical

And if there's love in this life, there's no obstacle

That can't be defeated

The day was departing, and the darkened air was releasing all living creatures on the earth from their toils; and I alone

prepared myself to undergo the war both of the journey and of pity, which memory, unerring, will depict.

     The Emissary from Asherta has eaten an entire tray of abalone by himself. He has also eaten three pigeons and, by the time I stand to excuse myself, drained three pitchers of Water of History. Because of this, he is, despite the food, very drunk.

     I bow carefully; Mother is watching very closely over her cups. “My Lord Father, I would take my leave.”

     He waves a hand, casually dismissing me without a word. “Your Excellency, we would like to offer you the artistry of a very recent playwright. Would you join us? There will be more to drink there.”

     They transition to the grand receiving room, and I escape upstairs. Sage stays below, continuing her slow erosion of the Emissary’s steward and his reticence. She won’t be upstairs for hours.

     I lock the door to the hall, take one of my histories of Cherak, and curl up beside my fire. The chapter I ceased reading before has a beautiful section discussing the kingdoms across the sea eloquently. But before I can fall too far into the descriptions, the clock chimes the twenty-second hour of the day. I lay history aside and go to light the candle in the window. I don’t know if it will do any good; it hasn’t as of yet. Nonetheless, I set it in the window, look out at the darkness. I can’t see Luna from here, until I open the frame and lean out.

     She’s a little higher in the sky tonight as she progresses in her cycle; she much have such strange thoughts as she crosses the night. She sees all below her, but I can’t imagine how pleasing the company of stars is. It must be lonely, at times.

     Perhaps she has books as well.

     I close the window, turn back to my corner of pillows by the fire and my book, pulling my knees up to my chest under my dressing-robe.

     The chapter transitions between the sea into the forests. But then, there is a thump outside as if a cat has landed on the roof heavily. Nothing shows at the glass, and when I listen all I hear is the night owls outside calling back and forth in the distance and the river below. The sentries haven’t called warning, so it likely is nothing dangerous.

     Or they haven’t seen whatever made the noise, I think, but there haven’t been any particular enemies of my parents who are active lately, and I’m not worried about anything wild on the grounds. Even the last time a Tyrant Lizard came through, we were safe up here. The last cougar never made it past the front bonfires.

     Nothing else happens. I draw the blanket off of a chair to cover my feet in a sudden chill; it’s soft and dense, colored like the petals of a violet with some dark stain of purple and a bright bloom of golden at the bottom.

     Of course, this is when there’s a tap at the window. I barely manage not to leap out of my skin when I see a face outside. I don’t manage to catch my surprise, and I do squeak, but no one seems to be coming to check at the moment. Halfway across the room I recognize him, run to the window to move the candle and unlatch the glass with a smile breaking across my face.

     Finally. I was beginning to wonder if this would work.

     He’s almost shaking with exhaustion, which means he must have climbed in! but I can wait to ask questions about how later. I set my finger to my lips, hoping he’ll be patient, but it is an unnecessary thing when he is panting so hard for breath that I don’t think he could say anything even if he wanted to. Close the curtain, and replace the candle; in case the sentries look, it’s important not to deviate from the pattern without apparent cause. Then I pull him by the wrist out of the view of the window before I realize the fact that he’s in my room.

     My face burns; I drop his hand, dip into a quick bow to give myself time to regain composure. “Cailen — it pleases me to welcome you to my house.”

     His smile is so big and delighted for a moment; it slips a little, as I see him register where he is. It looks like he isn’t sure of what he’s doing anymore than I am.

     After a moment, he says, “I am so pleased to be here.”

     I remember my manners. No more staring. “Would you care for a drink?” I have water on my bedside table at the very least, in a porcelain ewer from Deheleshen, even if I don’t have food tonight to share.

     “I would love one, I’m parched from climbing. I mean, not too parched.” He’s quick to contradict himself, either for the sake of politeness or....

     “You climbed?” I was right, though I would have thought the sentries would have seen him at some point on the wall. He must be better at hiding than they are at seeing. I would worry about the security of our house, but I did hear him coming and I’m sure if I screamed or even spoke too loudly someone would come.

     His enthusiasm is beautifully infectious. “Yes! I’ve been climbing a lot. And then I saw your signal in the window, and - oh, I still have the fan.” He digs in his pocket for a moment and pulls out the fan I dropped weeks ago, the one I painted.

     Looking at it again, with such a clumsy drawing as it is, I can’t think why he would have kept it. “You... still have my fan?” What absolute stupidity the question is. Obviously he does.

     “Yeah,” he says, holding it a little uncomfortably, running his fingers over the fabric end.

     I find myself playing with the edge of my sleeve, uncertain of what to say next. I drop the fabric and fold my hands; fidgeting gives away how nervous I am, and I need to hold on to every particle of confidence I can. The room is completely silent for a minute, and in the background the ticking of the clock is very loud, even as it’s muffled by the carpets and tapestries.

     “You have a beautiful room,” he offers.

     “Oh! Thank you. All of mine are comfortable, but I like the colors in here the best.”

     “You have more than one?” He’s surprised, and I realize I may have misspoke. I don’t want him to think I’m putting on airs.

     “Yes, the bedroom, and the sitting room, and... Oh, I forgot to fetch you a drink.” I try to move smoothly and take a full breath every third step. The glaze on the pitcher is slick, makes it feel heavier than usual. I’m not sure I should have mentioned my other rooms. I’m almost certain, now that I think about it, that his father’s entire studio could fit inside my part of the house alone. Please Sol he won’t take it badly. I offer the glass to him. “I’m sorry. Here.”

     He takes it from me and drinks it thirstily. Of course he’s thirsty after climbing and evading our men. I should have had a glass waiting. If he wants to come back, I’ll have to remember that. And food. Maybe cheese and fruit, so it doesn’t weigh him down on the way back home. Where his fingers touched mine feels warm, still, and I have to quickly search for a topic before the heat in my face becomes oppressive.

     “So what do you normally do after I leave?” I ask, after he’s finished the first glass, while reaching to fill it again.

     “Your rooms?” The top of his nose crinkles too when he’s confused.

     “No - sorry, I mean, after you’re done painting. At your... house?” Perhaps the two are combined? My skin crawls. I shouldn’t have asked. He’ll think I’m condescending.

     “Oh. The workshop. It’s less beautiful, then.” He’s sweet; I know it’s flattery, and I want to disagree, but at least it seems I haven’t misspoke.

     I can’t help but smile. He sees everything here so quickly; I can almost read his judgements on the colors in the room.

     “The painting is so lovely, though!” I’m constantly impressed at how his family is able to reproduce the light and the shadows, and the way the fabric folds. The colors are so rich. I almost feel like I could touch my own hand through the canvas.

     “The painting doesn’t appropriately capture its subject. Also, the coloring is shoddy.” He grows so serious when he’s talking about art. So definite. He must have some idea of what he would change if he’s so certain.

     “How would you do it, then?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

     He makes a subtle motion with his fingers, like moving through water. “First off, I would choose somewhere better than a stuffy studio with a standard backdrop. Something scenic that could actually be a solid comparison.”

     “Where, then?” He does have a point about the workshop; it is very warm in there without being allowed to fan myself constantly.

     “Somewhere with water. A pond, or a riverside, something to show life and growth.”

     I try to imagine myself standing anywhere so far from either my house or the workshop, on ground that is not swept and cultured, raked or weeded. Just free. The closest is my garden, by the pond with koi and turtles, among the water lilies and lotus petals, with the bamboo along the back wall for texture. “What else? Would you change, I mean.” I should be glad that I’m not stuttering.

     “Well...” He shifts his weight on his feet, considering. I wonder what he’s actually seeing, since I’m fairly certain it isn’t my room. “I would paint a different wardrobe. The one in your portrait is too formal. It doesn’t exude the true you. Something more lively, electric!”

     It’s lovely to laugh with his excitement, instead of keeping my face straight. “But you barely know me.”

     He frames the sketch in the air with his hands, his voice gaining surety. “That’s the brilliance of it! Simply looking upon you, there is so much to see! Such depth and color! It promotes such imagination. You long to see more...” His eyes return to seeing the physical world again, meet mine; he catches himself in the thought. He looks smaller than a second ago.

     The room seems to be listening more thoroughly than normal, the clock gears grinding a little as the hand passes four after the hour. Wondering if I’m being too forward, I try anyway.

     “Or you could visit, more often. Again.”

     He perks up, his back straightening. “I can?”

     I nod. “If you wanted. It’s quiet here.” Please come back. Maybe I can welcome him better next time.

     “I definitely want you!” He catches his breath. “Want to!” His eyes grow large when he slips in speaking, and I can see the panic on his face.

     My heart is fluttering my breaths and turning into giggles. I hope he won’t take it amiss. “I’m flattered. I’ll make certain there’s food for you next time. I would imagine climbing is a lot of work. I’m not usually allowed.” I'm never allowed to let my feet leave the earth for more than the length of a step, unless I am dancing or moving through forms.

     He squares his shoulder slightly; I doubt he knows he’s doing it. “I certainly wouldn’t mind, but only if it’s not too much trouble.” He’s back to formality. I suppose I should match this.

     “I doubt if anyone will even notice.” I wonder if I should offer a chair, or just sit on the floor. “Will you tell me about the rest of what happens when I’m not at the workshop? I’m ever so curious.” I'll just sit, informally.

     His eyes are full of strange surprise, several small expressions flighting across his brow, tilt of his head ever so subtly. He drops to his knees, following my lead onto the pillows. “Oh. Sure! I suppose it’s just your standard day. Lots of painting, cleaning, maintaining tools. Father sends me on errands, my brother pretends to be good at his work...”

     “What sorts of errands? Do you mean like fetching canvases and things? What do you paint?” I press my fingers against my lips trapping the next words; I should wait until he answers before I keep questioning him like this.

     His eyes are so beautiful; every color from the deep red bark of my maple, the terracotta of the flowerpots, the variation of sienna burnt and raw. Maybe that’s how everything should look; full of light and hopefulness, open to the world.

     Maybe I’m waxing poetic, and am lovesick on top of it.

     He shrugs, loosely, but catches himself before he relaxes entirely. I suspect if he were home, he wouldn’t still be sitting so stiffly.

     “Depends on what my father needs. Sometimes it’s special paints, or particular papers, different palettes and brushes. Sometimes I drop off the finished works to clients. But I paint a lot of things! I paint people, places, large scenes of certain events. Imaginary or not. Though less so lately.”

     “That sounds incredible! How do you know what to paint, if it’s imaginary? I don’t even know how to draw things right in front of me, much less something from my thoughts.” My fan shows that well enough. But he’s tucked it back away into his pocket, absently.

     “Oh, that’s easy! Inspiration just shows up in my head, often as a picture, and refuses to leave me be until I’ve made it real. As I paint, the picture becomes clearer, and I know I’m done when the inspiration goes.”

     “Will you show me? I never can quite see from where I’m sitting.”

     His brows furrow; everything about the balance of his body moves slightly off centered. “You want to see inside my head?”

     “I meant drawing, or painting. But if you can show me that too...” I tease, but wonder if even magic in the tales could show me his thoughts. 

     He balances again, face clearing. “Oh. Of course. Well, I would be happy to show you some of my work, but I don’t really have any with me...”

     “It doesn’t have to be right now,” I say, imagining trying to carry a canvas up the wall. “I just wondered if you would mind.”

     His smile is back again, bright and wide. “Not at all! I would be more than happy to show you some real art.” The inflection is not lost on me; I wonder how often he critiques his brother’s work, with or without provocation.

     “I would love to see.” Remembering the wall makes me wonder again. ‘So - where did you climb?”

     “Outside, obviously.” A point of pride, I see.

     “Did you go over the garden walls? How did you make it past the sentries?”

     He puffs his chest again, chin lifted. “Oh, it was nothing really. I used the secret passages underground to get past the walls, crawling through the narrow tunnels to avoid running into any unknown enemies, then snuck through to the garden, used your shack near the wall, and climbed the side of the house to your delightful window.”

     Which does explain how he passed the sentries, at least in part. “How did you find the tunnels? I didn’t think anyone else still knew they were there.”

     “I’m resourceful,” he says, overly pleased with himself.

     “Full of surprises, more like!” I say, trying to keep from giggling. It’s undignified.

     “That I am.” If possible, he looks even more pleased. Nearly exultant.

     I can’t resist. “You must have many adventures, in that case!”

     “I wouldn’t necessarily call them adventures, but others would say so.”

     Clearly, infiltrating my home is one escapade of many. It is still before the watch will change and there will be fresh eyes for him to evade. “Tell me one, then. Which is your favorite to remember?”

     “You mean aside from right now, right? Because so far, this is definitely one of my favorites.”

     My cheeks are sore from how happy I am; I can’t remember the last time talking has brought me so much joy.

     “Yes, aside from now. I remember this one, I think.”

     “Well, there was this one time when I went to get supplies for my father. He wanted these really nice ornate brushes that had special saber-tooth lion hair bristles. So I went down to Alec, who’s this sultry type running the special orders downtown.”

     His impressions are so embodied that I imagine Alec leaning over the counter, hawking his wares to an invested populace.

     “I go there, and he is looking distraught. He tells me he hadn’t get the goods in yet for the day and didn’t know where they were. Well, my dad wanted those brushes quickly, and I would be a poor example of a son if I didn’t try my hardest to fetch them. I asked Alec where they were supposed to be coming in from, and he sent me to the southern road leading out of town.”

     The South Gate leads south towards the ocean, then East to trade along the coastline. The plains are grassy and full of Tyrant lizards and lions, and bandits who will steal a caravan as soon as look at it. That is, if the merchants are telling me truth instead of trying to simply frighten me into leaving them be.

     “I must’ve been on that road for hours before I finally ran into someone. As luck would have it, I found the caravan that was supposed to deliver to Alec. Unfortunately life is never simple! The caravan was beset by the saber-teeth! The poor caravan guards were trying their best to keep the beasts at bay, but were unable to make them yield because of the lions’ outlandish strength.”

     I shudder to think of fighting a pack of lions, even the smaller ones that sometimes prefer the grasslands. The last merchant who brought my father gifts from the south had carried a canine from one of the lions, and it was as long as two of my hands end to end. Trying to survive an attack from more than one seems impossible, more so when unarmed. “What did you do?”

     “Well, I was just shocked to see such a display. Shocked, I tell you!”

     The tension lifts a little. He’s more indignant, than shocked; likely true then as well, if he’s this fearless. But even more engaged in the tale, his voice is low enough that we’re still safe.

     “So, I looked at the mess and thought, why would these ferocious beasts want to attack Alec’s lowly caravan? Then, out of nowhere, I thought of it. They must think there’s a lion in the caravan! They can smell the bristles, and are trying to save a friend. So, I rush over to the front and dart underneath.”

     My eyes must be huge, because I can see his appreciation of my expression, but he continues.

     “All around me are guards and beasts, fighting it out, neither getting anywhere, Dust is kicked into the air, foul language shouted. It was a mess!

     I hold my breath, not least because for a moment I worry he’s been heard. But even listening carefully, I hear nothing but distant laughter from downstairs.

     “Anyway, I get to the end and climb out from underneath - only to be seen by one of the beasts! It sees me, and leaps after me, with rage in its eyes!”

     A gasp manages to escape me, even though he’s here in front of me, in one piece. Even if this might be slightly embellished for my benefit.

     “I quickly climbed into the back and ducked down, dodging its grasping claws. The beast’s paws were bigger than my face! As scared as I was, I knew that I had to find those brushes before one of these creatures caught me. I rifled through the crates, and finally found one with my father’s name on it. Lying inside were the brushes, beautiful with jade handles and perfect tips. I grabbed them, stuffed them in my shirt.”

     He takes the smallest second to breathe.

     “Now, I couldn’t go running out there, unless I wanted the darn beasts to chase me all the way home. So instead I took one of the bottles from another nearby crate and dumped it all over me. It was a perfume of sorts, but with the amount I used there was no way they could smell the brushes on me. Once I did, I silently jumped out the other side of the cart from the lion, and ran home as fast as I could. And just as I thought, the beasts didn’t notice at all and left me be as they continued after the caravan. Once home, I delivered the brushes to my father who was most pleased, if infinitely confused as to why I smelled of lavender and lilacs...”

     He trails off, caught in the telling as much as I have been.

     “You never told him why?” I try to imagine being so cavalier to Lady Sage about such an adventure, and just know I wouldn’t be able to keep it quiet. What triumph!

     “Why, of course not! That would have ruined the moment.”

     “Did you paint it?” I want to know what the chaos must have looked like around him, what he saw that was most important to remember. To see what the paw of a lion looks like when it’s not a dead thing on the floor.

     His pride turns to awkwardness. “Not the entire thing per se, but I did paint the lions.”

     “Did you use the brushes with their fur?” The irony would be delicious.

     He shakes his head. “No, those were just for father. When I get older, though, he’ll let me use more of his tools and then I can.”

     “Would you use them now? If you have them, I mean.” I think of my allowance, sitting wasted; would he take the money if I offered it? or would he be offended?

     “No doubt! It would be wonderful to experiment with new tools.” He sounds thrilled by the very idea, but grows more serious even as he drops to lean back onto one elbow finally. “Though currently, that will have to wait. I mean, it’s not like my current ones are bad. They just don’t do as much as I would like.”

     I try the words out carefully, tasting their weight and connotations tentatively. “What if I could help you get some? How much are they?”

     There’s near-guilt as he thinks about it. “I... don’t know about that. I think I would feel bad about you buying me things right now. Especially for how much most of them are.”

     I could bite my tongue. “I’m sorry - I never go out, so I thought maybe you’d get more use out of what I have saved. Besides, you could paint me something. It could be like a commission. I didn’t mean to offend...” I apologize wondering how badly I’ve slipped up.

     “No! No, no offense at all!” He sounds as sorry as I feel. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t want you to spend any money for my sake. I mean, I can already make plenty of pieces for you. And if you really wanted you could just give me something. In return, that is. Like gifts!”

     Carefully, carefully, I relax my fingers and ask, “Is there something you would rather have? Instead?” I wonder what I could possibly give to him that would be practical. Most of what I have is fancifulness and impracticalities. But I have paper, and thoughts, and I just feel that whatever it is that he actually does want, I can help. I can actually help him.

     A heavier step lands on the stairs towards my room, and before he has time to answer we both run for the window. I can see the sentries at the far end of the wall, and he nearly tumbles out the window as he scrambles.

     “Will you come again?” I whisper as loudly as I dare, but he hears me, and smiles.

     “Of course. My lady.” He’s teasing, but there’s something to it that seems... more.

     But then there’s the rush of putting things to where they ought to be, and snatching up the history book to read again in the pillows. I can’t absorb anything on the page; I read the same word over and over, hoping not to hear a shout from the sentries.

     The clock finally strikes the twenty third hour of the night. If anything were to happen, it would have happened by now. Relief soaking through me, I climb into bed.

     Everything is exactly the same.

     Everything is different.

Where are you now?

Was it all in my fantasy?

Where are you now?

Were you only imaginary?

Where are you now?

... like one who unwills what he just now willed and with new thoughts changes his intent, so that he draws back entirely from beginning...

     Her laughter shivers down to the base of his spine. "All the way up the wall. How often did you visit the trembling maiden in her tower? Or shall I assume maidenhood was quickly lost, and all sense of propriety along with it?” Laughing as waspish insult daunts him, she sweeps away any possible response before he even thinks of one.

     “Of course you did no such thing. Why would you? I think your actions would have been for vengeance if you had; but here we are with penance, seeking absolution of a sort. Isn’t that right?”

     The muscles along his jaw tense, despite his efforts. “It’s not penance I’m here for.”

     “I am well aware of what you are here for.” She glances aside, watching a young woman pass by, dressed formally in the style of the West with her fan in hand, teal hair twisted up out of her face, bright green eyes promising determination in her dealings. Sonnet’s eyes are calculating, glancing up and down the woman’s slight form. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

Where are you now?

Under the bright

But faded lights

You set my heart on fire

Where are you now?

... I will tell you why I came and what I heard in the first moment when I grieved for you.

     What was I thinking. The sky is perfectly clear today, but you wouldn’t know it from how dense the trees are in the forest. Angled bars of light caught on dustmotes flash through the leaves off and on again whenever the wind gets too pushy about the land being still.

     What perfect imagery to reflect my mind!

     Incredibly bright, so easy to see, nearly to touch even, but entirely covered up by such heavy foliage which blocks all common sense the light was trying so hard to rain down into the forest bed.

     I’ve had enough time to think of this while I’m out here, wandering from tree clump to next. I promised her an adventure. Now I just have to figure out what to do.

     “‘I go out to the forest all the time’, I said!” I tell the leaves as I smack them off a bush I’m passing.

     “‘The river is one of my favorite places to go. I know many great spots!’, I said!” I can’t tell if I’m purposefully dragging my feet through the dirt to kick it up out of anger, or if I’m just physically weighed down by the absolute ignorance in talking my way into this situation. I don’t know the first thing about outings in the forest.

     I mean, sure. I’ve been here before. I didn’t lie to her about that. It’s just that I only ever came here to practice some of my scenic pieces. Never for anything ‘adventurous’.

     Why do I keep letting my mouth run around her! It always gets me into trouble when I talk for too long. I have got to get a hold on that in the future...

     It’s too maddening. I find a tree to bang my head on, to clear it. My groan muffles poorly into the bark, but if it’s too loud I’ll attract some awful animal that would want to put me out of my anguish. I haven’t felt this frustrated since that time Elgar used up all the seashell pigments for my coastline piece. It took four weeks before more came back into town.

     This time, I’m my own impediment.

     I feel the bark imprint on my forehead. Get it together, Cailen. I just have to think this through. Find a beautiful place and paint the scene, like always. Aurora would like that. Right?

     No. No, that would be dull. She’ll just be sitting there bored, while I have all the fun. What do people even do in forests? We could just go on a stroll, but Aurora seems to have enough problems running as is, let alone with roots and rocks jutting out here and there.

     Elgar mentioned that he eats out here sometimes with the people he tries to charm.

     I could do that. Make a picnic out of the whole thing. That’s adventurous!

     I start pacing.

     What do you need for a picnic? Food is essential, and something to lay on the ground. I’m not sure why the covering though. I mean, people lay on the ground all the time. Why is it when you want something to be special, there has to suddenly be all this extra work?

     Adventures should be more direct and simple. Like sketching out still lifes.

     Why can’t life be more like art?

     Wait, why are my feet wet?

     I’ve wandered without thinking, straight down a creekside. I can’t believe the water is almost up to my knees before I noticed.

     This daydreaming thing is really going to get me into trouble, some day. Maybe I should tone down my inner genius, so I’m less easily distracted.

     Looking around now, this place isn’t so bad. Fate herself must have lead me to this site.

     The creek is calm, with a very subtle flow under the surface. Were it not for the occasional rock jutting through the surface, the water could be most easily mistaken for smooth, ever flowing glass. Rushes bow low to each other on either bank, and the green moss covers the rocks all the way down to kiss the waterweeds here and there. The little swamp blossoms are coming up out of the water. I’m sure I see fish moving around near the far bank, gathering together like they’re gossiping about me.

     The trees here are no larger than the others I passed on my way here, but the roots are far more pleasant. Where they wind and weave above the surface, they look like serpents instead of grasping monsters from the deep. Where the bank cuts down sharply, the roots are exposed as they reach greedily for the creek.

     I wander up the bank a ways to see if I can find a place less hazardous for Aurora. Nothing would ruin our time out more than having her get hurt absent-mindedly tripping over one of these roots. Not to mention, if she were to come home injured, her caretaker might take notice enough to find out about our excursions. What was her name? Lady Parsley? No. Madame Saffron, perhaps? Ugh. Her name is meaningless. The only thing that matters is that she not find out about Aurora and I meeting nightly.

     A demon like her could never understand how deep a connection we share. If anything, she would probably want to crush us out of pure spite for how joyous we are together.

     Or at least, that’s the impression I understand from Aurora. Though she never talks much about her home life, whenever she mentions that wretched woman it is always followed by studies this, or practice that. Just dreadful.

     I will not have my muse ripped from me because of a scraped knee.

     It takes work, and some thorough self-motivation, but just a little way upstream I find a perfect clearing along the band of the creek. There are a few large rocks sticking out from the earth, barely encroaching onto the creek face. They are remarkably flat, worn down by the water during the rainy seasons no doubt. Due to the boulders’ massive size, there is a nice pocket where you can actually see the sky without the trees blocking the view. As long as I’m careful leading Aurora here, this ought to be perfect!

     Finding my way back from here is only made difficult in trying to find the smoothest path and remember it for later. There has to be an end to the uneven footing where the moss or leaves smooth the way, that isn’t too steep.

     There’s a dry bed, smoothed a bit with sand from water coming downhill during the heavy rains. I end up following it most of the way back home. It’s almost as if Fate has led me here for this purpose. Even Aurora probably won’t hurt herself walking down this path.

     But there’s more to do. I have to find a covering for the ground. A blanket, maybe. I can carry that in a bundle down by the water. And food.

     Food first, before the merchants begin to break down their stalls for the night.

     What do I bring?

     I walk the street, trying to think. A merchant has gathered a crowd around his stall with his booming voice, and I filter into the crowd almost on instinct.

     What would she like to eat?

     “Buy some food from me, kid, or move along. There are more hungry mouths than yours tonight.”

     He’s growing annoyed with me. I wanted to be done, picked up food by now, but I can’t recall what Aurora likes. She has brought me food plenty of times when I come to visit her, but whenever I try to think back on what she enjoys, I come up with a blank.

     Have I really not asked her? I mean, we have talked a great deal. Seeing someone nightly tends to spur a great deal of conversation. Panic starts to settle in, building into a heavy, dense lump in my chest. Have I been doing all the talking? I know for certain she has spoken to me. Maybe I’m just not a good listener?

     Ugh.

     This doesn’t solve anything now. I need to just pick something out.

     “Look now, I’m sorry. I seem to have forgotten what I need and it’s leaving me feeling vexed.”

     He sees another customer stepping around me towards the stall. “Alright, son. Take a moment more, but I have a business to run and you need to buy something or move along.”

     Seem to recall a phrase about breaking bread... people always make that sound like a good thing. What else though? My family always keeps things simple. Father sends Elgar or I to the market to buy whatever is cheapest. Since we eat stew most nights, it doesn’t really matter what we buy. Aside from the fruit, which is only mornings or backdrop settings, all the ingredients get shoved into the pot with some stock and left over the fire for most of the day.

     That way, we can spend more time with our easel honing our craft instead of in the kitchen wasting away over fuel. Father calls food fuel. He always says there’s no point in spending money on something temporary when you can spend it on something you make permanent. I’m used to the stews, soups, overboiled mashes. It makes little difference as long as I’m not struck by sickness later.

     I’ve never given it second thought until recently.

     As I’ve spent time with Aurora, though, my horizons have been... broadened. Whenever I come by her room to see her, she has always managed to keep food and water brought up from earlier meals to share with me. As if the gesture itself were not kindness enough, I often find that I actually enjoy the food she brings back. Fruits, nuts and veggies. I’ve eaten these all before, but never in such variety. Or outside of a bowl.

     Oh, and the meats! The meats she brings back are just wonderful! Filled with salt and spices, I can hardly forget them. Even if they’re only a few bites, I wonder if wealthy families always eat that way? Are they only small, bite-sized portions because every bite is filled with more flavors? That has to be horribly cluttering for wherever they eat. Do they spread the plates across the ground, or do they have tables long enough to fit all those plates?

     “Kid, I’ll not tell you again.”

     Snapped from my thoughts back to reality, I still do not know what to buy.

     Fine.

     I’ll just go with what I know.

     “What is your cheapest, unspoiled food?”

     This late in the day, he needs to offload as much as he can so he doesn’t have to save it overnight for morning customers to turn their noses up at. It’s much easier to get a sack full of fruits and such when he’s already tired and more willing to deal.

     There are plums, ripe and ready to eat. I barely manage to get them in the sack before another woman comes up to buy as well. I do have to haggle a little to beat her at the rest of the carrots, but I am practiced enough that neither of them stand a chance.

     Now, to bring the blanket down, hang the bag from a tree limb so that some starving creature won’t ruin the picnic, and find my way back up through the tunnels. By the time I make it to the foundations it’s already dark out. I can’t bring the lantern with me, so I leave it shuttered among the trees and hope that Aurora can make it that far if I help her.

     Passing through the tunnels is a breeze; I listen as always before I open the panel in the wall, and lightly slide across the floor. The hardest part is always the sprint behind the kitchen to the wall of her garden. The second hardest part is getting over the wall quietly and quickly.

     Catching my breath behind the bamboo along the wall, I really hope she’ll be able to make the climb.

     But there, the lighted candle in her room is constant as a star, beckoning me heavenward and into her gentle, welcoming arms.

     She’s been careful tonight. I’ve seen her soft silks, and warm velvets. Tonight she has only worn a simple dark blue hemp tunic over the least amount of underlayers I’ve ever seen. Her shoes show signs of having been remade. She has a dark cloak over it all, to try to prevent the whites of her clothes from giving her away.

     She’s quiet, but I can see in her smile that she is pleased to see me, in her eyes that she is as full of joy as I at this moment. I have to take a breath to slow my heart and keep from trembling. She is steady over the roof tiles, but the tree slows her, even as I show her which branches to hold, which to set her feet on.

     The bamboo are beckoning, but she smiles, O, so sweetly, shakes her head and takes my hand. Pressing against the wall, she bends to creep beneath the floor extending out to form a terrace and leads the way along the house until we reach the far side. She takes a much quicker path from her garden to a door in the wall she has the key for, and out to the hall where the tunnels are. On level ground, she is afraid to run, but on the floor she is silent. Practiced steps. She must have walked this floor over and over as a child to know it so well. She knows the place to press on the panel as well, though she’s unsteady on the ladder.

     In the tunnels, I take the lead. Soon, we are outside, the river roaring below, and then the trees and we’ve safely escaped the beautiful fortress for now.

     “I can’t believe I did that!” She is laughing, her fingers touching her lips, to keep in the extent of her joy.

     “I can’t believe I never thought of looking under the terrace before. Is that door always locked?”

     “Yes. I borrowed the key from one of the sentries today. I’ll just drop it along his path when we go back, so he won’t notice that I had them.” Even in the shadows of the trees, where the blue of her clothes threatens to become a shadow itself, she is radiant.

     Stop staring.

     “Right! I promised you an adventure. Are you ready?”

     “As if that wasn’t adventure already! Yes, please lead the way. I’m ever so very ready.”

Her eyes were shining brighter than the morning star; and she began to speak gently, and softly, with angelic voice...

Chapter Text

Can I tell you something just between you and me?

When I hear your voice, I know I'm finally free

Every single word is perfect as it can be

And I need you here with me

     He stops before we arrive wherever it is that he’s taking us. “Will you close your eyes? It’s a surprise.”

     Laughing without trying to keep quiet is such a relief. “I can’t even keep my footing with them open. I would hate to slip down the rest of the way because I didn’t watch where I stepped.”

     “I won’t let you fall.”

     His voice catches my concern, stills it; I breathe deeply, smelling the soft leaf mold and the petrichor hanging in the air. I nod, close my eyes, feel his palm against my eyelashes as he intertwines the fingers of his other hand through mine. My face warms against the cold air.

     It’s only a few steps, truly, but it allows me to quieten the fluttering in my heart just enough that it won’t hold in my words. The sound of our feet crushing through the upper layers of remnant silt and the occasional slide of pebbles down beside us becomes louder until it abruptly softens and I feel something springy beneath my slipper.

     "Alright. Now look!" He sounds elated and nervous all at once, but his voice is steady and loud enough to speak over the calling nightbirds and rushing waters. He takes his hand away from over my eyes and my skin feels cooler for the barest second.

     It is so sweet; this anticipation, this promise, this unexpected darkness. The air here is damp and a little heavy, like the air near the pool in the garden; I've heard running water as we approached but I was too busy trying to find my footing, even with Cailen's help, to pay much attention. It sounds deep, constant; few if any rocks are breaking the surface. A fish leaps; the sound fills the air, mingles with the settling birds and the constant insects chirring.

     Something whines as it zips past my ear, but it doesn't bite.

     I open my eyes.

     We’re beside the Karun, which is so much closer than I expected, and moving in slow and broad lazy floods over the roots of trees, hissing quietly against the hanging blades of rushes. The gentle smell of mint blends with the water waking the earth in the rocks; the greenness of the mosses we’ve stepped on.

     There’s a blanket spread wide, in this little clearing, a full sackcloth bag and a shuttered lantern on one corner. The pin prick design in the lantern shutters send little lights dancing over the blanket like little golden dust motes. Even without another step, I can see them dancing as constellations beneath the trees, little cousins to the great celestial spheres above.

     The trees naturally open into this clearing, roots spreading like arms extended to welcome family amid great boulders. Through the break in the foliage, I see the millions and millions of stars overhead, distant clouds of color catching stars in their spread like a fisherman's net full of shining pearly fish. I recognize some of the constellations, but somehow I see the stars here even beyond what I know from my garden. If I turn, I know I will see again the faint orange glow of the fires at home but the cliff shelters us and I can’t see even the top walls from down here.

     A fish leaps out of the water and startles me. I am lost somewhere out in the huge darkness that surrounds us. The trees closest to us barely catch the lantern light, so all around is like a great hall with pillars stretching up and up and vanishing again, under a blanket of glory.

     I look to Cailen, backlit by the little light of the lantern. "How did you even know where you were going?" I’m either out of breath from the last portion of the walk, or from the scene I’m somehow a part of. Perhaps even both.

     "I come here often enough. The light is usually perfect. Just wait until the moon comes up!" He gently tugs on my hand, pulling me to the picnic.

     The ground feels strange still under my feet, but at least when I sit on the blanket that much is familiar. There is nearly always some guard between myself and the earth, some barrier. It’s not that I need it, or even want it, most of the time; it’s simply that for decorum’s sake, I’m not mussing myself up. Which is ridiculous to think, on this nighttime excursion.

     "What shall we do while we wait, then?"

     "I brought another surprise." He drops my hand and dives for the bag. I carefully resettle onto a corner of the blanket, where I can stretch my legs without taking the entirety of the space. Another mosquito zips past my eyelashes. I wonder if there are dragonflies during the day here, like there are in our garden by the pond.

     I remember once, Calla brought home a bowl with a dragonfly trapped inside. We tied a silk thread around its thorax and she held onto the string so tightly for the rest of the day that Sage couldn’t even persuade her to let it loose during her bath until I promised to take it for her. The color was like orange lilies and blue lapis, orange atop and blue beneath, with faint orange like ink tracing through the veins of the wings. The membrane was so thin and delicate that I was afraid that a careless breath might break one into a splintered spiderweb, killing it instantly.

     The scent of plums is stronger than I expected, and recalls me to myself. It’s a full scent, as dark and sweet as the color of the skins. The plum blossoms in the garden largely didn’t survive the rains this spring, but I can’t help but remember the pale pink petals against the white walls. The darkness of the plums seems more suited to the night, just as the light-colored blossoms almost glowed under the sunlight.

     “How did you find these? I thought with all of the rain this year I’d have to wait.”

     “I’m resourceful,” he says, holding out one to me.

     I take the plum and hold it close in both of my palms, feeling the weight of it, letting the skin rest against my lips. It feels full to bursting, with a slight waxiness my lips stick against. The skin parting under my teeth resists until suddenly it splits and the juice spills into my mouth, sweet and then so tart that it’s almost bitter when I taste the skin.

     “It’s delicious,” I say, between mouthfuls. “All of this is so beautiful. And you can see it whenever you like?”

     "Well, whenever I'm able to. My father tries to keep me busy during the days, but I can usually find time to skirt out for some fun." He bites into the plum in his hand; some of the juice drips down his wrist.

     I imagine my father taking the time to keep me busy, and can only conjure instead the image of his face frozen like it was at dinner last night, all tight lines from his brow and his mouth as if he were carved of petrified wood and required the seams to create even the tight-lipped disapproval he sheds in my direction.

     But none of that. Nothing from the daylight belongs here, now.

     Finishing my plum, I turn to bury the pit, carefully pushing and scraping at the dirt beside the blanket until I can work the plum pit into the ground. It tucks away under the sandy-clay riparian soil like a secret kept by lips pressed tightly closed. I press that pit into the earth, smoothing dirt overtop it like a burial mound. I wonder if it will have a chance to sprout or if I've doomed it to rot away without ever seeing the sun.

     "Were you very busy today?" I ask, to break the melancholy that has touched the moment.

     "Not busy enough to keep me from this." His usual grin sprawling across his face, proud of himself and a little more certain, means he's more likely to tell me stories; when he's feeling this good, he’ll be less focused on specifics and details and more on the telling.

     "So have you had any more valiant haggling adventures at the market recently?" I settle back onto the heel of my left hand, and glance upwards to see if the soft light is beginning to bloom from the moon into the heavens, but the planets slowly passing overhead are still the brightest bodies in the sky.

     "Not so much. I need to give the poor merchants a break every so often otherwise they’ll catch on. Can't have that. Though I did have a marvelous time getting those plums you so enjoy!"

     "That sounds like so much more fun than what I did today. Will you tell me about it?" I ask, remembering hours of politics and economics in the morning and languages in the afternoon. The hours have become concerning, as I read through merchant letters and other communiques that mention again and again how erratic and closed-in the new king is becoming, and the barrage of incidents can't be good for the overall security of his kingdom.

     But I'm not home right now, and because Cailen is telling the story I wanted I put the thoughts out of my mind until tomorrow.

     I reach for another plum.

     "If you insist. So, there I was dirty and mussed sitting in the woods. You see, I was making sure this space was still vacant of any vagrants or rapscallions who might defile our fun."

     I wonder what he would do if he ran into a 'rapscallion' in the woods. Knowing him, he'd probably close his ears to their arguments and just badger them into leaving, no matter how much bigger they were. Or at least try to make it seem that way, anyway, when he told it to me later. It would be an epic, worthy of heroes and gods alike.

     "I searched under every rock on the ground and leaf on the trees. I even dunked my head beneath the water to ensure no one would be hiding there, but I spent so much time searching that I realized I had completely forgotten to acquire any food! Blast, I thought! Who would want to sit in the woods alone without any food! Especially after you have shown me such kindness on the many nights when I visit your room."

     I consider pointing out that the kindness I'm offering is considerably small in comparison with the risks he runs, but he continues his retelling and the moment passes. I will mention it when he's leaving so he won't have as much time to argue about it. Besides, my mouth is full of the sweet nectar of the plums, and I don’t want to stop him from telling.

     "How could I be so foolish? The sun was still three palms from the land, so I knew I had time. I quickly sprinted through the woods back to town, effortlessly avoiding the tree limbs and roots, as I have spent so much time here that I knew each plant's placement by heart."

     I wish I knew a place so well that I could run through it without falling. I don't even care where, inside or outside, big or small, the idea of being so sure-footed that you don't fall is something that I cannot completely connect with my own awkwardness. I have learned to walk more carefully because no matter how graceful my dance instructor says my movements have been becoming, I fall into things and over things and through things enough that my mother refuses to walk with me even from my lessons to the Hall for all my blushing and apologizing.

     "Once back in town, I rushed to the fruit stalls and scanned what they had. Luckily I happen to be close with one of the vendors, and he was able to help me promptly before some of the other buyers could get their grubby hands on anything. I looked through what I'd grabbed: bread, dried meat, a few carrots, but nothing sweet! Normally I wouldn't care, but I learned from our many talks that your family eats in multiple courses, and one of those courses is always sweet. I wouldn't want to appear less qualified at bringing you food than they are!"

     I could tell him that it isn’t a matter of qualification, but of monetary accumulation. I could tell him that I haven't enjoyed any of the dinners so much as I have this evening; but if I do his ego might grow so big that he won't be able to help me back through the tunnel. Besides, I brought something else for him today anyway and I can save the words for another time when he might be more inclined to hear me.

     "So I ask the man, "What do you have that's sweet?" Well, he rambled off a bunch of fruits, but only one of the many names stuck out. Do you know which?"

     Laughing, knowing the answer already, I shake my head, and feel the lightness of having only two kanzashi pinning my hair up. I had to wear more than usual today when I met the lord steward of Marin Bay, a tidy little port town further along the coast from where we live.

     He is triumphant, waving one in the air. "It was the plums! I knew you would appreciate those, so I asked for a couple of the freshest he had.”

     I cannot help but reach for another of the plums, and take another bite. It's just as firm and sweet as the first one, like tasting a raindrop in a summer sun shower.

     "Unfortunately, as I was asking this, some shriveled water hag snatched up the very plums I'd requested. The merchant tried to ask the hag nicely, to tell her that I needed those plums, but being the waterlogged soul that she was, she refused. She claimed that it was 'first come, first serve'. Well, this just would not do! So I stepped up to the water hag and asked, 'Please, I don't have much, but I will pay for all your food and more if I can please have those plums.'”

     He changes his voice also when he jumps into his best impressions of the hag and merchant. I bite my lip and put on my diplomatic face so I don't interrupt his storytelling by snickering at the way he portrays the hag.

     "'The wicked hag sneered with delight at seeing me in such a predicament. 'I will not accept your offer, even if it is fair and generous. I need these for myself. You see, I rub them on my clothes to get the smell of bog out.'"

     I’m not allowed to clean my own laundry, but even so, I'm fairly certain that the woman would have been better off smelling of bog than weeks-old fruit-stained mildewy fabric.

     "'You're not even going to eat them?' I asked her, aghast!

     "'No. I just like the smell. I find the taste quite revolting, actually,' she jeered.

     "I knew then that this could not stand. As she left, I bought a few tomatoes from the vendor. He was so broken up over not being able to sell me the plums, that he gave the rest of my food for free. I cleverly colored the tomatoes darker with the coal I had in my pocket. I slowly pursued the water hag until she was in the most crowded avenue I could find. That's when I struck!

     “Literally. I slammed myself into her making the food spill everywhere. In all the confusion I swept up the plums and replaced them with the tomatoes. Water hags not being known for their sight, she didn't even notice the difference and just snarled at me as she recollected her things and went on her way. Being victorious, I picked up the last of our food and went to find you, where the story of our adventure picks back up."

     There’s no possible way for me to keep a straight face. "It tastes all the sweeter now that I know how much effort went to getting it. Thank you!" It really does, too, although I hope that, if the hag actually exists, she at least realized something was wrong before she rubbed all of the tomatoes into her laundry.

     I finish my third one and leave the others for him. I wipe my fingers clean on the moss, before I reach into the pocket inside my cloak to bring his gift out.

     "I have something for you actually, though I'm afraid it's a lot less exciting. I was hoping you might draw something for me, so I brought these." I set the roll of paper-mulberry kozogami paper, ink stone, a stick of the pretty black ink I write with, and the new brush in his hands carefully so I don't lose them in the dark.

     "Look at that!" He's running his fingers along the bristles of the brush, damping the ink stone to test the solidity of the color. "These are nice. What did you have in mind?" Even the paper is under scrutiny although it seems to be deemed acceptable after he curls it into a tube and then smooths it as flat as possible.

     I haven’t thought of anything. I don’t know what I want to remember most about tonight, besides the light in his eyes when he’s focused on his painting; and I don’t dare ask him for something as incriminating as that. "Oh, something dynamic with fish, perhaps. Unless you have a better idea?"

     He's as quick as ever to rule out the possibility. "No, no, your ideas are wonderful. Though I may have scared the fish off earlier when I was searching around. Let me check." He hops to his feet and runs over to the rock leaning in over the water, where it provides a shady refuge during the day for the little swimming things. His scramble up the rock is so quick and apparently unbalanced that for a moment I think he's going to fall in.

     After some squinting into the starlit depths he shakes his head. "Look at that, some of the smaller ones had the gall to come back. Fortunate enough for us though, as now I can actually paint what you want."

     "I'm glad they're back to help, but I'm sure your boundless creativity would have served just as well even if they weren't there." Watching his face, I feel the giggles coming on. He clearly misses my light inflection and takes it as a straightforward comment instead, puffing up even more proudly.

     "Right you are! I'll just use the river as a base concept and grow off of that. I can paint the fish with my spin on the idea." He sets river rocks down on the corners of the paper, then repurposes the saucer he packed for food to mix ink and water on. As he works, he grows less focused on my presence; so much so, that even before brush touches paper he's lost track of anything outside of his design. Nothing distracts him.

     I, on the other hand, see a bat fly past out of the corner of my eye. I try to follow its path but it moves like a ragged scrap of fabric in a monsoon wind, and soon I'm not sure if I'm watching one bat many times or many bats once. A moth lands atop the lantern but when I shoo it away from the fire it flies off east.

     I lay down on the blanket to watch Cailen's hands dart jerkily across the paper, quick flicks with his wrist, drawing something like the lines of the river, or so smoothly he might be playing snake charmer to the ink, letting it coil and slither and drip into the perfect coils and curves of fish swimming caught in an instant on the paper. I watch him frown when the ink threatens to clump or run thin, smile with just the corner of his mouth for an instant when he draws the line just so, hold his breath when drawing a straight line for fear of an uneven pressure or unknown particle beneath the paper causing imperfections. It grows easier to see his expressions after a time and I realize that I've missed the actual rise of the full moon from beneath the horizon and that she has taken her first steps into the archway of the sky.

     The moonlight makes the world look as if it is dreaming, creating the world of tales where magic can turn an entire room to glass and the people inside to shades of themselves. I've heard tales of moon-madness, mortals becoming something other than human, something beast-like and hungry.

     Right now, in the witching hours of the night, out in the trees, I would believe that to be truth.

     I stare up at Luna’s face and wonder if the light I absorb now will be reflected later when I look someone in the eyes, two tiny moons caught in gray clouds giving away my excursions.

     One of the reports from the northern lands claimed a village had hired a man to make them a wall of cold iron, silver, and marble to protect them against the bandits in the wastes. The man reportedly completed the task in an hour and in such a way that the construction was bound irreversibly, but the villagers all felt the need to ask the mayor to include the fact that the builder’s eyes glowed magically, lighting the inn he stayed at so brightly that no one realized for an hour that the torches in the room had blown out until he left the room to go to bed and the light went with him. There was apparently also a symbol on his forehead which grew more bright the more work he did. The mayor was clearly skeptical, but I rather liked the idea of a magic man who brought the sun with him wherever he went.

     I watch Luna crossing the sky for a long time, watching her climb through the houses of the constellations. She is deliberate in her movement through the crystal spheres in the heavens; perhaps it is to be certain that her steps will not break the diaphanous compounds of time and heaven where she rests herself in her fullness.

     Time. I look to the lantern, already beginning to show that the light inside is beginning to burn less fiercely than when we arrived. I stretch, stiffer from lying on the ground than I thought I would be. It isn’t until I sit up that I realize I’ve had my back to a rock and my body is only now complaining of the fact.

     Cailen is still so intent on the page that he doesn't even look up until I stand beside him, set my hand on his to prevent him from dipping the brush into the ink again.

     "I apologize for interrupting this masterpiece, but Luna is much past her rising peak. As much as I enjoy being here, I do want to be certain I’m home again before anyone notices." I feel almost as though the words are being dragged out of me. I don't want this to end — even though I know that it has to. Perhaps it will happen again, if I am very lucky.

     He returns to the moment in an instant, the distance in his eyes vanishing as swiftly as lightning on the plains. "Oh, you're right. We should get moving. I sketched down everything I need from this place anyhow."

     "I’m looking forward to seeing it when you’ve finished!" I wonder how much of this scene he'll rework in his mind before he's done, how much there is left for him to do.

     We take a minute to make sure everything is packed in the bundle of the blanket, and the lantern is trimmed. I look around, hoping to see the path but just as earlier I can't tell the difference between one gap in the trees and the next.

     I'll have to ask him to teach me, sometime, but for now, "You'll have to lead the way. I must confess that I'm a little lost..."

     "I can do that, no issue." He slings the blanket-parcel over his shoulder. "Just hold on to me and I'll get us out of here in no time."

     His hand is warm when I take it, only a few calluses brushing against my palm.

     "I'll look forward to when we can come back again," I say, looking around as we head up the trail to the bottom of the cliffs. The climb is mostly uneventful, though I do lose my footing once and send a spray of pebbles and scree off the edge of a small fissure to the ground forty feet below.

     The creep along the wall is easy, and passing through the tunnels is second nature to Cailen by now.

     Before I climb the ladder I set my hand on his shoulder.

     “You don’t have to come with me. I can get back from here, and I don’t want you to be caught because I can’t run-” the need to whisper now that we’re back in the domain of my parents falls on me with heavy familiarity. I’m fairly certain the hardest part for me will be the tree. I think I can manage it.

     Probably.

     “I’m going with you. We’ll be fast enough. You don’t have to worry about me, because we’ll be fine.”

     I would hesitate but that’s only more likely to put him in danger.

     Passing the nightingale floor is still harder for him, even when I show him where to step to keep it quiet. Passing across the moonlit grounds is heartstopping for me and I’m nearly certain for a moment that I’ve lost the key to the gate, but then we’re through to creep beneath the floors to the bamboo. It’s lucky that we’re both so slim, or we’d never make it through. Calla and I used to chase the cat through here when I was younger and she was...

     But we’re through, and edge behind the bamboo to wait for the sentries to pass. As soon as he’s out of sight along the corner of the house, and before the next one passes we dart across the garden, to climb the tree trunk to the roof. I do need Cailen’s help, it turns out, but we’re on the roof with almost no noise. He drops back down out of the tree as soon as I reach my window; he’s gotten much better at landing well on the ground again. He crosses back across through the bamboo and up over the wall out of the garden before the next sentry can see him.

     As soon as he’s left, I carefully ease inside the window, replace the candle, and pull the curtain shut.

     The house is quiet; the clock in my room ticks softly, and I hear the gears catch slightly as they pass into the Hour of the Ox. Faintly, the sound of snoring makes it through the wood panelling.

     I pull my socks off and clean my shoes off with them before I set my shoes back where they were before I left, and bundle my socks into the hole I’ve cut under the mattress. I’ll wash them eventually, but for now they’re the pair I use to go out at night and it’s easier not explaining how they’ve gotten so dusty.

     The fire has banked to dim coals weaving fine traceries of red and deep gold like the outline of scales over the black and white skin of ash. The room is warm, so much warmer than down near the water that I shiver again with the delayed reaction and go sit in my pillow pile.

     I reach for the nuts I asked brought up tonight, cracking the shells while I think about last night especially. When Cailen eats, his hands move as quickly as when he’s sketching to pick food up, but as soon as it's in his mouth, he slows, savors it.

     Even these nuts, encased in such thick shells that I have to use a metal grip to break them free. Even these ones slow him down. I set one on my tongue, thinking about the flavor, the lightness of it, the way the distinctive aftertaste hangs for several moments after I swallow.

     How many flavors am I too familiar with to appreciate? What spices were really used with dinner tonight?

     Even the plums tasted different tonight, fuller, sweeter, more bitter; as if the flavor has room to expand outside in the open air.

     I've never really felt how compressed I am by the walls until tonight.

     But I’ve spent enough time indulging that sort of thought. I toss the nut shells into the coal bed of the fire, fetch my hairbrush and pull my kanzashi out, setting them precisely in the same place in my dresser drawer so no one will notice they were gone.

     Maybe I’ll tell Cailen about the man with the golden eyes the next time; that might be interesting to him, if I tell the report as narrative instead of letter form. I wonder if he would paint that scene if I describe it well enough.

     When I finish brushing my hair I lie down in bed, pull the covers over me and try to sleep.

     I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep before I’m half-woken by the sound of hooves and shouting at the gate. A messenger, from the sound of it. Before long there is stirring and voices spring up in my parent’s rooms. Normally I might try to eavesdrop, but I would rather not explain further why I look so tired to Lady Sage. She might even be pleased at my sense of self-control, and if it’s important news everyone will be talking about it when the sun is up. There might even be more news to be had by then.

     I pull the pillow over my ear, and ignore the footsteps running up and down the main stairs; they are hard to ignore, even so. And even the dreams are strange; voices bleeding over one another becoming figures surrounding a war table, glimmering and lifting mountain ranges or drawing down seas. Impossible to parse. Impossible to continue to fathom meaning from spectre. When I wake, the room is still, and sunlight pours through the window; dust motes hang in the air as golden languid flecks of zested orange in honey. My pillow is on the floor; my blanket sliding off to join it.

     The messenger must have been more important than I realized; Lady Sage would have woken me otherwise. She must have been called to counsel to attend my mother, which means that the matters have grown diplomatically difficult. It means I will not have lessons today, I suppose.

     Still, there’s no point in trying to sleep again, and even less in trying to eavesdrop. Speaking with Hashi will be my best hope; these meetings fall under the purview of his stewardship, and he always listens to the late night meetings. Besides, I haven’t had the chance in the last few days.

     Preparing for my day is more complicated without help, much to my dismay. I hope it won’t be too much of an imposition for whoever it is when they are sent up to help in Lady Sage’s absence. Soothing in anticipation for the business of the day. Deliberation and physical movement blended into enaction.

     There is a very timid knock on the door to my sitting room.

     “Please, enter,” I say, laying out the kanzashi I want for the day. My favorites; fragile, glass-petaled flowers at the tips so they catch the light and color themselves depending on perspective. The hydrangea one in particular has such delicate petals that they flutter in even the slightest breath, ranging translucent shining to pure shadow. If only it were serendipitous with all of my silks and brocades.

     Egret slides open the door, bows, and rises smiling at me. “I’ve been sent to help you dress, Lady Aurora. Lady Sage has been called into the hall to speak with your father about the news from last night.”

     Her presence brightens the room, her fingers confident when she takes the brush from my hands.

     “I am very grateful for the help. I don’t quite know what I’m doing, but another pair of hands might be what’s needed,” I add.

     She laughs and takes the kanzashi. Between the two of us, it only takes a few minutes longer than usual to dress. “What else will you like my assistance for, my lady?”

     My skirts are settled and my lighter, indoors coat is slipped on; all that is left is for me to find Hashi, which Egret won’t be able to help me with this time of day anyway.

     “I am well. Thank you, Egret. I won’t take anymore of your time.”

     She bows, and hurries off to the next task which certainly is only one in a long list. I follow her out into the hall after a moment, but turn the other way down the hall, towards the storeroom. Servants hurry to and fro, and there I see Hashi.

     His face changes as soon as he sees me, from business to joy, and he bows. “Lady Aurora. What brings you down here so early in the morning? I was told you were going to be studying until the midday meal.”

     “I’m here, in part, to welcome you home! It is so busy today; but you have only just returned from seeing your daughter! How is she? Did the blessing go well?” I fold my hands into my sleeves and wait quietly for him, as if I’m not worried. I’m likely safe, but it’s always possible that I have less time than I think and I’ll be pulled away for my studies.

     “It went very well. She was proud to bring Aravinda before the priestess, and the ceremony was set on a particularly auspicious day. The cricket under the altar chirped the entire time.” When he speaks, his smile softens and the wrinkles lining his face become more akin to the soft ridges in beaten cream. Even his eyes change their hue, from a dark yellow to lively flax.

     “I’m so pleased to hear it!” The hours and hours of planning he put into this trip have borne fruit. “And it was sunny; I had worried you wouldn’t have a clear day for it, but it sounds like everything ordered itself beautifully.”

     “It very much did. But,” the lines in his face crease with the creeping veil drawing itself across his face, with his changing thoughts, “What did you actually want to ask me about, my lady?”

     “You’re worried,” I say quietly. Whatever he overheard has made him grow old so quickly in front of me.

     He considers me a long moment, long enough to feel my heartbeat through my neck. then sighs and crosses his arms. “You want me to tell you what happened in the hall last night. With the messenger and all.” His face is grave.

     “I wouldn’t trust anyone else,” I point out. “Especially if it’s this important.”

     He bows his head, squares his feet, then offers his hand to lead me out of the constant flow of people. We sit down in one of the halls where we won’t be overheard without seeing. “Very well. Your father mustn’t hear that I told you this. Last night, one of our messengers arrived from one of the border posts. The news is that the King in the west has beheaded his wife, after accusing her of high treason. He then locked himself into his rooms and refuses to come out, even to eat. Your father was in the midst of negotiations with the ambassador; a letter sent with our messenger was to bring instruction to him. It is currently unclear what the fallout will be. The family of the wife is demanding compensation in some form and building up a massive presence behind their gates.”

     “Your brother lives near the border, does he not? Are they well, still?” I take his hand in mine; it is shaking, slightly. His won’t be the only family threatened by this.

     “We were lucky, my lady. They traveled here for the blessing. They’re staying in the loft in the barn for a few weeks. We thought they might be... more comfortable there.”

     Hashi’s family home is so small. The added members joining them in the barn will overtax even his best estimates.

     “Tell the laundry you’ll be taking my winter linens for a few weeks. They can do without airing them out every week, and I won’t need them for a while anyway.”

     “My lady, I don’t think I can justify this to your parents. I’m sure they wouldn’t be pleased.”

     “My father won’t notice. He’s busy focusing on the news the messenger brought and how it will impact the plans in place. Mother will be helping him, and won’t notice so long as we find more somewhere and bring mine back in time for winter cleaning. She doesn’t worry about laundry minutiae unless Ayame brings it to her attention. I’ll just tell Ayame that she doesn’t need to mention it unless we haven’t solved it by then. Besides, they both keep telling me how much more generous I must be with my actions. What is this if not taking them at their own words?”

     His brow furrows, and I see him tapping out his thoughts on his knee with his free hand. “You mean to hide behind suggestion and interpretation.”

     “I mean to ask forgiveness rather than permission, especially since you are both deserving and in need. Take the sheets, Hashi. I know your wife will find some in the market, or ask the weavers to make more for you. If anyone asks, you’re acting on my orders.”

     There’s the slightest relaxation in his hand. “Thank you, lady Aurora. My wife and daughter will be grateful for your generosity.”

     “Will you please, if you hear anything else about the king, tell me? Father will be so wrapped up with the details, and Mother will focus on the politics, and if I don’t hear it from you, I won’t have any idea of what’s happening.”

     “I will share what information I find myself privy to, my lady, if you will agree to keep from attempting eavesdropping in the meantime.”

     “It’s agreed. I’m going to speak to Ayame now, so there’s no concern later. Please send my love to your family, and my congratulations to your daughter.”

     “Of course.” He ducks his head in an informal bow, as I leave.

...I am afraid that he may already be so lost that I have risen too late to help him, according to what I have heard of him...

Your face, it haunts my once pleasant dreams

Your voice, it chased away all the sanity in me

These wounds won’t seem to heal, this pain is just too real

There’s just too much that time cannot erase

Chapter Text

     “It was the will of Fate, and she would not waver in this. I will not change my mind either.”

     “Perhaps Fate will play a hand inclining Hearts towards charitable action. I have already arranged for my own accommodation aboard her ship; and as amusing as I would find it for you to stow away, having her knowledge of your presence will likely save me the inconvenience of mollification.” She yawns, her palms pushing the air away in an elongated, uncoiling stretch. Her wrist brushes his collarbone as she draws back into herself. “I don’t suppose that pompous idiot has finished explaining the rules yet, has he?”

     The pompous idiot in question has not, in fact, finished. “The prize, ladies and gentlemen, is beyond description! The barest of rumor must have reached your ears, for you to have gathered with me this day. I promise you, it will not disappoint. It has been protected for these thousands of years by an enchantment so devilish and impossible that even the great wizard, the renowned Metal Willow could not undo it, and so dangerous that not even the adventuring team of Sky Leopard and Ruby-Oak Queen could pass through. But how will any of you? I’m so glad you asked!”

     She groans quietly. “And of course she’s taking notes. The poor fool had better hope that none of this is actively interesting to her. You will have to speak with her when he finishes.” She reaches down, to pick up one of the orbs. Tumbling it through her fingers, she catches him staring and shrugs. Her sleeve slides a little further down her shoulder; he swallows hard, feeling his hands suddenly out of place.

     “Come now,” she’s smirking when he meets her eyes again. “Surely that’s not a flush I see? I’m certain we could come to some form of arrangement, if you’d like. I apparently have time.”

     “No, that’s not- I’m not-”

     “Oh, dear; please tell me I will not lose interest so quickly in this game. You’re making it easy for me, of course?” She sighs. “I suppose you’ll have to do for now. If you have any intention of remaining with me in the grander scheme of things, I anticipate you learning several new skills rapidly. Unless you choose to leave; you may not have that choice, forever.” She glides between her emotions swiftly, serpentine over the glass-like thoughts that catch light and brighten to be seen. “Continue, Virgil; perhaps your tale-telling will entertain more than this game. Were there many picnics? Did you succeed in whisking her away, before Heaven had its way with her? Or did the great abydocmist take her the morning after?”

     “I- the great what?”

     She tosses the orb into the air, catches it. “Never mind that. How long did the subterfuge last?”

     The light of the orb reminds him of the moon, brighter against the shadows that surround her. “Months, maybe. It wasn’t always picnics. There were books - with maps and other paintings, from all around the world. You’d tell me stories about them, tell me what the languages were, and the histories.”

     “How idyllic. Did you plan to save the world, then?” Her fingers twist slightly when she releases the orb, spinning it. She remembers darkness, candled midnight — the first ache of a heart realizing immense consequence.

     And for a moment, he feels the remembering. It slides past, buried in the echoes of his own making and is gone. The inevitable questioning, but inverted. A determined ending might serve as a beginning.

     “You asked once if knowing that you could fix a thing meant that you had to.”

     “And? Your conclusion?”

     A conclusion which, in painful hindsight, had likely lead to this moment. “From a painter’s perspective, an error on the canvas should be handled so the end result isn’t anything less than ideal.”

     She laughs. “Or you take to your canvas with a knife; I’ve seen painters more like to do so than try to remedy the mistake, however minute. Was that only your opinion for painting?”

     “Painting was the most important thing to me. It was what I knew.” The memory, as clearly painted as any oil on canvas.

     “You say that as if there could be anything more important than art!? Food may feed you. Water may satiate your thirst. Leathers and pelts may keep you protected from the seasons. Art, art fulfills your deepest needs. So in a roundabout way, I’d say yes. It probably is true of everything.”

     “And when it’s people? when they do something objectively wrong, and you can stop them, do you have to?”

     “Well, I generally don’t like people putting their nose in matters that don’t involve them. Most people like to tell others what they should be doing, even if they don’t understand how. Which is endlessly aggravating. But you are smarter than most people, so I would trust you know how to fix something if you say you know how, and if you know you definitely should.”

     “Virgil, if you’d like the time to daydream you might just say so.”

     “No, I was thinking. You reminded me, was all.” She certainly wouldn’t answer the same, now. But neither would he, and perhaps this inevitable drawing together would serve exactly to fix what had gone wrong before.

     Whatever it was that led her to pass through the land of the dead shrouded and ghostly, as if when she died, the colors bled from her too.

Now go, and with your ornamented speech and whatever else is needed for his escape help him so that I may be consoled.

For every tyrant a tear for the vulnerable

In every lost soul the bones of a miracle

For every dreamer a dream, we’re unstoppable

with something to believe in

     The tree in the garden is easier to climb every time. The tree itself must be ruled by fate; filled with goodness and the purpose of helping me towards Aurora as she waits. But even so, I am always looking to move faster with the best footholds I’ve found to speed up the process. The calluses this climb has formed make it more difficult to steady my hand while working, but I’d never complain truly. It would suggest that they aren’t worth acquiring.

     I never doubted I could scale a tree before, but it’s nice to know that the confidence is well supported by fact now. Especially since it allows me to reach a better vantage point.

     Climbing through the window always feels like such a victory. There isn’t anywhere that would yield a better view of Aurora, the moment I step down from the window sill. She’s always so happy to see me.

     The sight of her has never failed to inspire me.

     Tonight, the layers of her tunic are as a soft blush rose and pale sunrise gold. The darker color of her underskirt, perhaps the shade of pink sweet pea blossoms? and her sash, break up the flow of the fabric with a soft subtlety hinting at her slenderness beneath all of the silk. Her hair is pinned back by those long glass needles again. Twirled up properly into shining braids and twists, she feels so elegant that I can’t help but feel like I am forced to keep my distance.

     That is to say, in this setting beneath the Lord and Lady’s room, she seems as though she is a living piece of exquisite art. She is so utterly magnificent that she exists separate from me, in a setting that is so unreal it could only exist in the imagination. Here I am just another patron looking upon her.

     This is why I prefer our outings.

     Here, she is welcoming, offering food and water, and the occasional donation to help further my artistic craft.

     When we go out, her hair falls from those perfect knots into more loose curls and waves, long loose strands. Her frame and demeanor become less tightly strung, and for a while I believe I exist within wonderment. I am finally living among inspiration.

     “Cailen?”

     I snap back from these thoughts, as pleasant as they are, and live presently in the current dream. “Sorry. How are you tonight?”

     “I am well. It was a busy day today.” Her smile lights her eyes, as sunlight breaking through clouds. In her hands is a cup of cool water, filled to brim, offered to me with steady hands. “How are you?”

     I down the water quickly, wander away from the window to sit cross-legged on her bed.

     “I’m doing good, lately. I’ve been producing some of my best work and I feel like life is really lining up for me.” Destiny smiles upon me. The vastness of success is within my reach, now. “My father is starting to take notice of my skill, and is giving me more and more responsibility in the shop. Which is a bit of a two-edged sword as I have to run around more, but I don’t mind that so much when it means I get to work on the more important pieces with him.”

     She sits beside me, folding her legs under herself tidily.

     “I’m so happy to hear that! Is your brother still jealous?”

     “I would say he is finally capable of showing a wide variety of range in color now, though it seems exclusive to shades of green,” I say grinning.

     She laughs, a little tightly. “Sounds like you’ll be stepping into the limelight a lot more often now. I am glad that you’ll be busy.”

     “Well, it is certainly nice to finally be appreciated. Even though I hate thinking of being kept too busy. After all, I can scarcely imagine that I would be doing as well as I am without you.” My smile stretches across my face so much that my cheeks are sore from it. There is so much to do, so much to learn from my father.

     “You don’t give yourself enough credit, you know.” She’s playing with the end of her sleeve, running her fingers up and down it, feeling the seams. From here, her lashes look like mimosa blossoms. If I were to paint her just now, I would need the slightest touch from a fan brush to capture the transience.

     “If you’re the one saying so, it must be true.” Her praise is like the nectar of the gods, raining down upon me, even so briefly. “Though that doesn’t diminish your part in the grand scheme of it all.”

     “You do perfectly well without me, though. I’d warrant you would come up with amazing things even if you didn’t see me for months.” She tosses the words into the air in light strokes, like a light wash of paint, but she’s too serious.

     “Well, yeah. I probably could make a few things here and there, but I spend way too long daydreaming of impossibilities. Why give the time of day to a ludicrous thought such as being apart?” I stretch across her bed, letting the luxurious fabrics fluff around me and relax my tensed up shoulders. Something about the idea of her leaving makes my breath catch under my ribs. Perhaps there is something wrong.

     “I will have to see the rest of the world sometime; as do you.”

     I roll back over onto my side, struggling to tuck my elbow beneath me among the thick layer of feathers in her mattress. It’s always more difficult to be taken seriously when you can’t even find your balance while laying down. This feels like the sort of thing that would normally be simpler. Maybe it’s all the pressure in the air.

     “Of course we do! I think there are many wonders out there waiting to be captured and immortalized through my work, but I just always envisioned we would do that together.”

     The room is warm, and my hands feel sweaty. I somehow can’t get comfortable in the soft, gentle comfort of her blankets and pillows.

     “We will; but perhaps you might sometimes like to surprise me with what you paint instead of me always seeing it firsthand.” She looks up finally, and meets my eyes, her expression as unreadable as it usually is when other people look or speak to her.

     “I suppose that makes sense... I should want to surprise you every now and then. There wouldn’t really be anything wrong with spending a week or so apart to make something completely new. It might even be fun.” Ugh, even my throat didn’t want those last words to squeeze through. What is it about those stormy, ardent eyes, like the sun in a tempest? Every time I am forced to give into her every whim.

     That isn’t really fair. I suppose I don’t give into everything, but I would be lying if I said she wasn’t as persuasive as Luna herself coming down from the heavens and offering a lip-locked embrace.

     “Do you mind so much? I thought you liked to amaze me with unexpected inspiration.” She drops the edge of her sleeve and reaches out to wrap her fingers in mine. Her hands are soft as my father’s most prized watercolor brushes, and glide over the calluses on mine. “Remember the plums?”

     “The plums were very nice. Perfect, really.” I close my fingers around hers. “I guess you’re right. I do enjoy surprising you, and I haven’t done so nearly enough.”

     “You could paint me something really special if I took longer, right? If it was more than a week?” She’s smiling still, but her eyes are watching mine closely.

     “Definitely. Though I wouldn’t want to have this happen too often. We could certainly try though. How long would it be?”

     “I’m not sure. Maybe two weeks? I would hate for it to be longer than that, I’d be ever so curious.”

     Two weeks? I can handle that! My body whips upright, and I wrap my arm around her waist. That feeling of relief washes over me as I take in every pleasant sensation she emits. From the floating, gentle smell of camellias in her hair, to that seductively soft silk and the warmth of her touch.

     “Oh good! I’d hate to keep such a project under wraps for too long. You know how impatient I can be.”

     “I’m sure you won’t be impatient at all. You’ll be so busy perfecting everything, you won’t have time.” She’s relaxed again, and the air is fragrant woodsmoke.

     “Of course I couldn’t give you something less than perfect! It wouldn’t be consistent with the rest of my work. And let us not forget that it is the details in art that give it life. I should be able to fit in a lot of details if you leave for that long.” This project could actually be exactly what I need to push my skills. Something that proves I’m above the caliber of other artists. As if that needs proving...

     “Well, in that case! I’ll try not to come home too soon. I wouldn’t want to rob you of your consistency. Maybe I’ll even stay away a little longer...” She’s biting her lip now, trying to smother the sweet smile that keeps promising a laugh.

     I can breathe again without the catching in my chest. “Now, now! No need to prolong things any longer than necessary. I mean, you have a life here. Between your home, family, and all these ideas of helping the refugees you keep telling me about, I’m sure you’d be homesick in no time.”

     She nudges my shoulder with her own. “You’re not including yourself in my reasons? What, do you think I won’t miss you at all?”

     I feel my face start to burn, and my heart starts pounding so hard I hear it. “Well, I would never want to presume the level of importance I hold in your life. After all, there are many other people here who hold much higher positions than me. I’m just a painter.”

     “Never just a painter,” she says, gently; her smile grows brighter than the candle in the window. “At the very least, you’re an amazing painter.” Her fingers draw tighter very, very quickly around mine. “But I will miss seeing you.”

     “As I will miss seeing you.” I lean over and rest my forehead on hers, and there is an instant of absolute quiet. It burns at me, though. I straight up. “Enough of these conversations. I’m tired of talking about the future. Can we talk about something new?”

     “I have a new book to write in. I thought you might like to see the cover; the embossed gold is like snake scales. See?” She runs to pull it from her desk, brings it back with a folded tissue on top. “There’s also the wrapping paper. It’s a map of Creation. Look how small we are!”

     “That’s really special. I’m sure you’ll fill it up in no time.” The paper of the map is crinkled from travel, but the oceans and mountains are plain enough, and cities as well, even though the characters spelling their names are still difficult for me to read.

     “We’re here. This is Lesser Cherak here, and that’s Greater Cherak; and the Shogunate reaches to here. These are independent principalities, though I think this one might have fallen to the Shogunate recently. Or they found some other way, but it's in the domain of the Dragons now.”

     The orange on the map where we live is dwarfed by everything else.

     “You’re telling me that this spot here is supposed to be us? This doesn’t look nearly big enough.”

     “We don’t command the same stretch of territory. Normally it’s harder to tell, but with so much of the Shogunate in red it’s much easier to compare. This is Rathess, here, where the Dragon Kings live. They’re supposed to have the best painters there, and the best craftsmen too.”

     “I’ve heard stories from some of the traders that get supplies through there. Every word they spoke made it sound more and more like fantasy. The exquisite tools available there, better than even the sable brushes, and - the paints, too, better than the mica, or silicas, or talcs. The things I could do with those tools...”

     If I were to improve my art to the level that I could impress the citizens of Rathess, I would be able to afford anything. I could enjoy luxuries ten times greater than what this tiny mansion contains.

     “Artists that work there are treated better than most nobles. More respected, even. I’d love to be counted among them.”

     I could even be considered a good suitor for Aurora...

     She looks up from the map, almost like she heard me thinking.

     “What’s the first thing you would paint, if you were there? Or would you just roll in the paints and brushes?”

     “As appealing as that might be, it would be horribly wasteful and bend the hairs on the brushes. No, no, I would do a stunning landscape of the city itself. Capture the magnificences of the place that allowed my dreams to come true.” Or the person, maybe.

     But there are so many wonders Rathess is supposed to contain. The pyramids towering high above jungle canopies to blaze in the light of Sol. The towers filled with scholars and artists, pushing the possibilities of reality. Streets covered with people immersed in the prosperity that trickles down from the Dragon Kings without hesitation. It’s magical.

     It’s too soon, after looking at all this possibility, that I have to leave. Sneaking back out of the window when I leave, I have so many ideas that I don’t know if I’m even going to be able to put them all on paper before more appear.

     I have to keep some in my head, because from the morning on through the next few days, we are ridiculously busy and I can’t sneak away to think.

     I despise these days. I feel so trapped at the studio, working with my Father and Elgar without interruption. I love art, creating and reimaging the world around me, but bringing the paint to life is so hard to do when I don’t see Aurora.

     Not that I’m incapable, or anything. There are plenty of good pieces that I make as part of the duties I’m responsible for in the studio. It’s just not as real when she’s not around. I just don’t have the constant rush of ideas that I get when we’re together. Some that fly into my mind as wildly as the north wind, others that are carried to me in her gentle words. Inspiration given voice, sending me reeling with sudden possibility.

     She told me a story once, of a dragon and a man who worked the earth around the dragon’s lair. The man had to befriend and persuade the dragon to protect the land, in the story. He had everything to gain, safety from its strength, mobility from its flight, confidence in its presence. But the dragon, the dragon needed nothing from the man. There was no great intellect, no speed or strength to offer. The man was the embodiment of lacking to such a miraculous beast, and had to do everything in his power to prove his worth.

     Aurora is everything inspiring, driving me. She’s of a line descending from the blood of the dragons, her kindness enfolds me, her mind is blessed with such insight that is deeper than any ravine I’ve ever seen.

     I have to ensure she sees my worth and that this isn’t all one sided. I have to capture nature on canvas, embody the scenes before me in ways that breathe life into the oil and paint more perfectly than even my father’s work. Anyone viewing the painting must feel a great deception unraveling before them, eyes betrayed into believing a window into a secret and pure space exists where nature thrums and pulses as in the gardens kept by the gods...

     She is my muse, and this is all I’ve amounted to since I’ve met her, a ball of nerves and impulses all designed around capturing the object of her desire.

     The nights by the river are one of the few ideas I will ever give Elgar credit for. Capturing the feeling, the bare emotion of those nights into oil and canvas, through the fish and the waters, the stars and moon - the Karun itself will sound in the ears of anyone who looks at the strokes. I’ll make it perfect...

     My father startles me by appearing by my side while I’m painting the yellowed red highlights of the metal in a still life. Elgar passed the job off to me and went to buy specific pigments for his own projects.

     He is quiet, considering my work, then nods. “The colors here are well blended, and well applied. The highlights and shadows are well balanced, and the shaping of the surface and its texture have been correctly evoked. It is very well done.”

     He rests a hand on my shoulder, as I work to look like a professional artist and not show the joy welling within me.

     “Good job, Cailen,” he says, leaving me to it.

     Fate is smiling even as I do. The world is full of such perfect possibility.

One must fear only those things that have the power to harm; not other things, for they are not fearful.

If there’s love in this life, we’re unstoppable

No, we can’t be defeated

     She looks away, towards Hearts in the crowd, and a lapse - the bitterness and despair, tumbling into a maelstrom, beating within her breast where a heart should pulse, he feels them as acutely as if they were his own. Pain, but it brings him hope. As inevitable and inexorable as before, over time the chasm between them bridged by the sensitivity between. Acting as one, with complete understanding and knowledge of her wishes and his capability.

     When she turns back, her face is implacably full of dark humor and the moment of connection closes as swiftly as if a cleaver had divided them.

     “That does seem to be the theme for the afternoon; you are indeed thinking of many things. I will assume that she didn’t have painting in mind. So, was that the moment? Was the sun brighter, then? Did you hear the heavenly voices? Or was she simply different when you saw her again?”

     At first, the words catch in his lungs, sticking beneath his sternum. Overwhelmed by the familiarity. “You were different. Everything was different. Beatrice-”

     Her eyes gleam and the red catches the sunlight, makes him hesitate. It’s very nearly a blow to the throat, for how suffocated he suddenly feels. The full force of her anger strikes him without barrier, without filter. She slides the bag from beneath the bench with her foot, drops the orb in her hands into it.

     “I will remind you again, Virgil,” she says, the rasp in her level tone forming cold unease to drip like sweat down his back. She rises up smoothly, gathers the bag up to her arm just as gracefully. “I am not your mistress-that-was. I am Sonnet, and you would do well to remember that.”

     The people part like water around her, and by the time he’s on his feet there are several he has to push past to keep up.

     “Where are we going?” He asks, when he is beside her again. Caution as tension in his arms, his back, that he has to breathe through carefully. Such a tenuous connection, but any action could jeopardize it now. Even predestined meetings do not have preordained conclusions.

     “The speech has ended, for all intents, and I am to meet Hearts, where you will persuade her to allow you aboard her ship and I will enjoy the awkwardness between the both of you.” The humor has returned ever so slightly in her tone, but he can feel the constraint now, the falseness of her expression. Perhaps, even, the slightest bit of uncertainty in her as well?

     She leads him through several groups who divide themselves to push out of their way, and around towards the far side, where the other Undead is sliding a pen and paper neatly into a portfolio which appears to be covered in skins stitched together, then into a carrying bag.

     “What in the name of hell is he doing here again?” Her hand keeps its grip on the file as she faces him.

     “I’m so glad you enjoyed the speech. Virgil is here to ask for your permission to come aboard as well for the duration of this race. Haven’t you?” Sonnet turns to look at him with a smile, as Hearts glares with eyes narrowed at him.

     “You want to come aboard the Damned? No. Why?” Her voice carries, sharp enough to cut across the rumbling of the crowd.

     He crosses his arms. She’s small enough that he could just push his luck and board anyway, but Sonnet is watching, and in theory this captain is her friend. “She’s going with you, and I’m going with her.”

     The intensity of her glare grows impossibly. “Why?”

     “Because I’m a Lunar, and she’s-” my Solar, crosses his mind, but he catches himself before he says it. Sonnet is close to anger still, and trying to persuade both of them at the same time is overwhelming. “Mate to my spark,” he finishes, very carefully.

     Hearts laughs so hard and long that it rocks her backwards. When she catches a breath, she points a finger at Sonnet, cackling.

     “YOU ACTUALLY HAVE A LUNAR!!!!”

     Sonnet rolls her eyes. “Yes, apparently I have. Enjoy your laughter now; I can wait ‘til one finds you.”

     “I will enjoy my laughter!” Hearts says gleefully, between explosive gales of laughter.

     Perhaps this means fate has begun already to work change for her, an integration of new ideas. Perhaps not. Sonnet glances around the square, waiting for the mockery to subside.

     “Well?” she asks, when Hearts has mostly relented to making hearing conversation again. “Are you going to let him board?” She sounds bored more than annoyed, her left hand lightly tracing the strap of the bag up and down, from her shoulder to the pouch and back again.

     “No,” Hearts says, coming abruptly back to normal speech. “He’s a Lunar. He’ll break my ship.”

     “I am going with her,” he says, watching Sonnet as well, in case that particular battle resurfaces. Sonnet, whose disinterest in the topic is palpable while she watches the people pass. Estimating strengths and weaknesses, most likely, weapons to turn to her advantage should she choose.

     “We already have an understanding,” Hearts points at her case files. “You and I do not. Which means you will not be coming aboard.”

     “You can change your ‘understanding’. But I am not leaving her side again.”

     “That is not how we write contracts —” Hearts’ voice is beginning to grow louder again.

     Sonnet sighs. “We’re wasting time. I will take responsibility for his taking care of your ship, if it will suit you,” she nods at Hearts and looks to him. “And you will not damage the Damned, or there will be a penalty to me, which I suspect will serve as a penalty to you. Is this agreeable?”

     There’s a moment’s silence, before Hearts offers a hand to Sonnet. When their hands touch, in pledge, a moment of absolute, blinding darkness and the sense of millions of unclean primordial eyes watching the binding oath causes every fiber of Virgil’s being to shudder. For the duration of the oath, the deadly darkness around Sonnet is apparent to the naked eye and a bloodied sigil shines at her brow.

     It’s a perfect mirror to the mark of Sol that blessed hers before.

     Then, the moment is gone, the sigil fading from her face.

     “Excellent. We’ll be on our way then,” she says, and begins to lead the way without another word.

     Hearts groans in disgust, but takes her bag and picks her scythe up. “You really won’t want to hurt the Damned,” she says, conspiratorially to him. “I have a whole list of delightful new torture ideas I’m just waiting to try on someone. Anyway, you’ll have to share a room. I’m using the others. For stuff. And keep your tail out of the way when we’re sailing, or I’ll cut it off.”

     The ship itself is easy to see from a distance. The sails are ghostly, barely there in the daylight; the sides are made of what looks like steel, until he sees the writhing and screaming faces bubbling to the surface of the metal but no farther before they are subsumed once more.

     Sonnet is far enough ahead that she reaches the gangway first. The woman she was watching earlier, the Solar with her teal hair still perfectly in place, stands at the bottom, waiting.

     Hearts frowns. “What does that want?”

     Sonnet turns, as if she can hear us from even that far, and gestures to Hearts clearly before she begins to board.

     He can hear Hearts grinding her teeth as they draw close. “And it’s a Deceiver.”

     “You are the Captain of this vessel?” the woman calls out when they are close enough for decorum’s sake to permit it.

     “What do you want?” Hearts fires back.

     “I’d like to offer you a business opportunity. In exchange for travelling aboard this ship with you, I can offer you a fortune of business contacts and engagements. Shall we have a word aside?”

     “Oh. Virgil?” Sonnet smiles, looking over the ship railing down at him. The ship’s name is blazoned beneath her feet.

     Cry of the Damned.

     Of course. The emphasis is already making him tired. Because what else would it be?

     “Yes,” he answers, looking up and trying to ignore the warning sense which has returned as something like seasickness.

     “I’ve thought of a way for you to prove to me that you’re serious about your devotion. We have only met today; a test of your intent would reassure me greatly. Will you do this?”

     The skip of his heart and burning unease combine, but if it’s possible to settle this matter so soon, be certain in at least that respect.... “Do you promise?”

     She leans on the railing as comfortable as a cat in a sunny ledge, resting her chin on her palm. “I promise to you that should you perform this one task for me without question and to completion, I will be assured of your inclinations and determination in regards to my safety and interests. I promise even to answer questions you might have about my existence. Will that suit?”

     He tastes bile. Destiny be damned, this dealing is happening quickly enough to raise an alarm. But one action - one action to guarantee a foothold. A foothold and a promise for further talk.

     “Yes,” he says, before he loses any more ground than he has already.

     “Yes?” she prompts, her hair sliding over her bare shoulder, fluttering in the wind.

     Maybe it won’t be so bad? “Yes, I will do what you ask in return for your promise.”

     He reads the lethal curiosity, the peaked interest as she considers him, something foreign disquieting her before she resolves herself and her emotions still into invisibility once more. “My, my, Virgil,” she says, quietly enough he has to strain to hear her. “I didn’t truly anticipate you’d agree so readily. We’re playing for high stakes, indeed.” She pushes off from the railing. “You will catch up, I’m sure. The task I would have from you should be simple for a man of your talents. You will go to all of the stables used for this competition, and you will break the legs of all of our competitor's horses. When you have done this, we will see what follows.”

As the days go by the night's on fire

Tell me would you kill to save a life

Tell me would you kill to prove you're right

Through me the way into the grieving city,

through me the way into eternal sorrow,

through me the way among the lost people.

Justice moved my high maker;

Divine power made me,

Highest wisdom, and primal love.

Before me were no things created

Except eternal ones, and I endure eternal.

Abandon every hope, you who enter.

Chapter Text

     Imprisonment doesn’t suit me at all. There it is, I’ve said it. 

     I’ve been set up in the corner cell at the far end of the prison. The walls down here are coarse and sharp, like they used mortar with ceramic shards mixed into it. They must have haphazardly clumped together the lumpy, jagged mixture and stuck it together to make the walls this uneven and curved. Especially making sure all the sharp shards stab into unsuspecting innocents who try to lean up against them! The thick wooden lattice bars at the front of the cell are sturdy, but unlike the rest of the walls in the House above they’re not smoothed. Probably to promote splinters in anyone foolish enough to push at the wood. The floor itself is also purposefully coarse. Someone must have thought, “Let’s throw some gravel in the mix with the mortar so there will always be prickles pushing into the skin no matter how a person chooses to lay. It’ll be great fun watching them writhe around in physical discomfort!”

     Animals.

     My clothes offer next to no protection; I’ve taken to curling up in a ball, huddled in a corner. Even with the material I have wadded up against the wall, I have to keep from shivering or moving too much so I don’t get prodded or cut. The corner at least helps me keep me warm, which is enough for me to sleep. At least long enough until I fall over, but I’m getting better at staying upright.

     I’ve never regretted spending money on art instead of clothes until now. Currently, I’m heatedly jealous of Aurora’s wardrobe. Everything she touches is colorful, warm and soft. Covered in ornate stitching and grand designs, but most importantly of all, layered.  

     Somewhere between artistic appreciation of the colors chosen to grace her figure, and the distraction of her smile, her eyes, her touch, I sometimes forget my current circumstance.

     I’m still not sure how long I’ve been down here. It was two weeks when I climbed to her window which stood dark without a candle, when Destiny turned an ill-advised moment of thought into an attack by the guards which landed me here. Guards who won’t speak to me either. 

     The one attempt at escaping I’ve made ended with a knot on my head and fits of dizziness. Gaia forbid I allow such an opportunity to slip by, but I made it past two guards - Duncan? and someone else. In all the confusion, I reached the stairs, saw sunlight at the top, tasted the fresh air! But I lost count of how many guards there were down here.

     Halfway up the stairs, I heard an odd whirling noise followed by a rather painful force constricting itself around my legs. Needless to say, I was less than capable of running, and the sudden lack of momentum led to a quick and forceful fall. 

     A fall broken by my head on the third step from the top. 

     The third. step.

     I was apparently knocked out, because I woke again back in the cell once more. The knot on my head has been a constant and considerable reminder of how painful failure can be. 

     Perhaps I’ll just go back to dreaming. 

     Time passes away, as it always must, but I have even less of an idea of how long I’ve been here. Two weeks since she was here, I was caught. But here, everything is the same. Same damp, same rough and round. Same dim lit lamp that is never changed. Same bland guards wearing bland armor. Same dark, encroaching emptiness. Nothing is ever going to change. Nothing is ever going to happen. 

     I wake from a doze to a clatter and clashing of feet and voices from the courtyard above, and a hubbub of unpacking and movement back into the house. 

     Barely has the din from the gateway subsided when there are heavy footsteps that echo down the stairs into the dimness, and Lord Aphelion himself, resplendent in his traveling armor with full black scales and gold details storms into view. His face is twisted with the strangest mixture of relief and bitterness, but his mouth is compressed so tightly that individual whitenesses from each of his teeth almost mark his lips.

     The guards all bow low.

     “What exactly is all this about?” He pulls his riding gloves from his hand in jerking motions, one finger at a time. 

     Duncan, who is apparently the Captain, answers him. “We caught him trespassing, my lord. We kept him here until your return. What would you have us do with him?”

     “Where exactly was he when you found him?” He speaks hurriedly, enunciating very clearly every consonant and biting off the ends of his words. His interest is vague and slightly disgusted, looking at Duncan and not me, considering a problem that is beyond his particular curiosity or patience.

     “We caught him in the private garden. He seems to have fallen trying to climb inside. When we caught him, he was on the gravel just within the walls.”

     I was leaving, actually. The sturdy bamboo I’d trusted for so long to be my ladder over the wall collapsed under my foot in a cowardly moment and I fell. They wouldn’t have even noticed if the moon had been anything other than waxing. And when I turned to squeeze under the deck, they were already coming from inside the house. 

     “That seems to merit the usual punishment. Do you have anything to say in your defense?” Lord Aphelion’s foot taps impatiently and his fingers twitch, but he almost seems to be listening for something outside the room to happen, even though none of the bustle comes in this direction. 

     “My Lord.” I fold over my knees, ensuring I’m as low as possible with my forehead forcibly resting in the grimey, gritty, damp prison floor. I may not be very clean, but I still know how to respect my superiors. The coolness of the floor actually feels nice on the lump on my head. Who would have thought. 

     "I was merely on a delivery, and was caught in the midst of having tried to make my exit. I had no malice or ill will in visiting your estate, my lord.” 

     He snorts. “Interesting. He’s made fools of you all, if that’s true. Well, dock a month’s pay from each of the guards on duty, and send him on his way after twenty strokes with the heavy bamboo. Perhaps he will remember not to trespass again.” He turns on his heel, pushing his gloves under one of the straps at his waist. “Duncan, follow me. I have another task for you.” Without looking back he stalks up the stairs and out into the sunlight. The door he throws open crashes into the wall before bouncing back and vibrating slightly as it swings closed again.

     ... did he say twenty strokes? He couldn’t possibly have meant that. I mean, I am merely a child . All I did was get caught on his property. It’s not like he knew I was here to see Aurora. 

     No. No, that was clearly a mistake. There’s no way I’m going to be flogged for these transgressions, no way at all. 

     I mean, he is the local lord, but surely he wouldn’t stoop to doing something so utterly despicable. Not to a humble and mostly honest young artist, who prior to this day has served his lord’s wishes to the letter. No, this is a mistake. Aurora will make this right, she will make her father see reason.

     What if Aurora isn’t with him, thought?

     A long silence passes with that thought. A long, painful silence, as if existence itself is suffering under the weight. 

     She did leave, already. How long has it been? Wouldn’t she have come back, if she was planning to? 

     And, if she is back and knows that I am down here, well. That would imply a great deal. 

     The weight grows, and I find myself running my fingers up and down my sides, feeling my ribs where they slightly protrude from my skin. My tightly bound skin, which is barely staying to the shape it’s in now. The same soft, vulnerable skin that might be used as its own form of canvas for a rather enthusiastic deliverer of Justice. 

     I wonder if they will take as long dolling out my punishment as I took painting the river for Aurora. That day was awfully peaceful. 

     My skin feels weaker by the moment and the small veil of hope I have for intervention is being swept away, revealing all the small pains and worries that it so eloquently hid.

     Maybe this is why I should spend less time daydreaming.

     Or perhaps this is just the natural end that fate has for its favorite artists.

     The door opens again, and the remaining bile in my stomach tries to escape as unsuccessfully as I did. 

     Only, the door isn’t opened with the same force as it was the last time. The heavy steps are slower, this time, perhaps anticipating what’s to come?

     But... when Lord Aphelion comes into view again the sunlight comes with him. His face is bright and dazzled as if he’s been staring directly above at noon in full summer, but something is strange about the relaxed quality of his jaw, his shoulders have dropped low until they droop as leaves after a heavy storm. 

     And then — Aurora follows in his footsteps, unsmiling saying nothing, just fanning herself. She looks to me, meets my gaze again after so long. There is a radiance about her, a nimbus of celestial light.

     Her eyes are blinding.

     “I have had time to reconsider my decision,” Lord Aphelion says. His words are slurred, the sibilants hissing out lazily at the end of his breath. “Perhaps I have been hasty.”

     He doesn’t look at her, when she reaches out her hand and lightly settles it on his shoulder; but then, he doesn’t have to. “I remand the boy to my daughter’s teaching. He may learn more in her service than if we simply turn him away. You will see to it that he is made fit for duty, then send him to her. We will inform his father, and see that he is adequately compensated for the lack of labor this will incur. Additionally, the guards in question will receive half-pay, instead of none. I had not adequately weighed the effect upon their families.” 

     Aurora’s eyes don’t leave mine, even when her father turns to her; but then she allows him to lead her from the room. She looks back over her shoulder to me twice, before I can’t see her anymore.

     There is a long moment of stunned silence as all of the light fades gently from the corners and the walls. The dinginess of the structure creeps in ashamedly to reign once more.

     “Gavin,” says another guard, Heshe, as if the wind has been knocked out of him, almost as an afterthought. 

     “...Yeah?”

     “I hadn’t realized Lady Aurora had also returned.”

     “Me neither,” says Gavin. The room is so still that dust motes are floating upwards against gravity in surprise.

     Heshe nods several times, considering this statement. “She certainly seems to have grown up while she was gone.”

     Gavin shakes his head a few times, blinking. “That she has.”

     The sound of Sage outside squawking at someone breaks the spell, and the two lurch into action, trying discreetly to shake their sense back into themselves with half-stifled jerks of their heads. After a few dazed expressions and exchange of awkward glances, Heshe shuffles forward and unlocks the cell.

     The chu-clunk noise of the lock disengaging rings in my ears. I might be dreaming again, hoping to wake up to this moment, only to find myself back in the dirt and grit.

     Heshe is holding the door open for me. 

     Let me reiterate. Heshe is holding the door open for me. Nobody holds doors for me on my best day, delivering masterpieces to their front door, let alone when I’m covered in filth and drabbles of half-crusted blood from being imprisoned some number of days. I stare at him, still grappling with the idea of what is happening when I hear the main door open again. Gavin is standing there with a small mound of clothes, the few possessions I entered with. They seem to have received better care than what I’ve endured.  

     The wheels begin to turn, concepts clicking together, and I take confident steps out of the cell. 

     I knew Aurora would never let this slide, and what happened? She saved me! I should never have doubted. Of course Fate looks after its favorite artist. 

     The elation carries well over the bafflement of the guards when I reclaim my belongings. I strip down, redress myself unashamed of my condition. I mean, sure, I’m thinner overall, but I’m sure I’ll start to regain that weight the next time I see Aurora. She always surprises me with treats from her family’s more extravagant dinners. They always have extra food and it’s more than anything I’d have at home. I have to tighten my sash a bit more when refastening everything to my body, but I don’t mind.

     My muse is back! and just saved me from the brink of devastation. What do I have to complain about?

     My smile only grows wider, stretching the tight muscles in my face into the forgotten shapes, and they lead me up to the surface. The sky is a dusky sunset of orange, red, and purple with the sun far over the walls from here. 

     Weather as it is, I don’t think it’s been a full season, but I’m never one to track such inconsequential matters. It’s always more important as an artist to capture the present, than the future or the past. 

     I have never felt so at ease and pleased with my life. I mean, sure. I’ve just escaped languishing for an unspecified amount of time, and eerily close to experiencing first hand what it feels like to be flayed like a fish, but my muse saved me. 

     Saved me.

     How many people can say that the inspiration of their life has saved them from anything more than mediocrity and boredom? My muse is beauty personified, commanding authority, and exuding true... true....

     Blast. What does she exude? The whole scene feels like such a blur. I remember her perfectly, but the details around are so fuzzy. She looks so much the same, yet all I envision is complete and inexpressible blinding perfection. Not even that explanation does justice to the moment, though I suppose my words rarely do. 

     Walking home seems more quiet than normal, but that makes sense given the time of the day. Still, the sound of people’s feet padding about, shuffling their belongings and retiring to their homes, welcomes me back to the still silence of my home. 

     How would I capture that moment? Perhaps in a visual medium. I could use oils, maybe, or maybe the watercolors to blur the edges of everything unimportant, everything not her.... I’ll have to borrow a few paints from Father, and....

     The thought stops me dead in my tracks.

     Sol’s teeth, I forgot. I have to tell Father, and Elgar, and I didn’t even... 

     oh no oh no oh no

     They’re going to be absolutely livid. I mean, I’ve been gone for.... months? weeks? several months ? Whatever the time passed, the guards would have notified them eventually of my arrest. No doubt this has already caused a fair share of disparagement to the practice. Father is going to be so upset over the lost commissions. 

     They’re going to be fuming hotter than dragon’s breath. 

     What am I going to do?

     My heart drops from the heavens back to my chest so fast it hurts. 

     I could stay out, tonight! Just sleep in the woods, and bathe fast in the river. That way I won’t see Father until things have settled. I can just make things better, by... by.... 

     There’s no way to make this better. I’ve already brought home enough damage through my actions. I can’t do that again by hiding. And I don’t have enough stamina to run from this forever.

     One light shines in the shop. I open the door, and step inside.

     Perhaps it won’t be so bad? 

     Maybe he’ll just be grateful to see his lost prodigy of a son again?

     The clay flask shatters instantly against the wall as it arcs past my head. The pieces resemble nothing of the once delicate shape the held. 

     “Were you even thinking? ” He looks exhausted, the shop in disarray. Footsteps on the floor above mean Elgar’s heard too. 

     I’m too ashamed to think, the full magnitude of my actions flashing through my mind. The room is silent. 

     I feel the air thicken between us. When I can look up, actually meet his eyes, they are hard, fixed on my ever shrinking presence. 

     I’m choking. I want to speak. I need to speak. I need to tell him how sorry I am. I need to make him understand why I did this. That it was for the right reasons. That I didn’t mean to hurt him. 

     His eyes are still locked on mine. I still haven’t spoken. Elgar isn’t in the room. 

     The silence claws at us further, deepening wounds that are already here. I feel his pain, but there’s no way for me to stop it, to mend it, to halt the flow, to start the healing. 

     I still can’t talk. 

     Elgar slams the door open, staring at me, panting. I smell the alcohol from here. 

     Father’s words break the silence with such force that it feels like a mountain has been dropped on my shoulders. 

     “I thought you’d be better than this.” 

     He turns his back, pushes past Elgar and returns to his room. 

     I stand alone in the dying candlelight, facing my brother.

     “I told you to stay away from her,” is all that he says, voice creaking and he scrubs his hand over his face before he also turns away to go upstairs. 

     The candle gutters out. The silence presses on me in the dark.

     What have I done?

Strange languages, horrible tongues, words of pain, accents of anger, voices loud and hoarse, and sounds of blows with them,

made a tumult that turns forever in that air darkened without time, like the sand when a whirlwind blows.

It feels like everyday stays the same

It's dragging me down, and I can't pull away

So here I go again

Chasing you down again

Why do I do this?

     The screams of horses and men alike echo off the buildings. The blood in the air frightens the rest of the horses, the ones tied at the outskirts, to stampede away, stranding their riders. Those are the lucky ones. 

     He is covered with blood and horse entrails in some places, crusting between the scales on his tail and arms. 

     Distantly, he feels her revel in the sensed carnage.

     He follows.

I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

Offer me that deathless death

Good God, let me give you my life

The heavens reject them so as not to be less beautiful, nor does deep Hell receive them, for the wicked would have some glory from them.

     The door to Calla’s room opens. 

     I’m not entirely sure what I expected, but even the stillness is devoid of life. Her little bed is still made up perfectly. The bedside is coated in a thick layer of dust, and I smell something like a dry mold. The fireplace still holds the ashes of the last fire in this room. We burned her doll when she died, in case the plague lingered inside waiting for other arms to pull it close to the heart. 

     I sit in the middle of the room, set the light beside me on the floor to watch the shadows rise. My father’s gifts to her; she was his favorite, and he spoilt her rotten with it all. Beneath the table by the window, behind a leg, I see the remains of a dessicated lemon.

     Calla was supposed to take our house name after I was safely married, but as I remember all she wanted to do was catch frogs and determine how snakes existed. 

     We wore white for three years after she was gone. I’ve lost that fear of ill-wishing or bringing death on myself with color by now. 

     Her hair was nearer to red than mine, her eyes like father’s, her smile quickest. She was too sunny to hold any shadow, my mother said. 

     I’m holding them for her, now.

     “I married,” it’s nearly a whisper. “He heard about you, once.”

     My stomach churns, and I smell blood again. The air is thick with remembered peonies and jasmine, petals in the waters placed there. The last is... lotus, for eternity. They float, to keep hands smooth and soft. My hands, which are small, too small, I-

     It rises, the bile; someone walking down the hall, I’m shaking and freezing and burning and afraid, the door open at my back suddenly threatening and I have to push myself to my feet, push the door closed as quietly as I can. I sink down, suffocating with my back to it. 

     No one is coming in. The nightmare of the golden city is miles and miles away.

     “Calla,” I’m panting, like an animal. Perhaps this is what dying feels like. “Calla, they all say I survived. That I saved someone. Calla, I can’t feel things, it’s all stone. I- I think I made him love me. And it killed him.”

     I retch, only barely manage to retain my composure. 

     “His name was Agillens.” He will only be the mad king, in the histories. His name which he is no longer called by, nor will ever be again. The Blooded King, who thought he could build a tower to worship the Unconquered Sun.

     “Mother lied again, Calla.” Shudders run through me, up and down. I think I’m coming apart. 

     Calla laid quiet in her bed, skin burst with sores and pox marks, then. More bumps than any of the toads she ever found. She only let me stay with her, because I could breathe without the loudness making her cry. Her eyes were dark.

     Mother didn’t come. She sent other people. I should have expected it this time. Blackmail, bribery, persuasion, promises, lies. I should have. But I didn’t.

     “I will never forgive her.” 

     And my father. My father, who killed him. 

     When the door broke, Agillens stood, back still covered in sweat where we had been lying together just moments before, between me and the door.

     Agillens’ blood burst all at once across my face. I stood almost naked before my father and the nobles, blood staining the fabric covering me as well, and I ran to Agillens instead of them, and I saw my father condemn me for it. They said they were protecting me. I should believe them, that they would do anything to keep me safe.  

     It doesn’t even hurt, like it used to. I’m just...

     My hand has clenched so tightly on the frame of the bedside table it has stiffened from the tension into spasming and cramping.

     I should sleep, I know; but I’m here, telling my dead sister of other dead. I know Cailen won’t be here tonight and even if he would have been, I can’t.... 

     I don’t want anyone to see this, this collapse.

     His family will have worried for him, of course. His father is more focused, more driven, but less distracted. His father must be glad to have him home.

     My father hasn’t said a word to me since I made him reverse his decision. 

     “They hurt him, Calla. It would have been much worse if-” If I hadn’t come back, to see Cailen, kneeling in the dirt with a swollen bruise on his forehead and blacked eyes, which I’m told happened when he tried to escape. To see him looking at me, as the guards have, as my father has, as everyone has, with the same confusion and silence.

     His face.... even colored with dried blood, dust, grime, seeing his face brought life from the surreal to stable ground.

     “I can keep him safe, now. I think. I claimed him for my household, and if issue is taken up with him, I can- I will intervene. They will not deny me after...”

     I have no idea how any of this has happened. Today was full of golden light, and commands. I have power, a dowry that would amaze half a kingdom, there are trade routes, and promised prosperity from a newly stabilized region, and all this was nothing. I told my father that he would let Cailen go, that he was mine and that he would allow no further injury because it was my wish upon my return, that there would be no more death and no more punishment.

     He obeyed. 

     Perhaps the bloody hands in this house also feel guilt. Perhaps even regret. I hope so; I cannot bear to think otherwise.

     Tears overwhelm me. I am lost for some time to the oblivion compounding my loss, my fear.

     I am lying on the floor, watching the candle burn lower in the lamp. 

     What happens when it dies? Where does it go?

     There’s a quiet tapping at the door. 

     “My lady?” Hashi’s voice is calm, gentle. Familiar. “My Aurora, will you allow me to enter?

     I slowly roll onto my knees, with weak arms, and rise to open the door for him. Alone among everyone I’ve seen today, he does not bow. He wraps his arms around me, holding me while I catch my breath. It is the first time I have allowed anyone to touch me since I came back.

     “I am relieved you are home, my Aurora. Are you still speaking with your sister?”

     “No,” I say. “No, there’s no one left, you see.”

     His arms tighten, then relax. “My lady, I would like to bring you to your rooms. Will you permit this?”

     At my nod, he bends and picks me up as easily as if I was one of his grandchildren. Over his shoulder I watch the candle die, and Calla’s rooms fall dark.

     He has brought the bathing tub into my room, even though it is before dawn. He tests the water and the softness of the padding to prevent my catching on the rough edges and metal sides. They pour chamomile, lavender, passionflower, a few rose petals, just as they have always done when I was younger and just as distressed. I am grateful now. 

     “When you have finished, my Aurora, you must remember to sleep. I’m close to hand outside, and Egret as well. Let the water work its spell, then to bed.”

     The water is so hot that I slip away as easily as the dust from the road. 

     The clock ticks, as ever; the fire grumbles and crumbles and flames to red and white, lighting my room enough to read by. 

     I wrap my arms around my knees, hug them to me. My fingers are wound so tightly together that I know they are connected to my heart. When they loosen and fall apart again, so will I.

     Meanwhile, the flames and water beckon sleep to find me.

     Agillen’s eyes were gold.

     My fingers loosen at the thought, I replace it almost immediately. 

     Cailen. Cailen’s eyes are amber, warm and familiar, so very alive and hopeful. He will come to the house officially. I will take part in council, to make the changes that I know to be necessary and create a stronger Cherak than my parents can. Cailen will help me. We must change the way things are. We cannot continue to be as backwards as we have been, until now.

     I will bring us into the light. All I need to do is tell the story of how it will be, and how we will make it so. They will listen and we will make it truth.

     I won’t build a golden city of my own, but... maybe I will create one that builds itself. 

     No more, tonight. 

     I can’t think anymore. I am so tired, so tired, but something pushes inside me, something that rages at the idea that I might rest. 

     My fingers slip.

     I have felt this every day since, this alone, this obsession. Any sense of failure, faltering, letting the facade crack, it pushes forward, bubbles through, overwhelms me. I feel as if drugged; but everything becomes so clear, stops rushing past me in madness. I have a purpose, a direction, people who need me, who I can help. My skills are of use.

     It makes everything golden, bright as summer.

     Even as I think it, my hands slip apart beneath the water, it bleeds through my veins and the room brightens brighter than the fire. I turn my head and nearly blind myself in the mirror in the corner.

     The edges of the room fade to soft shadows in the beaten silver, but the corners I see are lit brighter in sharp relief. The spiders flee. 

     In the mirror, I see a mark on my forehead, gleaming. At first it seems a perfect circle, bright and beautiful as the sun. But as I look closer, I see the double circle. The outside as stunning as the white ring of light bursting from a total eclipse, the air chilled and land dimming itself for miles. A burst of white of the sun, and a ring of light as far as the eye could see on the horizon. Gloried in the skies, the most brilliant I’ve ever seen Ignis, encompassing all. I remember weeping at the moment; Heaven and Creation and all for the moment, with myself in line with celestial unity.   

     I do not recognize myself now; the emblem flares and grows brighter and brighter, the water picking up the light so that I bathe in the reflected light. 

     I see my eyes.

          The poet said she turn’d toward heav’n her face, but not

          That seeing God she found her voice was wholly stilled

          By pow’r divine, unconquered son of words untaught.

     “Sol,” I hear my voice, see my lips tremble with the word.

     But I am alone in my rooms, in my bath, and the light of the Unconquered Sun comes from my eyes, my face, from me.

     I do not understand. 

     Once upon a time, a man whose eyes were as golden as the sun built a city in a day, and in a month he moved the ocean itself to work for the people. 

     Once upon a time, there was a woman who loved her wife and their children so deeply that when their town came under attack, she stood against the invaders and killed every single one of the hundreds of armed soldiers by herself. They said that she had a brand upon her face and that the sound of her voice, calling the war cry of her people, traveled for miles around like thunder.

     There have always been tales; and I suppose I  have heard reports of events taking place which were so unbelievable that I credited only the part and not the whole. 

     Even Rathess, full of the legends of the Dragon Kings, is so fantastical it is difficult to even imagine the size of, much less the dragons themselves. The Chosen of the Sun are even more highly exalted than the dragons, standing far above the smaller gods that even I have seen upon occasion. 

     I cannot believe what I see, even as it moves me to tears. There is beauty in such a promise. There is a future.

     How can no one have told me? This must be what is happening when I see their eyes soften, and the corners of their mouths turn up just a little without them realizing. 

     This must be why Cailen could not help but stare, why my father looked as though I had hit him upon his head with a heavy weapon. Why the revolutionaries obeyed without a word when I told them to lay down their weapons, and why, so far, I have had no arguments. This must be why Sage is now treating me with as much deference as she treats my mother.

     When this happens to me, no one will stand in my way. And I can ensure that everyone has what they need, so that no one else has to find themselves alone, afraid, anguished. It will be the best I can do to make up for everything that has caused this miracle.

     I will have to find advisors. I will change how the power dynamic works, so that my father does not have the only say in what happens. I will set up a panel of counselors, one for each division of labor, and they will have subordinates who can organize relief where it is needed, make decisions reasonably and make certain that along the chain, the system itself has redundancies to protect those who are vulnerable. But surely they will come forward, or I can pick them out. 

     I break away from my own gaze. I need to plan.

     I stand and the water streams down, hair heavy behind me and swaying enough that I can feel it. I step across the room, there, there, take my paper and my pens, I lie before the fire as the water dries on my skin and begin listing, and listing. My reference books are still here, and I pull them. There are years and years of successful and failed regimes, democracies, autocracies and monarchies, oligarchies and republics and I write the best of them down and begin to design my own plans. There are many people I already know would fit well into the roles I need, and there are clear places for people I haven’t met yet, who will step into a detailed position of purpose. 

     There is still a place for my House, but we will raise up those beneath us to higher and higher heights. Perhaps we will be subsumed entirely, but perhaps that is a necessary step to reach for something longer lasting, better. 

     I hear the singing of the celestial spheres, perfectly harmonious; everything perfectly aligned, and I am a part of something greater. It is beautiful, so beautiful. 

     Tears of joy come to my eyes, but I brush them away and write faster and faster, the words streaming into something that can hold its own against any challenge. I’m certain.

     How perfect it all is.

Tears streaming down your face

I promise you I will learn from all my mistakes

oh and the tears streaming down your face

I am Beatrice who cause you to go; I come from the place where I long to return; love has moved me and makes me speak.

Chapter Text

     The Cry is passing by a series of rolling hills when he finally catches them. He finds a trailing rope off the stern and hauls himself aboard. Sonnet stands looking off the port bow into the distance. Her expression is somber; her shoulders drop back and her chin lifts just the slightest amount as he feels her awareness of his arrival, but she doesn’t turn her head to seek him out. While the sunlight makes her glow bright against the rest of the darkened ship, her eyes remain downcast against the glare.

     Sonnet’s Undead companion - Hearts - sees him come over the side of the ship. She looks from him, to Sonnet, and back again, then rolls her eyes. “Walker’s shinsplints,” she snarls into the winds rushing over the deck as the ship speeds along. She bellows at him to beat the wind louder than strictly necessary, “DON’T INTERRUPT MY CREW. GOT IT?”

     He nods, and she turns away. 

     In between him and Sonnet, directly opposite the Captain’s rooms on the far side of the mast, the Solar calmly sits beside an untidy mass of nets. She has set up a portable lap table and is writing in what, even from here, is clearly a neat, tidy hand.  She feels his eyes, looks up without hesitation or side-long glances. Unlike Sonnet’s raw sensuality, evoked in the slightest of motions, this Solar exudes a somewhat distant optimism. Her smile is friendly as full summer sunlight; so much so that he finds himself wanting to introduce himself without her even saying anything. 

     Sonnet smiles as heaven and hell at once, malice in her eyes and welcome in the curve of her lips.

     He looks away from the cheerful sunflower-cheer of the Solar at her desk and shakes off the river water, brushing it off where it refuses to drip away. Waiting for the water to fall on its own will hardly go unnoticed and might be misunderstood as hesitation. 

     Besides, I'm only soaked now because of her demands. There's no reason to feel awkward about it now. At least I'm clean now. 

     Mostly.

     He squares his shoulders and crosses the deck, passing around zombie sailors who barely seem to be aware of him at all.

     As he reaches her side she sighs and leans forward, letting one arm drift over the sailing as if to feel the water in the river below even from up here. 

     "I see you rejoined our company," she says, a rasp catching in her voice as if she were overcome by some great emotion. There's softness apparent in the limpid red of her eyes as she lifts her eyes to the horizon.

     "Yes," he says, ripples of unease running up his spine as the uncertainties return. But it really is her, and he's made good on his end of the deal.

     "Mmm. Well. I suppose I shall learn not to doubt your intentions."

     There are too many emotions to pick out which relates to what, but dark sadness and pity in equal measures overlay a cruelty reminiscent of the madness-heavy days. 

     She pushes back from the railing abruptly, a jerky movement practically a spasm. 

     "I won't contest your presence, then." She meets his eyes with not quite a glare, all the gentleness vanished as if it never had been there at all. A chill settles into his bones. “Within reason. I’m currently in no mood to begin this interrogation of yours. We have many hours of this journey ahead of us; it will suit for entertainment when we’re more settled in and bored of our surroundings. I’ll take this time for myself; I’m going below for now. Do not follow me. Even I am entitled to certain privacies. Don’t you agree?”

     "Ah-yeah, I guess," he says. From the perspective of physical presence, it’s easily doable. But the unavoidable flood of emotions that passes between them is impossible to prevent. Heaven itself would have to sever the link, to keep it from spilling back and forth. 

     "I'm so pleased you agree," she says, with the shadow of a smile. It vanishes immediately as she drifts over the deck and below like a revenant to an inviting crypt. The sense of anticipation that's been building and building deflates abruptly, leaving only sourness and fatigue.

     There are eyes everywhere; a preliminary survey reveals the only space with any real privacy is the crow's nest. Maybe he can take advantage of that to work out what's happened when she's more forthcoming. 

     "Good afternoon," he hears a mellifluous voice from his side. The Solar has appeared, fanning herself gently; the air around her is thick with the smell of blooming daffodils and sea breezes. 

     “Virgil? I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Tepetsor Volaice, or Victorious Maiden of Paradise. You might call me Paradise. It is Virgil, isn’t it?”

     "No," he says, still too unsteady from the absence of real pushback from Sonnet to catch the tone of his voice. Caught for better or worse in the realms of comparison, turning over mingled rage at seeing so clearly the face of dragon-blooded ancestry beneath the seal of Sol, the spectres of Beatrice and Sonnet both contrast sharply with this woman. Such similarities only bring a bitter bliss - the cycles in motion again and again. The anger gutters toward engulfing shame.

     Paradise's expression remains unperturbed, pleasant. 

     Somewhere a shred of pity floats to the surface. Chosen of Sol in one of the Blooded’s lines would be enough to drive asunder any hoped for familial alliances. 

     His answer lingers in between her question and his thoughts; he sighs.

     “Yes,” he tries again, with a sneaking sense that he’s admitting more than he thinks. But whether pity or Solar persuasions draw him out, it spills anyway. “Virgil is what... Sonnet calls me.” No use in stirring up that particular argument just now. “Dragon of Razzik to everyone else. Or it was anyway. Sure. Virgil.”

     She dips into the full bodied dip of a courtesy, favored in the West. “Whatever you are most comfortable with. I don’t like to impose names incorrectly.” 

     Her voice is rather musical, light. “You caught up with us rather quickly. Was it a quick last minute thing she asked you for?” Setting her hand on the railing seems both a theatrical event and a comfortable movement; her motions are much more constructed than Sonnet’s. Or even Beatrice’s. 

     He lets his breath settle in his lungs at least twice, noting there is no blood left on his hands. 

     “Something like that.”

     “May I ask what your relationship is? The tension is evident, even halfway across the ship.”

Billow and breeze, islands and seas

Mountains of rain and sun

All that was good, all that was fair

All that was me is gone

Charon, do not torture 

yourself with anger: this is willed where what is 

willed can be done, so ask no more.

     When I adjourn the meeting today I feel the tensions release. My father strides off without a word; I did deny his objection but the council's development is enough that even if I hadn't he would have been overruled and in a minority he couldn't upend. It turns out Hashi makes a remarkable Primary Councilor, just like I know he would. And the ministers the refugees elected have settled into their roles quickly; somehow, here we all are and Lesser Cherak is thriving.

     I hardly need to be here at all.

     With the reception my mother tried to give me at dinner last night, it might be easier for everyone else if I wasn't.

     Either way, they can't undo what I've done now. we're officially no longer feudal overlords. In less than six months, too. Sol really did smile on this venture after all. Maybe he will smile on what comes next too. The walk back to my rooms is crisp and warm for autumn.

     But Cailen isn't back yet. I slowly peel back layers of formality, makeup, and clothing off myself. Someone must be around who could help, but the quiet is like cold water in summer,

     All the stiff, formed elements settle neatly when folded into a trunk, and I sit at my desk with my hairbrush, and work out the solitary tangle that formed earlier. The gentle pull on my scalp looses the tight headache that's been threatening.

     Footsteps creak across the floor overhead and there are muffled voices arguing. Mother must be hearing an update. I roll out new parchment from the corner of my desk and start the slow circling of an ink-stick painted with golden dragons to grind the ink for another letter; hopefully, Cailen will bring the news I most want when he returns. I am near to collapse, waiting and waiting without letting on to anyone what I have close to my heart. 

     Not that I have had overmuch time to simply consider the waiting. Systematically unravelling the path set out for me, the self-crushing sameness as what was to have been before Sol’s gift, has been equal parts exhilarating and exhausting. This legacy, intended continuance of these complicit confined contrivances - keeping to such petty squabbles interested me little then, when I still felt mortal duty to the Name. 

     Now — now, if I am blessed by Sol as I know myself to be, these cloying demands come from a position of fear enforced through the demands of blood. Blood might call to blood, but mine has been consecrated by a higher power; and with betrayal undermining Sol’s first intervention, I am no longer beholden. Golden light has opened these new doors in my wondering, and truthfully I am in serious want of the freedom to act without prior understandings of who I was. 

     If only I felt so confident all the time as when the Light of Invictus envelops me. There are moments I’m relieved all my plans to leave this shell behind have not required my determination completely one way or another. 

     Still. I am not writing without the wanting, regardless of my fears. 

     Cailen’s entrance is unannounced and sudden. There must have been no one in the hall, because he throws the door open without warning and nearly slams it closed, slowing an inch from the frame so there’s no noise on impact. He turns on his heel, grinning as the last of his formality washes away from him.

     “I got that letter you wanted." He tosses the scroll underhand at me. The paper strikes my fingertips as I reach for it, nearly dropping it onto the floor. I manage to catch it only at the last instant, as he unceremoniously hops onto my bed to stretch out like a cat in the sunny spot beneath a window.

     The note is from Captain Okya, in answer to several weeks of letter writing. She's to-the-point as ever; the preparations for my departure are now standing at the ready. As morning breaks, tides run back out into open waters, I will stand aboard Luna’s Riposte watching my home grow smaller and smaller until it's reduced to the tiniest ink fleck on a map. It can all be over. I can begin again and again, and never find myself mapped in the shell of who I was. I don't have to carry this family line without question.

     But now that this is all settled...

     I take a deep breath. 

     “Cailen?” The tightness in my chest strangles me; my voice has barely escaped my lips, much less carried across the room intelligibly. He’s so far, too far away from me, across an ocean of floor lightening in the early afternoon sun.

     Each of my footsteps is unsteady, making the wood floorboards creak and groan as I step from one to the next. It’s cooler here away from the fire warming the autumn air — perhaps that will help keep my head from swimming adrift. 

     I sit on the edge of my mattress teetering between which word to begin with, the letter crumpling slightly between my fingers.

     Fine creases break the letters apart, separating my name from that of my house. 

     “I need to talk to you about something," I finally say, hoping for some form of divine intervention, an easing of the chaotic rushing in my mind.

     He flips over, onto his side, coming up with his head propped on his hand, an unreasonably coy smile broadening widely across his face.

     “What is it you wish to talk about, my lady ?” he says, half to laughing.

     The spaces between my ribs hurt, throbbing and seizing up. I'm hot and cold in quick turns, and no sign of the golden haze to save me. How am I to do this? Feeling the coming tears, willing them away, steeling my spine straight.

     “I’m leaving.” Whatever the right answer, If there's such a thing in a conversation like this, beginning so bluntly, abruptly, was perhaps a mistake.

     The grin shifts to immediate concern, worry triggering irregularity in his breath. He pushes up, sitting fully upright, reaching out a hand towards mine. "Wait- is everything alright? You don't have to go to any other meetings if you don't want to."

     I laugh, but it isn’t real and catches beneath my breath.

     "No," I say, grasping for composure. None of this feels real. I put off thinking about this moment to the best of my ability, and now it means I haven't prepared. "I'm done. Everything is settled here, so I'm going to go see the world — I'm ready now. It's all set."

     His fingers find mine, twining between - they're going clammy but even so, mine feel soft and frail and useless compared to the talent and strength in his.

     I am going to break apart without him near, gifts of Sol or no.

     "So I'm leaving," I say, convincing myself my mind is set. "It's what I've been writing to the Captain about."

     Cailen’s forehead crinkles in confusion, parsing as I speak; but barely an instant later, the sudden contortion of his expression between betrayal and shock is worse than I’ve ever seen, even at his lowest moments. His eyes fix on mine, unbreaking.

     “So... so, do I have my own cabin, then, or are we sharing? I’m not opposed to sharing,” He’s pleading, with me or the gods, or something else entirely; his perfect stillness beside me travels down so that his fingers are tense, frozen in preparation for some uncertain action. 

     Time slows, and I think that, just maybe, the golden radiance will rise and it will be painless. But the space between seconds is still much too long. The clock gears grind.

     "But — you can't! you can't want to come, do you? You won't be able to paint, if you leave. That's what you’ve always wanted!” Turning back won’t be an option, as of the morning. Not for me, but certainly not for him. 

     “Yeah?” He squares his shoulders, face to face with me. “Why couldn’t I paint along the way? There will be downtime between the errands I run for you. Besides,” he drops the letter to the side of the bed, takes both my hands in his, holding them close to his heart. “How would I ever be able to make a great work of art without you to inspire me?”

     The log in the fire cracks and spits golden motes. I am dizzied by the revelation, entirely blessed relief, the absolute exhaustion that strikes me in the sublime realization. My tears are sticky on my face.

     As soon as my lips meet his, a moment more than divine peace. 

     His pupils consume all but a sliver of the color in his eyes; he lifts his hand, lightly tracing fingers along my cheekbone to kiss me back, and when I draw him closer I feel the breath fly from him, too.

     When we break away, he swallows his excitement; his eyes are caramel, flecked with hickory, startled and wondering and near lost to reverie.

     “You know, this really doesn’t answer the sleeping arrangement question, but I’ll assume you’re okay with me coming with.” His voice is uneven; my heart is liquid as warm syrup.

     “I didn’t think you’d want to, with all of your works. What will you tell your father?” 

     Responsibility begins filtering through my thoughts, through the abandon I would like to lose myself to.

     He’s still far away; his heartbeat sounds near to hummingbird wings. “Nothing. I’ll just leave a letter with Elgar explaining the situation. It isn’t like we talk much now, so it shouldn’t make much of a difference.”

     He slides over the complexity of the situation as if he doesn’t much care, as if it doesn’t much matter, and I am selfish and let the words stand.

     “I’ve been so afraid that someone would realize before I was prepared, and Sage has been hovering so close this last fortnight, and I didn't dare pack anything. I wasn't sure I was going to make it away."

     His eyes are bright as if lit by a swarm of fireflies. “No one will stop you. And I promise to not say a word of this to anyone. Especially Sage.” He takes my hand again, holding tightly. “That is, as long as you promise not to skip out of town without me. Now or in the future. I would hate to have to hire a search party.” 

     “Especially as I would end up paying for it!” I free a hand to scrub salt from my face. "I'm so relieved. And grateful. I've organized all the political details, so there ought not to be loose ends. I kept what's left of my dowry at hand, as it won't be needed here. The ship sails on morning tides, early. Packing the rest won't be overcomplicated, I hope." I let my spine relax, shoulders rounding forward and sigh. “This week has been particularly trying, organizing it all without letting it on."

     He watches me prattle on, nearly as detached from the conversation as when he’s analyzing a painting’s brush strokes rather than the greater image.

     "You always think everything out so well," he says. “How have you managed to reach such heights of awe-inspiring beauty and superior intellect within such a short time in this world?

     He startles a laugh from me, and I feel flushed. "How have you acquired such an innate talent for flattery? I should send you to all the meetings. You far outstrip my ability to ingratiate yourself." Shifting my legs around, I push the blankets aside so I can rest my head against his shoulder.

     “My merits are many and all of them are at your disposal,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. His heartbeat has not slowed in the slightest.

     Maybe he will be able to juggle both his art and the travel. Maybe I won’t need to worry for him quite so much if he comes with me.

     "We should maybe pack clothes and anything else we want to bring. I haven't planned on a triumphant return, and I don't know that I want to tell them where we are just to ask for something to be sent. If they even would, anyway. I know this is horrifically short notice for you..."

     He shrugs. "Most of what I want is already here anyway. Too busy to go back and forth, right? Anything else would get too much attention. It's fine."

     "Maybe as we leave-" I start, but he's already shaking his head.

     "No, we'll start out fresh, without the deadweight. Every time we've talked about this we've planned on going without baggage. Fate will bring what she brings. We have everything we need." He tentatively kisses the top of my head, so light I could have missed it.

     "Fate might bring her gifts, but we should still be prepared." Reluctantly I pull away. "Come on, or all my theoretical forethought will leave me worrying at the last minute. 

     Filtering clothes, pieces of my dowry, his best brushes and the other multitude of assorted things that seem important and are small enough to fit into the smallest trunk is exhausting. By the time we have it packed, he's taken it down to the docks, and I've sorted out the last tasks presented to me, the sun has set and we're both bone weary.

     Looking around my room for any last minute things I forgot, it is hard to wrap my mind around the thought that I will likely never see it again. Release of months and months of tension traps me as if in amber, disjointedly realizing that I won't be living across from Calla's rooms anymore. 

     "Do you think I should have left my brushes behind after all?" he asks. It must have made my eyes wild, because he laughs and pulls me down onto my bed. "I didn't mean it," he says. "We maybe should sleep. Though, my dreams have new heights to exceed if they intend to surpass reality after today."

     "You would think you had never been kissed before," I say, pillowing my head on his shoulder. “I'm sure your dreams will be eloquent as always.” 

     “They will be nothing less than ‘eloquent’ with you in them.” He shifts slightly, kisses the top of my head again with more confidence than the first time. His heart is beating no less quickly than his first try.

     It's so nice I can't help but grin as I turn up to look at him. “I fear if you dream only of me every night, I will grow boring in reality,” I say. This close his breath and mine are the same, or nearly.

     His arms tighten, hip close to mine, and he touches his forehead to mine. 

     “Don’t be ridiculous. How can I ever grow bored of the one person in life who inspires me above all else? You are my muse. Never forget that.”

     Heat rises in my cheeks; where my wrist lays against his skin, I feel the thrumming of his blood fluttering swift as moth wings. 

     “Hush. Promise me no more honeyed words tonight, and I will give you another kiss to sleep on.”

     “You have my word that when your lips part mine, not another word shall leave them until morning.” 

     Such laughter transports me, and when one of us gasps I’m not even sure which of us it is.

By another way, through other ports will 

you come to shore, not by crossing here: a lighter 

vessel must carry you.

These shallow waters, never met

What I needed

I'm letting go

A deeper dive

Eternal silence of the sea

I'm breathing

Alive

Where are you now

     The smoldered uncanny metal of the ghost ship creaks and distorts before he realizes and relaxes his grip again. Paradise’s eyes are casually and deliberately averted. Conveniently. 

     “She’s my mate-that-was. And is. Will be. I don’t know. Why?”

     “I like to mediate where I may. Make the world brighter. You seemed shadowed; I thought I might offer my services or friendship. Or both, even.” She laughs, and he discovers the tug at his lip is a smile, not a grimace. 

     “It’s not impossible. Besides, there’s few others to speak to and I do so love to talk. Are you very excited about the wish at the end of this whole chase? I have so many ideas of what could be done with so much leeway. Although I’m sure we’ll make many more friends along the way. We have so much more to offer one another!”

     “Where are you from, Paradise?” he asks as much to take the attention off of himself as from partial, genuinely surprised curiosity.

     “O, my family travels along the inland coastal flows of the Great Western Ocean. We create a lot of business, help a lot of people, provide transportation to any number of individuals, the like. It’s so comforting to be back aboard, even if we pass through the earth and not water. What a strange vessel this is! Have you traveled the oceans a lot?”

     He shrugs, the heat of the sun rolling down from his shoulders to his back. “More these days. I used to hate it, before. And I was... indisposed for a long time. And there were all those efforts to eradicate my sort from the face of Creation.”

     Paradise nods gravely; of course she’s aware of the Hunts, though she’s obviously young enough not to have hunted him herself. 

     There’s no reason to linger on that fact. “I would always come down ill before we’d cast off properly even. And I’m more than capable of crossing land on my own quickly. As you noted.”

     She laughs, and the light sparkles in her green eyes, making them gleam like polished chrysoprase. "I was just the same way! I got nauseous on a hammock once, growing up. It took me forever to get my sea legs under me." 

     She closes her fan and taps her fingers on the end of the ribs, in quick bursts. The motion is like and unlike, tidy and precise in a very matter-of-fact manner; he can't help but remember Beatrice's hands holding her fans, always half in motion like leaves in a clear stream. 

     "I used to drink gallons of ginger-lemon tea to try to settle my stomach. Did you find anything that broke it from coming over you?"

     He shakes his head. "Not really anything like that. We tried other things, but I always just had to wait it out."

     The ship creaks beneath them, a sound like screaming rising from the metal below. 

     Paradise snaps her fan wide again, fanning them both as they stand side-by-side. "Would you share a cup of tea with me in honor of nauseas gone by while you wait? We might trade anecdotes while we do. Perhaps what you hope to wish for when we win! I've settled my hopes on asking for a tract of divine revelation I can transpose and deliver verbally to help the Blessed Isle learn from the mistakes of the past centuries. But if that seems too daunting a task to think of just now, perhaps will you tell me where your nickname is birthed from. Have you read the original the name refers to? Come, come, you have time and I can't wait to hear every detail."

The tearful earth gave forth a wind that flashed 

with a crimson light which overcame all feeling in me, 

and I fell like one whom sleep is taking.

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

     Since the very first hour aboard this ship, all the stirring about has made me all nauseous and useless. It makes no sense. Everyone else walks around like it's solid stone, eats anything and everything, and never falls off anything.

     At least there's a few seconds here and there that I can drift off and forget this unpleasantness. 

     This time I wake up to find myself half off the bunk, drooling, and wishing the water was closer than all the way across the cabin where it's slid to now. But there's a moment where I realize my guts have stopped knotting up and I don't feel as hot and cold as I did earlier. 

     Light footsteps and stifled giggles precede her entrance this time. Aurora comes into the room quietly, peeping in with her hair windswept loose out of place, her cheeks roughened by the seaspray and lightly burnt by the glare. 

     "Cailen?" She asks quietly, in case she's waking me up.

     Feeling all the creakings of the boat in my head, I swallow the sourness.

     "Aurora! I must have overslept," I say, looking up slowly so I don't ruin the moment with more of what happened this morning. "How long have you been gone?"

     "For a while. I came back earlier, but you were still asleep." She picks up the water flask and brings it over."How are you? Any better?"

     "I think I'm finally getting the hang of this," I say, moving as fast as I can towards sitting up, throwing my hands up in the air with a flourish when I make it. 

     "That's really impressive!" she says, crossing the room in three easy steps. Even though she's sincere, it's hard not to be a little jealous of how naturally she adapted to this whole boat situation. "Do you feel like trying anything else?"

     "Oh yeah! I feel like doing all sorts of things," I say, trying to get up. The sourness rises again in my throat and I have to freeze and wait to see if it will pass. Her winter coat slides off my shoulders and a shiver strikes almost immediately. The fabric is bright in the darkness of the room and the boards which are nearly black, strawberry-red flowers across a field of golden cotton-lined silk.

     She sets a hand on my shoulder, stopping the whole process of moving with just the lightest touch. "While I'm relieved to see you doing so much better, perhaps you'll keep me company down here for just a little bit. I'm feeling just a little tired and I think I might be a little underfoot just now."

     "Yeah," I say, ignoring the shakiness of all my muscles since she helps me lie down again and curls up next to me. "It's all mental. I just have to keep telling myself I'm not sick, then I won't feel sick!"

     She laughs. "That's excellent to know. It's only for another day or two, though, depending on the winds. The Captain said it's been some of the calmest sailing she's done for months. She showed me where we are on a map earlier. I can almost make out the harbor at Wallport, and as soon as we're there we won't have to sail anywhere again unless you want to. There are lots of ways to travel up to Whitewall, we just have to find the right person. Can you imagine it? The walls are supposed to be tall enough to touch the sky."

     It's a relief to lean into her; steady and relaxed and calm. She's barefoot still, to feel the wood grains of the planks. At least that's what she said last night when she danced barefoot above deck with some of the sailors playing wild music neither of us had ever heard before.

     "Tall walls sound magnificent right now. I bet the air tastes different there. Crisper, fresher, less briney..."

     “I like the sea air," she says mildly,  "It’s so full of sunlight. But the mountains in Whitewall are supposed to be beautiful. I’ll have to buy you some lovely canvases when we get there. I wish you'd have been able to see the whale earlier! I wanted to figure out how to sketch it for you, but you know how badly I always mutilate the pages with charcoal and I didn't want to ruin the image in your mind with such grotesquerie. But it was so beautiful! I've never seen a creature so large before. Cadell says they only eat shrimp and tiny little fish. I can't imagine how it feeds itself on such tiny little creatures!"

     My stomach makes an unhappy gurgle. "Now, when you say large, do you mean larger than this boat? Because maybe that's why this trip has been so rocky. All those massive fish flip-flopping around the sea, making these big waves and twirling currents..."

     "Well, when it dove below earlier, it pushed off its tail directly away from us, and the Riposte didn't move at all. They are at least as big as the Riposte , but there might be larger ones further out to sea. I did read about the dragons once, who stir up storms and waves when they're angry. Those have to be larger than whales even!" She sighs. "But the whale was just so... real! Gentle, forceful, elegant..." Her eyes have gone all dreamy, so it must have been incredible. If only I could really make the sickness go away by pretending it doesn't exist. 

     "Now that would be a sight. Massive dragons stirring the sea, causing the tides to twist and turn. Like watching the swirling colors of paint rinsed off a brush into a basin..." If I could manage the turbulence and keep the paint steady, it could be a stunning piece. Maybe even include this little boat to demonstrate dedication to the craft in the face of suffering...

     My stomach lurches and all my plans will have to wait. 

     “Would you like to try a sketch? Not all of my paper is salt-soaked, and there is probably some charcoal left to spare.”

     If I wasn't useless down here in the first place I'd be sketching already. “I would love the chance. I feel like this whole trip has been a wash with me being so uselessly stuck below deck.” 

     "Well, I'm certain you've had some lovely thoughts while you've been resting. Would you like to try going above deck? Or would you rather I tell you a story?”

     “How about we combine the two!” I offer, more confidently than I feel, but her expression relaxes from the worry I catch in the corner of my eye. "I'm sure if you're telling me a story of our soon-to-be-true epics, then I'll be uplifted enough to compensate for the weakness in my legs." 

     She rolls off the bed easily, bouncing up onto her feet. "I have a different one in mind. Unless you really want to hear the one about the airships - there's a lot to plan for. But there's one I love about a traveler, along a difficult road, with a wise companion who leads the way. It has some of the most beautiful language in it, though I’m certain I won’t do it full justice. But we could go sit in the sun on deck, if you would be more comfortable. I’m sure we will be able to find a place out of the way.”

     “You do justice with every breath you take. Start your story as we go, especially up the stairs. I need the distraction.” I follow her up much more slowly, really carefully stretching my arms up to be sure this will work before I get too far. “Unless, of course, you would like to lead the way?” This might be okay. Hopefully.

     She weaves her fingers between mine, anchoring me against the rolling of the ship.

     “Well, it once was that a traveler woke in the darkness; and finding himself in such a frightful place he began to look about himself. He saw that there was a great wood in all directions, with trees that stretched around him as the waves span around us now.”

     The light that hangs around her brightens up the space. Leaving the room, I see a glimpse of the waves through a hole or window thing. They ripple, glitter, slap the sides of the hull as the wind blows.

     I hold on a little more tightly to the door frame, but her voice has taken on a hypnotic quality and even this quickly it's hard to focus too much on anything else. 

     “He was pushed by the wind, just like we are, and he despaired. ‘What an awful place to find myself, alone in this wood, which is savage and harsh, gloomy and cruel. There cannot be anyone more full of woe than I at this moment.’” She laughs, eyes dancing. “Not even you.”

     It's a relief to hear it, just to think of the solid land and also to let myself get swept up.

     “He wept, but looked about himself for some escape, though none was apparent. And then he saw, far at the peak of a distant mountain, a tiny lightness growing, that was as the sun. And he was comforted, for nowhere Sol’s rays touch is beyond his power.” 

     Which is good, especially since we're stepping into the light that streams down the ladder from above. It feels like it's coming into my arms from her palms, calm, gentle, and soothing. She slips up her sleeve and pushes her skirts out of the way so she can help pull me up the ladder after herself.

     “And his breath returned to him, for it had been stolen as if by the clotting waves, and he looked again about himself. Then it became lighter, and the stars appeared above him, set into motion by Sol’s plan, and he grew braver. He began to walk, and as he did he saw before him on the lonely path a figure; neither ghastly nor beastly, but gleaming a silver light, and he again felt some fear. But he cried to him, ‘Pity! Pity upon me, for I am alone, and know not how to return to the light from this eternal darkness.’”

     We pass rung after rung. The deck itself is bleached in the brightness like the light of the moon reflecting sunlight. The wind blows at cross angles up here. She pulls me near the edge of the boat beside a coil of extra rope where the sail offers shade. I have to squint, but it doesn't bother her.

     She sits me down and settles in the full sun next to me.

     “The silvery figure looked upon him, and spoke. “I have been sent to guide you, traveler, and will bring you through the spheres where I am permitted. I will not leave you until she who in her compassion sent me greets you herself, for your toils and tribulations have not gone unnoticed.”

     “But who are you, who has been sent? And who is that who sends you?” asked the traveler.

     “I am the one called Virgil, and have been sent to protect you, and bring you whence you desire. I have been sent by she who is blessed of Sol, whose beauty is ineffable, whose eyes shine brighter even than the stars, and who spoke with me in melodious tones, serene and gentle."

     The sky overhead is blue as powdered cobalt, the clarity of the water such a rich turquoise that it darkens only a few feet down, the tangerine sails stretch out like dragon wings.

     She sits with her skirts fanned out, brilliant indigo and silver, a spray of glass hydrangeas holding her hair out of her way. No matter how picturesque, the lady in the story can't be any more perfect than Aurora is telling it to me right now.

      "‘Go to him,’ she beseeched me, ‘for he has lost his way, and must needs be brought once more to the true path. I fear that I have come too late, but I would that he safely arrive in the place where I reside and desire to return to again, to glory in the light that is Sol’s presence."

     Light glows from the sigil on her face. The emblem eases the last of the illness from me.

     “When she was silent again, I spoke to her, saying, ‘It pleases me greatly to enact your will, and it shall be done. I shall guide him, this traveler of whom you speak, to the safety of your grace.” And she wept tears that were nonetheless diamonds of Sol's essence, and thus I left her side as she requested, that she need weep no more. Therefore, traveler, let cowardice no longer temper your action, for you have the sympathy of she who brings unto those who sleep the Dreams of the Empyrean and these waking find bliss.”

     There's a flash of light haloing her face. Her eyes, while still a soft gray like snow falling from closed skies, have become more luminous, verging on impossible to describe. 

     “Thus the traveler began with Virgil, who brought him along the path until they reached the first gate of the deathlands. Written upon the gate, in the speech of Malfeas, was a warning. The traveler did not understand what they said, but Virgil spoke.

     “This way lies the city of grief and pain, the endless torment of souls broken and bound, lost from the light of Sol, who created the division of Creation and the pressing forces beyond. It is eternal, and it will remain so. But be not afraid; though we must pass through the gates into the land of death, we will arrive on the far side and see the light of the Sol and the Lady once more.”

     “And though the traveler felt fear, he knew solace as well."

     The waves ripple on towards the horizon endlessly while she talks. Somehow, they seem more peaceful than they did earlier.

     “They passed into the lands which are known to the dead. Ghosts and spirits swirled around them, screaming and wailing with noiseless voices, and were stung and bitten by those tormentors and captors who were designed with no other purpose than torment and despair. 

     “But Virgil kept the traveler safe, and he was guided to the banks of a wide river, filled with murky and congealing water, bloody and thick as it flowed. The smell of rot and death filled the air, and the spirits were both drawn to the bank and repulsed away so that a constant mist arose from their turns. 

     “Across the river came a man on a raft, old and withered in looks, but wiry despite his white hair and claw-like hands. His eyes burned with the intensity of the lords of the deep, the unnamed ones, and seemed unto the traveler as though they were aflame.” 

     The image of the captain of the small raft is of a man deformed and withered by time gorging itself on his very being. Captain Okya is nothing like him, even if she does spend her life on this awful watery backdrop.

     “‘Go back,” he shouted to the traveler and Virgil, “Go back, o Man, for you are not worthy of my passage, nor have you passed into the tender care of my masters. Go back, and wait until you have been drawn here by time and the fate-weavers.’

     “‘You have no power to deny us,’ spoke Virgil, ‘for I have been sent on this task by she who I will not disappoint. Your strength is of the darkness, but mine is a task authorized by the will of the Unconquered Sun, and you will grant us passage.’”

     I'm starting to doze a bit, listening to her speak. One of the times I open my eyes, I see some of the sailors grinning as they hear her. It can't be a new story for a crew sailing under Luna's name, reflecting Sol's partner's cleverness.

     “And the boatman was made to back down, for how could he deny the very will of the Sun? so the traveler and Virgil were carried across the first river to the far side. As they disembarked, there was a great clap of thunder and the boatman fell as though dead upon the far bank. While Virgil did not hesitate or startle, the traveler was not so courageous, and like the boatman he fell upon the sand and lost all sense of himself for a time.”

     She drifts into a pensive moment, quiet between one sentence and the next. Sleep comes and goes, makes thinking hard. When I fight through, I sort out why I've woken up almost immediately.

     "Wait, he just passes out? That can't be the end."

     She leans against the ropes, her shoulder against me, tightens her fingers around mine. “It isn’t. But it gets darker from here, and more grotesque. It won’t be better until the very end." She looks to feel some sadness, but the expression is eclipsed by the conspiratorial sweet smile that follows. "But I promise that I’ll be here with you the whole time.”

     I promise too, I say, or think I do, anyway. But when I open my eyes again, the light from the sail has changed and crawled much farther across the deck.

     Aurora fans us both with lazy looping strokes, glancing up at circling seabirds. 

     The Emissary of Divine Love has wandered through my dreams speaking in Aurora’s voice with her form, bringing relief and heavenly visions to the traveler passing through the hills. 

     “You’re awake?” Aurora asks, so quiet I almost don’t hear her over the other ocean sounds and people talking. 

     “What did you say her name was?” I ask fuzzily.

     “Whose name?” The wind flutters another tendril of her hair loose. To avoid further teasing, she sets her fan in her lap and reaches up to pull the glass hydrangeas free. She tucks the needle away in her bodice before picking up her fan again.

     “The Lady. In the story. His muse.” Even if her fanning isn’t cooling me more than the breeze is, the swirls are hypnotic. I have to fight to keep awake long enough to hear the answer.

     “Oh. Beatrice — it meant Blessed One in the oldest scrolls.”

     “Beatrice,” I say, to remember it as I slip back towards sleep.

     She giggles. “Rest now. I’ll tell you more when you can think clearly.”

     Falling back into my dreams, I see her eyes are alight with Sol’s radiance.

And I turned my rested eye about, standing erect,

And gazed fixedly, to know the place where I might be.

I did not believe because I could not see

Though you came to me in the night

When the dawn seemed forever lost

You showed me your love in the light of the stars

Chapter Text

     Paradise keeps the conversation flowing easily, so much so that he doesn’t have to think about the answers too much; how the first waypoint is peculiar in how it lights up, the merits of different types of luggage or parceling, and the way to cook various types of sea life when away from a fully equipped kitchen.

     They settle down at the desk, which she adjusts to become a flat table. He can see where the lines are, the ones that mark how small this can be made.

     She runs her hand over the table, either to sweep it clear for tea, or in appreciation. “Yes, it’s really quite ingenious. I found it up the coast near Sijan. Such clever workmanship! There was quite an array of highly crafted furniture, but I thought this would be the most useful.”

     While she talks, she reaches deep into her sleeves and pulls out a small portable tea set, with a little flat stone that she sets on the table. Something shimmers through the air to the top of the stone and it quickly begins to heat up. She sets the pretty little blue and white porcelain teapot, which magically is nearly full to spilling, and smiles approvingly at the little stone which has water boiling within seconds. Meanwhile, she continues to reach into her apparently endless sleeves and pull out some other related items; tea in small canisters and pouches, another teacup and saucer which both match the one that is packed directly with the little pot.

     Every time he thinks she’s reached capacity, she simply pushes aside another layer of fabric and pulls out something else from the new depths. The teapot particularly bothers him, as he’s certain there was nothing in the fabric a moment before, and it’s filled with water from.... somewhere.

     But it doesn’t seem to be an elsewhere pocket...

     “So, is it ginger-lemon today as well? As I mentioned, and you can see, there are other options for you to choose from. A small selection.” She sounds like she’s about to laugh, ready to include him in the joke.

     “No, it’s fine. Ginger-lemon is fine.” A trace of memory threads through, Aurora pouring into one of the ceramic plates onboard the Riposte, and sours the remembered flavor. “Or maybe this one. What’s in it?”

     This is perhaps the implied joke. “Oh, this and that; chamomile for peace, orange peel for good luck, malva for protection, rose petals for longevity, hawthorn for love, peppermint for prosperity, lemongrass for clarity in shedding light into the dark, corn flowers for friendship. It’s very tasty, only takes a moment or two to steep and it smells heavenly. Would you still prefer it? It’s a somewhat more complex profile than ginger-lemon.”

     “Sure,” he says, a little off-balance at the speed she speaks the recipe, like a spell or a momentary capture of myriad remembering as she points out the different ingredients.

     When she doles out the tea, he stares down at the little cup and saucer, the little plate a delicate addition. It feels as fragile as a soap bubble; one wrong move and it’ll break.

     She takes a long sip of her own tea. The differences between her confidence and precision now, and the last time he remembers with Beatrice, are made strange by time and distance both. Paradise’s delight and satisfaction are revealed more openly to the world. More easily, somehow.

     “All is well, Virgil?” She speaks it, but something is riding that question; some portentous Fate-willed reply. He can’t think what it would be.

     “Yeah, just...” He strengthens his spine to match her proper posture.

     How embarrassed she’d be.

     “Just thinking,” he adds, despite feeling that this is wrong, there is something wrong.

     “Very well. I suppose you have already somewhat answered my first impertinent question, that your name is from a dear companion, and it is at least... disquieting to see one who named you to come to feel... anxious? perhaps? about your presence here. I see that I am treading very close to a familiarity we have not yet developed, and I would hate for this desire for companionship and affinity to cause pain. It is a habit which you might imagine has brought me toward and through any number of situations of various magnitude!” Her expressions wash across her face very quickly, their speed nearly more of a defense against any emotive danger.

     The warmth of the tea seeps into his palms gradually.

     How am I supposed to answer that?

     If he refuses, she’ll move along and leave it in the back of her mind where Sonnet might find it still lingering. If he tells the full truth there will undoubtedly be more questions and answers that neither he nor Sonnet wants.

     Either way, Paradise probably knows not only that he’s weighing answering at all but how truthful he might be — in the worst of it before, Beatrice might have done the same, her consideration leading to vastly ruinous results.

     As it always could. Can.

     But there’s nothing for it. It will come out one way or another. Best to take the initiative.

     “It wasn’t... if you ask her about naming, she will tell you that she had nothing to do with it. But yes, she told me the story. All of it, in pieces along our journeys. The names were born of the story, I guess. We were already... different... people." Hard to think, another change of such proportion. A failure in his past and something —

     Pushing through the layers of memory is always harder with someone who isn’t her.

     Just like always.

     “It made things simpler, than speaking true names. The division of the person and the mote fever. Virgil and Beatrice.” He shrugs, deflecting the emotional weight like water off a duck. Too much more follows than this conversation can support. “Not unlike how you still keep your Blooded name.”

     “An excellent point. I do recall ‘Dragon of Razzik’ is another of your names. A courtesy title instead, perhaps. I am almost certain I recognize that name but I can’t think where...” She takes a thoughtful sip of tea; leaving the space open for the solution to come to her, or for him to fill it with answers.

     He lifts his own cup.

     I can see this trap at least.

     The mellow sweetness of the flowery flavor, not overwhelming or the anticipated vague muddiness. His surprise must be notable because Paradise laughs. It uncurls a slight amount of the tension wound up in him.

     “Do you like it? It’s my own special blend; I was trying to capture a sense of openness of the heart and renewal of the senses. It’s still a work in progress.”

     “You make tea?” A second cautious sip only returns the flavor of the first, without overpowering or making it go bitter. “It’s very good.” The rest of the cup seems safe enough to drink now. Even in greater mouthfuls, it never grows overwhelming.

     “I dabble in many fields. There’s so much to learn, but so few hours of the day! So, we must soldier on, and the chamomile grows on its own well enough. It has to cycle through, so there’s time for other foci in the meanwhile.” She pours out another cup for them both. “Perhaps I could show you? I don’t have the chamomile with me, but we’ll be travelling for a long time. Even with this remarkable capability to sail as we are! I think we’ll definitely have the edge on the other competitors, although...” she leans conspiratorially nearer, “It does worry me to see the crewmembers. I understand very well that our companions have... different needs, different predilections, might I say? But nonetheless, I can’t help feel sorrowful for their plight.”

     “Our... companions?” he asks, the tea drawing him back for another cup. “Do you mean Sonnet and Hearts?”

     She waves them away lightly, her fingers brushing past as if to sweep feathers out of the air. “They seem as I’d imagined they would, more or less. I meant instead the crewmembers who, for example, are working around us just now. Surely there are ways that could be found to bring light into these dark abysses? The crew, the ship itself, those languishing below, all together.”

     “What do you mean those below?” He has been trying to keep the energetic connection leading to Sonnet manageably closed, sealed off despite her inability to control it.

     Is it instead unwillingness to control it on her part?

     “Hmm.” Paradise considers him, the light in her green eyes still bright; but for the first time there is some reservation. “I think, perhaps, this might be a useful conversation between you and your mate. She has more of a personal experience with the topic at hand.”

     "I can't ask her. We're basically not speaking at all, just now.” It worries him enough almost to let the wall down, but at the last second a thread of cowardice draws him back from that edge. He tries not to let it come to the surface fully, keep any small piece of that fear to himself.

     Keep divided focus of the internal separation and external conversation.

     He hopes that the smile offered up will seem less forced than it is. “All that tension, you mentioned.”

     Paradise nods and accepts his expression at face value. “It is very difficult to resume communication when so much has built up between. I have a cousin I hadn’t spoken to in years; we had so many arguments built up between us that it was hard to stay in the same room without jumping down each other’s throats! I don’t know that we would ever have worked it all out if my mother hadn’t brought us both into a room and sat down to talk with us until we were all tired out, and did the same the next day and the next, until we both gave in and talked through what was bothering us under it all. She made us both play on the same team during our next family competition, and now we’re cordial companions, if not close. I think they’re with the family down the coast by Bluehaven now.” She trades her tea for her fan fluidly, skimming from memory to thought as her gaze fades into the distance. The silk shimmers as it catches the light, a subtle illumination to punctuate each new idea, trace out new patterns of solutions. “We’ll have to work on that,” she says eventually, and she comes back to herself with a crisp sense of thorough presence. “Meanwhile, we can begin thusly - do you play cards, Virgil?”

     “What?”

     She begins to clear away her tea set, all tidy motions in collapsing down the different elements and hiding them into her sleeves again. Even watching the process a second time, it still makes no sense. When she holds out her hand for his empty cup and saucer, he gives them away with a near bewilderment. “Cards. Matching, solitary, gambling, interpersonal narrative, speed runs, trick taking, and the like?”

     “Not often. Why?” Once again, he watches the tea pot vanish invisibly and weightlessly into the fabric. She pulls out a deck of cards from some other depth and begins to shuffle them out onto the little table.

     “Play with me. I have a few games I always enjoy when travelling, but there aren’t many on board who have the time or dexterity for good competition. I suspect you might do well. Besides, it can’t hurt to learn or relearn a new imperfectly informative skill, and perhaps we will find some way to bridge your otherwise complex situation. We have time, and even you won’t be able to devote every one of your days to pacing the deck.” She flashes a smile at him, and deals out two hands. “Now then. I’ll deal first. These eight cards stay face down, these are face-up, and here are yours for your own hand — don’t share those with me!”

     It seems impossible to refuse, and based on the surrounding options she’s going to be the most likely to match the same sort of raw willpower that Sonnet is obviously capable of. A temporary stop-gate against the warping of reality and the persuasiveness of even a single word. Besides which, it will pass away some of the waiting until the next objective, which is going to take time even with the constant progress. The trip is going to take months, years maybe. There are many waypoints, many small items that are required to be collected that will lead to the next, and the next.

     If it were easy to break a First-Age enchantment, anyone would do it.

Thus we went as far as the light, speaking things

of which it is good to be silent now, as it was good

to speak them there where I was.

We came to the foot of a noble castle, seven times

encircled by high walls, defended all around by a

lovely little stream.

My dreams are made of gold

My heart's been broken and I'm down along the road

But I know, my dreams keep fading 'til I get old

Breathe for a minute, breathe for a minute

I'll be okay

     Stepping back ashore, the land feels peculiarly uneven underneath my feet, even if we’ve only been at sea for a week. I step to the side of the gangplank and wait, both for Cailen to follow and for my body to readjust. It’s so hard to stay still here when I’m jubilance all over, when even the sheer existence of it all fills me with a giddy sort of delight that bubbles through my chest into laughter. A brisk wind from the sea snaps into the sails overhead, and pushing paroximatically past us all into the city, unwilling to still even an instant. It pulls at me too; but as Cailen isn’t with me, it will have to travel alone.

     From what can be seen from the docks, Wallport is very attractive. The houses here are whitewashed, muddied where life has left its mark against the plain canvas; they are tall, squat, all different levels with some finished rooftops above to look down on the bustling city below. Stone walls form the harbor where the ships can moor in the deep water, while the cliff face acts as defence for the retaining walls with just a hint of visible variation from the rocks of the sea-gate.

     So many words, phrases, arguments, reunions all spoken in many languages I know, and more I don’t; everyone is different, their gestures, movements, eyes, clothes, skin, all unique and glorious. Fisherman collect around wagons large enough for the entire crew of Riposte to sit in, with elbow room to spare. They have loaded fish of different sorts all into the back, nets and nets dumped out and secured over, and off they go, past the merchants. There are more squared boxes made of wood and metal, some covered in fabric. Two incredibly delicate ones are unloaded near us, a crystalline box with silvery veins flooding through it and one of the finest paper which holds its shape from the complex folds that lock it all together. Every color imaginable is flickering around us, with the fabrics — silks, satins, broadcloth, canvas, lace, leather, linen — being swiftly brought away from the salt water that even their coverings can’t entirely protect against, down into more carefully crafted carts. One specially roofed goods-wagon is loaded as efficiently as possible, and accompanied inside and out by a group of guards. That one moves away almost immediately, and picks up speed once they are out of the crush. It must be full of valuable gemstones, or possibly even high-end artifacts.

     But generally, everyone else passes by and around us with much deliberation and practice to bring the other sea-borne treasures to their markets or homes. Periodically, the flow is interrupted by bubbles of space as nobles pass through in personal or rented sedans and carriages. Every one of those that pass us by have their curtains closed against the world around them. Of those, a single one stands out the most; the shadows on the particularly ornate body which are matched with lines of gold limning contours. The tapestry used for curtains, and presumably upholstering at least part of the inside, is woven with cloth of gold and deep satin indigo.

     What sort of person would travel thusly, as much an aberration here as it is a condescension?

     Cailen makes it ashore, relief and gratefulness in equal measure to the discomfort in his shaky legs. He’ll feel better as he reacclimates to the land, and better still when we’re far enough from the waterfront that he can breathe air without so much brine. I wish I could transfer the exhilaration from my heart to his and make him well. Nevertheless...

     “It’s all so wonderful! Cailen, the whole world must come through here!”

     Our captain follows him down, either to see us off into the city or prevent one of us from falling over into the water. “Not quite the whole world, Lady Aphelion.”

     It’s like someone has poured snowmelt down my back when I hear that name. Fighting to keep my expression level is hard; I will have to remember that Lady Aphelion is one of my names, now.

     Captain Okya smiles, and the moment passes without the weight of import settling fully. “You’ll remember the inn I told you about, the one I choose when I’m in town for more than a day or two. Remember to tell them my name, and they’ll treat you more than fairly.” She rattles off directions that I memorize with half my mind. The slightest waver in Cailen’s stiff posture suggests he’s burning more energy than he might have remaining in reserve.

     “I will have my men bring your things to the inn,” Captain Okya offers. “You may determine how you would like to proceed from there. You’ll do well, of course, but if you ever have need of our service you know you may call upon me.”

     “I cannot thank you highly enough for your kindness,” I say. “Are you sure I can’t offer anything more, a small pittance to thank you for the generosity and care you shared with us both?”

     But as earlier, she refuses me. “I set my price when we first negotiated, and I want you to have as many moments of success as possible, Lady Aphelion. If you will remember us kindly, it will be more than enough. I have only seen one other who Sol has blessed, and only in passing.” She flicks a salute up into the sunlight briefly. “Remember us kindly, and we will be well repaid.”

     Slowly enough that she can refuse if she wants to, I pull close to wrap my arms around her; she meets me halfway. Her arms are stronger than mine, and I can’t hug hard enough to match her, but when we pull back, she laughs.

     “Now, then. You both must run along; leave plenty of time to be lost before you find the right place, or to find the right place and then get lost. Either way, I hope our young friend here,” she snags Cailen, claps him on the shoulder hard enough that she almost knocks him into illness again, “recovers quickly. Mind you walk on the sides of the street, the centers are muddy and full of livestock. May all the Incarnae look upon you as favorably as Sol.”

     She strides away, already shouting at someone onshore for some infraction.

     “Are you ready?” I turn to Cailen, offering a hand the same as when we were onboard. There’s so much to see, so many places to go, it’s hard to ground myself here and now.

     He shakes his head, looking away from the water. “It isn’t proper,” he says, quietly.

     The awful choking sensation I haven’t felt since we’ve left comes back in full and almost staggers me. “Does it matter? No one knows who we are, and even if they did what could be wrong about us travelling together?” My tone might be light, but the compression of emotion in my heart bubbles up into panic instead of excitement.

     Twice, these ghosts echo me twice already, and we haven’t even arrived into the city proper yet.

     He takes a deep breath, readying an argument which is interrupted by the water sloshing far too close for him to feel steady.

     I catch the attempted disagreement ahead of him, just barely. “We’ll talk about it later. Stay close. I don’t want to lose you in the crowds. I know you have the greater experience, but I know where we’re going.” I tie my hat on and try my best to draw the sheer gauze edges together before me, but the wind keeps ripping away the veil from my face as if to take it and create some new creamy cloud in the distance.

     Even through the haze of fabric, he looks relieved by this decision, but not by much.

     Further conversation has to wait. Passing through the milieux takes all of our attention, and whatever might be left has to battle with the roar of noise that swallows us into the winding streets and crowded markets. Lesser Cherak has never been this densely populated, and never could be. There simply isn’t infrastructure to support it. But here... there are so many exquisite things I want to stop and look at! In one instant, I see living birds as tall as I am, fried squid, texts sold in scrolls with intricately carved detail, all sorts of animals pulling rickshaws, carts, carriages, some strange two wheeled contraptions that run along on their own, all — all so much!

     Despite the map of the city and Captain Okya’s directions, there are still so very many people that I almost miss signs and markers that direct us through the tumult. Even peeping through the veil to see a little more clearly, flags and flowers, constructions and food, all in a disorderly profusion! which entirely obscures the official guidance marks beneath.

     Cailen, looking much more his normal self, manages to catch the ones I miss. Between the two of us, we pass through the worst of the market crush into a sidestreet, a tranquil avenue of cobblestones which is adorned with flowers hanging from baskets and from windows, and long vines growing all along the channels at the edge of the street. All is in bloom in the sunlight.

     “There!” I see it first, only because Cailen stops to inspect the light on one of the flowers.

     It’s a clean little building; recently white-washed, it gleams pristine in defiance of the salt wind carrying dust and grime with it. There’s a hint of stone which shows along the foundation, a brilliant terracotta red color that is striking against the weathered gray street. The roof is the same red color, which charmingly frames the whole with curved rooftops that I know will shed the rain as much as the small gods who might creep into the rooms. Two trees, beautifully kempt, follow the shaping of the keyhole door, the outer frame to the door is painted a shining black, with inner panels showing a darkwood as warm as Cailen’s eyes. The wood panels below depict sailboats on an extending ocean; on both sides are carved trees and markers of the elemental poles. It takes me a few seconds to realize why the wood screen, aligned between the two poles, above the sea panels, has such an unusual and somehow familiar pattern.

     “Cailen, the screen is a map of the city! Can you see it?” It’s hard to force myself to keep still on my feet at the discovery, I want to run to look, I want to dance, anything at all. I can’t believe the Captain forgot to mention such a thing; but then, she might not have had such an aesthetic interest of the construction of an inn that provides her with comforts within.

     He straightens up, squinting at the door to see details from the far end of the street. “Yea- uh.” He seems to remember where we are before he finishes. “I can’t quite see from here, my lady. But if you say so, I believe it will be clearer when we reach the threshold at least. My Lady.”

     I can see no one at the top of the street, no one stopping at the bottom, and no one at any window. “Please stop calling me that,” I ask, with one hand holding the veil aside so I can meet his eyes clearly. “We’ll just go in as we are, leave everything in our room, and then we can see about finding dinner.”

     I watch the change from the more business-like distance to bewilderment. “Don’t you mean rooms, L- I mean, aren’t we boarding separately?”

“Why would there be more than the one? We didn’t need more than one on the Riposte, and any bed here is probably bigger than that bunk.”

     I watch the unconscious straightening of his clothes as he meets me eye to eye properly for the first time since we’ve landed. “Excuse me if I misunderstood, but this is a business trip, right? It would be best to keep appearances elevated.”

     Ah.

     “Appearances being what they will be, it seems the most practical option given our currently non-existent income. I think it will be fine. We can ask for a second bed, if it would make you feel better,” I tease, and watch various emotions play themselves out very quickly across his face, nonsense and skepticism and wanting and relief. “Besides,” I say more quietly, more seriously. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

     A brief negation, minute motions of fingers and eyes and head. “I only mind on your behalf. If you think it is a reasonable idea, I will back it.”

     “Mm. Well, thank you for considering that appearance, I hadn’t put much thought to it. We likely can afford two rooms, but we won’t be able to stay as long; and I want to be sure we have enough time to make ties and proper investments so we have resources to carry on after this. Even if Okya’s introductions and connections are sorted out, there are so many people to we have meet!” My breath is growing shallow again, all alight and fully ahead of myself. I deliberately take five deep, slow breaths, letting the very sea air that’s causing this overwhelm to fill me with stillness instead. “One step at a time. We need a room, first. Then we can do anything we want.” With my chin lifted, in my best aristocratic posture, I slip in a pretense of condescension. “If anyone dares comment, we will simply treat their words with all appropriate disdain, and mercilessly mock them when we’re behind closed doors again. As with Sage.”

     The tension drains away out of his shoulders, down the length of his back. Without the pressure, he’s more and more himself. For the first time since we’ve set out, he even has a hint of his usual cockiness back in the way he smiles, eyes amber-flecked russet and copper, a broadening out that extends down to swing the bag he’s carrying around casually to his side instead of in front, his weight shifted over his feet to allow a springier step going forward.

     He sketches the barest shape of a bow with a grin on his face, and steps in closer, just barely on the outside of the veil. “I will follow your lead as per usual. I am sure we can accomplish all your goals here before you know it. And,” he says, puffing up in his best impression of aristocracy the same as mine, “I am very glad that our protocols on mockery haven’t changed with the scenery.”

     The laughter I almost stifle behind my fingers breaks free at the flourish I know he has precisely stolen from Sage. He pulls a few more, including one that I know is a perfect mirror to my own performances. “Alright! alright, you can pick up wherever you want when we’re in our room. If there’s a room still left, after your impromptu performance here.” I finally compose myself, refusing to let his mock-solemnity catch me again. “I’ll go speak with the innkeep, and if, they have a vacancy, we’ll have succeeded in our first adventure.”

     “Wait.” His tone is different, and it stops me faster even than the weight of his hand against my arm. “May I make a request upon your good humor?” It’s very near formality, here, pitched low and serious. The change is startling; lightness shifts to a different determination from the sudden tension in his jaw down through his shoulders and spine. Assertion, naturally heightening form as well as focus.

     “Even though our current backing might not provide us with the normal luxurious accommodations that come with your station, I believe it best if you allow me to make the reservations upon your behalf. No one of any true status books their own room and it would not reflect correctly on you if you did so.”

     I do not need another handler, not you, not anyone.

     The anger comes unexpectedly. Exhaustion catches me up in the webs of memory and impulse without the measured control of time and clarity to muddle it down, with something I almost would think was leading to one of the strange golden hazes boiling up all of those feelings at once.

     He breaks away from the conventional social phrases, but he’s no less intent — he stands his ground despite whatever expression he sees escaping me. “Besides, it will be good practice for me.”

     The words that want to spill out are barely held back, my lips even part to let them break into the air.

     How dare you stand in my way!

     But no — drawing again on the calmness of the air, the fresh scent of the flower blossoms being wafted toward me now, I still the sensation flaring up. The gold flutters back down to embers, the anger drains. It is a notable few seconds before I can ask, “How much will it bother you if I tell you no?”

     “I will not be bothered either way.” Without even a slight shift of his fingers, his touch has gone from interruption to soothing. “It is my job to make your day to day tasks less numerous, so that you may focus on the ones that truly require your attention. This is something I feel capable of handling and would be one more skill I could use in the future.” His voice is steady, and now I’m certain it’s a completely different register in his tone, one I haven’t heard him use before.

     We’re both different people now.

     It shivers my heart, but for good or ill, it’s true. I nod slowly, as I test the words before I say them. “Yes. This one can be yours, if you will let me practice also. I haven’t had this chance before.”

     Of course we have to learn these nuances again, now that we are different. We knew we would have to adapt, and this is only the first day out. We are a team, which means both of us should practice everything so we can better support each other.

     Why did this trouble me so a moment ago?

     “Absolutely, my lady,” he says, and I hear both the smile suppressed in his voice and his growing excitement. “I will get things set up, and we can go straight to dinner.”

     The slightest pressure of his touch is enough to pull me back to the now, as he takes the lead up the hill. He doesn’t stop to look at the pattern on the door — too focused on the task at hand, at playing the game correctly without mistake.

     I stop just to the side of the door where I won’t be in the way. Transitioning from the brightness outside to the busy interior gives me the chance to simply soak in my surroundings; the inn is not what I expected from the descriptions given. It is nearly a tavern on this level. Large barrels and jars of alcohol entirely cover the long back wall, where a man behind the bar is passing out portions to the people clustered around the stools. Some are handed off to a maid or one of the extra hands if they are unfortunate enough to linger too far from the door to the kitchens. It bustles along, not a loud hubbub but persistent; familiar and so very different from the kitchen at home.

     So many lovely artifacts and treasures, assorted fond memories and proudest achievements are spread across every surface possible. The ceiling supports, among other things, a skeleton of some great water-creature swimming among spinning wheels formed of feathers and glittering threads, chimes and small sea-glass mobiles. Stairs interrupt the collections, as room has been left for less-than-sober guests to inaccurately judge distance without bringing portions of the wall down with them.

     Cailen sees the innkeep before I do, and as easily as if he has been here before, done this before, he begins a loud and enthusiastic conversation of shameless haggling over prices. He waits to mention Okya’s name only when the innkeep is reluctant to drop the number any lower.

     If this is to appear as it ought, I cannot hover near enough to hear him clearly over the clamoring multitude of voices of the other people in the room. I’m not entirely certain I want to risk the kitchens before I know what is included and what is separate with their dealings. Instead, I stand looking over a blanket woven to show the rough boundaries of Wallport, and this direction of Creation. Various souvenirs are tacked on to several cities I know, and a few more that I puzzle over. I’m turning over whether or not Greater or Lesser Cherak has been included on this map when Cailen joins me. I can’t even be irritated, now; it clearly it was good for him, he’s free of the seasickness entirely.

     I can only hope all such uncertainties will resolve themselves and leave us be.

     “My lady.” His bow is more fluid now, as proper and deliberate as he can make it. For the sake of his cover, I swallow the irritation at the titling. Someone is with him, one of the apparent barmaids; it seems she has been pulled away from the delivery of alcohol to the tables. She follows suit, dipping into a courtesy that takes more from the northern practices than from the Isle.

     “All is settled, and we have a room readied and waiting for us. Captain Okya’s sailors will be directed to bring our things up when they arrive. In the meantime, we have an open and standing invitation for food or refreshment here. I’m told there are enough comforts for us to rest in the room even before the sailors arrive. Of course, the city is also bustling and I have had many attractions suggested to me that might suit your interests. What is your preference, my lady?” It’s a very measured explanation, leaning further into that new resonance.

     “We will take our repose, for now. I don’t believe we’re in any great hurry — unless there is a curfew? Ought we go to find something to eat now...?”

     The maid offers another courtesy as she slips in ahead of Cailen. “Beg your pardon, my lady, but our kitchens are available at all times to our lodgers. We will bring anything we can to your room, or you are welcome down here. It’s just that we close the doors, my lady, to everyone not staying here already. But if you need anything at all, lady, please call for me. I have been designated to help you with anything your own retainer cannot.” She speaks with a northern edge to her accent as well; I know it, I know which language it is she speaks, but it evades me in the fluster of information around us. If she just speaks a few more times, I’ll have it...

     “How kind! We’ll attempt not to cause too much of a stir. What was your name? I must apologize, I was absorbed by the Creation map.” I part the veil of my hat enough to see her clearly. Something about the difference seems to hit her, but I can barely feel the the fervor that usually accompanies that sort of reaction, and no light is reflected on any surface that I can see.

     She slowly flushes and drops very low into her third courtesy before she answers. “It’s Nora, my lady. May I show you to your room?”

     “Thank you, Nora. Yes, I would be very grateful.” For a moment while I speak, I catch Cailen’s expression shifting subtly too, but he catches himself sooner and makes a point of following me closely as we climb the stairs. Vigilant, even when we reach the sheltered landing above.

     It’s a long hall, simple and largely undecorated except for the frames of the doors for each room. Beams are exposed here and there, artfully rendered with either embedded red stone or tiles where they join the walls. They’re black like the ones at home, with paint to seal away the wood from decay; but the walls are nothing so whitened, and all of the floorboards creak beneath every one of our steps. Our door is just the same as the others, but is the very farthest one from the stairway.

     When she opens the door, I understand why. It’s a large room, as much as mine was in Lesser Cherak. I would not have expected so much space for a boarder, after the size of the little bunk on the Riposte. It is also partly filled with a variety of styled furniture and other amenities. Along the far wall are windows, with wooden screens and several with seated glass; one with a door seems to lead out onto a second floor overlook. It draws me in, past everything else. Stepping out, the sea breeze catches up the gauze of my hat around me, plays with it until I push it away and see clearly the city laid out before me. From here, the entirety is similar to the woven map, but with thousands of moving knots filling the streets and the waves.

     “Is it to your liking, my lady?” Nora asks delicately, and I notice her fingers twisting her apron with nerves. Cailen is off inspecting a different room, but she has followed me almost all the way out, stopping at the threshold.

     “Yes! Very much, so, I hadn’t hoped for something so lovely! Everything is perfect,” I say, trying to stifle the urge to meet the whirling wind in its dance along the overlook. I feel suffused with exhilaration, everything beautiful and blazing with brilliance —

     The sea breeze rushes past, and this last time, with the beauty of everything glimmering as jewels, and those distant sails like seabirds or petals on the endless fluttering waves — all of it, all rises into my breath, blood, sunlight filling me over with warmth and love, it spills out and my steps barely touch the floor as the wind sweeps me back into the room, taking Nora by the hands and pulling her into my orbit, sun-dazzled myself and dazzling into her as well. Flecks of light ripple over the edges of the walls like water, and Nora’s eyes are wide with wonder, all aglow with this delicate, filmy light as potent as any celestial intersection above.

     We finally come to a hesitant stop, breath quick and flittering for us both. Nora reaches a trembling, shy hand to brush aside a tendril of hair from my face, glances so briefly at my lips, her heart pounding hard enough for me to hear it.

     Cailen’s voice breaks the moment. “What’s with this tub?”

     Nora breaks her gaze, flushed and unable to entirely push away the little breathless smile, the slight lightness even with her embarrassment. She forgets to offer the proper courtesy entirely, or to ask to excuse herself, which she most certainly would have done if not for this aureate halcyon bliss... I linger, walking slowly until I can rest my hands on the back of the chair. How beautiful it all is — futures rising before me like bubbles of vibrant might-be's. And yet...

     The sunlight in the room seems more luminous than when we entered, and it's perfection, of course it is. How could it be other than this? But I haven't reached for the sublime haze. I’ve been trying to keep it calm, not to dazzle Cailen or anyone else.

     Cailen and Nora are both speaking quickly, or I am hearing them more slowly in drastically expanded instants.

     I’ve done it again. I didn’t mean to, but I have. What do I do now? It isn’t fair to her. So what now?

     “The plants purify the water, so you can draw up as much as you want, warm and cold.” Her words are clear though, which is undoubtedly different than before.

     They come back from the explanation of the systems in the back rooms; but Nora does not look sun-dazzled, doesn’t look like I’ve pressed into her thoughts....

     “My lady, I believe your steward has learned as much from me as I know myself. If you do need help with the rest of the amenities, we have a bell-pull here, and here are the keys...” she hands them to Cailen as I nod in acceptance. Traditionally. Formally. Brisk again.

     “I’ve just noted the time, my lady,” she says. “Would you please excuse me?” she asks, sinking into the deepest form of her courtesy — for one near the divine, not nobility.

     “Please, no more of that.” I reach down to pull her back up to her feet before she even finishes. She meets my eyes without the nerves or fear now, sparkling still but more like Cailen’s when he breaks out of the haze. “I’m certain you are very busy, and I have taken much of your time. We will call if we need anything.” I catch her last dip at the level of respectful unknown. “No more than this, once. Please.”

     She smiles, and nods her head. “Yes, my lady.”

     With every possible perfect gesture on the way out, she very formally closes the door after herself; but I can hear her excited gasp and how she nearly skips down the hall.

     Perhaps this will be something that is helpful to her, somehow.

     Cailen doesn’t seem to notice my feeling of lethargy following the sun burst, and is also untouched as he pulls me along. “You have to come see this,” he says, “it’s unreal. I’ll show you how it works.”

Chapter Text

The company of six is reduced to two: along another way my wise leader conducts me out of the quiet into the trembling air. 

 And I came to a place there is nothing to give light.

I've seen the darkness in the light

The kind of blue that leaves you lost and blind

The only thing that's black and white

Is that you don't have to walk alone this time

     The cards themselves are painted with strange flowers, creatures with more stylized than factual features, the names of the hours of the night, constellations that he can’t remember or doesn’t recognize, and more. Deeply buried at most times, his artist’s eye is currently fresh in his mind and the technique of the painter is evident. There is skill in making the images completely smoothed and even, but there are more flourishes that tend toward abstraction rather than precise realism. Intentionally smudged around before a player even touches the image. 

     “They’re very lovely, aren’t they? Yet another cousin — I have somehow a very large number of them! — was kind enough to send them as replacement for the deck which was partially destroyed by some enthusiastic monkeys they were shipping. I like them very much for how they feel in the hand, and how quickly I can play them out if I need to. If you will look to the center here...” She reaches forward and taps the bottom of one of his cards. “There is a small mark to tell you which cards go with which; that matters when we start trying to pick up the ones that match. We won’t start with anything that requires speed, just the goal. With these marks you will want to match these, and pick up from here. This is where we’ll discard, and the middle is where we both play...”

     After several minutes of explanation, the gameplay evens out. For all the introductions required, it is largely based on the choice of fate and thereby simpler. The rules let the shifting of fate hold steady while in constant motion from hand to table. As he grows more confident with his draws and discards, it becomes soothing in a different way. Paradise still takes an easy lead, Fortune favoring her quick eyes and easy laugh. But all the same, he finds himself smiling. Cheating is impossible, only guiding the outcome with what is given. 

     Could I ask for guidance from her mate?

     “Paradise,” he begins, waiting for her to make her play before finishing the thought as carefully as he can. Avoid any small offense, if possible. 

     “Yes?” she says, and when she sees his expression she sets her hand down neatly in her lap and takes up her fan instead.

     “Have you met... recently, with your— the mate to your spark, at all?” Even with clear intentions, the words catch up in his throat. With so much potential volatility to the question, he can’t make any assumptions. Perhaps they have an even worse situation than his. There are more dangers than just the Wyld Hunt, after all, and he’s met Lunars who still carry hate like a second skin.

     She smiles, sweetly and with enough warmth to reassure him of her openness to this course of conversation. “No,” she shakes her head, and ducks just the slightest amount behind her fan. Rigid control over such small manners as these, aligning them to match the surroundings and smooth over any unsettled sensibilities, is still a knife-edged skill. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure. Most unfortunate. But I know for certain that we will meet when the time is right, and I can only hope they will be as determined to do what is right as you are showing yourself to be.”

     No other Lunar resource to compare notes or find advice with, then. There might very well be only his own reason to rely on and any advice he can turn over along the way. If they’re lucky, maybe they’ll overlap with Fate’s settling upon the shoulders of this other mirror-spark. But it’s truly no guarantee, even with their planned route; Creation is much too large.  

     “I’m sure they’ll be great, when you meet them.” It’s hard to keep his smile as confident as hers. 

     “Thank you,” Paradise answers gravely. “If only we could all be so lucky as you are, even considering such difficulties which lie before you. I have never felt such a connection, but from what I am given to understand it’s entirely a heavenly sensation. Can you tell me, is it true you can hear one another’s thoughts? The stories are so hyperbolic and impossible to make sense of.”

     “No,” he says, sharp again against his better efforts.  

     If I could, this would be infinitely easier. Perhaps this is part of the test. 

     “I mean, no, I haven’t felt anything like that in a very long time. We —” 

     How to explain something so essential? What words could describe something that was so much intertwining and intermixing that at times, in the fevers, it was impossible to understand one from the other? And always being certain when I said anything. The words might be wrong, or the person, but it didn’t matter. We were a team, and she would smooth it over with a single word. 

     “It used to be different in the First Age,” he says, the ache enough to make him stumble over his words. “We didn’t need words. Thoughts would pass back and forth, and everything else. I knew everything, saw everything.” Nearly a lie. “I still can keep a barrier between. We needed to know how to put up barriers between us, because she would feel any pain I felt. And the other way, too,” he adds. 

     His vision has gone hazy, unfocused as he can almost remember how it was. How the beautiful days were beyond anything the celestial could provide. How the nightmares came and drove the rising power in one or the other of them, how they had to try to compensate until it ran its course and how they had at times both drowned in it and empires rose or fell on a whim. It feels like a false image, the same as any the Wyld might have offered, but the spike in his own soul now is an assurance of how very real it was.

     “I don’t know what stories you’ve heard,” he says, trying to refocus on the now. “Creation is not the same as it was then, even when it seems like it should be. And I can’t do it now.” 

     Not yet, anyway. 

     Paradise, who had drawn in a happy little gasp and hidden just a little more behind her fan, emerges now, with a mingling of sadness and curiosity pulling her in both directions at once. “I’m sorry to hear about the lapse you are currently suffering. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be. I will think more on any aid I can offer in returning you both to a state of peace again.” 

     He shrugs with more assurance than even he’d expected. “Don’t worry too hard about it. Fate brought me this far. And I’m not done yet.” 

     Maybe the truth of it needed to be spoken aloud. Because something is very wrong. 

     “Anyway,” he pulls himself back from the remembered abyss he’s been staring into. “You wanted to ask about the First Age, didn’t you.” It doesn’t need to be a question, even. Paradise lights up immediately, though the restraint she exercises in keeping herself calm and collected is evident and enormous. “I can see what I can answer, but there are some things...”

     “Please don’t even consider answering anything that would cause you discomfort,” she says, and means it too. Not the usual brush-off answer that makes the need underneath evident and far more pronounced in the demands.

     “... Thanks.” The strangeness of it sits slightly off from what he expected. More softness in the intention.

     “Now; how well do you remember the trade routes as they were? Wherever you were, I should say; I know they keep moving and it’s very hard to find records on them at this point! But maybe you remember the ones around the place you know well? Do you know how to find Rathess? Or any of the Eastern cities, really, so many of them have been lost to the forests and Wyld...”

     Again, somehow blindsided despite knowing the questions are coming. But it does shake off the melancholy that’s trying to sink into him. “Uh. I can probably figure it out if I have a map? I don’t remember it all well enough to describe where everything was. We were usually just on a road that went forever, and then there would be another town.” 

     “I happen to have one just here!” She reaches once more into those endless sleeves. He can’t even see the moment of the map’s emergence from the depths, but it definitely is another thing that’s too long to fit naturally. 

     “Now, then,” Paradise has a pencil as well, sharpened to a perfect point. “I’ve worked out these so far. There are some resources still extant, but most have been burned on account of being library neighbors with some which are seen as less suitable for a general audience.”

     The map swims a bit beneath his gaze. 

     “It’s a map of Creation. Look how small we are.”

     “This is Rathess, here, where the Dragon Kings live.”

     She looks up from the map, almost like she heard me thinking.

     “If it’s too difficult—” Paradise very tentatively sets a hand on his.

     “No,” he says slowly, and starts a clumsy outlining of the routes he knows. Rusty in his memory, there is still more than he expected to remember of the roads; how they moved over bridges, turned along rivers which have since moved their banks to snake in unpredicted ways, through forest land that has been clearcut and where it has filled out and expanded, places where the Wyld has reworked the borders and places which the Wyld has been driven back. The last thing he does is pencil in the cities with what names he remembers, including Greater and Lesser Cherak which have both vanished off the map. The last of those remembered cities he marks is Rathess.

     “I think that’s the best I can do,” he says, trying to make sense of the landscape again. “How current is this one?” 

     “I am overflowing with gratitude, this is more than I could have hoped for!” She glances back down. “This was given to me at the start of the year, and anytime I find someone with a map I check it against the ones they have. I’d say, except for the Wyld pockets and Shadowlands, it’s the most current that I can put together.”

     He stares down at it. Cherak is nowhere to be seen. Wallport has become Pneuma, but Whitewall and Gethamane still exist. Nexus, of course, which they just left, though there are different notes of warning in the margins now. Deheleshen is now Lookshy. Thorns, Chiaroscuro, even Gem are still marked on the map. So is the Imperial City, but that’s not so much a surprise. 

     “I’m planning on making any corrections that are necessary as we travel. I’m certain we’ll cover a lot of terrain — I would say ground, but our most generously animated Captain has reassured me that it won’t matter if we sail through soil or sea. Of course, I would love to add a new location or two as we go. Perhaps we’ll be so lucky.”

     “I’m sure we will.” It’s the first time he’s really seen an updated map of Creation with this much scope. Absence driven by centuries should be expected, even cities live and die like anything else and the strongest of those thrive and prey on the smaller ones. 

     “My best vengeance is that House Aphelion dies with me.”

     Would there even be anyone still living there? Or would even the ruins have been picked over by scavengers and the remaining stones of the walls taken away to form the foundation of Pneuma’s growth?

     “Oh dear,” she says, and he looks up from his musings. Her eyes are like green jade, but he can almost see her choosing which emotions to let loose, which to keep in to prevent further discomfort. “Have I overstepped? It seems I lost you to the depths of the silken world.”

     “It’s fine.” An automatic answer, but in this case true. “I don’t usually get the opportunity to see all of Creation at once like this.” She still doesn’t seem entirely convinced, so he changes tack. “Are you up for another round of cards? I think I was really starting to get it, and I don’t remember where we left off.”

     “Of course!” 

     They clear the table again and begin a new round. It really is becoming easier to play and think at the same time, each round a little faster, his speed and confidence growing.

     “Would you like to try the additional rules? You’ll pick them up in no time, and I do believe they add a lovely unpredictability to the play.” Paradise clears the table with her final cards for a tidy win. 

     His hand wouldn’t have even come close to clearing this time, anyway. “Sure. It can’t hurt my chances, right?”

     “If anything, I think it will play to your luck. That seems to end well for you so far!”

     They begin again, quick and detailed. Cards fly down like leaves, settling in more or less tidy piles. 

     It’s his turn to discard when he feels it, the way the world lurches and swerves in less than even a flash of an instant. 

     Some knowing malice, something even primeval powers reject utterly, in a lightning strike of null. The turbulence of raw power through the damaged connection takes his breath like he’s been stabbed. It’s a brush in close proximity to that malevolent eldritch attention that gathered at the starting festival when she sanctioned the oath. Frozen fury filling oceans with ice fully into the depths. Despair dark as desolate nights absent celestials in the starless sky. Hurricanes of helplessness, winds which would rattle even the Wyld. Briars grown venomous, made from bone born of broken lovers loved and loving and buried loveless. Pain in the past, and pain in perpetuity. In the roiling mass, the attempted release and removal in a purge going spark and soul deep, he can feel... some small confliction. A memory? a thought? It felt more than that, but he can’t test this without breaking their agreement. The massed negative presence present instead of the constancy of Creation contorts in —  and then it’s gone just as instantly leaving his abrupt knowing of the intrusion. Just a slight knowledge that it was a true intrusion. He surfaces. 

     The effort to pull back and keep his own power stable and contained means he feels the abrupt full force of the release of any control she does have. This emotional backlash takes much longer to process and disperse, spillover leaving him with a sense of vertigo all over again. There is a liquid release of a tension he had assumed was part of the baseline of this new form. This isn’t a correction or a return to what should be, but all of this and this appearance of barbed resentment is softened, to... what? apathy? 

     A quick look around the deck shows no one else has realized that it’s happened. Paradise maybe catches some part of it subconsciously, like a chill in the air; and maybe it staggers a group of zombies in the abruption. But Creation didn’t have time to even acknowledge the negation before it was gone. As if nothing had happened.

     Almost like nothing, but not entirely.

     Even though Sonnet denies it, the divine connection is still in place in the way it should be. And the remnant of conflict that’s been crushed down under the weight of all the rest... 

     There’s something besides all of the darkness in the abyss. There has to be. 

And in a burst of light that blinded every angel

As if the sky had blown the heavens into stars

You felt the gravity of tempered grace

Falling into empty space

No one there to catch you in their arms

I came into a place where all light is silent, that 

groans like the sea in a storm, when it is lashed by 

conflicting winds. 

     Her fingers are tapping on the basket again, like the motion belongs to someone else entirely; her gaze flicks over the crowd with the speed of a hummingbird and about as much predictability as a grasshopper. 

     “Do you like green or red for dinner?” I ask. 

     She spares a fraction of a second on the peppers and then my face before she’s gone again. “For tonight, red,” she says; at least she doesn’t sound all dreamy this time. Even so briefly, I can see that there’s only a soft dove-gray in her eyes, none of the lightening to worry about. Yet.

     Almost like she’s here with me, instead of somewhere in the street.

     I swap a few of our coins with the merchant, take her hand and pull her with me. She comes back a bit more. 

     “We’re done already?” Still doesn’t sound dreamy. If anything, it sounds like there’s tightness in her throat. 

     She called it trapped words last time. I have to ask her about it when we get back.

     “Yeah, that was the last one. Unless you have somewhere else you’d rather be?” I say, pointedly, but slip my fingers properly between hers and squeeze. I’m not trying to make you mad.

     This time the focus stays. She shakes herself all over briefly to try to snap out of whatever it is that keeps taking her away. “I’m sorry. It’s — I’m just letting it get to me. There’s so much and I can’t...” She stops herself before I can say anything. 

     Have to get her out of here. Now. 

     “Come on. I think there are fewer people this way, and besides, it might be a shortcut. I haven’t tried it yet, but that’s what the map says. And you can plan what to do next while we’re in our room. Besides, you wanted to try and reach out to Wrenlow’s group, didn’t you? Shouldn’t you send them a note about it, now?” There are only so many ways through a crowd, and the thinnest areas of the groups are the places behind the vendors or in front of their wares. Either one seems a danger right now, so many people. 

     Why does everyone have to be so ‘interestingly complicated’?

     She’s showing some of the signs she said to watch out for. That kind of analyzing people in the crowd, that slight dreaming feeling she’s visibly in and out of, and the way she is gliding over the stones or between people as if she were the only real thing in the world. Perfection amid chaos. 

     How are you supposed to know if you can hear the voices if we’re in a crowded street? Okay. If I can keep her thinking about the paperwork, maybe. Maybe the rest won’t show up. 

     There’s an alley off to the side that looks promising. It might even be the one that leads to our place.

     “I think we’ll be able to bring it up again when I talk to them on—” she cuts, off nearly midword. Normally, it wouldn’t matter. It could be that she tripped, or dropped something, or even lost her breath for an instant. 

     But suddenly—

     The world is bathed in radiance, blazing up so it throws shadows. Beautiful pale flecks of luminescence hover in the air, mesmerizing and floating in the current of air or light. Like a cloud of butterflies, but something else entirely. This one feels like small extra heated sunbeams, the same as full sun on a square on the floor. But it floats away so easily, ignoring all the logic of the little breezes that play down the alleyway. 

     At some point, I seem to have let Aurora’s hand go. I can’t think why... at the same time, holding on and letting go were both so important. But whichever I should have done, it was the right thing to do. 

     Wait.  

     It takes a real effort to focus, to push past the easy pleasure the light offers, keeps offering. The murmuring of those voices she said would be there, they’re just like bells, ringing pure and just indistinct enough to want to hear what the words are, what the laughter was about. Every inch of the world demands a painting, something to catch a pale reminder of all that will return to being entirely invisible when this glory stops...

     She said it was possible if she isn’t focused on you. She said it, so it must be true. You’ve seen her do this before. I turn around slowly, even though it might be what the... energy wants. It’s so hard not to just give in. 

     It wasn’t this much last time, not by a long shot. Something about the intensity has changed. 

     She’s sitting with her skirts trailing long behind her, her basket left rocking on the stones but still upright. She’s at the bend of the alleys, where a very narrow one is used close to a young woman whose dark eyes are wide with awe and lit with radiance. 

     “All will be well, for I am given to bring rest and whole relief to meriting souls. Dreams of the Empyrean anew have I been named; in manner befitting this glory might I bring both grace and peace to those in anguish, which is unfitting.”

     A cold shiver drips down my spine as she speaks, and when she names herself it is both unreal and undeniably true. It can't be otherwise.

     "Wilt thou unfold to me thy name? I’d cease thy pain, if thou would permit me to aid.” It seems a ritual question, formalized into something inevitable.

     "I-it's Evabeth, my lady," she whispers, and when this is rewarded with a gently affirming nod, she seems to somehow grow larger within herself. 

     “O Evabeth,” Aurora — or Dreams of the Empyrean, in this moment— gently reaches up and traces her fingers down the side of Evabeth's face, gentle enough that Evabeth nearly leans into her touch despite the off-coloring on that side. In the light, it seems more obvious. “Sweet Evabeth, release thy cares, from whence this pain? Thy fear allayed must be.”

     There's a slight frown, almost closing in of her shoulders, but it's smoothed away immediately by the gentle, tender, careful caress that clearly sends relief and then pleasure through her. Such a small touch is changing a good deal of harrowed memory into words that draw out the fear like a poison. "I wouldn't say yes to him, so he hit me. And it went black, but when I woke up it hadn't been so long, and he was still trying so I hit his jaw with my knee and ran, and I've been hiding out here ever since, my lady. He doesn't come to this part of town, so I thought I would be safe enough, but he'll take what I own by law if I can't stand against him in court and if I do he'll come for me again even if I win. I don't want to go back, my lady, please?"

     Empyrean leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead. Evabeth closes her eyes and shivers in silent rapture. She bends toward Empyrean and there is relief as she is gathered into the warm embrace offered her. “Thou never wilt have cause to fear one such as he when conclusion I’ve made. Art others who’d cause harm to thee so near when penance sent hast he to disappear?”

     "He has friends," she says, dreamily. At peace, at rest, in a way she very obviously hasn't been for a long time. "But his family is from the South. He's supposed to bring the business up here as another branch on the tree. There are a few who have his preferences. They drink at his stall most days, behind the stock tables. They say they're protecting the cloth. They might be there even now." 

     “And he is called?”

     “Tovin. I don’t know all of his friends, because I haven’t tried to go back and see. Is that bad?” There’s some fear beneath her words but it is soothed away with the smooth, continuous gentle circles on her back.

     “No, dear one, all is well. For thee I will this settle full, and thou will safely be once more. But now, foretell, a promise unto me; that thou will now and hence those such as thee now are found who likewise are afraid, alone, without a place to turn — to them thy course is bound. Thy’ll offer aid, repose, thy love, and must a sanctuary from the threat around provide. As I to thee, I now entrust. Canst promise me?”

     "Yes, my lady. I promise I will help if it's something I can help with," she says, even in this haze aware of the size of promises.

     “Then come. I’d see thee safe and settled as I set to task discussed, to remedy thy cause.” She rises herself as straight and smooth as a streak of fresh paint on canvas, half-lifting, half-guiding Evabeth to her feet. 

     She turns back to me, serene; it’s easier to watch Evabeth, who can’t look away. With an arm around her waist, Empyrean guides her surely toward this alleyway exit.

     “Thou in this brave course will aid in her plight, wilt not?” she asks me, and the sound is sweet as the ringing crystalline spheres that shiver me down to my marrow. She speaks the same as the story she tells me, the words familiar and entirely unexpected in these surroundings. She’s never slipped this hard into the words before, but still...

     “Of course,” I say. 

     How can I say no? It’s the right thing to do. 

     Even fighting to keep my eyes on Evabeth, the peripheral sight of the paradisical expression of thankfulness stops me and pulls me to meet her eyes in full. 

     Time stops. 

     There is too much, too much. Everything is in alignment, moving through me, through Sol, Luna, Gaia, even those stars which come close to Sol’s radiance; all is well, all is as it should be, all is finally real . If I were to try now, I would paint Creation and beyond so perfectly that it would come alive with the details. If I were to paint her, I would capture every aspect, every slight curve or dancing fingers, her beatific humor and sublime depth of emotion I see now. I see it all, and it steals the air from my lungs entirely. 

     She looks away, back to Evabeth, back to the alleyway, and out to the street. 

     It takes three tries to actually pick the basket up. The sense of purpose, of that freedom to create a thought into an exact artistic expression, the paintings and the sight of all that is so beautiful... when the light slips away with her, it leaves the world somehow grayed out. The colors are pale imitations of what they could be. The world is a pale imitation of what it could be. 

     The street ahead is ours, the entry of the inn just around the corner. We were close to home, it turns out. Painfully close. 

     She gently releases Evabeth into the waiting, welcoming, soothing arms of the stunned women who had paused in their typical duties around the tables and bar to see what was drawing so much attention on the street. As an afterthought, they take the basket up to the room as well. It frees up my hands so I can follow her instead. She kisses Evabeth on the forehead and leaves the inn.

     There is a parting of the way in front of her; if I stay close enough there isn’t anyone who stands in my way either. A circle of quietened individuals who then break into joyful and relieved conversations. Just seeing her is enough to soothe and foster kindness. 

     She only speaks when she sees someone who might especially need the word, but she doesn’t wait in the same way she did for Evabeth. She follows until she finds the shop in question. The drinking friends are indeed all clustered in the back and the clatter of jugs and cups suggests they’ve been at it for a while; the man himself doesn’t appear to be with them yet. 

     It almost looks like she might simply enter, at first. But she stops outside the stall in her bubble of space. As precisely and lightly as a crane outstretching a wing, she lifts a hand and beckons. All four of them stagger out, at first with what are likely ill intentions by those who can’t see her. But when she catches each of them in full, they lose anything except a rapt listening. 

     Even if they hadn’t been drinking, they wouldn’t stand a chance. 

     “I crave of thee thy names in turn,” she says, softly. But her words are clear in the light, and the gathering crowd around the edges has pulled back farther and turned silent anyway. 

     “Estley, your Grace,” says the first, as dazed as if he had been staring up at the sun in the heat for hours.

     “Graylen,” says the second, almost afraid, and remembers what it is that his mind is searching for, “Lady!” he adds in a burst with a look of horror in the realized delay and the sense that he’s still wrong.

     “Cedar, your Grace,” says the third and, surprisingly, drops to a knee in what seems to be true respect. 

     “Albion. Lady.” The last one fights the hardest against the effect of her attention but to no avail.

     They can’t tell her position either. There might be hope for the first three.

     “To me the right was given to dispense at Sol’s desire his Law. Thou dost acknowledge in his sight authority is mine as such entire in matters such as these?” It is a very calm tone without her usual insecurity lingering beneath the words. 

     I push through the gathering crowd to break through so I can see her face instead of just her back. Her expression is grave, and in it is some understanding of the unspoken thoughts and fears in each one. Already, there is the sense of inexorable judgment. 

     They agree in a muddle of voices, Estley and Cedar clear enough and nearly in sync, Graylen is a second behind but once he does he notes Cedar’s stance. He tries to imitate him and nearly falls over, but there is willingness. Albion is a second behind even Graylen. Fighting it like I am, but she isn’t focused on me. Normally, I’d wish it were me. Right now, I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her unhappiness.

     “I wholly see those fragments individually. Required are thy intentions, immoralities, and insights, to define thy case. Thusly, I mete to each thy measured acts. All leave be Evabeth and all things which justly are given unto her. Do not conceive of retribution. Estley, thy follies and misbehaviors do penance achieve and weight on those around thee to relieve. Thou will go forth, partake no more; to make amends and beg forgiveness, thou must heed the counsel of thy wife, her guidance take full well — for seeing what brilliance might be she’s tolerated over much. Her, fail not. I see thy desires — become what needs must be, no more this company avail with time and will. Obey and thou’ll be blest; or disobey and peril find. Prevail and grow; art understood?”

     Cold sobriety follows in the wake of her words. He takes a deep gulp of air, like coming up from deep water. Many expressions flick across his face but he only bows his head and says, “Yes, your Grace.”

     She offers a hand. He takes it, and is lit with wonderment; the sky brightens and the halo around her shines as distinctly as the corona of an eclipse. A swirl of sparks whirls around and he comes away as if he’s been burned. He turns and leaves. The crowd parts to let him through. 

     “Thou, Graylen, next th’art in constant progress an entire indisposition. ‘Twill behoove thee best to ne’er again touch spirits as cause dire calamities as these that you acquire. Thou must attend the temple at Athlade, that which is known thee, yes? ‘Tis well and good. Enlist thine skills and efforts in their aid; recall thyself to walking as thee should within Sol’s light. ‘Tis understood?”

     “Yes— Lady— your Grace?” he stammers, but when he touches her hand his expression clears and his shoulders straighten. She sends him on his way, again the crowd parting and then closing. 

     “Thy will, O Cedar, is corruptible as could be, and thy standards; they have failed thy skills and thy compatriots. Yet... I do see thy efforts born of love and just goodwill, not malice; thus. It suits thee presently to find the House of Leaves and penitent thou must defend and serve those souls whose need of sanctuary th’art Heaven-sent to give. Behold, how clearly it is meant. I’m certain thou’ll discover hidden depths. Thou must remember well this day, and keep to these new strictures for your near missteps kept thee upon a precipice full deep. Is all this understood?”

     He bows low, salutes in form of a petitioner to a sovereign, all before taking her hand to feel the eye of Sol upon him. His walk away is slower, more thoughtful. 

     Even though I look away after him, and a number of the crowd does as well, Aurora — Empyrean — obviously hasn’t taken her eyes off the last man. He is shaking under the weight of her consideration. In his mind, caught like a mouse under a cat’s paw, he is staggered; there are inklings of something with a bit more sting to them if the crowd’s whispers further back are anything to go by.

     “Last, Albion; O Albion! Much hast thou done to reap rewards for service of thyself and on your forcéd will. Hast taken hope and choice and access, too. Hast aught to speak, anon, to offer an excuse? I see unvoiced thy fears and hatreds writ much larger than thy loves or generosities rejoiced. What will thou say — young mothers, hopefuls, plans for decades long beyond the world thou kens — what wilt thou tell me of... urges, then?”

     Listening to her is as pleasant as honeyed lemonade in direst heat. Not for him, though. It seems to have hit him like acid. 

     “I’ve done what was necessary. I’ve only ever done what was necessary. I’ve done what others haven’t had the backbone to do themselves,” he speaks with assurance in the face of her requirement. “I’ve done what you should have, with all your... your...” He struggles, any number of words rising but none enough to sum up his feeling. “ Perversion ,” he finally settles on, not happy with it, but unable to sum it all up. 

     “Such fear,” Empyrean says quietly. “I’m certain you’ve had only in your mind the best of life, if not in practice clear. And yet the damage done does us all bind.”

     “Who are you to come here and make your petty judgments?” he says, the fight twisting his face into something painful to see.

     And she laughs. She laughs and laughs, tries to press it back, to soothe the anger by treating it with more than the respect due.

     “Thou, Albion,” she says, at last, after the brightness of the laughter has brought a spark of joy into the heart of anyone who heard it with an open mind, “art truly settled dear. It is a fascination, much in kind, these loopholes and self-righteousness that near to lies become. Thou props thyself upon these fragile struts and would have thy will here, in passions come not in thy purview, on a ground which is not thine. Thus named am I a Lawgiver, Sol blest as liaison with full intent I dictate paths thereby protecting all against what’s gone awry. As One who’s stood before those who’d reveal through power what has lurked unfed, I’ve seen potential, pain, and change. I am to heal and aid the distressed. In this th’art between my self and task; you’d still demand defense of this I’m given. Even having been agreed to my authority, thou would hence have all obedience. No. It shall not be so. For such demands, your own pretense must needs suffice. Thou will not believe aught of my position or status has worth, and I’ll attempt no further with this thought. I have no fear of thee, will none unearth, yet must needs move thee from my path henceforth. Thy penance this: Thou’ll walk, thou’ll beg in full forgiveness for the sins which bring thee hence until th’art in understanding all — the suffering in this experience from actions of your kind. Thou wilt truth tell and speak this tale, unbiased, to dispense a lesson unto others too; yet well may it be known — you’ll ne’er set foot in town again. Thou hast perjured thy soul to hells in forcing voicelessness on those you drown within your visions. Yes, thou might suppose my ruling an unfair forced work-around to overwrite thy will; this task I chose for folly not unlearned without bestowed direct experience. Perhaps th’art too rigid to still change for better ways; I care not for this sole concern apart. Perhaps it’s arbitrary or clear gaze to see and sentence thee thus.”

     She steps forward into his space and touches his hand before he can pull away. “This, the wreath of Sol’s justice firsthand. I’d note it stays beyond, and would not test this - t’would bequeath Sol’s wrath and be of great regret to thee. Now, remove thyself and know he seeth thee; hope I never meet thee more.”

     His body obeys almost without him, but there appears a murderous rage fighting against her will. All of us out here watch him struggle against step after step and fail; he vanishes off in the direction of the edge of town, and the halting nature of his body draws even more attention to the crowd.

     She doesn’t seem to care at all, doesn’t even watch him go. Instead, she steps at last into the true backroom of the stall. I push in fast behind her, to block the door so the entire crowd doesn’t try to pour in. For a wonder, it works.  

     Seeking the man out, she finds Tovin making food, a huge blade in his hand. Probably a cleaver? Whatever it’s called, it crunches through the bone of the meat and breaks it apart. 

     “Surely I come, to clear for thee thy terms of thy engagements and thy overreaches. See; thou wouldst increase thy worldly keepings by withholding any real way to deny thy claim on body and possessions from another, but t’will not be so.”

     She stops just inside the entryway, watching him. For once, her hands are at rest with the closed fan held between her fingers. 

     He slams the knife down into the board on the table, the blade quivering just a little where it’s bit into the wood. Without turning around, he speaks in a much angrier tone than I would have expected — how can he not see the beauty around us, or hear the way her words hover in the air with such delicacy that even the heaviest heart is lifted in the hearing? Even with some idea of what’s happening the words are getting into my head. How can he not feel it at all?

     “Evabeth sent you, didn’t she. Well, I don’t care who you are, you can damn well stay out of my business.” He jerks the knife free. My muscles all tense up so I can move to get between them, to keep her safe, but... it’s unnecessary, and over in less time than I can do more than begin to lift my foot.

     He finally turns to threaten her with the knife, “And—” but he cuts off, rattled loose at last from whatever reality he’d been caught up in by the full glory of seeing her. The air is knocked loose from him as much as if she had hit him, and he staggers back a few steps.

     “Shall I tell thee about the last a man would some brutality have offered me? I’d by his counsel give thee source of wisdom, but t’would be a visit permanent.”

     She speaks with no heat, with no particular volume giving away the fury that bursts around her in every instant. I want to hear this story, this one that she’s kept quiet even from me. With how angry she is right now it can’t be a good one, even if she is still here to tell it.

     He does nothing to deserve the telling, knife dropped seconds before he himself drops to his knees in front of her. It becomes clear that he can barely breathe with all the weight of this attention, the whole reason she slipped into Empyrean is caught here under her intent focus. He cannot look away from her eyes.

     “Clear thy small hopes, desires, wishes be; that such a one as thee could dare believe. I know thy fear of darkness hunting fast with what the liquor brings; that’s why thou drinks not. Though this small choice to restrain from violence does thee credit, it excuses not thy show of force, nor cruelty now. A diff’rent cause will drive thy fears henceforth.”

     Her anger blazes enough to still the crowd all trying to see into the room and pushes them back. I can barely see what’s happening inside the room where the light is most like the sun. People outside are also squinting and covering their eyes, and there are shafts of light emitting from every crack in the wood and all the fabric coverings that make up this room.

     “Her fear gave pause. I have seen truth within her panic, seen how greatly her potential gifts will aid the people here, her dreams realized peace bring. Now, thou will tell me anything that weighs upon thee, but know I and all in this time will all feel its merit. What hast made intent upon her?”

     Words are pulled from him like stones from a river. “To merge her holdings to mine. Like my uncle wanted. Then I’ll have the holdings, and her both together. It won’t take long to get her settled down.”

     It’s the wrong answer. The wrongness of it hangs in the air and shrivels up small in my gut. Even if I hadn’t seen Evabeth before this, it’s the wrong answer.

     Empyrean sighs, a long, deep sound like a summer breeze playing through willow branches. “And her will?” she prompts. “Premiss her free and honest choice in this and in all things?”

     He swallows seeing his doom pronounced upon himself even as he speaks. “Does it matter? It’s what is supposed to happen. I’m just doing what is supposed to be done.”

     It hangs in the air. 

     “Speak more if thou believes this is not all,” she says, I recognize a moment of searching, a moment where mercy might yet be shown in some small manner. Searching for something deep in whatever soul she can see, something to change her judgment that’s about to be declared.

     “Please-” he says in a choked voice, moving as if to reach for her skirts, to fall on his face, to beg.

     She stops him, with a single light touch turning his chin up. He still can’t look away from her surely celestial eyes. 

     “I tell thee now what will happen. Thou’ll sell all thy possessions and give all to her as is her preference; and then thou’ll leave the city and will walk, tho banal, until thy crimes are known to thee in full. Beg as thou will, but only to serve thy base needs. Thou’ll linger not, thou mustn’t cease until thy understanding certified may be. Last; thou will ne’er presume the least upon another e’er again. Thou’ll beg forgiveness and Sol’s mercy as he sees fit. Is this understood?”

     He swallows hard, nods.

     She slowly leans down to whisper in his ear and the shock sways him. Her hair slides long like a curtain around them both, but if I lean just a little...

     “Mind what I’ve said. If thou thinks e’er to disobey, know ‘tis Sol who speaks through me. Should thou ever renege, calamities ‘twould even I appall will come to thee. For ne’er an instant will thou be free of this true sight. Be withal of no misapprehension, he’ll fulfill this promise. This his mercy dost instill this task of penitence this day. Know this — there will be none should thou cross again my path ere thou progresses in reforming. ‘Tis a truth, I have no love for those who hath used gifts in tasking malice and cruelty.”

     She pulls him up with her, and it seems almost as if Sol has already peeled back the clouds like looking through a rip in a canvas. Heaven is watching, and watching closely . There is serenity just now, but the watchfulness is ongoing.

     With this most difficult part completed, the open-air drawing up of the agreement seems to finish itself in seconds. Evabeth is sent for. The rest of the crowd looks at her when they can handle the light, the ethereal passing of glinting specks and sparkles moving around them, and ghostly figures passing through one body or another on strange interrupting arcs of chatter and dance. 

     But there’s something... wrong? Something that is only wrong if you know both Aurora and also this being, this Empyrean who guides Tovin to a correct and it seems truly heartfelt apology. Something of the tilt of the head when she holds Evabeth and lets her weep until she shivers and comes into herself and the new reality of her life. It’s hard to pin down what it is until a brief flash of her hands shows the small tells of exhaustion. 

     Gotta get her home before she comes out of it entirely.

     It takes forever to fight through the crowd that seems to have pushed me away from her. I remember this sort of thing happening before, but it's at this moment I realize that I have to be growing at least a little bit or I'm really out of practice. It's much harder to get through than it has been before. I’ll have to celebrate later. But finally, I make it through and reach... out... I find her hand and pull myself to her even closer as she turns to see who it is. I lean in to her ear and as quietly as I speak, while still hoping to be heard, I ask, "Can everyone go home?" Inspiration strikes me as I see Empyrean and Aurora at odds. "It would be good for Evabeth and everyone else to get rested after everything that happened, and it's almost evening. They'll have dinner at our inn around now too, and if we don't want another incident of soup we should go now."

     Whether for my reasons, because she's getting tired, or some thought of her own, I see her agree. 

     It still takes time for her to clear away the people, but after another half hour the crowd has dispersed itself enough that city officers can finally see what's happened and begin to herd everyone else away at last. Evabeth is settled back at her home, all of those problems are solved for at least tonight, probably. We still gather people to us, like moths to her radiance, but she continues onward. There isn't the same sort of energy from earlier. Instead of reaching out, she's more reserved and while she still responds the same she doesn't invite it.

     There’s no point in hiding which inn is ours now, but when we return it's clear that the innkeepers have put together several pieces of information and have more people at hand downstairs, extras called back in from a day off, and more of the guarding variety. 

     She smiles at each but I see tiredness bleeding in at the edges. One of the keepers, Alice, comes over as soon as she sees us. I guide Empyrean in and finally let go of her hand. Before Alice can even think to speak to Empyrean, I pull her to the side. Still at arm’s length distance away. Still at hand if called for.

     “I’m sorry about the mess,” I start off. “If it’s too much trouble—” I’m not sure how I’m going to finish that; ‘We’ll pay more?’ ‘We can leave’ ? 

     But she’s already shaking her head with a worried expression. 

     “It’s nothing like that, sir, we just didn’t recognize you and the room isn’t the best one here, and we wouldn’t have charged you so much if we had known, you see, and we would be honored if you both would stay here for your stay in town, no further charge, and we’ll see to the rest, but...”

     “No!” Even with the idea of saving money appealing to me, I know already that she wouldn’t like it, no matter if it’s Aurora or Empyrean. “If you’ll have us, we’ll happily stay. We’ve really enjoyed the rooms, and she was just saying earlier how much of a good job you all were doing.”

     “We can turn down—” Alice starts. 

     “Don’t change anything for us,” I say, then glance outside. The crowds don’t seem to be growing, but there’s still one there. “Actually, those extra guards might be a good idea to make sure they don’t all try to push in. She could tell them to leave, but she can’t do that always.”

     “It’s no trouble, sir,” she says, with more of a genuine smile. It’s not just Aurora who can put people at their ease. “We’ll have to change the name of the inn after this. It’s a special treat for everyone who can stay in the same room as one of the Blessed, here, and all those folks it wouldn’t mean anything to don’t stay here anyway.”

     Sir. There it is again. Already Aurora’s reaching out and revealing that inherent nobility, and it’s rubbing off on me, too.

     “Maybe we can talk more details later. I’d like to bring her back to the rooms so she doesn’t keep bringing everyone to your door before you’re ready.” I try to play it off as a favor, and she agrees.

     “Of course, sir!”

     It just feels good to hear it. Good enough to keep me from falling back under her spell when I look at Empyrean again. I have to keep up appearances, after all. A proper steward would be familiar with his duty and not get distracted by the mere presence of Sol’s favor. 

     I lean over to her again, facing away from the door so they can't see what I say. It’s both because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and because I don't want anyone getting ideas and tempting her out into the night after we've gotten this far. "We need to let them close up down here so some of them can go home again. I've got it all sorted out, you just have to follow me." 

     She nods without saying a word, which still feels a rarity just now, and lets me guide her upstairs. I close the door and lock it behind us as she flows through the room like a dream. She avoids the open windows, instead drifting down in front of the fireplace, her head tilted slightly as she considers one of the candles set to the side as decoration. Or firestarter. Or whatever it's for.

     “Perhaps just one, ‘twas busy and we have concluded well. Don’t you agree?”

     She doesn’t even need to smooth out the fabric around her, it just rests where it should and blossoms around her in the glow. Her light has dimmed enough that I can make out the two circles of her mark as separate again, which is good. Every motion... she is reaching just now for the tinderbox, as delicately as if it were a fragile glass teapot. Drawing back the fabric of her sleeve with the other hand and revealing a perfect flow of movement, turning fingers and wrist as if they were fish in the Karun, I can hardly breathe, watching her. 

     I can’t breathe at all, when she turns to me with her full attention and I feel the Heavens descend. Celestial indeed, and so impossible to even think of anything else —  as if there could be anything else. As if there could be anything except radiance, gentle humor, even the understanding of a great loss that adds such depth. In an instant, everything in me is fully aware and offered for her consideration. But her eyes...

     Whatever she sees as she draws up every detail of my soul, it makes her look away again. There’s a soft flush of color as she blushes, a blossoming that even the most skilled painters in Rathess couldn’t translate into artistry. 

     What did she see?

     “There’d be a flint within the box, of course?” Her fingertips rest on the lid with all the weight of dragonflies on blades of grass.

     “Yes, but please let me get that for you, my lady,” I say, and am unprepared for how easily it fits when she’s still shimmering divinity. But if she’s coming back to being Aurora... “I wouldn’t want you to overdo it, after the day we’ve all had, and you’re still wearing that new silk,” I try to add as much humor into the words as I can so she won’t take me as seriously if she doesn’t want to. 

     Mostly, she looks surprised. She looks down at her sleeve as if she were reminding herself what it is she’s wearing. Maybe she is. But she doesn’t argue when I take the box from her, and sets her hands tidily in her lap while she watches me. The sun has vanished outside before I’ve gotten everything in order, and I’m working by the pale light of her mark. With this much darkness, I am distracted by the delicate colors that are now apparent. The faintest peach and honeysuckle and butter hues in the gently swirling light, glittering as they come to rest. 

     The first flare of sparks on the flint is badly done because I hesitate trying to work out what color is at the edge of her light. A flare of bright orange sparks flash into existence and then away again. The colors are mostly gone in that brief flash, drawing close around her very quickly now. 

     The second time I catch the candle, but it sparks and puffs out. Something in the wick doesn’t want to light. 

     The third time, the candle catches and sends a thready flame up a few inches in the air for several seconds, replacing the pale light with a warm, orange color. 

     I watch to make sure it will stay lit, but there’s rustling next to me. With enough delicacy and deliberate movement that would let me pull away or interrupt the motion, Aurora reaches out and wraps her arms around me. She rests her head on my shoulder where she could be looking at the candle, but I doubt it. She’s suddenly shaking all over. 

     “Cailen?” 

     She sounds like herself again, but to be sure...

     “Yes? Aurora?”

     “It’s me,” she whispers, and I feel dampness as the first tears fall. “I don’t remember much after the peppers. Everything... Are you alright? Was it awful?”

     “I’m fine. I think you helped a lot of people, and you made the people here very excited too. I’m sure they’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I can go get dinner for us now, if you’d like? The peppers got caught up in the rush of it all.”

     She laughs a little, but it catches at the end and almost falls into more crying. “You should probably eat. I’m not sure how hungry I am right now.” I feel her arms start to loosen up around me as she pulls herself back together. It must have been as unexpected for her as it was for me, and she’s been so tense lately. That’s probably why it’s hitting her like this. 

     “Soup, at least. The kitchen will feel bad if they can’t get you anything at all. We’ll get you to bed first and you can rest. I’ll get everything else settled, and wake you up when it’s ready.” There’s a new hesitation, unexpectedly. Almost more of asking than telling, this time; after seeing Empyrean in full, it’s a little harder to tell her to do anything at all. 

     “I’ll let you decide then,” she agrees. Uncertainty driving the quick answer, but it has been a hard day and she’s stretched herself past her limits in many different ways. It makes sense that she’s too worn out, and besides, it’s my job to make sure she’s supported when this sort of thing happens. Now more than ever.

     It takes both of us to get her ready for bed. As soon as she’s lying down and I’ve tucked her in, she’s asleep. The kitchens will be bustling, no doubt, and I’ll go down to join in the commotion in a minute because she will need to have dinner. For just a minute, I sit with her. 

     This has been a very long time coming. Little things that she hasn’t been able to fix, little things that are secretly big things that she can see and do nothing about. It’s been carried in her like the coils of a snake ready to strike, and now that it’s happened and that force has struck hard and fast, she’s just as vulnerable. Overextended. She’ll need time to process, probably, and maybe between the two of us, we can figure out what happened this time so it won’t happen again without her choosing it. 

     What did she see before she looked away?

I remember tears streaming down your face

When I said I'll never let you go

When all those shadows almost killed your light

I remember you said don't leave me here alone

But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight

Just close your eyes, the sun is going down

You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now

Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound.

Chapter Text

Love, which is swiftly kindled in the noble heart, 

seized this one for the lovely person that was taken 

from me; and the manner still injures me. 

Love, which pardons no one loved from loving

 in return, seized me for his beauty so strongly that, as 

you see, it still does not abandon me.

Love led us on to one death.

     “Virgil? Are you certain you are well?” Paradise’s voice reminds him of where they both are. A single card has slipped out of his hand and landed off the table. 

     “Yeah, I just-” He can’t think of anything to say, mind blank of anything that won’t be another version of, yeah, I’m alright. It would be a lie to claim that right now. The card is faceup, as it turns out. Sighing he reaches down to scoop it into the discard and draw another. The side of her hand lightly catches against his. Somehow Paradise has gathered those beautifully layered impossibly flat! sleeves back quickly enough to stall him. 

     “I beg your pardon. It’s an eccentricity, but after something notably peculiar is clearly experienced, I tend to see if there might be some hint or suggestion of things to come.” Her eyes are quick to take it in and she draws her hand back quickly as well. “By all means. It is a lovely card, the plum blossoms through the snow. I always wondered why there were so many white blossoms. All of the plum trees where I lived were such a rich coral they seemed to almost jump out of the sky, and when they were iced they glimmered like the finest glass.”

     The plum held to her lips as she breathes in deeply, a small smile just barely visible like the first light of sunrise, her eyelashes fluttering like willow leaves. Lit by starlight, she shimmers brightly against the dark trees behind her just like the paintings of heaven’s messengers. 

     “Well, looking at what we have on the table already, I think I can confidently say it wouldn’t help your hand, right now,” says Paradise with studied evenness. “Maybe it will be a happy accident after all. Our deck is looking very thin just now.”

     Wordlessly, he pulls another card and they both ready for another round of the same, but the unsteady feeling of ground shifting beneath him grows. The cards pass from hand to table, Paradise’s movements are precise. With the blur of thought, her gestures seem suddenly fluid and as foreign as the paintings on the cards themselves. 

     Whatever this nightmarish intrusion was, however bad his agreement with bloodied hands with Sonnet is, and even with Paradise trying not to reveal what lies below, it’s still different than what it could be. It’s not the madness, it’s not the overwhelmed and overwhelming enaction of purpose. Behind this invitation to specific violence is a composed, calculating mind. 

     Sol, Luna, and Fate all interrelated to create this bond. They made it perfectly, even if the ones connected were far beyond imperfect. Could this be some form of adaptation for this new age? But Paradise is still clearly Solar, and Solar alone, with no need to remake the spark over.

     What choices did she have, that she chose to become Sonnet instead? 

     They play in relative silence, Paradise serenely offering time to think while he has something to do with his hands. She doesn’t seem to mind, he does distantly note. 

     Am I supposed to change her back? Madness and all?

     Paradise folds her cards flat into her palm, looking over his shoulder with the intention to greet someone approaching. 

     Sound comes rushing back, the sense of reality and the abrupt realization that Sonnet is nearly close enough for him to reach back and touch. Now that he’s present, he can hear the hissing whisper of her footsteps on the deck. 

     I must be more tired than I realized. How did I miss her coming?

     “By no means, rest in comfort simply as you are.” When she speaks to Paradise directly, and him indirectly, it has the sense of a liege and vassal. Her gaze and curiosity are fixed on Paradise, to see how she will respond to this opening gesture, a game of a different sort. “Any who might happen along would note you have played through to midway; how unfortunate it would be for you both, if you did not play to conclusion.”

     Paradise nods and gestures to the open space next to the side of the table. “Of course, as you’ve joined us partially through, it won’t be possible for you to slip into play; but you are more than welcome as soon as we complete this round.”

     Sonnet sinks down as smooth and sudden as if she were melting. The brightness of the white fabric is gently blinding in the afternoon sunlight; the layers of fabric around her shoulders fall low, slipped so far that it makes him want to look away from sheer embarrassment. The lower hem of her skirts is draped artfully to reveal the length of her leg, another contrast to Paradise’s perfect circle of brightly colored fabric. 

     “I am beholden for your kindness,” she says softly, and lightly inclines her head to Paradise. The black weight of her hair slides down her shoulder with the motion, aligned with her supporting arm, silhouetting both the sleeve and the deadly whiteness of her exposed shoulder.  “Was your preference flowers or hells, at present?” 

     Paradise returns the nod, gracious in acknowledging the identification. "I thought perhaps I would start with the flowers. A fair game for a beginner, don't you think?" 

     The depth of red in her eyes is darker than before, despite the brightness around them reflecting and lightening the color.  "If the somewhat distant memories of the single time it was proposed as diversion ring true, I may concur. As welcoming a gift to the giver as the given, I think."

     As she and Paradise discuss the rules and cards, he notes the airless rasp and honeyed-bitterness is mellowed, warmed to open cordiality. 

     It changes the way she calls him, especially. "Virgil?" 

     Echoing humor in the mind, the world rushes back to the proper speed. She smiles by degrees, tracking every instant of it even without the flush of startlement that she’s initiated. “Virgil. it appears we have allowed you to fall astray — a pity, truly, as it continues to be your turn." 

     Paradise fans herself gently, peace and serenity underpinning the soft gaze that trails somewhere beyond his shoulder. Politely waiting for the moment to develop and discover what will be the consequence. 

     “Sorry,” he says, looks away from her back to the brightly colored cards in hand. He recognizes rue — in another life he used it for red and yellow dyes. The pattern seems to waver; the yellow is sharp against the purple hyacinths, but the carnations on the end are mauve and the ripples of color blend the hues of the other flowers and blunt the impact. Looking at the board, he finds a match, then another. His hand plays out, and the game is complete. 

     “How delightful for you, returned from the distant heavens to a resounding victory.” It sounds very much like she is congratulating him on a battlefield accomplishment, some great feat. It walks the line of mockery. But she only feels vaguely amused behind her congratulation.  He can’t help wondering how much control she’s pulled together now that she knows there’s another avenue of power at play. She’s more neutral than before she went below deck, more mellow. 

     “Something like that,” he says. 

     The opening gambit with Paradise has been played before the cards are fully collected. Here is his invitation proper to their game, in the space of time it takes Paradise to gather all of the cards off the table.  

     She draws her free arm away from her waist down to her to her nearly-exposed thigh with a movement designed to pull the eye, to turn her into a marble sculpture instead. It might be on purpose, it might just be a normal way for her to readjust. She definitely knows how to shield now, whether or not she did at first, so he can’t rely on that in this moment. 

     Now she’s waiting to see if he’ll blink first. 

     He tries to look only at her eyes, to prevent even a flicker of a glance anywhere else. It would be a weakness, faltering on an easy challenge. At the edge of his sight, he can tell she’s turned artists’ muse incarnate, but at least he’s dealt with that in the past. 

     With difficulty. 

     Seven centuries ago.

     But he doesn’t need to literally lose, at least, with only a slight shifting of his own eyes. A subtle touch not notable to anyone outside this little group, but snake is one of the easier forms and makes this a fair game. Now, neither needs to break their gaze for even an instant, so it’s down to nerves.

     There’s a touch of approval along with some dark humor. And now that it’s come to his mind to think of it, he can see how she moves like a snake, too. Long gliding movements with abrupt strikes for punctuation or exploration.

     That’s a good thing— at least I can match that.

     Probably.

     He settles in, focus narrowed enough that he can see it when she... miscalculates? Something about the change is enough that he can see it happen. That remnant of something like distress that he knows has to be in there comes forward enough that it unsettles her and she breaks away, concedes the point. 

     It's like she’s got a viper and victim all tangled together. 

     She won’t be a victim long. Not again.

     However it is that he has to do it, he has to work out how to wake the second one up. That has to be the way to fix this whole mess.

     This isn’t her. And as long as she remembers it all and admits it, she’ll already be different again, and there’s no way of knowing what either of us will be by then.

     Entirely herself, and entirely unknown. 

     She recovers near-perfectly from her loss, her gaze drifting away from his in a slow fall; a long, appraising, look over his entirety. It’s just long enough to make him shift uncomfortably from her thoroughness. 

     He swallows hard, looks away and can’t help but pull at his shirt to straighten it out in a futile effort to have it together before she notices. Of course she notices. But she offers the olive branch or knife twist of letting him finish before she looks to Paradise. When she does, the world around him comes back from that distant unnoticed detached space of hyperfocus. Time seems to rush all at once, then returns to the same deck, same place location of Luna, the sun the same in the sky. 

     But then, he’s discovered his task. Destiny has it made clear what he has to do. Of course everything feels slightly off-balanced. 

     “At your leisure, and if it would please you, would you deal me in? I would measure my skills or luck this afternoon. There are many hours until our nocturnal landscapes emerge.” Sonnet shows absolutely no sign of any tension or even interest in his reaction as she speaks. Again, as if it had never happened.

     “I would certainly enjoy another player — the addition of more friends always increases complexity of play, and who wouldn’t enjoy such a challenge as that!” Paradise scoops the edges of the cards together and neatly levels them on the table with a precise tap. “As the poets said, Chi Trova un Amico, Trova un Tesoro. Flowers again?”

     He who finds a friend, finds a treasure. 

     “What kindness. It would be well suited to an unpracticed player, such as myself.” She moves like water over ice, mimicking their body language at the table with her spine perfectly straight. There was perhaps a breath of hesitation at the quotation, but it’s gone again so quickly that it’s impossible to know for certain.

     In his peripherals, without looking away from her, he sees Paradise taking another discreet glance at Sonnet. If Sonnet notices, she gives no sign.

     Maybe she’ll share whatever it is she picks up from this.

     “But of course, I would prefer welcome from all involved. Will you have me, Virgil?” Each word is spoken with all the lightness of dandelion fluff and a subtle lift of her bare shoulder looks something akin to true concern, or maybe even some semblance of self-consciousness. Mocking, right on the line where she knows he can’t help but realize that it’s a lie. The knife-edge is so thin that she could have played it straight and it would have looked real.

     “Yes,” he says, after a second’s hesitation to try to think what traps he might be wandering into. “Paradise is right.”

     “How delightful,” Sonnet says, “I am graced with such generosity. Might I additionally impose — I believe it would be wise for me to begin last, so I might be certain that I’ve remembered the rules correctly. Would you be so willing?”

     Paradise chuckles. “I would be glad to begin. Are we all ready?” 

     It’s relatively peaceful, sitting here with the sun shining down and the only conversation being about the cards or the planned route based on the guidance of the artifact, the first marker that still glows at the front of the ship by Hearts. Hours pass. There are moments of shouting when a zombie fails to meet their captain’s expectations, but Hearts never offers or asks to join the game when she passes them. They might as well be a coil of rope for all the notice they get. The rocking of the ship is the same as if they were traveling through water, too. 

     Even his worry ebbs when Paradise, distracted in asking Sonnet about her visit to Lookshy, misplays with enough confidence that the pattern is disrupted and the round comes to a wash. Paradise catches a fit of giggles; she ducks behind her fan to try to get her composure back, but it’s infectious. He almost gets swept into the laughter himself, but the startlement of Sonnet’s un-corrupted laughter catches him.

     With her voice still soothed into the strangely warm honeyed tone, it changes again. She doesn’t hide it as she used to; before, much like Paradise now, she would have tried to compress it after a moment or two. An effort to catch herself with the back of her hand if no fan was available. There must have been times when she laughed as openly as she does now, but he can’t remember ever seeing this sort of ease. A kind of peace that they’d been searching for from the start. 

     But it’s not her normal state, and she does pull herself together again first. “It is to be supposed that we ought to suspend our merriment long enough to clear our minds; as well, I’m told that if the blood stills in your veins overmuch it might lead to a delightfully silent death.” She glances down the length of the deck at Hearts. “And I can assure you, our delightful Captain will take even more pleasure in that than is perhaps suitable for mixed company.”

     Paradise nods as she finally catches her breath. “A generous reminder, I think. Perhaps I will take a moment. You will watch over the cards? I would hate for the wind to steal them away.”

     “Of course.” Somehow she offers a bow that again walks the line between mockery and something so deeply sincere. “I could not abide disaster striking so quickly.”

     “Would you walk with me, Virgil? I wouldn’t mind the company, but there is something to a solitary walk along the rails of a ship at sundown... That has such a romantic quality to it, don’t you think?” Paradise asks, turning to him as she rises in a tidy motion, her skirts drawing inward like a blossom in this twilight. An open invitation, but the implication is clear. 

     “No, you should go enjoy it. We’ll be fine.” 

     I really hope I’ll be fine.  

     But the words are already in the air and Paradise sets off down the deck, with her parasol at her hip and a steady step, to one of the other passenger-designated locations on the main deck. She reaches into her sleeves and pulls out a small spyglass and notebook, and settles into her contemplations. 

But tell me: in the time of your sweet sighs, by 

what and how did Love grant you to know your 

dangerous desires? 

I had a dream

I got everything I wanted

Not what you'd think

And if I'm being honest

It might've been a nightmare

To anyone who might care

     These gilded walls are hot to the touch, but it feels almost right. Blazing heat all around me, but sunlight can't hurt me even if the metal burns my fingertips. Each small figure swims through the metal to form little battles or offer praise to Sol; there aren't any of peaceful transfers, only full praise or fully violent triumph.

     Sand grits and catches against the stones; the joinings must have been seamless, once. The soles of my feet brush the edges until they feel raw, until this endlessly long colonnade could stretch forever. It’s longer than I remember, certainly. Wind blows over top of the columns, and parts of the roof have fallen away under the pressures. Scarred black stones linger from the night, but it’s sunlight now and maybe the rest doesn’t matter so much. Maybe it doesn’t matter at all, only I see the story written out beside me and I can hear the voices rising on that wind, growing louder. 

     The sooner I’m inside the halls, with their beautiful painted frescos and every edge lined in soft golden light, the sooner I can leave the wind and those whistling voices behind me. 

     “Aurora?” 

     Hearing her is like being struck with lightning twice. It knocks me back, steals my breath and makes everything swim in front of me. She can’t be near to me if the echoes are to be trusted, but still, her voice is clear. 

     “Calla!” My voice seems to be getting caught up in the wind, bouncing off the hard golden walls. It sounds strange, thicker and deeper than hers; more like my mother’s. “Calla, where are you?”

     “Aurora!” It comes from everywhere and nowhere, so she must be deeper into the temple buildings. In the shadows, heat is increasing from the oven and orichalcum outside and sending in billows like breath. The walls themselves swell to speak, distorting the clean shapes and making the frescos run off them in dusty streams. As I pass, the ones that show our house are sliding away into nothing at all.

     The initial hall widens, leaving open the courtyard and the stepped pyramid that sits at the back of it. It stretches into the sky, a bleached and battered slivery-gold color that shines with a radiance both beautiful and terrible. A lantern of warning, not invitation. 

     It doesn’t matter, because she wasn’t here and never could be. But she’s lost somewhere, and I have to find her. 

     “Aurora, I’m afraid!”

     “I’m coming! Where are you?” My voice echoes back at me from the stones. I can’t imagine what I’m thinking, this feels so empty and dead. It doesn’t seem possible that there could be any life here, but it is undeniably my sister’s voice. 

     There aren’t many places she could be. 

     Whatever the temple had been when I saw it first, it’s lost that sparkle and is now fallen to sand and storm and ruin. As for the passage into the palace... it has to be covered over in sand by now. Buried and sealed with time. If the ruins left in the entry are still there, it has to be closed.

     “Come quickly, please!”

     She sounds desperate. Nearly delirious. I feel similarly, trying to stumble through room after room after room... It’s all the same, and all stretched out. I might have spent years looking for her, from one room to the next and in each is something that feels... misplaced. Longer or shorter or more square, or even simply backwards. 

     I can’t get any closer to her. It doesn’t matter how long I try to call for her, trying to map out where I’ve been, what places might reveal those hidden rooms I studied and learned the layout of. The closest comes to when I cross courtyard paths that pull me close to the pyramid. 

     Impossible to say how long it takes, but I’ve looked everywhere and still nothing. The only difference is the wind howling instead of whistling, voices swarmed up into the timbre of the sound. The sound of battle. The sound of Gaia shaking, even as she holds steady beneath my feet. 

     Last of all, the pyramid. The light is blinding, but that sense of fear that accompanies it is expressed in nausea and frozen dread. The forces behind pushing me into the waiting arms of steps cut into the face of stone. Stone which I remember being impossible to look at, with all the evidence of brutality soaked into the rocks and mortar.

     Evidence of a coup d’etat. I know what one looks like, now.

     “Aurora!” Her voice is getting overwhelmed by the wind. “Help me!”

     Halfway up the stairs, I throw off my overskirt; let it catch in the wind, and pull away from me. I pull the rest of the layers out of my way, discarding more of them in order for me to find a better grasp on these stairs in the wind that is trying to pluck me off the side of the pyramid. 

     Nearly to the top, the second voice surprises me so much that it should make me fall back down all of the stairs, or even into the grasping storm. “Daughter of Heaven’s Aurora, lately of House Aphelion. Empress of the Divine Path. Where have you been?” Agillens’ voice, with the quiet flame of passion crackling in his breath. Spoken without the ringing command which is for the court, for forcing the kingdom into compliance at the heart of the growing empire. My heart stops; the fear for my sister, and now this swirling fear... something following us, all three. And I can’t even find them. 

     The light shifts and suddenly it surrounds me, and I see red on gold, red lost in the black but beading up on the gold threads. 

     “Aurora, come help me!” Calla, near hysterical.

     “Aurora, keep back. You’ll be safe if you’re at my back.” Agillens, assurance in the warning and the gentleness. It’s a near lie, nearly. 

     The stairs grow narrower here, and harder to climb. 

     I am coming for you, the fear tells me, I am made manifest and I am coming for you. And when I have you, I can step into Creation and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

     “Aurora!” Calla. 

     “Aurora.” Agillens.

     The light is blinding — 

     “Aurora?” 

     There is weight on my shoulder; a gentle movement sliding my hair away from my eyes. The soft light of the lantern fills this alcove without chasing the shadows away. 

     Despite coming to realize I’m still in bed, I haven’t moved, and Cailen is here with me, despite all this, the fear is following. Do you think simply waking up is enough? it asks, I have not let you go. You are helpless to prevent my acting as I choose. 

     In one way, it is right. It is a strong fear, that unseen, unknowable thing that has come from the depths; and my body won’t move, won’t react to Cailen shaking me. I should be able to move, when he shakes me. It should go away. 

     It is simply the sort that I remember before. I just have reorder my thoughts, move just the slightest... 

     The spell breaks. I feel it flood my body, and can move again. I gasp for air, and he sinks back just enough to allow me space. 

     “Are you alright?” His brow is creased with concern, and he rubs my shoulder soothingly. “What happened?”

     “Nothing,” I lie. It hurts again to have heard their voices and I know the tears are coming, so I amend it. “It was just a nightmare. It won’t even sound scary if I tell it to you.”

     “It doesn’t matter if it sounds scary. It was bad in the dream, so it’s alright for it to be bad now.” He tugs at my hand, and I let him pull me up to sitting. My back feels cold without the residual heat of the mattress. “Let’s get up and at least walk across the room and back. You’ll just fall back into it if you lie back down right now. Why couldn’t you move when you woke up? I saw you trying.”

     At least this is easier than the dream itself. “Sometimes, nightmares have the power to immobilize the body a short time after you begin to wake up. I’ve read about them, and heard from other people about them, and I’ve had these before. You just have to remember that it’s dreaming and just think about moving a finger or a toe or your lips or some small part of you. It breaks the spell. Or, at least, normally it does,” I say and peel myself out from between the bedsheets. The air is warm enough that I’ll adjust quickly from the cozy little nest. “Are there more of those little pretzels?”

     “Yes, and the honeycakes.” He hesitates and decides he’s going to dive in. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, squaring up his shoulders. I must really seem unwell, for him to feel the need to protect me like this. Protect me from an illusion, an imitation, a shadow. “What were you dreaming about?”

     “Does it matter?” I ask, lightly as I can. “You’ll always keep me safe.”

     His eyes are deep brown, dark as Gaia’s loam; dark as desire, or deep-rooted devotion. He chooses to release it this time, let the dream pass from me and share honeycakes and tea. Opens the space for my body to forget what it has brought up. When I make tea, for once he doesn’t try to do it for me; it takes me longer to set the kettle boiling than it would for him to get all the way through, but the motions of striking and getting all those sparks are differently satisfying even when I do it wrong against the little burners. 

     When the tea is gone, he steps in again. “Come back to bed. It’s too early for you to be awake,” he says. Instead of just tucking me in first and then climbing in after, he pulls us both under the covers. He gathers me up and pulls me to him, arms around me tightly, and I feel his lips brush against my skin where Sol’s mark usually appears. 

     “I’d like to apologize for waking you up. I forgot that I had meant to say so, earlier.” I feel him shrug more than see it; it’s impressive how eloquent and efficient he’s getting with his movements. I have found myself growing in and out of graceless motion as I’ve grown, but he seems to be refining or adding to his repertoire only. 

     I especially like these additions, together like this where we’re so close that we share breath. I feel that faint tingling on my lips that both drives at my thoughts and flutters them away

     “It worked out fine. I was going on a nighttime tea adventure anyway.” He definitely sounds closer to sleep than I am, but it won’t be by much.

     “That’s a lie.” It is very nice to hear him so close, so steady. The whole world is very nearly as it should be.

     “You can tell me off later when we’re up again. Even Sol’s chosen need sleep, you’ve told me before.” 

     “Sweet dreams, then.”

     “Mine always are. You’re in them.”

     I let myself relax into his guard entirely. I’m safe here. “I suppose you’ll need to come visit mine, then.”

     Whatever he says is lost in that last slip into sleep; not long after, I fall away too.

And she to me: ‘There is no greater pain than to 

remember the happy time in wretchedness; and this 

your teacher knows.

Tales of an endless heart

Cursed is the fool who's willing

Can't change the way we are

One kiss away from killing

     “If I were to suppose concern for my well-being is why you linger, I might choose to understand this as flattery. And yet, I sense it is more probably related to questions which are concentrated and becoming more pressing in your concerns. Will you prove me right?” Sonnet sits with her spine straight, legs perfectly tucked away, hands settled loosely in her lap. 

     He hesitates. “Do you want me to?” he says. 

     A question for a question.

     She shrugs eloquently. “You may find it more practical to seize your chances when they are offered to you suchly. As well as this, Paradise spent a good amount of effort towards your cause and if it came to nothing, think of her disappointment. Not the most subtle plan this; if I found myself even minimally less charitable I wouldn’t offer her such an easy release.”

     He holds onto the image of her laughing against the face of her dismissal. There is a part of her that continues to permit what almost looks like apathy to flood her system when she looks his way, a part of her that permits engagement at all. The promise is there, Fate has left an opening for him to make it right again; not a given, but a chance.

     And still, the words stick. They might always stick, always jolt into place with less grace and precision than he’d like. 

     “Paradise said something earlier. About the crew.” He takes a deep breath. “She mentioned the crewmembers up here, of course, but she said something about there being... others... below deck.”

     “Why, Virgil! This is a conversation that could be held in any sort of mixed company. Are you so shy as all that?” She tilts her head, something between irritation and delight coloring her entire. “Truly, have you traveled Creation for so long and been yet unaware? Somehow, there has been an absence of the undead in your travels? You must have encountered some of my kind for more than a few seconds on a battlefield. If only while purging a house of the knights, you cannot have missed such an expansive effort as has been put forth in redefining territories. ” 

     “I’ve only had run-ins that were... brief,” he adds, some heat in his tone. “And no, I’ve only discussed the Undead with the one person who had anything useful to say. The undead didn’t come up otherwise, except as Anathema. ”

     Her laughter knocks loose the irritation from her at least. He’s not entirely sure that it’s a good thing that it’s gone.

     “Only a single teacher to guide you; how pitiful. I will promise you this without consequence; I will explain to you what it is you have asked, tonight or in the morning. I have found often that nightmares arise from lingering on such topics with the sun drawn so close to the horizon. Clearly, your physical constitution is... more than adequate... but how will you find your thoughts when that dark emptiness closes around you, on a ship you do not know, which will shriek with additional grinding and scraping metal? Would you be best pleased?” Her eyes are as oceans of blood in this last gasp of sunlight. “I would add, not least among my questions, that I would wonder if you are one who believes in fate; but that, at least, has been clearly expressed. You gamble already with many games you do not seem to be aware of, and a few where you do somehow seem to be cognizant. What faith is this that you place in her hands, letting Fate guide you as her whims divine?”

     “Fate has guided me from the beginning. I couldn’t have found you again without her help.”  He might have imagined it, but... “Are you saying that only I’m going to be at risk for nightmares, or that both of us are?”

     “Mm.” There’s a long pause, as she takes him in as a whole again. A slight pushing at the energy between them, as well. Nothing so serious as to be an attempt to break through, but more than enough to learn the shape of the division. “Well done. I see that proper motivation might be enough after all.” 

     The praise sits wrongly. But, even if he caught her first slip, he certainly hasn’t caught this one. Whatever it is, there are too many thoughts behind the initial implication of what she’s said.

     “I did, in fact, include each of us in this warning.” The light is quickly shifting to night and it makes it harder to read her thoughts. She’s become almost absent in her energy, and without permission he isn’t going to push to find an answer now. “Make your choice swiftly, Virgil. I will find my bed before long. I would luxuriate in the night air, but it has been a very busy day and I will have hundreds of nights ahead of me.” 

     Her smile needs no translation; any interest in exploring illicit pleasures would be more than deadly with her, even without these added complications on top. But more than that, she savors the thought of pain that might come to him; in that, the anger he would have anticipated from her is converted. 

     “Tell me in the morning then. If you are—” not ‘worried’, she’ll hate ‘worried’ “suspecting a nightmare might appear, why even bring it up? Or, I suppose more importantly to your questions from earlier, why bring it up and then warn me off? It isn’t that you’re afraid...” he trails off, as she slides her palms out of her lap, out into a stretch that somehow, without moving the fabric draped so loosely, manages to ripple entirely through her arms and chest, up to her neck. 

     “It’s good that you see that I am not.” She sounds the same as at the cards table with Paradise right next to him. The guard is rising, but it isn’t because of anyone else pulling closer yet. “You wonder why I hold out in one hand two distinct pains, when I might have offered neither to myself in the first place.” 

     “Yes.”

     “I am ever willing to offer choices upon choices. A gift not received, yet I give it. As well, I believe your presence will be more than enough to unsettle my mind which can only lead to a more frequent occurrence regardless of my own preference in this. I anticipate many deprivations; it is hoped I will not be depended on for restraint as well, as I truly have none to offer.” She reaches forward to take the cards in hand, and with flawless grace and impossible balance, rises as easily as she had dropped to the deck earlier. “I will not have any here aboard share my bed without their entire participation, Virgil. It is already more than I am known to give, bringing you aboard. Is this understood?”

     “Yes,” he says cautiously. Likely he’ll have to find a corner and simply coil out of the way. In one of the extra rope stocks, maybe. Below decks is clearly a step beyond what he feels capable of. 

     “If you find yourself in desperation in the night— well. Perhaps, as you are unfamiliar with the Cry , and I have given my word that you will be kept cautious of its care... You will follow me so far as the door, so that your inevitable entry won’t lead to more damage than you are prepared to take responsibility for. Only one door to batter down and make me oathbreaker for, instead of many.”

     “I-” 

     But she hasn’t even needed to call Paradise over; all in white, she stands out rather dramatically in the early night, and Paradise arrives more quickly than he would have liked. 

     Sonnet gently offers the cards back in a tidy stack, and Paradise matches her deliberation. As perfect a dance as any in the finest courts. Unexpectedly, she follows it with the slightest dip of a bow of acknowledgment. “As loaned, I return what is yours. We must play again; it seems as though each of us enjoyed the flowers after all. Perhaps tomorrow we will attempt the hells.” 

     Paradise matches the depth of the bow precisely. “I am grateful for your care, and look forward to becoming an opponent of the cards once again!” Paradise’s joy is palpable. Even if it was an excuse, even if Sonnet’s larger game required this as an opening, Paradise is radiant with the day.

     Sonnet drifts across the deck, even more clearly out of place with the daylight she is leaving behind now that the time of the Undead is rising. She lifts her chin and does seem to soak in the night like Paradise would with sunrise. A different radiance lighting her, different sinuous movements as if she had been moving in thick liquid all day and now stepped free of it.

     Above them, sharper winds catch as well and fill the sails fully. Hearts’ actions are becoming busier, more precise and crisp. The zombies are pulling themselves together just a bit more. Night suits them. They’ll move more quickly and the screams and shrieks of the soulsteel will no doubt pick up as well. 

     At least we’ll be ahead of other competitors. Most others, even. But...

     “I’m not planning on breaking into your room, Sonnet.” 

     “Virgil. We rarely mean such adventures until we’re half-embarked. And I am not asking that you find yourself some other reason to persuade yourself — I have offered two I will accept. If you entertain me... Well. When entertained I am very flexible in what I will accept.”

     Her room is significantly down at the end of the hallway; the locked door to further below decks is also here, only ten feet away. The lock is not of the mundane, that much is clear. Neither is the one to her room. It’s a flurry of quick motions obscured by her clothes and the angle he’s at. Down at this end, the locked door reeks of blood, death, misery, screams trapped in the metal swimming in agony across the door itself. 

     “Nonetheless. I am confident, after your overtures thus far, that if I should find an assailant with me who had any intent of ending your chances of redemption — you would interpose yourself with great enthusiasm and alacrity. Will you claim my assessment is incomplete?”

     Deep breaths. Slow deep breaths. Either there is a threat, which she doesn’t seem to believe, or there isn’t, and she’s enjoying this last testing before bed. She’s right about at least some of that.

     “Are you expecting someone to try?”

     “I always assume someone will try; it is often a futile knowing, but it has prevented some embarrassing incidents with Hearts among others. No, no; do not concern yourself with that. Hearts has never turned on an agreement such as we have now. It would not be stood for if they did, with attention lying in wait.” She shrugs. “There are other unknowns aboard. Would you feel soothed by an inspection, Virgil?” She pushes the door open, but makes no move to enter. He’d need to push past her just the slightest bit. Enough to instigate touch, not enough to block the way. 

     Her voice drops until it’s a quiet purr that nonetheless sends shivers of warning down his spine. 

     “If you would prefer a more comfortable rest than the decks will permit, my invitation stands.”

     Heat rises and it takes work to prevent flushing from showing. She doesn’t have to say anything; the image of holding her, even without adding the thought of more, nearly pulls him in. So close to what is fated... but sense kicks in. She isn’t offering this from anything like kindness, and it’s not really her. 

     “Not tonight, I see. We will test the theory of your will preventing access; at least it will be only for the most noble of reasons.” There’s a ripple that floods along the edge of their connection. Testing the shape of it, once again taking measure. “Again, I’m surprised. Not missing her quite as desperately?”

     Against the tightness in his throat, he swallows down the bitterness underlying, and smiles. “You aren’t her.”

     In the instant of speaking, he feels the flicker, sees a hesitation before she acknowledges the point. It’s good to see it; a brief widening of her eyes and the smirk that grows is one of interest again. “Goodnight, Virgil. Pleasant dreams when you rest.”

     It’s the way her smile seemed to turn brittle, but also more curious. Something too in what might nearly be seen as midground. 

     She’d sounded so close to real surprise at the thought of nightmares. Maybe equally to that, there was a lack of surprise in terms of his words just now. The surprise came from this next piece of the game. 

     A coil of rope is near the stairs below. It’s solidly packed, but with it wedged back here it forms a nice triangle with the wall. And it isn't like the uncoiling will cause him any trouble. 

    There's a new moon tonight. The shifting bodies passing by in some sort of hell are punctuated by metallic bursts of screaming. Every time he thinks he might be falling asleep, some unfamiliar sound that sets him off. There's no point in waiting with his back up the wall, and the chill air on a snake's body will help him sleep some. Besides, it's very useful in keeping his head safe and muffled from the sounds. 

     It's an easy transition. Simply hovering incorporeally is hard, but even without the full, deep familiarity of the tyrant lizard, the snake form is large enough to keep most threats away. It's comfortable. Whatever else is on board, it can't get the drop on him with, or without, his knowing about an attack. Too many years, too much practice. 

     And with several constrictor coils surrounding him, he has a funneled sense of what hearing he wants and lacks the rest. An ear manifest on the outside coil as well, but designed for sensing close vibrations and not the inconstant rest. Finally.

     When it comes, it's troubling how little warning there is. 

     One moment, he feels himself falling slack into that hazy darkness. The next, a flash of shadow and blinding pain. The same as it was in the Wyld, but with a rawness that vibrates to the bone and proves that this time it's real. 

     From nowhere and everywhere, with sharp agony obliterating any sense of balance. Oblivion restricting and cutting apart. In the overall roaring cacophony — cursed metal and mortal voices from whatever depravity is lurking like a disease in the bottom of the vessel — even from the far end of the ship, he'd know her voice.

     Venom dripping into him and adrenaline knocks the rest of sleep from him, he clears the deck from the coil to fully on his feet again and has the bare presence of mind to remember not to lose control entirely in the senses ripping into his nerves. He hits the wall hard, but her door is closed — she knew, she knew he would come in. She locked it anyway. But she'd been so very certain. There is no external interest in what might be happening in this room. It's all presumed... normal. Even Paradise doesn't seem to have processed the difference.

     He takes a deep breath and steps through the incorporeal to pass into the room without damaging the lock. 

     The noise in the hall should have woken her. No one else is here in the room, and it is quieter. His footsteps alone should have been enough to knock her out of nightmare. But she's still asleep, caught in this emotional paralysis. She knew . It has her deep, whatever is in her mind. Her hand is at her throat, where he feels the shared shadow pain. Where she's felt that pain before, with a different name. He breathes before he speaks. Trying to decide how much to say, if he should even still stand here at all. She likely won't thank him for it. 

     It doesn't matter. He won't be asleep through this either way. 

     The expressions are still different. Another mind behind the same tears, the same fear magnified. For the first time, in this moment without her frozen composure and all of the winding thoughts, the quick expressions and the roiling nausea of energy line up. There is only nightmare, fear, vulnerability.

     "Sonnet?" Still acid on the tongue, but he sends the thought with a whisper of power as well. It should have caught her focus, but nothing. He crosses the room and drops to a knee beside the bunk cautiously. "Sonnet," he tries a little bit louder this time. "Can you hear me?"

     With his eyes still straining in the darkness for such a small detail, he can catch the slightest glimmer from the starlight coming in the window. There's a thin glint of darkness that suggests the slightest hint that she's seeing something; whatever it is, it isn't him.

     What to do now?

     Another shuddering, chilling scream rips into the air, but it's the quiet, hopeless, barely heard, "Please, please, please— " that twists into him and makes him feel sick. 

     He reaches out to catch her wrist before she can crash it against the wooden frame again.  The fear latches onto that connection, with a wash of despair that blows through like a gust of hail. 

     A focal point, something to vent the fear into. She fights him instead. It doesn't hurt much —he's taken a much worse beating on his own. But she might hurt herself in the process of riding this out and it isn't stopping the fear, just the damage. Along with those horrible cries that beat at the air as if fighting it too, there are tears. Small trails of blackness that slip out and leave broken lines on her skin. 

     The bunk is too small, too enclosed for a terror this large. When she pulls back to hit him, her other arm hits the wall. Her legs are still muddled by the blanket, or they would be at risk too. The bunk and the wall, all hard surfaces accessible, are too near, and there aren't enough bed linens to be useful. He catches her other wrist, the motion pulling him up to a knee on the bed instead of the floor. If he lets her have most of her movement, but keeps her away from the hard edges, will that be enough?

     "Sonnet!"

     There's a deep gasp, and he thinks she might have finally woken up. It's a false quiet. She doesn't breathe in again after, doesn't scream again, at least. She just loses breath entire. The complete silence is almost worse, as she fights without the facsimile of life to make this at all normal. 

     “Sonnet — you have to wake up!” He tries to keep the pleading out of his voice, but it hurts to watch and the flow of her essential being is irregular enough that it eats away at his mind. He finally pushes back at the flow; tries to settle down the writhing power. 

     It drops her into a different state. She trembles under it. Her limbs still. 

     This is... a good thing? Any calm is good.

     Her eyes open, and for an instant he thinks she is woken up. It’s clear as she looks past him that she’s not free of it just yet. But the added energy, all the calm and peace he can summon, does seem to help. 

     “Please don’t make me go back.” She speaks clearly but distantly, clouds and mountains away from here. “Please, no more.” 

     Go back where?

     “You don’t have to go back anywhere,” he says out loud. His voice is shaking. He’s shaking. 

     It seems to reach her on some level. With as much gentleness as he can, he contains the remaining violent twitches and jerks until her muscles fall limp again and she lapses back into a quiet sleep. He finally lets her go, now that he’s certain she’ll be safe. Stiffness in his fingers makes him wonder if she’ll bruise from this.

     Can she even bruise?

     Her expression is calm now, but there are still little hints everywhere of what’s happened. He doesn’t quite dare wash the tear stains off her cheeks. Keeping his fingers steady and sure as possible, he lightly brushes her hair away from her face.

     There wasn’t time earlier to look. During the day, she was too much in motion. But even now with the darkness, there’s a chilled light that follows from the shadows drawn close around her which brightens her by contrast.  There are no marks on her skin, nothing to make her imperfect, and nothing at her throat... No raw skin or scar tissue left from the Usurpation, even if she is otherwise nearly the same. It’s in the expressions and the absence of the variety of colors; but in terms of the rest, it’s as if she stepped whole and entire from their last argument, the last time he’d seen her. 

     But — stepping back he catches it. He flares his mark just a little, sure at every breath that she’ll wake in the pale silver light and assume the worst of him. But with the small gift of luck, he sees it; lines so thin they seem now like spiderwebs, lines anyone could have missed from how small they are. The one at her throat is where he would expect it to be. No doubt if he saw her in further undress, he would see the other; beginning below the ribs, lifting up and in as it crossed through the heart and lung, before dragging uncleanly at that vicious angle to her breastbone. Perhaps even a thicker line where the knife had twisted. Just to be sure she couldn’t speak, couldn’t...

     But no. She’s here, he’s here, and he will keep her safe this time. 

     He catches up the quilt on the floor, shakes it out first, then covers her again; it’s more exhausting than holding her still. With her emotions drained away into the blackness, and the absence of shared panic keeping the adrenaline running high, the length of the day catches up with him again. He steps through incorporeal again and back up to his chosen resting place. There has to be a different option. Maybe the crow’s nest will be available; no one seems to go up there, possibly because the zombies don’t have that kind of dexterity. 

     In the shadowy night, he nevertheless feels eyes on him from above. If there is something up there, however, it doesn’t seem to have interest in engaging. 

     All will be dealt with in the morning as needed. 

Warn your warmth to turn away

Here it's December

Everyday

Press your lips to the sculptures

And surely you'll stay (love like winter)

For of sugar and ice

I am made, 

I am made...

“O you who are led through this Hell,” he said to 

me, “recognize me if you can; you were made before 

I was unmade.”

And I to him: “The anguish that you have perhaps 

drives you from my memory, so that it does not 

seem I have ever seen you.

Chapter Text

     The little cart trundles along just fine over the grasses, and the directions from the seller seem to be paying off. The scenery is getting prettier, and I can almost watch her relax while we walk. The wind catches her light cornflower sleeves, making them float and stretch out long behind her, revealing the beautiful embroidery of fluttering flowers and the delicate inner layers of gold under cream. Her hair is still twisted and coiled and pinned up with so many of her favorite glass flowers that she seems crowned with a nimbus of radiant fluttering translucent petals. The light catches her in full like an embrace. She's feeling it too; she reaches out a hand and sets it on my shoulder so she can tip her face up to Sol with her eyes closed. 

     Almost too sublime for thought. 

     "This was a wonderful idea, Cailen." Her voice is sweet and lingers gently on my name. The feeling is heartfelt and deeply gratefulness-making. Even the weight of the cart is nothing at all when she speaks like this. “I didn’t realize the city opened out like this. The walls on the ocean side seem so... encompassing.”

     “I’ve learned lots of things to ensure your rest as well as your work,” I say mock-seriously, truly half-serious. 

     Being a steward is a lot of work, but every new challenge is just more and more opportunity, more chances to grow. And while I’ve watched her quickly pick up the habits that she’s never learned because of her position, it is easier when I can just support her doing the more beautiful things, the ones that make her radiant and bring light to everyone. Even without the favor of Sol, she reads people and situations with uncanny ease, and rewrites or issues new direction to make life just a little easier, build one more bridge. One more bridge, one more person, one more day, one more of everything, and then the impact ripples outward. And she brings it home too. The inn has been running so smoothly that our innkeeper, Willow, has directly told me that she’s happy to stay forever if we’d like. All of the arguments either settle themselves more quickly, or Aurora is there, chatting and she mediates. Guests come in and are refreshed, and leave bigger tips than they might otherwise. Even the bureaucrats have begun to treat the inn as the reputable business it is. 

     All this is rubbing off on me too, and the partial glow leads to more people addressing me as ‘sir’ while we get work done, which is always a confidence booster. Willow has allowed everyone to teach me what they know about managing and understanding the parts of being a steward besides the parts I already know, and it was Nora who told me which merchant to talk to for our picnic today.

     She opens her eyes. “I know. Today should be a rest for you as well, yes? This seems like such a lovely day, I know you’re usually half-wild with not painting by now — you did bring at least a canvas?”

     “Of course I did! Why do you think I brought the cart? They’re wrapped so the dust won’t get to them. I brought my nice brushes too, but those are wrapped even more because of the dirt everywhere.”

     “Good.” Looking ahead for only a second she turns back to me with such a simple joy in her entire being that it pushes into me as well from proximity. “I can see it! We’re almost there. He said the little oasis by the outcrop, and I just saw the green."

     “You could go ahead if you want,” I offer. She won’t run, probably, which means she’ll be fine. Even if it doesn’t matter if she scrapes up her knee now, it’s the principle of the thing. “The cart’s not really built for speed.”

     “I’m not leaving you behind,” she says, glancing heavenward for an instant for the strength to handle such a thought.

     It takes about a half-hour more of walking, but at last we come round the rocks to see the oasis, and it really is everything I’d hoped for. Softer grass than the kind that the wind roughs up on the plains, shade from the trees at perfect places to see the water from every side, the little lake with beautifully placed artistic plants arcing over towards the center, and lovely flat rocks in and around the water. Sun patches too, for anyone who prefers full sunlight. 

     “It’s almost like it was created to be the absolute ideal. How lovely!” Her voice carries across the water, briefly startling a few water birds who decide we’re uninteresting and get back to their business. “Where shall we place our picnic? It might be physically impossible to find a place with nothing to recommend it. Is there somewhere for your easel?”

     “Let me take a quick look.” I put down the cart handles and head down the bank. “You can wait if you’d rather. I’m not going to be going very far, I don’t think. There’s a rock over there that looks like it would be about perfect.”

     “Go on ahead. I’ll follow a bit more slowly, I just want to see what it looks like down closer to the water... Drink in the moment as it were.”

     While I do want to see the water with her, the pull is deep in me, and there is a flat rock that seems too good to be true. Running through the short grass is only a bit tricky when the ground is uneven. I’d worry about snakes or small rodents but I hear the tiny crashes ahead of me that I know are them getting out of the way. Besides, everyone’s said there’s nothing really poisonous here that’s small enough to hide in this kind of grass. Or... venomous? It doesn’t matter, because neither one is here. 

     The rock is only flawed in that it’s technically not attached to the shore. There’s such a small gap in between, I’ll have to not drop anything or fall. But since I can handle both of those things, it’s going to be the spot. There’s a shade tree overhanging it, but over on this side the windswept grass meets this delicate boundary and the two mix in the full sun. With a blanket down, it’ll be perfect for her too. 

     I haven’t gone very far around the outside of the water, but even from here it’s a bit hard to see the cart with all the bushes. It’s private. Almost like a secret. 

     I’m pulled in two directions, now. The need to paint, especially this new landscape, wars against turning my focus on my muse who will be hopefully resting and getting the worries out of her system and will for once be able to give her undivided attention to one thing at a time. Free to give that attention to something that's been boiling up for months now.

     This is going to be trickier than I thought. 

     Movement by the water catches my eye only because it’s the mellow peach yellows and pinks that don’t blend in with anything down here. She dips down to the edge of a little beach area, gently touches the surface of the water with her fingertips and bows her head as if offering a greeting. 

     The entire surface of the water shivers once out from where she stands, and I briefly see the sigil flare. But then it’s gone, and she’s only rubbing a small amount of water on the back of her neck to cool down. 

     If I don’t bring it up, maybe whatever that was won’t interrupt anything. 

     For the formality of it, I check the second place that I thought might be okay, but it’s the first rock for sure. Time to get supplies, and either to work with the paint or to see what else will make her smile today. 

     “All is well with the one you chose?” She is gently fanning herself. It is cooler here, but still, the heat is somewhat sticky near the water. 

     “Yeah, we just need to set up and stop thinking about anything other than relaxing. What are you going to do while I paint? You didn’t sneak any work things with you, did you?” The cart rolls surprisingly well over the uneven ground. Hardly any bumps at all. 

     “I didn’t bring anything of the sort. I did promise you, after all.” She looks down, almost shy for an instant. “I think I might just lie down and let the world happen for a little while. It’s so beautiful here, and there are deer and swans and ducks and fish if I want to watch anything. Or maybe I’ll just watch you paint; I won’t look at what you’re painting, just you.” She’s teasing, but I still feel the added heat of the awkward feeling caught up in my face and neck. More than awkward, really.  

     At least 'Inverted Muse and Artist' might require an artist of great skill to paint, but it feels strange with the circle coming back to me as my own inspiration in this sort of... normal way. Nothing grand or interesting about a painter caught up in the canvas with Artistry Incarnate watching him, unless I can get her right... which is harder if she’s watching me from behind, and she will change how she sits, moves, and even thinks; if she thinks someone is watching, it will be different. 

     Either way, we set down the blanket, put the four weights down at the corners and the heavy basket of food off-center so we can both fit on one side of it. 

     “Would you be so kind as to wait a moment before you begin? It’s been a while since we’ve had the two of us like this, and it would be nice to just — exist, I think.” Her smile is gentle and almost laughing at herself more than anything.

     “Sure. We can share nuts or something. Did you have something else special in mind?”

     “I suppose special, but not the way you’re thinking.” She reaches up and pulls the first glass flower loose, setting the glass rose and apple blossoms into the weave of the basket where they’re easily seen and protected from unanticipated things from outside the blanket. The lily of the valley, pink hydrangeas, magnolias, and violets all follow suit, a little garden on top of the wickerwork. With each one dropped, another loop falls free entirely until the whole of her hair is loose. There’s a puddle of darkness surrounding her now. She sighs and runs a hand through her hair briefly, enjoying the release. 

     Whatever it actually is that she used to wash her hair, it has the same effect as one of the flowers would. It’s caught up in the rest of the smells of water and plant and outside, but it persists. Which flower it comes from is impossible to tell. 

     She drops to an elbow and then fully down next to me, resting her head on my leg as I sit watching her. Her eyes close and there’s a sudden rush of peace that washes over her entirely. A tension neither of us noticed. 

     Meanwhile, everything comes to a stop for me. The moment hangs while my thoughts catch up. It’s nothing that we haven’t done before, but it’s been a while since she’s been willing to let everything go long enough to rest like this. This instant of surprise, and muddled wanting, is followed by the usual, clumsy, injured-duck fluttering of too much elbow while I work out where would be best to set my hand down. 

     Her expression of release is interrupted by the slow curve of her lips. “Would you rather I just use the blanket? I didn’t think this would worry you so much as all this.”

     “No! No, this is fine, I just-” I stop to take a breath and collect my thoughts, which are partly interrupted by what might be called, by a less-grounded individual, butterflies. 

     Or desperate hopes.

      “Are you comfortable?” I ask. My heart is pounding hard enough that I’m probably hearing it as loudly as she is, with her hearing as good as it has been. Nothing to be done about that except take slow, deep breaths. 

     “Mm,” she purrs, lazily. “Just a few moments, please? I know I’m holding you back from painting; just a few, before I lose you to the intricacies of artistry?”

     “Yeah,” I say, and pull back the loose strands of her hair that are sliding across her cheek, tucking them back into the rest of it behind her head. There aren’t enough to justify my continuing to run my fingers through and over the silkiness, but she looks so at peace while I’m doing it that it’s hard to stop. Besides, the same breeze that feels very nice on the skin also has the nerve to undo my work. It will not be stood for.

     It’s probably longer than a few moments, but time could stand still and I’d be happy with it. Even though the wind has given up the fight for now and gone off to harass some bugs, and I don’t have the excuse of fighting it as a reason to keep running my fingers over her cheek, along her jaw, down the line of her neck. 

     “What are you thinking of?” she eventually stirs herself to ask, slowly coming back from her reverie, her quiet dreaming hovering in the lull of her voice. As she opens her eyes, light catches the pale grey until they look the way moonsilver is supposed to, a soft liquid metal that fades into normal mist again in the moment she rolls onto her back, looking up at me. Her eyes are still wide in spite of the light, gazing clear into my soul while completely unfazed by the brilliance of Sol behind me. Clear-sighted.

     She takes my hand in hers and presses her lips to each finger in turn. Her kisses are soft, but lightning runs through me with each one and steals my breath. They only leave behind the thundering of my suddenly too-fast heartbeat to fill my ears. 

     She already knows what I’m thinking. She’s already looked into all of me, and this is cheating. 

     “Uh,” I say, eloquently. Where she kissed, my fingertips are almost painfully over-sensitive. “Just... trying to soak in all the details. For sketching.”

     Just imagine if it were more than this...

     She presses my hand to the ripple of her breastbone, close to her heart. “I should let you go to it then.”

     Shaking my head doesn’t clear it, but it does at least make my point. “If you’re more comfortable like this, I don’t have to move. The whole point was to get you away from everything at the inn, which I’d say was a success.”

     Her expression is serious, but there’s something very soft behind it. The sunlight glitters over the sigil again and her eyes flash ineffable. When it fades, she seems somehow less real, if more touchable. She reaches up, traces my jawline, sends shivers down my spine. It’s almost painful, the way I lose the air in my lungs in the instant. “And for you to paint,” she says, as soft as if we were close beside in bed. In a delicate movement, she curls her near hand up to my shoulder and pulls herself to sitting. 

     “Go on,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll be able to entertain myself.” She’s close enough to kiss, and for an instant — I can cross that distance, just lean forward and... there’s a strange nervousness in me again, like we’ve never done this before.

     We’ve done all of this before, been here. What is it that feels so weird, now?

     Maybe it’s just that this is the first time we’ve been completely alone, without other people in the building or the room. There won’t be any reason, anything like dousing the lanterns or not making too much noise, nothing at all to stop us once we start. It almost feels like panic, thinking about crossing this line even if I know nothing is changed. 

     It’s her right to invite this, and she is inviting it. Isn’t she?

     What exactly did she see?

     It’s a second that stretches, and it isn’t until I meet her eyes again that it ends. Whatever it is... she sees it again, has to have done. She looks away and I see just the slightest tinge of color coming to her skin. She pulls her hair back from her face, tying it in a loose knot to hold it out of her way as she sorts through the basket. She’s got more willpower than I do, and I need a second before I stand.

     Whatever is different right now, the lake is in front of me and there are plenty of things demanding my detailed attention if I want to catch them before the light begins to change again and we have to go home. The light and shadows fall through the shallows, almost immediately vanishing in the life of the rippling water. A few broad-winged birds hover over the expanse of the reservoir.  The shape of the wings and the fins is usual, but the way the rocks below blend into a fallen stump, with what is probably a squirrel living in it, is not. On one of the far banks, a herd of deer do come down to drink and shuffle up other animals in the undergrowth. I only get glimpses of them. Constantly small rodents rustle under palm-sized birds and insects flickering through the brush and the air. 

     I fill up pages with quick sketches trying to outline the movement and the shaping. I’m down to the nub of one of the charcoals very quickly. There’s too much to try to catch, and I didn’t bring a big enough sketchbook for everything I want to catch. We’ll have to come back here, because I run out of sketchbook before I run out of things to see, even with images crammed every-which way inside. 

     Turning back, I finally start to wonder what Aurora might have been doing. 

     I should have kept pages blank.

     The image that cements this unreality is that of a small water spirit silently beating out a rhythm on a drum I can’t hear. 

     She brought a few of her scarves and ribbons with her, and now I see why. I hadn’t realized she’d moved away at all. It must have been so her rustling wouldn’t disturb me. There’s a circle of grasses around her that show the breadth of her motions. Her fans are tucked in at her waist as if she would use them in part of this, but not now. She’s wearing the hand-me-over shoes that Nora found for her. They’re tied on carefully with bits of twine to keep them from slipping. Her regular shoes are set to the side of the blanket, and her jacket and overskirts are both folded on top of the basket, leaving her arms nearly bared.  

     In lieu of anything formal, she has her underskirts — gentle golden that peeps as if embarrassed by the noon sun, pink like first budded dogwood trees, warm melon like Luna’s blush, pale lemon as if cut closest to the rind, light through dried apricot —  tied up from the ground so that even at rest there’s no way for her to step on the fabric that so often trails around her. There’s a translucent, diaphanous, creamy, thin scarf that usually streams through her arms elegantly as she stands, that now is tying up the weight of her hair and occasionally hovering as if following her movements through water. It must have come loose at some point; but her eyes are seeing only music and she doesn’t seem to have noticed the trailing ends of her hair and the scarf. 

     And all this, against the delicacy of myriad fluttering silks and gauze that the breeze cannot help but dance with as well — her. Luminous, pristine, fluid. 

     Her arms stretch out like bird wings or like the long graceful necks of the swans, wrapping around herself the delicacy of feathers against the air. Her feet hardly seem to linger on the grasses for more than the blink of an eye, they sweep up and back behind her, or to the front, or shockingly quickly up to the side. Once, she kicks up in front of her and has sunk down into a turn behind herself before the gauze of her skirts has time to fall. Her feet appear and disappear more easily than the slim fish in the shallows of the lake. She flexes and her spine curves like willow branches, somehow off-balance and centered all at once. Like a strung bow, straight and straight and coiled and pulled straining tight. 

     Even without Sol’s gift, she’s radiant. The drumming isn’t needed to track what she’s keeping to, and there’s a haunting beauty about her delight in the quiet. Something like realizing the birth of the skies, like flowers bursting into existence from nothing, like witnessing a soul. She laughs, sinuous, sensual, graceful, playful, soft and joyous, extension of every line of her body humming in her muscles. Embracing the universal everything, and delighting in existence with her laughter. She’s only breathing lightly still, even though it’s clear that this has been going on for a long time. She’s flushed with it, the thulian pink of her lips and lightly in her cheeks warms her toward a darker golden in the sunlight, all pinks and golds like the underskirts of her dress today. Much like she’s lost the cream overskirt, and her jacket, she’s lost that delicate, pale look she had even this morning.

     The little spirit makes a face at me and vanishes slowly. She slows, comes to the end of the steps, turns and almost skips down to me. “Did you finish already? I thought you’d be going for a while longer.”

     “Who—”

     “He’s the god of the lake. I greeted him earlier, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be dancing or resting so I didn’t ask him sooner to play for me. I just thought that I haven’t practiced for a long time, and that there might be a flat place somewhere. It was very smooth up there to start with, before he offered to help. I don’t think he gets attention very often, so I danced for him first. We were just playing around a bit.” She feels her hair slip down her back, and can’t stop giggling while she tries to undo the scarf. It takes a few breaths before she gets it back under control. “Alright, it was more than a bit. But I thought you would be focused still.”

     “I filled my sketchbook. Why aren’t you using your shoes?” It’s the best that I can think of to answer with. Her giggles are becoming infectious. 

     “I wasn’t sure if the ground would tear them up. They’re fine for walking but not really designed to dance on the ground; my feet twist a bit too much. These seem to work.” She finally unbraids the scarf and pulls it loose. “I didn’t make too much noise, did I?”

     “I didn’t hear anything. I don’t know that I would have noticed at all if I hadn’t turned around.” I wouldn’t have known. Would she have said anything? “Will you do that again when I have a sketchbook? You haven’t danced that way before.”

     “Always,” she says, looking at me with that softness I saw earlier. “Whenever you like. You just have to ask.”

     “I’ll take the responsibility seriously, then,” I say with as much stiffness as I can, pulling from what I remember of imitating Sage. Close enough, apparently. She dissolves into giggles again.

     We break up our picnic spot, and I make a discreet prayer of thanks to the godling. I wouldn’t have ever guessed that she was missing the dancing like this, and clearly she’s been hiding it from herself, too. We’ll come out here as often as I can make it happen, and maybe I can work out whatever the weirdness was earlier and deal with it.

     She’s light on her feet the entire way back, which upsets the balance of the cart when she gets too excited and forgets to balance for me too. I’m getting taller, which is good for this sort of thing for now — when she's level on her feet, we're basically even on the cart handles.

We’re almost back into town, with the lights coming on in the near distance and the sun beginning to shoot out the brilliant colors of twilight. 

     “Cailen, will you come with me when I have the meeting next month?” She’s already thinking about something else, but it doesn’t seem to be work related. Despite the question.

     “I don’t know anything about merchanting the way you do it.”

     Her attention comes back to a single point instead of one of the five that she’s been floating through for the last hour. “Oh. I meant as a proper steward. Everyone else is going to have at least one other person of theirs with them, and I wanted you to come with me. You’ll have to be in the room, but you don’t have to know anything about what’s happening.”

     “Like at a party? Because I was talking with Nora, and she said that parties can be pretty fun if you know anyone on the wait staff.”

     “Not exactly like a party, no. It might be boring for you, even if you do know someone on staff. I remember watching those when I was too young to show up at the parties themselves. No, this is more... it’s more formal.”

     “I could just hang out in the hall. I bet the clothes you ordered in for me would do just fine as wall camouflage.”

     “I’d rather you be in the room. Who else can I trust while I’m there?” There’s a serious underpinning to this, then. And she wouldn’t be pushing it if she didn’t really want me there, which means it’s going to matter for us as a team going forward.

     It’s going to be terribly boring. I’ll have to try to make a good face of it, but it will probably be terribly boring, but maybe we come home and do something fun afterwards. I sigh, but of course she isn’t going in without help if she’s asking. “Yeah, yeah. I got your back. So what am I supposed to do? Do I peel grapes, or what?”

     “Fortunately for everyone, no. It’s a game. You’re playing statues against the others at the wall. If I call you, that’s different. You can practice and listen to anything that catches your ear. You always hear the best gossip when we’re out. It’s the same, only the gossip is going to mostly be people giving each other dirty looks if all goes according to plan. If something else happens...”

     “If something else happens, I’ll come up with an excuse for us to be somewhere else. I’m sure I’ll have time to think about it while I’m there.” It seems to suffice as an answer. “Now then, you were telling me about godlings, which sounds much more interesting. Tell me about the hauntings again.”

But you'll never be alone

I'll be with you from dusk till dawn

I'll be with you from dusk till dawn

Baby, I am right here

I'll hold you when things go wrong

I'll be with you from dusk till dawn

I'll be with you from dusk till dawn

Baby, I am right here

Chapter Text

Then later this party must fall within three suns 

and the other rise, with the power of one who plays 

both sides.* 

     Sunlight creeps across the deck as Sol rises. He uncoils, shifts, and stretches, still feeling every bit of his midnight adventures as early morning creakiness. Paradise has set up again as if she hadn’t left, and is having more tea.

     “Good morning, Virgil!” Her voice sings out across the deck, somehow both inviting him to join her or to simply feel acknowledged. 

     “Good morning,” he answers, and pulls himself up and over to join her. Food will need to be scrounged up and she will no doubt know how to manage that. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, aware of some amount of envy and trying to keep it out of his words. 

     “I slept as expected. I can’t imagine the deck is very comfortable, but you did seem relatively content as you coiled. I’ve never seen that sub-species of snake before; would you perhaps be willing to share the story of how you came across it? I believe you must find the creature in order to take its form. A hunt of some sort?”

     “Yes?” It’s a slight barrage, even if it is about practically nothing. “They call it an anaconda. There are flooded forests just southeast of Mahasuchi’s territory. If you drew a line south from Nexus, and east from Kirighast, you’d be in roughly the right area.”

     “No wonder I’ve never seen one! My family hasn’t reached quite so far inland as that. Perhaps I’ll have the chance after this race is over. How do you even find one? I would imagine with that pattern of coloring that you, and they, would blend in very well in one of those flooded forests. I suppose there is quite a lot of you in that form and the length might give you away, but I feel that snakes wouldn’t grow that large unless it was a successful tactic of survival.” She reaches into her sleeves — AGAIN, there’s no ROOM!— pulls a small case out, and offers some strange squares of fruits, nuts, and grains from inside. “Would you like a fruit or nut bar? I’m partial to the nuts myself. Such a wealth of texture and flavor.”

     “I’m... fine, thanks,” he says, distracted from food by trying to watch without staring when she chooses one and puts the rest away into her sleeves.

     Is it just sorcery that I can’t see?

     “Now then. You were telling me about anacondas?” 

     So he does, with half a mind to every sound that might be Sonnet coming up from below decks. They pass a few hours like this, with another interlude of fruit and nutbars that he does join in, and she breaks out the cards with another new game to learn. 

     Nothing from Sonnet. 

     Do I go and check on her? She’s probably just tired from the nightmare last night. It’s probably nothing at all. 

     He struggles to come back to the game. There are cards and moves he should be making but it all moves through like river water. There, and then gone. Until —

     “I saw some of what you were talking about yesterday. She’s certainly a complex read; I was glad that you both were able to connect somewhat through the game.” Paradise sounds just the same as the instant before when she was correcting his gameplay. “I’m glad that we’ll be traveling together for such a long voyage as this. I do love puzzling out people; I’ll admit it freely!” Her laughter eases some of the immediate weight of the problem. “Now then. There are two things I wonder now; one is a very serious ask, one is more whimsical. Would you care to hear one, the other, or both? Neither is also entirely acceptable. As I said, my curiosity has been piqued.”

     She calmly shuffles the deck and offers to deal again. 

     Any other perspective about how to fix her is going to be worth hearing, at this point.

     “We’ll try both, then. You wouldn’t ask unless it was important, right?” He tries for a smile, but the cards pause. He’d prefer to notice when Sonnet appears this time, and talking and playing at the same time requires too much focus.

     “Exactly correct. Please remember, these are thoughts based off of a few hours of playing yesterday. But, the first thought; there already are moments of what I’ll call ‘wavering’ from her that I’m not certain you’re seeing. She’s playing it off well.”

     What does wavering mean here?

     “How can you tell what she’s wavering... from?”

     “We spoke a few words as the ship left; before you rejoined us. Nothing of note, but there are few enough of us on board and I’m simply trying to make sense of my companions. She spoke a few words to our dapper Captain; and then waited with a startling stillness, where you found her, actually. I’m not certain what she was thinking about, but it occupied her fully and there are a few habits, or tells, she seems to have in her absentminded movements, in terms of keeping her appearance what it is against the movements and disruptions of day. I still need to learn where she bought that fabric. It’s the purest white I’ve ever seen and I think it must be spelled to resist dirt. Have you ever seen anything like it?” 

     She lifts a hand as if to wave away the thought before he answers. “I beg your pardon. Neither here nor there. But when I saw her without you, she had fewer of these gestures,” Paradise imitates to show him, a flicker that would let Sonnet hide behind a curtain of hair, loose and long, if it extended to a full movement. “I am still trying to decide exactly what they mean. I suspect they’re a form of stress marker, but I’ll have to do further studies before I feel confident translating her like that. It’s a multifaceted truth that we code with our appearances in every detail, if we are playing the game well. I suspect for Sonnet and I, what we decide to include or exclude is equally as notable as your choices of armor on a given day. Even with the amount of control she’s shown, there are certain habits we all become imprinted with, after all. And despite the focus she is pinpointing you with, which could be simply your energies engaging, I keep seeing.... oh, hiccups isn’t the right word. Something is unsettled enough that she can’t help it. There’s an instant longer than a smile ought to touch the face, a hesitation before taking a breath, little things.” She shrugs. “She did a similar motion of negation when I spoke in that Old Realm variant. A peculiarity, perhaps. She didn’t understand the phrase, but disliked it nonetheless.” That part is clearly a puzzle for her. 

     At least she’s pulling apart some of the starting threads of this whole mess.

     “Again, I don’t have much to go on! But I will keep you updated. Now, for the harder ask.” She finishes her nut bar. “I think perhaps if you have some memory of any exercises to help bring the two of you into alignment — perhaps you both practiced a dual martial art? or something of that caliber. Something to bring you two together as an effective pair in the present, something you both can work together on while we travel. I’m certain you two are still a perfect match, it only matters that you both have interest in connecting and spend time working at it. You’ll have to persuade her, but I think she’ll be pragmatic about it so long as you aren’t somehow an uninteresting danger to her. Think about it for a while.” She takes a breath, and the air of weightiness dissolves into something more uplifting. 

     “My second thought, perhaps more whimsical, is that I think you two should play cards as often as you both feel capable. It’s an innocent enough pastime and it will offer an easy connection. In light of this, I have a second deck which I would like to present to you! And I will happily play as well, but I think the two of you will benefit from playing on your own. You might learn something else between shuffles. Perhaps she has a secret envelope she stores all of her insecurities in! I’ve never met a more self-possessed woman in any of my travels. It’s perhaps a bit gauche, but I am fascinated watching her on a highly technical level. Such interesting dynamics.” She waits a breath before she adds, “You as well. I have possibly met more Lunars than I have our Undead companions, and perhaps it’s simply the many, many years between us — no offense is intended!" She laughs, taps the tip of her fan to her fingers in near embarrassment. "But I do believe you are not quite as the rest. I see none of the beautiful moonsilver artistry that I see on others. Is there a reason for this?”

     The turn of her thoughts startles him into actually looking down at himself. Paradise’s gaze is very directional when she chooses to focus on a person.

     “I— how much do you already know about any of this?” There’s a bit of bewilderment from having the floor tugged out from underneath again. 

     “Not much. I am given to understand there’s something to do about the Wyld? But there aren’t really any Wyld pockets in Creation which should require such a response. Are there?” 

     “No. They do help keep the Wyld from... mutating you, if you don’t want it to. They help other ways, in keeping shapes contained and... orderly. Choosing forms and achieving precision every time, instead of flexibility. There are other benefits, in turning away certain influences. Sealing into one caste fully. Most Lunars don’t want to be chimaera. It can be unsettling.”

     There.

     He catches the shift in energy this time, turns just as she comes up into the sunlight. She looks down and away from the sun, but the usual difference in brightness above and below decks doesn’t seem to be bothering her more than otherwise. 

     “If you will leave me these cards,” and the loose ones are gently tugged free from his fingers, “and take these with you, I think I will practice some watercolors while you both have a lovely conversation.”

     From some embarrassment at how quickly he’s come back around to a raw bundle of nerves focused on Sonnet, he turns back. “I’m very sorry. Thank you very much for breakfast, and cards, and your thoughts.”

     “Of course,” Paradise says, graciously. “I look forward to our next conversation.”

     He scrambles up and over to Sonnet. Both Sonnet and Paradise simply exchange polite bows in greeting, graceful as flowers in the wind. Paradise turns to trade cards for watercolors in her sleeves. Sonnet walks along the deck in the permitted space, upwards and to the back of the ship where it stands higher up. Words might travel from here, but facing into the same wind as the sails means that there’s no need to wrestle with fabric or anything else while she watches the landscape pass by. 

     She’s not directly addressed him yet, and she’s keeping herself contained behind what has become the energetic midpoint of the bond. But, unlike last night, she is as she was at first. It’s better to be distant, than in so much fear...

     And when he stands beside her, his hands matching hers on the railing, she makes no complaint. They watch the landscape roll past for a time, everything seething up and trying to come out, but... there’s something comforting in even this quiet permission. Proximity means she can be safe. It means everything can feel balanced in the universe again. It means everything can be made right again, and maybe, just maybe, he can find her in Sonnet, and Beatrice will be as she always was.

     “The blanket was a nice touch, but it did give you away,” she says, finally. She speaks quietly enough that even if words were to carry back to anyone else on board, they would be unintelligible.

     “I’m not especially sorry about that part. The rest...”

     “I sincerely doubt you’re truly very sorry about any of ‘the rest’. Imagine, how simple it would have been for me to have slept quietly and been pleasantly surprised by the lack of nocturnal visitor. A visitor I’m not even allowed to enjoy...” She shakes her head just the once. “How far I’ve fallen.”

     The last is said with a sort of wry tone, something of a maybe-joke. 

     There’s part of her that means it.

     “Will you still tell me what I asked last night? At least then it won’t be for nothing.” 

     “Ask me again, in this light of day. Perhaps I misheard something, or misremembered. I will answer you, as I said. I will explain to you what you have asked, whether it pleases you or otherwise.” She leans forward onto her elbows, so she can rest her head on her fingers while she looks out across the slowly moving scrublands. “I will answer you, Virgil. I do not choose just now to begin offering up extraneous information without at least some effort on your part.”

     “What is it below decks, this thing Paradise suggested you were familiar with? What is down there? What is happening down there?”

     It is a slow waiting, watching her carefully empty expression for any hint at all what she’s thinking. She sighs heavily, and meets his gaze at last. The red has dimmed to a dark carmine.

     “Below decks is the storage of the mortals Hearts keeps on board, as sustenance and a source of crewmen when the ones up here are... suffering wear and tear, or otherwise are found to be missing for other sailing-related reasons. There are many down there. As I am of a similar persuasion, I am also granted access. While Hearts’ style of consumption leans towards a more inelegant violence, this is not my ship and is outside the scope of my inclination and ability both to enact change. When our power runs low, or injury and sleeplessness would otherwise deplete one of us, we find a victim. Well, perhaps not ‘find’ in my case; I choose who most needs the release from Hearts’ ministrations.”

     It shouldn't be an obvious shock. It shouldn’t even register after seeing everything about this nightmare ship. But it hits nonetheless, striking up warring instincts of stewardship — destroying the ship, Hearts, and all in the name of Creation — and defensiveness — she’s the same as Hearts, she’s said so . 

     As the pieces come together and he stares at her, she shakes her head a little, slowly. It’s almost a pitying gesture, if only there wasn’t that glint in her eye, the pleasure he can feel in her words... 

     “I can see that this is difficult for you. Speaking for myself, if you were to follow that desire I see just there , and simply end this for all aboard — I wouldn’t blame you.” She watches steadily, a slight hint of a smirk at the edge of her mouth. “I might even offer myself first...” she adds, thoughtfully. 

     “ No .” The word rips itself out of him with enough force that it leaves his throat raw. 

     “No,” she says evenly, agreeing.

     And for a second, under the flood of everything else, he feels it. The small pity draws from the sadness, and in the sadness... in the sadness is the familiar, that thread wound up so tightly that it might as well not be there. The same as when her madness manifested and he searched for Aurora under Empyrean. 

     Guilt and resolve bind together.

     “You said...” he has to ungrit his teeth, remember to release the tension in his hands which have balled up, “You said Hearts’ style.”

     She drops her gaze, drawing it upwards to take him in entirely, a lingering, calculating consideration that nonetheless has enough heat in it to catch him wholly beneath it. “I did.”

     “So what is yours, then?” Deep breaths. Here is the symptom of the wrongness, of the twisting and warping that have gone deep.

     A full shrug, and despite what he’s hearing he can’t help but watch the way the silk falls away from her skin, revealing exactly what she means it to. “Final mercy to those below, and the fullness of pleasures satiated to those who are not. Everyone becomes numbed, immune to anything that brings joy after a time. Or they become prey to something more empowered, and suffer under the weight of that predator’s interest. When it becomes too much, I offer the mercy that is so desired. Blood is... inefficient, but it serves as a transition point for us all.” She smiles, as flawless as a masterworked painting. Her voice rasps as it turns to mocking him. “Sooner or later, everyone realizes how pointless it is, Virgil.” She waits for the next burst, or movement. Her chest doesn’t even rise and fall. A perfect effigy of nightmares in form of fantasies, a perfect effigy of his own insufficiencies. 

     "Is that where you were? While I've been up here?"

     "Virgil, is this jealousy already? We barely know each other. I'm not one for such displays typically; they end in clumsy bloodshed, nothing refined or worth the effort from the beginning.” There is irritation now, and she glances away, watching the scars of churned-up earth that the ship has left in its wake. 

     The gentle rolling of her voice lingers, like waves on sand. “I have seen Lunars who have made Hearts seem gentle. I have watched your glorious Deceivers fall into a madness that I am free from. I have seen the rise and fall of many powerful entities, all of whom enact atrocities that make even my heart ache. It does not ache easily.” 

     It seems nearly a point of pride for her.

     “I am what I am, Virgil. I offer mercies that have not been offered to me. I give people everything they want, until they see what I have seen. I am not good, I am not some sort of champion. I simply am what I am.” Her voice drops nearly to a breath, as if she doesn’t want him to hear the question. “Will you yet have me, Virgil?” she says, and there’s a peculiar flicker in her gaze.

     “Always,” the answer comes without even an instant's hesitation, with the full assurance of his spark and soul aligned. 

     I can make this right. It’s a second chance, just different. I can do it the way I should have.

     She is frozen. He has seen marble statues with more movement. She doesn’t breathe or blink. It worries him. She’s coming to some decision. The sense of peace in the boundary between them is broken. Once again there is something... 

     We'll just work on the blood thing.

     He nearly reaches for her hand, in an attempt to call her out of the storm. “Will you come practice with me? We could come back to some kind of balance again. It would be a partnership, now.” Again.

     It surprises her enough to glance fully up, try to read his expression. The gentle push through the bond is curious more than angry. 

     “Just a partnership. There are a lot of benefits, I promise. If you want.”

     “Benefits?” she asks, with the rasp thickly pulling at the sound, warping and changing. 

     “We used to...” He hesitates as her power flares. “I’ve been part of a partnership that worked so flawlessly that no sooner did a thought come than we did it. No words, no complications.”

     “Perhaps I misremember, and yet, I recall a declaration of devotion to your mistress. That you never left her, and still never took part of the bloodbath that stained the hands of those who were nearest. Now, I do have some memory of such dismissal, and for this exercise I will treat this as truth. When your partner was then taken in the first and most catastrophic wave of savagery, what could you have been detained by, I wonder?” Her voice has dropped to a purr, the rasp more a sword over silk. 

     He can tell there’s something about what she said. It’s just hard to think it through right now. This early in relearning her, the answer will give her more power than he’d like; but with her looking at him like this... 

     "An ocean. And then I was lost. I was lost in the Wyld. It took a very long time to find Creation again, and I’ve missed things. My teacher was clear on which parts, when he was catching me up. I was lost." Those memories are ones he'd as soon sort out later, or never. "Just like you, I bet,” he says, unable to at least try and include that parallel. 

     “Are you certain you are correct in your years? Remind me, how long ago were you the champion of the Deceivers?”

     "It's been seven hundred and sixty-eight years, at least.”

     “How precise.” Her laughter knocks loose the irritation from her at least. He’s not entirely sure that it’s a good thing that it’s gone. She resettles herself against the railing, resting perfectly symmetrical and proper. A smirk lingers, lovely despite the contempt implied. “I too have had a teacher. And I am what they call a ‘quick study’. I suppose that means that I have become a true Anathema, from sheer attention to detail if nothing else.”

     He might have imagined it, but...  if Paradise is right, and it is certainly the same motion that he saw her model, there’s something to who or whatever her teacher is. Something requiring a soothing gesture; not fully realized, not fully hidden, but necessary.

     She is still turning over the idea, though. “You would claim again a partnership which faltered and failed in the dying light of the First Age. One which you have had little to compare with, it would seem, unless your teacher was of a very particular sort.”

     “It wasn’t — We didn’t —” We didn’t fail is what he wants to say, but if there had been no failure he would have been there when the attack came. She wouldn’t have died alone. 

     A smile blossoms in full again. Humor rising in watching him flounder. “Tell me truly. If, as you claim, you are another half of this Breath; and if you remember correctly, you would suggest there is value in... unwinding? revealing? some designed skill set. And you suggest practicing... what?”

     “I don’t know. I know I can survive most anything, so I don’t know what would be useful to you. Something with movement, so we can practice timing again.”

     “And yet you won’t agree to the most practical way to match timing. Virgil, O Virgil; what am I going to do with you?”

     “Pick something else that I actually will share, for now.” It’s a fine line between a demand and coaxing her out, but... 

     “Hmm.” It is nervewracking when she goes as still as stone. Nothing to read, no hint as to what might be going on in her mind. “I suppose even I can see the sense in practicing some amount of engagement, if only to watch you fumble about while trying to teach me a new skill. If, as you’ve said, you’re interested in my protection, I don’t think I’m going to need to master the same talents as you. I won’t call attention for such a thing as this, but I will agree and be held by such words, that so long as you choose to make the attempt — and you do not wake me up before I’m ready to be awake — I will make a similar attempt to familiarize myself with your chosen skill of each morning. I believe this ought to leave you enough room to make something of interest happen for me in the mornings. Yes?”

     “Yes,” he says, a little wrongfooted by how easy this agreement has been to pull from her.      

     “Well and good. Was there anything else you wanted before the morning ends?”

     With the small victory, it seems worth pushing at last night again. She’s more animated now, maybe it will be alright.

     "What were you dreaming about?" he asks, wondering if she'll acknowledge it, or even remember it happening.

     There's a sudden bitter twist to her smile. "Does it matter? You'll always keep me 'safe'." She watches him with eyes that are curiously blank, a studied control matching that of the wall against their connection. Neither give anything away. 

     "How often do they happen?"

     "Often. Many nights, most nights, or perhaps I am simply active when I'm asleep. I do not often have a bedfellow who I would ask about this. Will you try to defend me against myself once more? Or is this an offer to find out for yourself, personally?” The purr drops back into her voice now that she’s on more familiar ground. 

     He ignores it, for now. "You can't keep having them. You hurt yourself when you're like that."

     She laughs, as openly as yesterday, but it catches sooner. "Short of keeping me awake indefinitely, there is no way to prevent them from happening.  They are a part of me. They might even come if I was awake, I haven’t tested the theory. A gamble every night.”

     He turns this over, and she breaks away her attention, looking out over the passing scrub brush and a startled herd of something like antelope. 

     If it would prevent another night like that... 

     "Alright. We'll do that.” At least, stay awake until he can’t. The gaps between will grow greater with practice. And there has to be a workaround to prevent a mortal fully dying every time. 

     "Do what?" Her thoughts are no longer with him. He can almost feel them pulling her away from him.

     "We'll both stay awake."

     She laughs again in disbelief and turns to face him in full, answering the challenge. "You cannot keep me awake forever. Even you have to sleep." 

     "I can handle it." 

     Maybe make it so half the brain can rest at a time. That could work. Fish do that sometimes, right?

     "I will not. It will make me more unwell than the nightmares themselves."

     "You said you could sustain yourself by the way you kill."

     "Only in emergencies, Virgil. I will collapse if you dare this." There is something like active delight at the prospect of this marathon, between alarm, wariness, something unnameably afraid, and fury at his daring. “And it would not serve your other stated goal of protection. Further, I did not agree to your upheaval of my decisions, only that you be allowed to stay. You overstep.”

     “Maybe. Do you remember what you said last night?”

     “Be more specific. You are treading on dangerous territory, Virgil, I will do you the courtesy of warning you.” Compression; mostly leaving anger.

     “You said that you’d be having more because I’m around. You expected to already not rest while you’re sleeping, so if you’re not going to feel rested, you might as well be tired and not have the dream. Right?”

     “May all the Bishop’s Chosen lose their best-loved zealotry! I also said that you are enough to unsettle my mind. My correctness doesn’t mean I shouldn’t at least make the effort of resting up on a given night.” Even with as much displeasure as she’s showing, she still takes the moment to look him over again. “I see that you are set in this course. I won’t agree to be pleasant company, I assure you; I also stated last night that I dislike having choices taken from me. I will allow you to make this effort, and even to repent of it should you come to your senses. But mind you now, I will find something of equal proportion in response to what this will do to disarray my equilibrium. Be warned.”

     Something chilly runs across their bond, from her to him, and it makes him shiver in a way that mere temperature wouldn’t. It won’t matter how much he pries or gives in at this point.

     “I understand,” he says, levelly.

     “Do you,” she muses, and pointedly turns away from him. 

Everything goes quiet

It's like I just can't move

You say I might as well try it

There's nothing left to lose

Nothing will change if you never choose

Chapter Text

We were passing through the shades that the 

heavy rain weighs down, and we were placing our 

soles on their emptiness that seems a human body.

     Waking, it’s difficult to separate dream from reality. Sweetness from sleeping lingers behind, heavily flooding through my senses. The room isn't swaying like the ship’s bunk, the mattress is wide and comfortable. The alcove of the bed is beginning to fill with indirect sunlight which has poured into the room so deeply that it reaches even in here and lights up the white sheets with a mellow golden color. The lacquered wood panels gleam, honeysuckle floats on a soft breeze throughout the room.

     Miracle of miracles, there’s a coming pleasant, drowsy realization of a weight on my shoulder, the gentle warmth and softest of whispers of breath, the light pressure on my chest. Further awake, the rippling contentment of piecing together that Aurora has curled against my side at some point in the night and is asleep on my shoulder. It happens often, and still, every time it’s a wonderful moment of existing in a dream. 

     Even if it is sometimes frustrating how she never looks anything other than perfect while asleep. How is that fair? 

     The sheets and quilt are all rumpled up around us both. I hold still, just letting it all settle into thought and confirmed reality both. There isn’t even anything I could paint, anything at all that would capture the gentle proximity that makes all of my nerves tingle, not unpleasantly. Nothing better than just being here, right now. If I move, it might break the spell and start the day. There’s so much to do, and right now it seems as unreal as whatever shadow thoughts must have been filling my sleep before this...

     At the same time, the temptation grows; she’s still, now, like a hummingbird nesting. She would stop during the day if I asked, but she’s so busy that I can’t possibly interrupt her with something as slow and simple as reassuring myself that I’m not dreaming, sliding my fingertips like a brush over canvas across her cheek, or her shoulder. The sunlight grows, but she doesn’t wake from the reflected light. How can I wake her up just to convince myself of something so clearly true? Something so soothing and exciting at the same time.

     The light grows. Her fingers flex just slightly, then relax.

     What is she seeing now?

     The first steps in the hallway break the spell just the slightest amount. Early morning travelers and the staff are moving around out in the hallway. She’ll want to be awake and starting the day soon too, off on another whirlwind of trips from one house to another, making friends with all the people the good Captain recommended her to. Tea and merchanting and whatever the weird game was with the arches in the grass and the balls and mallets. All the rest of the society things that are effortless when she does them. 

     I might as well. I’ll need to wake her up anyway.

     Her skin is soft, and the delicate structure of her face feels as fragile as any bird wing. The long black silk of her hair, despite being tied back, has escaped to trail down her neck, framing what has to be a relaxed expression. It’s hard to clearly see from this angle, but it must be true. It always is, when I can pull off waking up before she does. 

     She’s very asleep even now. I trace the long lines down to her shoulder, and again. 

     If you were awake...

     I have to stop thinking as loudly as I do. Every time I do, she seems to hear me. Still. From before her leaving, to now with her unbelievable hearing that at least has a reason for her to be able to do it, every time I think with too much wanting, she hears it.

     Just now, there’s the small motion of her body as she returns to wakefulness. The tension returns to her with the control. She practically purrs as she comes back. The sound, this close to me, sets my heart racing again; exactly where she can hear even without trying, so close to my chest. 

     She lazily opens her eyes, slowly blinking as she comes fully into the sunlit world. It only takes a few seconds to realize where she is, and she looks up at me with her smile growing surely as the dawn. There is still a trace of the heavens remaining, and more unusually, the remainder of tell-tale glimmers of blossoming gold that fade away behind the steady pearl-gray clouds.

     “How long have I kept you here?” she asks, without lifting her head off my shoulder. 

     “Not long. The sun’s only been up for a little while. You could even sleep longer, if you want,” I offer. 

     She slides her arms around me completely to hug me close, and there’s a moment of hope that I know is false before it even raises its head. I already know she won’t take me up on it. 

     “I don’t think I should. There’s too much of the world for us to see. Besides,” she says, as she pulls back, rolls up onto her elbow so she can look down at me all backlit with a halo of sunlight. “There’s a lot to do if we’re going to be ready for the dinner.” She leans down and lightly kisses me on the nose before sitting up fully. Stretching upward, she twists and turns her wrists slowly, reaching out and down through the very tips of her fingers as if dancing. "Mmmm. Come with me, Cailen!" she says, as she tumbles herself out of bed. 

     "Where to?" I ask, but I'm already swinging my legs out over the edge of the mattress. The floor is warm and the black floorboards have begun to collect the heat that is charged all day and released all night. 

     "Nowhere, really, just over here. We can move the table and chairs a little bit more and we'll have room for us both to warm up, and then we'll have breakfast."

     I try to repress the bubble of dread that rises up. Some of the 'warm-ups' she does can be very complex. 

     "Please? I promise I won't start with anything hard. It just gets lonely, even if you are sketching me while I practice." She offers her hand to invite me off the black wood step and onto the warm floor. "I'll show you how to do everything. Please?"

     I let her pull me down off the step onto the floor. “If you’re sure,” I agree, but it still seems like it's going to make me too tired to help her with the rest of the day. 

     Oh, well. It sounds like a good challenge at least. Maybe it will be useful.

     We clear the floor, and meet back in the middle. “How do we start?” I ask. 

     “Just a warm-up. Stand like this...”

     It might not be hard, but she makes the entirety look so much easier than it is. Easy motions, rolling out my neck, loosening my shoulders, hips, knees, ankles, a few that I’ve seen strengthen up tendons and muscles. Somehow, by the time we reach the end of those stretches I’m thirsty, overheated, tired, and all of my muscles feel somehow rubbery and also awake. There are also several new muscle groups that I suddenly understand the purpose of. It’ll help with sketching later, but right now I wish they were slightly less apparent. 

     “Here.” She pulls back a chair against the desk in the wall, sets a pitcher of water and a glass down, and a bowl of fruit to sit next to me. “Remember to drink slowly, I’ve definitely had too much water too quickly before and regretted it. I’m going to finish a few more, so be sure you save me a peach or something else. I think all the plums are gone.”

     “That’s fine, I’m taking it slow. Like you said,” I grin at her and she brightens up again in a way that makes even Sol’s lights seem dim. There are faint traces of a high flush in her cheeks but it’s too hard to tell if it’s from exercise or from me having joined her this morning.  

     She completes the set she started with me. It takes her a while to get through all of them, but when she isn't stopping to correct — no, she called it 'guiding' — my attempts, it goes faster. She is as graceful as always in every line, sketching out a series of exquisite forms of bending and reaching and shaping air instead of another person or a fan.  

     Maybe one day I'll be able to keep up with her. In the meantime, there are other things I can do to make myself useful. 

     "So what errands do you want to start with today?"

     "We're going to have to ask Nora if anyone downstairs can add them into their routine. You and I are going to work on the finer merits of dining in a potentially hostile group. We’ll make it a points system, and you can see how many you can get. If you want, I think we can take part of the week off to do whatever you choose. Let’s see. I’ll keep a total number of points. Whatever the percent of the total that’s how much of the next week we stop work. What do you think?”

     It won’t be 100%, but I might get half. Maybe even more! How hard can it be?

     “Where do we start?” I ask.

     As it turns out, the etiquette is very hard. Information on spoons, and napkins, when to put a plate on the table, when to take it away, how long it takes one course to be eaten or discarded, down to what the proper expression on my face is, even. 

     “You’ll have to just plan to think of something boring, then.  You show many of your thoughts in your expression to someone who knows how to read faces and social cues,” she says, sitting beside me where I’m lying with my spine to the floor. 

     At least the floor won’t need any etiquette from me. It’s got my back. 

     It isn’t her fault that we haven’t practiced this before, really. Every chance I’ve had to try to pick it up, I’ve found something better to do, some other skill or something else. It was bound to happen sooner or later. 

     The thoughts break up a little bit when she speaks again. “Well, you did do better than you said you thought you would. And you almost had it that last time.”

     “You aren’t supposed to talk about how I snuggle in my sleep, even if it is in such dulcet tones. Besides, you won’t be talking about that at dinners, I hope.” 

     “No, I’ll save that just for us. But people might suggest some awful things and this seemed like a nice way to ease into it. At least you like it,” she teases, gently reaches out to run her fingers through my hair. It sends lightning all through me, even when I try not to show it. 

     There’s the smallest lift of the corner of her mouth, ready to smile or laugh or...

     Or.

     Turnabout is fair play, she keeps telling me.

     When I catch her hand, bring her fingertips to my lips, the tiniest breath hisses between her lips and she closes her eyes. She lets go of the stiffness of the last hour in less than a second and melts, pleasure from such a small thing written all over her. 

     It takes the air from me. My heart races until it nearly hurts, I can feel it in my throat.

     It makes me just slightly more daring. I kiss the palm of her hand and she sighs and opens to invite the next careful kiss of the base of her wrist where her skin is so fragile, slowly moving up her arm to the inner softness at her elbow. 

     “Cailen,” she starts in a voice that hits me like the first rain storm after a dry summer, and I hesitate. 

     Did I go too far?  

     But she shakes her head and starts again.”Please don’t stop...? If you want to.” She’s having trouble with thought. “It feels...” She shakes her head, at a rare loss for words. Opening her eyes, she’s gone all bright clouds and sunflecks in the gray of her gaze. Her eyelashes flutter when I kiss her wrist again, her lips part barely, a deep flush of color slowly rising.

     Is she overwhelmed with sun-filled warm bumblebee fuzz too?

     All is still in the room, except for me. It’s as if I’ve fallen into an iconic image, or a tapestry. The white lady, white knight, with a sense of certainty and calm. 

     But I don’t want that calm right now. I want to hear her say my name like that again. I want...

     The tip of her tongue runs across her lips, and I need — I need more. 

     I’m not as graceful as she is, as she was when I sketched at the lake, not tall enough either but it doesn’t seem to matter. She is still except to move with me where I pull myself up. An anchor as I flail. Her gaze is slightly downwards, something private forming. 

     Not yet.

     I twist so my knees meet hers, directly in front of her and she looks up easily when I reach out, lift her chin with the gentlest of touches. 

     If you don’t want me to stop, I won’t.

     “Wait for me?” It’s a deeper ask than I thought it would be. It settles on me strangely, as if it doesn’t take hold of my shape.

     She nods, waiting. Waiting as if she’s afraid of scaring me away. Waiting, but I can almost see how hard she’s restraining herself in the moment. 

     What is she seeing now?

     I take up her other hand as well, without letting go. Our hands rest intertwined on the dip of our knees. She holds on very tightly.

     When I press the last kiss on her arm, she’s humming with tension. Her breath comes in short, light gusts of surprise, and her eyes have closed again. Her eyelashes flutter like silk banners in spring winds.

     Wait for her, now. I need to know if it’s okay.

     It takes her a moment of concentration. Something in her expression has shifted. When she does open her eyes, I lean in slowly so I can let go if I’m wrong. I pull her hands, an invitation.

     I hardly need to move before she reads my intent and, matching me, exposes the long line of smooth, tempting vulnerability that is her throat. Her breath hisses again from her; but along with the shiver each of my kisses bring, is the softest moan.

     Everything goes nerveless, blood drains away, leaving me lightheaded. I would have dropped anything if I were holding it. She’s sighed before, or laughed, or any other number of things. Gotten close to it. But it’s... different. Something is different. Whatever it is, it’s almost vibrating through us both. Fate aligning, maybe. Working it out will have to wait. 

     It stirs and heats, that sound, and it isn’t the next kiss, or the next, but the one after that makes her do it again. 

     If that’s the one that makes you feel good...

     I feel almost like I should naturally know what to do, even when I certainly don’t.  

     What would be okay now?

     Like a kiss. Like last time I tried this, before...

     Did she see — this?

     It’s hard to choose where to try it first, but the shivers are greatest...

     There. 

     The first touch of my tongue makes this perfect. I can do it right, this part at least. She has stilled entirely with such focus, such a heavenly softening...

     I remember how she showed me back in Lesser Cherak. I remember how she moved, how she traced over every nerve with shadow-light gentleness, how it drove thought away. If I can do that, if I can manage that ...

     If she keeps her fingers twisted through mine so I feel in every flex how a simple touch is magnified through her entirety.

     If— 

     There’s a sharp knocking at the door. 

     “My lady? Mr. Morag? Might I bring you a delivery?”

     The space of time comes back and I realize how much of the morning has passed. We’ve normally been downstairs by now. 

     “A moment, Nora,” Aurora says, in a remarkably normal voice for someone in such expressed reverie. Even now, I can see her thoughts swimming slowly back into focus, see how far they slipped away from her. 

     Dammit, Nora.

     She pulls together the polite public face, but before she snaps back into the motion of the day, there is one last fluttering of heartbeats and wanting. She pulls us both in for as lingering a kiss as she dares, her lips pressed to mine with deceptive gentleness. 

     Humor apparently taking place of hunger, she pulls away and rises up to manage the interruption. 

     “Later, then,” she says so quietly that I almost miss it. Maybe it’s to convince herself.

     I roll back onto the floor, where the mental and physical workouts left me. Pretend nothing happened besides an unexpected workout this morning that has left me breathless and jelly-legged. I sprawl on my stomach until I calm down enough to face the rest of the day, but it doesn’t leave me as cleanly as it seems to have done with her. 

     Seems to have done. When she says my name, it echos in the back of my mind, and once I catch the lightest flush after I think it. 

     Like she knows what I’m thinking.

     The moans remembered keep rippling through my nerves and the warmth of her skin seems to linger on my tongue. I see the slight glances today, for once, when she knows other people aren’t watching. 

     What is she seeing now?

Did those tender words stay in my head?

So many things were left unsaid

Did I give you all my heart could give?

Two unlived lives with lives to live

But when you are back in the sweet world, I beg 

you, bring me to people’s minds: no more do I say 

to you and no more do I answer you. 

     Sonnet stays at the railing all day, silent and remote. Clearly both avoiding him and Paradise, and also Hearts or any of the other bodies shambling around. No motion except what the wind draws away behind her or to the sides as she stands there.

     “She’s nearly an ink brush painting,” Paradise whispers over lunch. 

     As night falls, Sonnet finally does move; but instead of going to her room, which he’d been worried about — breaking in again feels uncomfortable — she moves to the bow, letting the changing night breezes bluster about her until they settle in their new directions. It is the better view during the night. There are few obstacles in front of them, and the stars light an uncertain blue expanse ahead of them. The ship moves without care for the changing landscape, in this darkness, it now seems to be sailing through a more predictable ocean. 

     She says nothing to him, or to anyone; it’s as if he doesn’t exist. She doesn’t even react with his appearance by her side, and there’s nothing to be read from the bond. As ghostly as if she were a true haunting and walking the deck in the endless loops of recurring movement; if he reached out now, his fingers might only catch a misty image born of non-existent ocean spray. 

     It’s a test of his own endurance, standing beside her as long as she chooses to watch the landscape roll by. It’s strange how her muscles can simply stop like they do.

     Maybe it’s because she was pulled out of the jaws of death?

     When the sun rises, she drifts aft-ward without even stretching out any stiffness that she might feel. He’s already feeling it. Paradise comes up, sits herself down and takes out her watercolors again. He will have to stay on top of Sonnet if he wants to be sure she doesn’t sneak in a nap without him realizing. A nightmare up here could be very dangerous. 

     Two hours after dawn, with a look that should have struck him dead, she acknowledges his presence with icy acid in every word.

     “You wanted to show me some trick this morning. Go ahead. Perform it for me.” 

     It’s hard to be put on the spot with his body still complaining. 

     Stretching, then. Maybe she'll remember these.

     “We’ll start with the easy things and work our way up,” he says, thinking through the various options. 

     Does she remember what she taught me? Will she admit it if she does?

     She crosses her arms. “Demonstrate, Virgil. I neither need nor want a preamble.”

     So he does; the fluid forms gently pulling at the tightnesses and beginning to loosen him up. She watches critically, noting every detail. It both warms and chills, this expression; heat in the inspection, freezing intentions in the reading. 

     “All that as a beginning,” she says, and he can feel her gathering herself up. He expects some pushback, but she’s almost concerningly agreeable in action if not word.  

     She slides her arms free of her sleeves without any self-consciousness; he looks away before the loose fabric reveals anything, but she only uses the sleeves to tie to one another and cross over her chest to let her arms be clearly seen; she neatly bundles the fabric around her legs into a coil of a rope that also winds around her and keeps the loose edges away from any interruption of the lines of each position. There are four silvery bands that shimmer smaller as she repositions them into the new knots and twists, sliding over the cloth smoothly. They’re delicate, filigree and slippery looking.  

     “What are those?” he asks.

     “None of your business,” she answers, coiling her hair up fully, using the metal kanzashi to slide in and anchor it. “They are mine. That’s all you need to know.” One last check over herself and she nods briskly. “So. Show me again. I will follow along.”

     She does follow along incredibly closely. He corrects himself twice based on what she replicates. Her errors are ones of unfamiliarity and a lack of practice of whatever it is that she does know. Clearly she's learned something, some practice that makes her endurance seem to stretch out. Nowhere near as long as his, but more than if she was completely untrained.

     They run through the exercises twice before she decides she’s done for the day. It’s more than he expected for the first attempt, with such a particularly long series of stretches. Even with her immediate dismissal of him afterward, it will serve as a starting point. 

     The work is beginning to catch up with him, though, and the growing fatigue is going to be a problem. 

     She seems not to notice it in herself yet. There are other concerns. “Am I permitted to satiate at least my hunger, then? Or will you deny that to me as well?”

     It’s a question he hadn’t considered. “Promise you won’t sleep while you’re down there.”

     “I will do no such thing!” she snaps, but the more concerning sensation is how her power is roiling up inside. “If it is your choice, Virgil, to starve and enforce sleeplessness on me, then I will accommodate you. When this demi-mortal body collapses under the weight of your strictures, we will see how well you enjoy it then. How many days do you think you will sustain yourself? Because this is not a form designed for deprivations such as these.”

     But it’s a boundary to test now. “I believe you would give your word and keep it, but you would definitely find a quiet place to the side of whatever mortal you’ve decided to kill and sleep there. And then twiceover, I wouldn’t be able to keep you from hurting yourself.”

     “This could be solved so simply if you would just agree to sleep with me. The bed is more than big enough and you could act as you did two nights ago.” She isn’t reaching for seductiveness, despite the fact that she is untying her sleeves, unwinding the coil tied around her waist to let the fabric drop naturally around her, pulling the kanzashi loose. It’s as though there’s a nerve here that he’s found unwittingly, and she hasn’t the patience or inclination to overlay her words with any further implications.

     “No.”

     “Then no. Go drink your tea; Paradise has taken your side, and has black brewed already.” She pushes past in a radiance of cold dignity and the sheer force of will and everything down to her very essence is agitated, pressing on him to make him leave her alone. 

     She’s much the same as yesterday, leaning on the railing. So much so, that the two days bleed together. The differences come from Paradise and small landmarks, because Sonnet is almost exactingly precise about her movements and the silence he’s treated to. The tea helps, giving him small bursts of additional energy, but Sonnet eats and drinks nothing at all. There’s a faint luminescence to her again. 

     What shadow is that, that makes her seem brighter within it?

     The light around her gleams and glimmers, more and more. In the night, in this dark cloud, she is almost as bright as the distant stars. Her eyes are scarlet, and he is beginning to see small tracings of darkness where her caste mark has appeared in the past. Nothing so obvious, yet; but certainly threatening. 

     They run the exercises in the morning, and she again refuses to engage with Paradise or him after she’s finished them. A hard wall is forming up, with them on one side and her on the other. When he hears the screams in the night, it’s impossible to say if they’re from the metal or those trapped below, but they aren’t hers and even in this cowardly moment he clings to that as enough. Enough for this start. 

You be the Beast and I'll be the Beauty, beauty

Who needs true love as long as you love me truly.

I want it all, but I want you more

Will you wake me up boy if I bite your poison apple.

“...great desire urges me to understand if Heaven

sweetens or Hell Poisons them.” 

     I set the bamboo, silk, and paper scrolls into their slots on the desk; slide in the flat papers, gently drop the ink into the lowered well pocket with the overtop to prevent accidents; clean the pen nib and put it with the rest. With my table cleared I can rest on it, letting my sleeves help pillow my head. I nearly got ink on them again today, and even with the amazing skills of our hosts here, I don’t need to put them to the test often. 

     If only the rest would all just open the slightest amount...

     The situation is a mess. I know how to correct all the small errors that are leading to public feuds, how to smooth every ruffled feather back into efficient and compassionate productivity in the upper echelons. I can see it so clearly, the path to take. If I could only persuade her to accept that unspoken desire, she would tumble all the rest into place. 

     It’s no one’s fault that I am as I am, and that right now, I’m half as effective as I would be otherwise. I can see the shape of where I could be making the most impact, the sunlight tantalizing like stained-glass a grass path leading through a sanctuary of trees. 

     I am getting so used to pushing back the golden wildness as an instinct that I barely have to think about it. The gifts of Sol, currently minimized and working in the smallest of ways.

     “I’m going to have to sleep with her, to finish in time. Where can that time come from instead?” I muse, words spilling out under my breath without really registering.

     “With who?” asks Cailen, standing just behind me with his arms bunched around some of the bedding. It trails as if he has a cape sitting at a jaunty angle, I note, as I’m startled into sitting up again and not just melting onto the table. 

     Well, not all bad comes to cause harm, I suppose.

     “Hyacinthe Visorbearer. You remember her?” He looks surprised more than anything else. Of all the things to overhear just then, I don’t think anything like it could even have crossed his mind. 

     “Kind of. Why?” It seems to have rattled his thoughts more than just the moment might call for. Taking the thought very seriously and twisting it around to see what might come of it. 

     “She’s too caught up in wanting things she doesn’t know about.”

     “What sorts of things?”

     I wait for him to catch up from his deep considerations to actual conversation. There’s no point in saying anything at all until he’s got the thoughts sorted; he’ll simply lose track of whatever it is in favor of what he’d started with. 

     However endearing, sometimes not so efficient. 

     "I'm not sure you want to know. However, it would make things simpler if I slept with her. What do you think?" 

     I can see some of the emotions played out across his face. ‘ No, I’d rather you didn’t’ is chased away quickly nearly with a full shake of the head. ‘There must be a reason or it wouldn’t be asked’ lingers with the corollary ‘Are there any other ways to solve the problem?’ Beneath them all and steady as any heartbeat, 'Is everything going to change for us if she does this?’

     No suspicions, as one might imagine from a partner who has just revealed something big like this. There isn’t a shadow of doubt that this is the whole of what we are now, unclouded faith. That’s one fewer thing to worry about, in beginning this conversation. 

     Not really the most ideal time for this, but I suppose there isn’t going to be an ideal time for us, and it’s sitting between right now. No walls, no festering. It’s how we do this. 

     We need all the connections, money, and support we can get if we want to reach the Northern Cities, see the Holy City by travelling the road, take our time to go South around Cherak’s borders to the East and down to Rathess.

     This is still going to hurt him. How do I make sure that this doesn’t hurt him as badly? At least I’m not leaving this time. I can do that much.

     His arms tighten around the sheets, but he comes back from wherever he was enough to hear me.

     “Are you alright? I know this would be... different to our usual. If you agreed and we tried this, it would make everything go so much more quickly. I’m certain it would. Nonetheless, I know... I know it’s a very big thing to ask. If you don’t want me to do it, I won’t, I’ll try to keep thinking of other options. It’s only that it’s been a week, and I can’t see how to make it work without her, and it doesn’t work with her yet... I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath, trying to keep my focus small and unrelated to the paper that feels like mockery just over my shoulder. “There’s only so long I can keep everyone in stasis before the world outside undoes my work. And I know we could be leaving in a week or two. Truly, though, if it’s too much, I’ll find out some other way to make it work, sooner or later.” 

     Breathe, let him think, let him speak.

     He’s doing some kind of calculation, weighing it all out as if mixing ingredients for paint.

     At the last second, he comes back and tries for blankness. 

     He is getting better at guarding. Should I regret that?

     “When do you want to schedule them all? and for how long?”

     “What?” A force that I was anticipating is abruptly absent. 

     He might not have his face figured out yet, but he’s managed to level out his words exactly like he’s been trying to do. “I’ll leave specific nights for us, and then you’ll have business nights. How long will a good estimate for time on a night meeting be? I’m the steward, so I’m supposed to manage this sort of thing.”

     I reach out for him faster than he expects, I think. Everything is better feeling the two of us close like this, arms wrapped around eachother. His breathing slows down and his muscles relax a hair. Whatever else we’re doing or saying or thinking, this is the correct way of things. Creation will be in order, we just have to piece it back until it’s whole again.

     “I don’t know, I’ve never... I promise I will come home as soon as I can, even if it’s too late for the singing birds. But you’ve been with me through the rest of this thing, and I don’t know what the answer is, so we’ll have to find out together. We’ll choose all of it together, plan as much of it as we can...” There is a general loosening of his arms, less of a crushing hold, while I’m rambling, which has to be a good sign. “I would invite you to come also, but I don’t really think it’s the sort of thing that either you or she would enjoy. So that part will have to be separate, but who and when and how often and all of those things... will that make it at all easier?”

     There’s hardly a skip in the words, now; “I think I would prefer —” his preference is written in the way he squeezes me close again, absently pulls his thoughts back as easily as I have with the golden energy, finally pulling away with a last smoothing stroke along my spine.

     It’ll show in his eyes.

     “— I would prefer to see the patterns you have lined up, so we can make sure you aren’t missing anyone, and then plan around the order you need everything to happen in. It’s a different type of work that has different hours, and we’ll need to make sure you’re actually taking time where you aren’t working and not just trying to fit everything together without remembering that sleep is a thing.” He catches up the sheets which have fallen down around us, and dumps them onto a nearby chair to be dealt with later. 

     “Thank you,” I say to him with all seriousness, making certain I have his full attention when I say it. 

     He shrugs, the hint of a smirk beginning to build. “You’re the best at whatever you put your mind to. If you can’t get it all sorted out for everyone here, and get us on the road before the end of the year, no one can.” 

     “I couldn’t do it without you, truthfully. I already know you’re about to poke all kinds of holes in my carefully considered plans. Were you in the middle of laundry?”

     “Not the middle, no. I made the bed while you were still cleaning up the ink spots on the last page. I was just bringing these out to the hall. They have the laundry baskets out there waiting for all the sheets in the rooms, but no one wanted to bother you and I got the short straw of just doing them myself.”

     “I’m... sorry for the inconvenience. Again. I don’t know how time keeps escaping me like this.”

     “You’re busy, and the passing seconds of time are trying not to interrupt, much like the staff. Pull everything out onto the floor and we’ll look at it. I’ll even put these in the hall first so we don’t inconvenience anyone else,” he says, and sounds entirely back to normal. 

     Maybe I will stop watching for the tension whenever he mentions our plans.

     Maybe this transition will be simpler than the others.

     Maybe one day, I will stop lying to myself.

     For now, I scatter the flotsam and jetsam of many lives across our floor as if performing some magical ritual. 

     Maybe I am. 

     It’s a bigger puddle of information and letters and notes and pieces of silverware holding everything steady on the ground than I’d expected, but once we begin it does generally collapse back down the way I’d think it would.

     “I think it looks solid. You predicted the way someone would hold their spoon last week without meeting or knowing them, so there I’m pretty sure that you’ve worked out what everyone is going to do more accurately than they have.” He’s twisting a quill through his fingers like he would a paintbrush, tumbling it around like he’s going to use the feathered end instead of the nib. I’ll have to cut the tip fresh again; we’ve gone through five of them here from his fidgeting, and since he’s been collecting the feathers for something...

     You have to be doing that on purpose. Just a little bit. 

     “‘The stars incline us, they do not bind us.’ Mustn’t forget that! Even with all my planning, someone might decide to change one small thing and we’ll be completely off track again.” I lean forward to slide the weights off the pages.

     “What’s that one from?” 

     “The fork?” 

     He sighs overdramatically and I have to laugh. “Obviously not. Come on, what’s it from? I feel like I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

     “It’s from the story. We haven’t gotten that far yet, but I was thinking about it the other day. It has a rather lovely sound to it, and it made me feel better about — some of what Empyrean—” 

     How to explain the feeling of Empyrean and Aurora as separate — they’re both me. So what part of me is knowingly going to make someone change beliefs into something they don’t choose, when it happens again?

     “Well, it mattered to think that inclination and binding go hand in hand, and not even the stars can bind someone against their underlying free will,” I finish off the thought, but have to busy my hands putting things away so that they don’t shake from this underlying anxiety. 

     Everything about the gilded lightness is exquisite, every act and thought enveloped in perfect crystalline echoes that align my soul with the clarity of a total eclipse, and yet... somehow, when the whole of it has passed, there is something very frightening about it. Maybe more of the sublime should acknowledge the duality of the inspired awe, perhaps; but I haven’t met anyone else like me yet, so I can’t know for sure if that’s the answer that will keep me from accidentally binding instead of inclining. 

     “Oh. Fate and free will. Yeah, I think that’s right then.” He grins as if nothing has happened, and for a moment, without a single ounce of a golden mote, Creation and the heavens align. 

I can't do this on my own

And you're the only one that knows

How to hold me, hold me close

I know you'll keep me safe and sound...

Chapter Text

And he to me: “After much quarreling they will come 

to blood, and the party from the woods will drive 

out the other with much harm.

     It happens on the fourth day, just after exercises have ended and he has cleaned himself up to being presentable again.

     They are passing by a stretch of water that smells as fetid as a sickening bog, when they hear, “Ahoy, Captain! Requesting permission to come aboard your ship!”

     It’s unexpected enough that everyone with a working mind comes to the side of the ship, at various speeds, to see what the interruption might have come from. Hearts slows the ship to inspect this newcomer. 

     “Who are you ?” she shouts down, voice carrying easily over to him.

     “Angutis, lately of Kirighast and the surrounding waterways! I’ve been marooned out here by some seadogs running a rig. I’d like to find my way back to the briney deeps, if you’d be willing to take on an old salt. Certainly, I could find my way to sharing some booty when we reach a trading post.”

     The Captain looks thoughtful; Paradise is fanning herself, hiding her expression from this newcomer, but from the side he can see that she’s interested in this new potential companion. A more nautical sounding man. Something wrong about his eyes, but he would fit in with the rest of the crew. 

     Sonnet... Sonnet, he finds, is behind him, up a stair or two from the rest of the group so she can see all of them and the man below. She is lazing against the rail, as casual as anything. Another companion would probably bother her not at all, but her expression is empty by the time he looks back to see it. Whatever she saw, wherever she looked, she is now expressing a sense of an interrupted cat in sunlight. Relaxed, but ready for the interruption to continue if it’s what’s required. 

     “Will you agree to swear not to damage, allow damage to come to, or otherwise interrupt the ship’s natural functions in any way while you’re aboard? I have paperwork ready with the fine print,” Hearts shouts down. 

     “Aye, aye, Captain! Consider it done!”

     Hearts throws a line over for him to climb; he does it with the practice of a long-time sailor. Once aboard, it’s easier to make him out. 

     The man wears a broad belt, keeping his clothes at least somewhat manageable while in movement. It has several buckles and places to hang his property from, without much property to show the purpose. Leather pants, worn but still a deep rich brown; and boots that come to the knee, with a large cuff folded over, which also look comfortable and sea-worn. A cream shirt and black-red velvety vest are both are left open and allowed to move while his chest, and all the muscles therein, are revealed to the air and anyone looking. The sleeves are loose to allow movement, but still tight enough to reveal the muscles again. A short cape that sits large over his shoulder behind him, which does have a band diagonal across his chest, breaks up the perfect symmetry, and he wears a tricorner hat on top of the entirety. He also wears a cutlass at his hip. 

     In short, Angutis is the perfect image of a a swash-buckling rogue.

     I hate him already. He hasn't even done anything and I wish the earth would crush him.

     Hating the pirate, instantly and too obviously; he regrets the lapse in control immediately. Sonnet steps down the stairs around him and glides to Angutis’ side. Hearts seals the pact with the same dark watchers witnessing it, and Sonnet reaches his side before Paradise can even get close. 

     “Welcome aboard, sailor,” she says in a voice that simply oozes invitation. With her current state, four days in, she must be starving; and it’s making her beautiful in a most deadly way. It’s as if nothing else is real, only her beauty and her promises. Even he is having a hard time looking away, but it’s familiar, all of this is so familiar , and hateful. 

     “Shall I accompany you on your exploration of this ship? If you’ve been marooned for so long, you must be in some need of a private room to refresh yourself. I would be most pleased if you would allow me the satisfaction of assisting you.” She presses into his space, setting a hand against his chest as if to stop him from leaving before she speaks her offer entirely. 

     It’s not as if she needs to, but the newcomer — Angutis — fits perfectly into Virgil’s estimation, and slides his arm around her waist to pull her in the rest of the way. “Well, blow me down. A rescue with a waiting fancy woman all in one. Aye, lass, let’s satisfy you fully.”

     He finds he’s gripping the railing much too tightly; the metal is creaking. Worst of all of these mockeries is the look over her shoulder as the two set about the false tour around the ship. There is something of the released anger building with the exhaustion that she’s let loose now, and it strikes him with all the force of that saved fury.

     It is proportional. She wasn’t lying about the magnitude, even if this is... not equal.

     Paradise’s hand lightly touches his, and he flinches away from it. Releasing the metal leaves tension in his body, though, and no escape for it. 

     “It might be wise, Virgil, to step away from this moment, unless you intend to intervene. You have a predicted outcome. Will you try to alter it?”

     “I’m not going to play cards while I wait, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, trying hard to keep the anger away from Paradise. It isn’t her fault. None of this is her fault. 

     Mine again . And hers. 

     “No, Virgil. But watching is only going to make you damage the ship, and I know that damage to the ship will equal some fallout on her head. At the least, turn away. The longer you watch, the more she’ll escalate. Let this fall where it will, and pick up the pieces after.” 

     Despite Paradise’s efforts, and her logic, it is impossible to do anything other than turn away and stand where the wind is blowing the sounds away the most; trying not to crack the railing the whole time. He would simply shift into a form without ears, but he needs to know when danger strikes; with Angutis as an omen it certainly will come.

     Sonnet doesn’t even really wait to be beneath the stairs before she pulls the man in and the noises that come up from below decks are too much. It burns, and his jaw is so tight that it might never release again. The entirety of his senses are flooded with malicious glee and dark pleasure.

     A door slams open, then closed, and at least there is some muffling of what is happening on the other side; but the thought occurs that it will be harder to hear if the pirate turns screams of enjoyment to panic now. 

     Paradise takes his wrist in hand and pulls hard enough to snap him out of some of it. He looks down with almost a haze clouding everything slightly. 

     “Virgil!” She has a very serious expression when she isn’t smiling and there is a line of command in her voice and stance just now. She seems taller, too. 

     “What?” He tries not to bristle in response, but it’s a near thing.

     “You have to let go at least a little, or you are going to lose the kite!” she snaps, frustration and intensity evenly matched in her tone. It’s the most polite tone through which he’s ever been indirectly called an idiot.

     Half a mind does pull away to deal with this new conundrum. “What kite?”

     “Oh, please tell me you at least know what kites are and this isn’t going to be like freshwater fishing again. A kite, a child’s toy, usually highly decorated, guided with string, yarn, cord, whatever it is, that you throw into the sky and keep moving by holding onto the string!” She gestures with the hand not wrapped around his wrist, using her fan as an aid in depicting how it should move. 

     “I know what kites are, Paradise.”

     "Good! A solid starting point. However, I see the idiom has not translated. You are holding tightly to a string because you don't want to lose your kite again. This is understandable. But you lose a kite as easily by holding too tightly and sending it into the ground." 

     "People aren't kites, and—"

     "No! They aren't. But she has survived this long, in her own way , without your guarding, so far. You can make this easier for her, or you can make it harder. You catch more flies—"

     "With honey not vinegar, I know but—"

     "Virgil!' She stops him entirely with what is possibly a precursor to rising power. 

     Glad to see this still just happens with all the conversations I have with Solars. Eventually.

     "I have many thoughts, but I will summarize. First: I do not know that version of the idiom. We must discuss it later. Second, and more relevantly, where is your flaw this time? Let's assume it isn't overprotection, that you're masking. What is the root— is this jealousy? fear? grief? something unrelated to this moment that is like revenge?"

     It rattles him, having it called out so calmly, even with the no-nonsense edge that she has equipped her words with. 

     "This is the best time for this? Really?" he says, as if stalling would make this simpler.

     If I wait long enough, I can kill the gods-damned pirate.

     "I see. This one would be anger, over grief. It presents as jealousy in quieter hours for you. Am I right?" She moves on as if he's agreed already. "Let go, and I guarantee she won't even the scales this way. You have time. You can wait. And night terrors, regardless of how frightening they are, can be made to go away with care and release. Find what it is that causes her the greatest stress, and remove that instead. It will help." She pokes him in the chest with her fan. "Let this spite that she is currently taking part of be the end of it, let her sleep so the rest of us might also find some ease, let this all blow over. Let loose your kite, at least this much. Take a deep breath and think on it, Virgil.”

Two are just, and no one heeds them; pride, envy, 

and greed are the three sparks that have set hearts 

ablaze.

Every pure intention ends when the good times start

Fallin' over everything to reach the first time's spark

It started under neon lights, and then it all got dark

I only know how to go too far

     It’s so boring . She really wasn’t kidding when she told me it was going to be a boring night. I think I’m winning the wall game, though. All of the other stewards have had to be waved away once or twice by their patrons, and with the small cues we worked on together, Aurora has had my pristine service at hand, just like we rehearsed. I could see how much she hated it then, but there’s only a gentle pleasant expression on her face and in her movements. 

     We are the youngest here, for sure. There’s really only one or two people who might even be close, and judging by his face, the youngest is a steward who is probably five years older than us. He looks older, but I’d bet at least his early twenties. 

      The table is set up very strangely. There had been a lot of mingling in the other room, and then they came in here for an official meal. The conversations continue, about who is opening new trade routes, who has just discovered the value of a new resource, or the value of an old source rediscovered. Aurora seems to know all of the answers whenever her opinion is asked. I have no idea how she got this much from the shorter letters and notes and records she’s had. She could have written books on the subjects, but I see her holding back. And I see that there are others at the table who also see her holding back. Some of these are people who have mildly polite expressions but are probably on our side. 

     Whatever our side is.

     The others... at least two of the others are not friendly and are having a harder and harder time keeping that dislike in check. One at the end of the table is a woman who has drunk deeper into her wine glass than is maybe wise. I try to turn to guard from her without moving my body at all. When she’s referred to by her neighbor, she introduces herself as Caxa Fazir. 

     The other one is a man sitting near the middle of the table between Aurora and our host — Captain Okya’s cousin, Edete. He has drunk less, but I can see Aurora keeping a loose focus on them both while she talks to other people. 

     “The young lady, Daughter of Heaven’s Aurora... of House Aphelion, I understand? I have been simply fascinated to meet you in person,” he says. “Have we been introduced yet?”

     Aurora dips her head in acknowledgement, and I know exactly which smile she has on her face because of how many times I’ve seen her turn it on other people. 

     “Unfortunately, I haven’t had that pleasure. It is fortuitous that we find ourselves here, now. Your reputation does proceed you; you are the son of Lady Cruzada, I believe. Ayme, yes?”

     He smiles back. I look for cracks, because it seems like a solid mask on his face.

     “It is, but even were it not I would claim it simply to firmly take this opportunity in hand. A delight to be conventionally acquainted. Perhaps you would be willing to discuss with me some rather impertinent questions? It is a personal pastime of mine that I corroborate tidbits against the widely embellished gossip I hear all the time. “

     “I suppose it depends on what sort of impertinent questions they are,” she says, “you’ll of course excuse me if I fail to live up to the standard of the gossip you’ve heard; I’m afraid I’ve was raised in rather sheltered position.”

     “Of course. But you really must tell me about your little refugee agenda at home. I hear it’s a smashing success. Houses along the coast have been struggling to imitate your results. Or rather, I will speak bluntly.” He leans in with a smile I’m certain he intends to be charming. “The Houses have been trying to match your profits. Cherak has finally made its mark upon the map.”

     “You’re kind to suggest anything we’ve done at home in aid of our less fortunate neighbors measures up to what the Great Houses have been able to produce.”

     “From what I hear, it’s not a ‘ we’ ,” he says. He leans his head onto his hand, elbow fully on the table between the plates and food. Aurora has explained to me over and over and over again, why I shouldn't lean my own elbow onto a table and I see her point a little bit. I really don’t want to look like him while I do it, even if it doesn’t flip the table over like she says it could.

     “This transformation is entirely thanks to your efforts. Since your return, the laws and practices seem to have been enacted much more easily. It’s almost as if you have some enchantment to your very words,” he says.

     “I think your sources are mistaken,” she says gently, sipping her drink with the polite shield of her sleeve giving her a moment's respite before the questioning continues. 

     This is the part she said I’d have to keep my face blank. 

     If I’m supposed to beat the poker face of everyone else in the room, I’m in for a real fight for first place. I’m not entirely sure that one is even a real face. Maybe it’s a very clever mask.

     She doesn’t seem ruffled at all. “My father has always had a great appreciation for artists and artisans. He was merely able to fill the quota of support in order to allow them to flourish. Speaking of which,” she slides in as his mouth begins to open again. “Have you seen our tapestries of late? With the additional hands to support the crops, and spin the thread, along with the weaving techniques, we’ve combined the skills of several artisanal houses into something that I have yet to see elsewhere. I was speaking with your mother of such a thing, earlier in the evening.”

     “But of course,” he says, and I smile. 

     Point for us. I think.

     Wait, I’m supposed to be blank.

     “You must admit that even if the colors and weave are familiar, the fineness of it has been wrought as precious in and of itself. I hope to honor their efforts moreso upon my return.”

     “Yes,” he says, nodding as if he is truly as interested and friendly as he is appearing to be. “And when will that be?”

     She shakes her head just the smallest amount. “Are you tired of my gossip so soon?”

      “My dear Aurora, not at all,” he says her shortened name casually without being invited to do so. It’s an attack, for sure. I just have to figure out all the ways it is one, now. 

     He continues. “But among the other interesting whispers I have heard was a fantastic tale of your escape in the dead of night from your family with little to nothing to your name. There was a tinge of unpleasantness to the tale. I would hate to think this venture was one without a happy ending.”

     She laughs, hiding behind her sleeve again as if she is embarrassed by the sound in this situation. “What a charming fairytale! Does the tale you heard say anything as to the nature of my escape? Perhaps a lover stole me away? Or some deep tragedy struck, and I was forced from my home by a witch who has usurped my position? What fun!” 

     The guest to our left laughs at her sudden enthusiasm, her hands fluttering about to pantomime love or loss in miniature. I see the guest to our right take interest in our charade.

     “Better yet,” Aurora continues in light and bubbling good humor, “perhaps I have set out to seek glory and riches to keep my parents in their growing age. I can just imagine the look upon my father’s face if he were to hear that one. Any mention at all that his... wealth... is showing and he will hide himself away for days, coming up with list after list upon the subject.” She mimics her father’s stance and tone. “Item the first, acquisition of such measures as to prevent the shine of silver from seeing the light of day.” 

     She’s been watching how I do it — that gesture isn’t his. That still was pretty good.

     Our neighbor to our right actually does a guffaw and leans forward. I’m pretty sure that’s what a guffaw is. They do seem to be on our side, so that’s alright. 

     “Young lady, I am certain your father will be both pleased and dismayed that you have represented his interests so completely. What will you tell him when you have returned home again?”

     “Simply that, as always, the tales of his wealth of years are overestimated, the wealth of experiences underestimated, and his wealth itself negligible,” she says, and witty or not, they’ve all drunk enough to break into uproarious laughter and the man gives up for now. Neither of the newcomers return to that conversation at all. Nothing needs to be done, except to keep my face blank and to stand still. It’s all fine. 

     Even when food is served it feels fine. They talk about concerns in trading with the Northerners along the Holy Road, and to both Aurora and my excitements — stay blank, stay blank, think about Sage’s lectures on how to dust properly — the conversation turns for a time about the rare and exquisite airships which sometimes fly over the city on their way north or south. They glide on gossamer sails, gleaming ruby and golden in the sun, as brightly as any gemstone.

     Captain Okya’s other cousin, the trade officer of Whitehall who is down here on business, speaks on artistry in stone etching and carpentry. He spends a lot of time talking about the details of the latest contraption he’s seen ferried across the borders. 

     “It’s designed to capture the wind and water. It channels it through a series of cogs and wheels to power hearthstones. It doesn’t matter the failures the engineer has had to go through,” he says. “He has persisted in the face of adversity and even tragedy. I have heard that incorrect channeling led to an explosion along a leyline where the stream waters overlapped.”

     “Was anyone hurt?” Aurora asks quietly. 

     “He was incredibly lucky,” says the cousin. “No permanent injuries, and they found everyone who had been in there.”

     Across the table, Ayme rolls his eyes. “Don’t you ever let up?” he says, and finishes his wineglass again.

     “No,” she says quietly. “I don’t.”

     At the end of the table, before anyone can speak again and leave the topic behind, Caxa Fazir rustles her fan and sighs. “I have often heard of artistry arising from difficulty; I find myself somewhat exhausted by this trope. For what truly constitutes a tragedy?” she asks faintly, as though speech itself might do her some great injury. “Can there be no great beauty without a catastrophic beginning?”

     “Of course there must be,” chimes in Ayme. “But you must agree, Caxa, that the poignancy of such a beginning makes the whole of the work more exquisite for the mark of suffering.”

     “One who merely grows with the training and resources provided needn’t strive as emphatically towards success, we certainly would all agree. They may never reach their true potential as the need for success does not determine their life or death,” says the one sitting next to Caxa..... what was it. Nardecek Ryoras! One of those who isn’t clearly on our side or the other. 

     Why are these matrilineal families so caught up on complicated names?

     “Why, I have heard Igajak’s talents were overlooked because of the exact thought. Their greatest endeavor was lessened because of their background. Is this fair? Or ought we to be appreciating the creation without consideration of the author?” Ayme answers again, with another sip of his newly filled wine. He has not taken his eyes off Aurora except to have his cup refilled. “And how might the talent of an underfunded and overlooked artist compare to the hard work and tenacity of one granted the tools and power of an elite backing?”

     It’s hard to keep a straight face here, to be serious and unemotional. Aurora has calmly begun to eat her dinner again with a quiet that doesn’t look good from what I've seen before. They clearly want her to answer back. Or me. 

     They’re comparing us both right now, without even knowing about it. 

     “This respect is due to those who excel within their training,” Caxa animates herself once more. “We would praise the musician for their continued prowess rather than the engineer's inadvertent creation, would we not? And with this in mind, how must we look upon our own works and efforts? Surely the good we propitiate must be valued as much as any outlying singular effect?”

     Both the Trade Officer Cousin and Okya’s other Cousin Edete are starting to become aware of the situation. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her flush. He merely sits back, watching it unfold. There’s something like a teacher watching a student in an exam in his expression.

     A man at the far end of the table — Leso? — who has thus far not heard the conversation previously joins in with enthusiasm.

     “Besides; what of the actions we take to provide recourse to those who strive, without promise of a return?” He waves his tankard airily. “We do much for the sufferers. What tragedy is continued failure to rise? It is even more pitiful to see them languidly in their place.”

     All this I see in the peripheral, because I can’t take my eyes off Aurora. With all the pressure of the other diners attention, she has been continuing to eat her dinner as if she were being ignored in the room. At this...

     She gently sets her chopsticks down. “Surely you don’t see the accident of birth into a lower caste or status as a personal failure, Leso,” she says gently, catching his eye as she addresses him.

     Ayme sits up straighter, with greater interest. He looks to her, to Leso, to ... me. 

     Dusting the curtains must be done from top to bottom, otherwise dust from above will simply recoat and undo your work from below!

     He smirks, and sits back in his seat. 

     What did I do wrong just now?

     No time to think about it.

     “I have known many skilled and dedicated artisans who through no fault of their own have been unable to rise through the milieux to even my seat. Surely this is not a slight upon their efforts, so much as the society around them.” She is assured in herself. Whether she saw what just happened or not, she has addressed Leso directly, as if that were the only discussion at stake. 

     Leso looks back. Something shivers over him and he ducks his head away, disguising it as another swig of his tankard. 

     “Ah, Aphelion Aurora,” drawls Ayme, and there’s something in this addressing that I can feel is disrespect again.  “You have entered with quite the cutting perspective, I think.  Hopefully our dear Leso will recover. Nonetheless, you seem to have had the greatest success in helping your chosen reach a more consistent position.” His eyes glitter. “But your own inheritance leaves us with little doubt to the value you place upon elevation. Your parents must be elated they still have you to depend on, if even half of what I have heard of your house is true.” 

     She turns to him, to answer, but is cut off by Caxa at the end of the table. “Is it true that your current steward is one of your valued foundlings?”

     I can’t hide the brief surprise, and I know it. 

     Dust! Dusting under the bed requires three sizes of duster!

     Aurora sounds as if she were still asking about the process of exchanging carts along the Road. “Would you, Caxa, please me by explaining what you mean by foundling? I daresay, if I understand you as I think I do, your own steward was also disregarded beneath his current station before you promoted him.”

     It’s the same drag of lips across Caxa’s face that I’ve seen Aurora’s mother use for scorn. There’s something red on her teeth, red as the ink on her lips.

     “This is true,” she laughs, and the sound collapses upon itself.

     At the end of the table, Edete is whispering quickly to one of her own stewards and aides. I only notice because the whiteness of her dress is brilliant against the dark of her background. 

     Caxa isn’t done. “My dear Bena was indeed less than he has become. Forgive my verbage, but what a darling you are. I do believe if we set all of our offspring through the tragedies you have had in your youth they might achieve lofty heights as well. I ask again, what truly constitutes a tragedy?” she asks faintly. But she asks also, “I’ve listened to your sparing, yet blunt comments, this evening. Some might find them refreshing. Tell me, did you make such direct comments to the late king, your husband, before he died? I am not certain I will believe you if you tell me yes.”

     The room goes dead quiet. 

     I want to leap across the table and physically throw her out of the nearest door into the midden heap. Or maybe douse her with the wine she’s been overdrinking. 

     Two things keep me where I am. One is the fact that I see Ayme preparing a potential attack of his own. The other... The other is Aurora’s calm and small signaling. It is only as large as it need be, and hidden so you couldn’t see it down where the monster at the end of the table is. Calm, deliberate. 

     She has a plan.

     “Of course, now, no one here would mean to offer anything resembling insult —” Edete tries to soothe the room. Aurora turns and nods just a slight amount in acknowledgement, then turns back. 

     “I see.” It is all Aurora says — and it is Aurora still — while she politely folds her napkin, sets it as should be on the table.

     “You see? That’s all your famously sweet tongue can come up with? You must have an incredible talent, dear , if your... ‘words’... moved him.”

     I want to upend the tea on her. I could do it too. It would break up the meeting completely, but it might be worth it to see that face twist up.

     I hate her. I hate everyone like her, but right now I hate her. How dare she imply...

     But images still flood my mind, as the barb intended, and in looking away to try to break them up, I see others also having those thoughts. Not all of them, it seems, but more than none.

     Aurora lets her hand barely pause at the ‘stay still’ sign, then includes the gesture into putting her place setting to rights with her tableware. At last she flickers through ‘We’re leaving” as she stands. She rises from her seat cushion, turns her back on Caxa, and bows politely to Edete, who looks horrified. “Thank you ever so much for your kind invitation. Perhaps you will honor me with a visit in future which is of the same vein as was intended. I find I must excuse myself. How else will everyone have time to come up with rumors? I expect them to be all at least of good quality, as I’m offering the time to brainstorm just now. Thank you all, I am certain I will see you again.” She bows to the room, and I bow as well on my way out.

     There’s a rattle of surprised laughter from several of the nervous people at the table, including Edete who has looked into Aurora’s eyes and seems more at ease if not peace. At the end of the table, Caxa fumes, and I can see Ayme’s surprise turn into a wily knowing expression. He toasts Aurora as she leaves. 

     But Caxa has one last salvo, lunging to her feet, both hands on the table before her, her fan crumpled and crushed under the strain. “And what did you earn from the king? I’ve heard your compensation for your ‘sacrifice’ was excessive. Did you kill him? How much blood is on your clean little hands, Aphelion brat? Not so clean knees now, if one looks to your steward. How far you’ve fallen!”

     Blood pounds in my ears and it knocks the breath out of me as it does everyone in the room. Aurora is silhouetted in the doorway, exactly on the threshold. She turns back to look, twisting at the waist only. She stands there, lit like a goddess in a tapestry. She glows with the vibrant red of her sleeves aligning with the column-straight yellows of her skirts, the turquoise and lavender brocade patterns peeping through at her shoulders and neckline where they settle and leave her collarbones bare. She has her hair fully up, truly inspired by a woman she saw in the street but that she calls her crown; flowers real and glass scattered through the thick loops and braids to hold steady. She glimmers ever so slightly unreal, without Empyrean appearing at all.

     Caxa looks washed out and ill in comparison, anger and insobriety making her seem ugly inside and out.

     I am going to have to paint this. 

     Aurora has no smile, but it is not the heavy seriousness I’ve seen from her before. It’s more remote. “His death is not on my conscience, Caxa. I would tell you what happened that night, but it has caused enough pain as it is, and I would prefer to keep it from spreading further. And I’ll thank you to leave Cailen out of your malice. Your hatred seems to stem from a rejection from Agillens’ own pen, and therefore the hatred should remain with me. He’s had nothing to do with it.” She pauses, and the room takes a deep breath of anticipation. “I believe that answers your questions. If you all will excuse me, I hope your nights are productive and safe, and full of light until I see you next. Sol’s blessings on you all. 

     The sigil flashes once, but is gone, and then so is she. Somehow moving with lazy grace at a speed I have to nearly jog to catch up with

     Behind us, there’s a moment of extended silence, and the room explodes into chaos. 

     We make it outside to our waiting carriage before anyone else can see or stop us, and are away into the night. I ride on the outside until we make it away from the house, then swing in. The look of the thing matters for the party, but we know our drivers well now and they won’t say anything. 

     Aurora is more languid than I would have imagined. She reaches out to take my hand, pulls it gently to her lips for a kiss, and holds on tightly. With some rearranging, some readjusting, I can hold her against any rattles or bumps on the way home without twisting my wrist in weird angles.

     “Are you okay?”

     “Maybe,” she says, and it’s one of the answers that are startled out of her sometimes, one of those that are only truth without consideration for the consequence. 

     “Is it— Can I do anything about it?” The image of her in the doorway lingers. She has so many different faces now. How could you paint even one of them?

     “Maybe just help me with the flowers when we’re home again. I think I want a bath.” She sighs and becomes a little more animated. “I’m sorry. I don’t think anyone can fight it for me. Not even you when you’re in my dreams.” It gives her a small smile, that fades again with the golden light of a lantern outside briefly flashing the inside of the carriage a bright gold. 

     “Oh,” she says, and the tears come. 

     I hold her; close the curtains firmly — as firmly as you can with one hand — and put my body between her and the only crack left over. 

     “Cailen, I don’t... I know I haven’t really told you...About when I left, when I...”

     “When you left, yeah,” I say, stroking the loosened waves where her hair has slipped free of the needles. When you almost died without telling me.

     “What she said, tonight, it wasn’t— please, it wasn’t—” She’s almost choking on the words, tears renewed and falling hard enough to mark through the layers of cloth over my hip. 

     It wasn’t? It wasn’t what?

     But I know it’s wrong for her to try to do this right now.

     “Don’t tell me if you can’t. You’re not ready, I have enough of the story to know what I need to know, and we don’t have to do anything about what she said unless you need it to happen. You’re still my muse—” I still love you “— we’re still a team. I’m still terrible at following social cues, you’re still the brightest light at that table.”

     She laughs a little, as she’s meant to. “You do know I love you, don’t you?” she asks with what feels like a false calm.

     It is a comfort and a promise the way she says it. It eases some of what Caxa said, if not all of it. “Of course I do,” I say, promptly, because it will make her feel better to hear it quickly. “And I love you.”

     If she notices the speed is different, she doesn’t comment, only holds on tightly. Even back at the inn, where we sneak up without more than a wave goodnight at the night chef — Kysen — she doesn’t want to let go even long enough to pull flowers out of her hair. It takes a few deep breaths before she’s ready.

     When we’re ready for bed, she pulls me close; and even in her sleep when I roll over, she is reassuringly there.

And he to me: Return to your philosophy, which

teaches that the more perfect a thing is, the more it 

feels what is good and the same for pain...

Chapter Text

Remember when the darkness wasn't all you had to see

Remember when a part of you still hoped for what could be

Well I got this suit of armor and a sword I need to swing

     There’s nothing else to do, really, except to listen to Paradise and take a deep breath, getting the anger and seething hatred cornered and ready to explode when the time comes. She’s right about a flaw, if that’s what it is. It certainly hurts like one, filtered emotion running into madness. Tension building already toward an inevitable breakdown and destruction of some sort.

     "Go sit on the topsail yard, or in the crow's nest, and watch for any outside attacks. I will stay here and make certain she is still safe. If I hear the slightest variant to this I will call you. You're still close enough to her up there; I watched you move earlier. Go, and I will wave you back down when it's time for you to come back."

     There's little arguing with the look in her eye, and she holds her closed fan like a duelist's blade. 

     “It isn’t a task that you were given. It’s supposed to be mine.” 

     I’m not going to fail her again.

     She looks up to Yu-Shan and the heavens for strength. "Virgil, I know my ‘task’ better than you. I am not compromised. I have an external point of view. You have asked for my advice, and indirectly for my help. I have set my mind to resolving the difficulties between you until you are both able to do so yourself. If you trust my word, if you believe I will succeed, then climb the rigging. It is asked for your own benefit, and for guiding the next move of this 'game' we three are playing."

     There is no arguing the hope that seeps inwards even through the anger and hatred, through the corruption of energy flaring up in straight abandon, incidentally battering at him. 

     “Any change,” he says, but it’s clear to both of them that she’s won.

     Paradise sighs. "Yes, Virgil. Any change. Now go." 

     It's strange taking her direction when everything in him is screaming to ignore everyone and tear through the ship and any other threat to end this mess. But she’s so certain, the logic hangs true, and if he’s entirely honest with himself, Paradise in this instant feels a bit like Beatrice. Even with all of the turmoil, the echo is peace-inducing. 

     Not enough to keep him calm when there are other interruptions.

     “If you’re GOING to CLIMB UP THERE and take up SPACE , at least TELL me what you SEE! The crew never sees ANYTHING RIGHT !” Hearts shouts out the order before he even gets a foot fully into the rigging.

     “I will,” he growls, trying to contain the pent up anger that may or may not be entirely his own. It really sinks in to him as he's halfway up the rigging that it might be a flood of emotion he hasn’t been defending against.

     Almost all of it is mine. She’s probably making it worse, though.

     It’s an easy climb, despite the wind that picks up and becomes a strong, stiff breeze. 

     He could go up to the crow’s nest, certainly; despite the little door at the top of the rigging being closed, it wouldn’t be hard to pass through and climb up. But it feels too far. A secondary barrier between him and the deck, and that’s one too many. Besides, there’s probably something in there, given the periodic whispers of movement that the wind doesn’t quite muffle. 

     As long as it stays there, we don’t have a problem.

     The view is even more beautiful up here. Seeing from this high above the ground opens up into meadows and rocky outcrops, nothing of dangerous intent. The animal life seems to have heard them coming and gone to ground. 

     He wraps himself around the beam holding up the big sails. Even with a tail extended and coiled solidly around the beam, which is still screaming metal like the rest of the horrible soulsteel, he can still feel Sonnet’s power unrestrained. 

     It is so actively abrasive that it’s painful, the darkness grinding down the walls of everything it touches like waves on rocky shores. There is anger, certainly, but the flood is deep despair and pulling him into the wreckage. It’s unbalancing, and the slight vertigo from the internal struggle makes it harder to track what’s happening around the outsides of the ship. 

     He tightens his tail and legs around the beam as much as possible and extends an arm around the mast to reach all the way back to him again so he can hold on to that too. 

     Through the bond, the pain of the overload is still there; but the echoing words burst through his soul, through the darkest urges and the anger pours through him into what is already there, overflowing... 

     No.  

     He’s controlled this sort of rage before, reaching out now is nothing compared to the initial loss. She lets it explode outwardly, as if surrounded by broken bone, toxins, crispy decayed thorns; the endlessness of her essential being opened to the watchers, drawing in more and more from whatever it is she's doing—

     The air keeps him cool; every time he looks at Paradise she shakes her head. Whatever is happening in there is still enough to make him feel more sick from the energy than the knowledge, but both are eating away at him. 

     A jolt of a flare, a faltering after the abrupt flash catches him back to focus internally. It was nearly a reaching out, a shuddering fragile ghost. It’s gone again like a bird flying through wind-blown falling snow. 

     In the relative quiet on the mainyard, he takes the time to sort through which angers are internal, which are feeding in and amplifying. More than he would have expected is emanating from little insidious cracks, little thoughts, little physical tensions that, released, amount to enough calm to remember. 

     What had she said? I recall a declaration of devotion. No. It was something near that, something that felt... Now, I do have some memory of such dismissal, and for this exercise I will treat this as truth. She had the memory. Memory of a dismissal? Akin to this? An admittance of a parallel memory, or something else? 

     She plays in the words and meanings so easily, does it matter that she used ‘such’...? Does it mean she recalls the dismissal, or my telling her about it?

     It could be either. It might only be words from what has already been said by him, an estimation of the sort. But it had felt so specific. It had felt like a potential agreement.

     Likely not an admittance, for whatever reason it is, she still hasn’t admitted it. She’s playing with her food, who is too stupid to want to run. 

     With it... had he said anything about when it was that she died? It's possible that he slipped that fact into trying to explain to her, trying to remind her. It's maybe even probable. But while the rest of the remembering has caused pain, speaking of the night itself... he remembers mentioning it, but not which wave. From a numbers point of view, it's likely she could have assumed or somehow traced a point of dark fragmentation to another spark, another mind transported into the familiar body. 

     The assurance she said it with, though. One after the other. Was it a mistake? Was it a slip, an acknowledgment?

     Why won't you just tell me that it's you, when it's so clear that you are? What is still hunting you?

     Sooner or later, the pirate will leave. Whether that’s to the hells or simply off the ship doesn’t really matter. 

     Dead would be better. I’m sure I can find a way to make sure that he doesn’t come back. 

     There is a long time to travel, and provided she stays aboard, that’s a lot of certain nights to ask her. If she remembers, she can’t possibly keep up a flawless image for that long. Especially because Paradise is helping. It does mean that asking the right questions is going to be important, especially when she might not be paying full attention. A surprise might get some sort of slip-up, and they can work from there.

     Besides, we’re supposed to be matched. That’s the whole point of Sol and Luna’s decision. Surely I’ll have some small guidance, a tiny hint, something to tell me I’m at least on the path. Baby steps are still steps.

     There’s the sound of something cracking, but it’s followed by laughter. He looks down to Paradise who has a quizzical expression. She almost doesn't have to say anything, because while the decks muffle a lot, they do not block entirely the sounds of apparent pleasure or the following relative quiet. She listens for a few moments more, then shrugs and waves him down.

     He’s about to do so when he notices sudden movement unfolding in front of them, something unexpectedly flat that seems to rise up out of itself into the shape of something ship-like. 

     “Hearts! Incoming off starboard!” he calls down but it is hardly necessary; the size and unexpected shape filling up as if there were wind within a bag of disproportions. When it finishes, it looks like some strange surreal interpretation of a giant yellow duckling with strangely large eyes next to a too-small beak. The wings lift up only at the halfway point of its sides, and if the back were still fully intact it would look somewhat correct. Describable, paintable, but vaguely correct. Instead the back of the duck has been hollowed out to make the wings serve as the sides of a ship that looms over the Cry . There are many figures bouncing around on the deck like overeager grasshoppers. Something about the deck bends and flexes under their feet and sends them high into the air. 

     Sonnet’s in trouble. Or she’s about to be.

     Time seems to slow as he slides down the mast to the deck as fast as he can.

     Hearts is snapping out orders and the meager defenses are put in place. More important to this, she has pulled her scythe free and is beginning to toss it in one hand to confirm the weight, the balance, the readiness. She seems to be counting out the numbers, and the attitude is that of casual familiarity. 

     Any mortals who would try to attack are probably used for food.

     Paradise has packed up all of her things, and politely stacked her table beneath the stairs leading up to the upper deck. It does fold up very small, but thankfully it isn’t hidden in the depths of her sleeves. Her fan is open, a small shield against the impending attack. She has more calm and curiosity in her stance than she really should.

     At least not yet.

     Crossing from the mast to the stairs shouldn’t take more than two long steps, but he has to stop and balance himself on landing. The entirety of the Cry shudders and comes to a stop parallel to the surprisingly mobile duck. It grows arms that reach out to hold the two ships together. 

     “Have at it, Argh Mateys!” shouts the first of the boarding party who bounces on the deck twice, then launches themself toward Hearts. She swirls the scythe in an opening invitation in answer.

     “CLEAR THE DECK!” is Hearts’ spoken response, and the zombies lurch into semi-effective action. Many are trying to mob the invaders, but several break away and try to hack off the weird yellow arms. There’s a dull thump downstairs, the sound of one of the few cannons on board. 

     It is only with supreme willpower, and the sound of Sonnet's laughter, that he doesn’t burrow through the deck to get to her. He just needs to get to that side of the deck and he’ll be able to just step intangibly through the deck and be there, without breaking any of the rules Hearts threatens. Defending the ship comes second, if at all.

     “Don’t leave so soon! We were just starting to have fun.” There’s a seductive crooning in her vowels, something happening below that slows the pirate down.

     He’s dead as soon as I get to him.

     The rest of the invaders have poured over the side. It seems a parody of some sort, every single one appearing as the most classic and expected look for pirates. There are cutlasses being waved about inexpertly, and several are holding them the wrong way with no apparent distress. The pieces snap together with full assurance. 

     “Fair folk,” he snarls and sees Hearts at least take this information in. “Their ship too.”

     Hearts smiles wide enough to remind him of the hunger Sonnet mentioned. 

     This was an ambush, I was right.

     One of the Fair ones tries to intercept. This one is at least holding its cutlass correctly, even if the pirate hat is on backward. “Today you’ll be fighting me, Cyanide, first mate, savvy?”

     Whatever their game is this time, they’ve certainly committed to the ruleset. 

     “Dragon’s teeth !”  It echoes up the stairs hollowly. The cursing of something gone wrong for Angutis. 

     Immediately following, there is a gust of her laughter from below; for a wonder, it sounds honest and free. It feels like an unadulterated joy, tension between them pulling back. The destructive storm is calming. 

     Or we’ve just hit the eye. I just need to get there before... 

     It’s obvious stepping around Cyanide isn’t going to be an option. 

     Through, then.

     It’s been some time since Virgil has stepped into a wyld pocket, and he’s rusty. Invite in the attack, reach across to deflect and pull the unsuspecting pirate in so that the reach of their cutlass is useless. The pirate isn’t going to go so easily as all that; it briefly lets the mortal appearance fall away, letting it dodge around a following punch that should have caught it fully in the chest. It grips his wrist and reforms as far from him as it can be while still holding on, then swings the cutlass for his head. 

     “You won’t make your escape so easily, bilge-sucker!” 

     Presumably the Fair one is getting some enjoyment out of this. Maybe with someone else it would have mattered more. The only part of this that matters right now is that it clearly will follow and harry at him until it can find the right things to say or do, something that triggers the right response. He turns back. 

     Knock the blade aside, push into every possible backpedaling instinct the creature has. No need to waste breath answering. Leave open the side as if by accident— 

     It’s over. Whatever is left dissipates into dry sand and spills across the deck. Even the cutlass is gone.

     He turns back again just in time to see a disheveled Angutis emerge from the stairs, missing half his clothing and most of his dignity. Sonnet is still laughing. 

     A brief turmoil of his own — She sounds fine, feels fine , in conflict with He might have left something behind.

     There is a grinding mechanical sound and the giggling of one of the Fair ones. Hearts has worked her way back down to the main boarding area, bringing this one with her. Angutis decides to take his chances in the Captain’s direction instead of trying to pass a very angry and obvious Lunar and other exalt.  

     “Am I supposed to dislike this, Angutis?” shouts out one who has just been cleaved in half, from both sides of the cut. 

     “You’re supposed to be dead if you do that!” Angutis shouts, and has to dodge the scythe himself as it tears through the air in more ways than one. 

     “Oh,” both halves say, hovering slightly. “How am I supposed to be dead, again?”

     “I’ll show you!” shouts Hearts, and this time she does bring it fully out of the air, off its feet, onto the deck. She dismembers that one, which is still wriggling in all of its parts. Playing more than defending, though the Fair One might not see it that way. Maybe it’s part of their game. It isn’t until that final stroke of the chainsaw on the end of the scythe that they go still and collapse into more sand. 

     She’s frighteningly fast with the scythe. In between every stroke of the blade she reverses and engages Angutis with enough threat that he has to retreat one or two steps.

     All accounted for, in this instant — Angutis could be within arms reach if he lunges for him at the right time.

     He has to be sure. 

     From the top of the stairs, it’s easy to see her. Sonnet's lying comfortably on her back in the middle of the hallway, only nominally dressed; but the light from above illuminates her. She looks rested, relaxed and in an entirely pleasant mood. It looks real. It looks like she’s... happy. 

     “Are you— He didn’t—” There are so many questions to ask, but just now, the most important one is answered.

     “Run along and kill him, I see how much it would satisfy you. I’m more than ready for any other visitors down here; not that there will be. He told them it would be ‘fun’.” Her voice is silken, with laughter caught up behind it. When she smiles, it sends ice down his spine. He can’t see Sonnet for a moment, only Beatrice, floating in some dark lake. “I know how to play this game, Virgil. I’m sure you’re dying to get your hands on him now that I’ve finished,” she adds. 

     And she’s safe enough.

     Turning back to look for his target, he hasn’t lost ground. The pirate is trying to work around to some sort of blindspot where Hearts can’t keep him and another of the folk pinned down. He isn’t having any luck with that; when the blade isn't in close contact, the staff end keeps him tripped up. 

     Movement from behind draws Virgil’s eye before he can move into the fray. 

     What at first glance seems to be a series of sleek black fur, interrupted with strange rings around its legs and arms, reveals itself to be a figure made entirely from top hats. The hats range in all sizes, and around the belly region are the largest of all. It gives the impression of a man in a formal Northern suit, where the top hat itself would have been the final touch. Instead, a red cape swirls around its upper body in a strange parody of Angutis’ swashbuckling style, and atop the Fair folk’s head — or at least, the top hat which is perched the highest on the rest of the form — is a tricornered pirates’ hat, with a feather plume stretching at a jaunty angle almost half as tall as the whole body again. It bends and flexes the brims together and apart like accordion folds to move and to speak. It takes the hat off its head to use as a prop in the sweeping bow it offers Paradise. 

     “Madam! It is I, ship's doctorate come to try my hand at combat this day. I must engage with you in a battle of wits and words as weapons that will nonetheless wound either of one of us who falters! Thus; Society dictates such decisions become brilliant workings out in hindsight!”

     Paradise snaps her fan wide as a shield, but doesn't hesitate or retreat even a step. There is some magic to the words in the air, but she matches it. 

     "I give what welcome is appropriate to one boarding a ship as ours, good sir, from such a one as myself. Four methods searching favored interpreted rememberings decide such.”

     Whatever that can possibly mean.

     Seagulls whirl up from the deck, nearly a tornado of glass and white furred feathers, fluttering and squawking; they group up around the crow’s nest, swarming it before coalescing into two groups, with a third stepping out of the swarm to stand with one foot on each group of whirling birds. It leans in and stabs down at something. 

     Later. 

     He waits until Hearts is marginally distracted by dragging in another target from the clumsy hands of her zombies. Angutis is too close to either press for serious advantage, or just out of reach of the mechanically rotating blade of the scythe. 

     She pushes him back, striking at the feet again, but is distracted by one of the new additions suddenly pulling a trident from the air. 

     An opening... there. He throws himself into the space Hearts has just left open, where Angutis had been dodging. At the last second Angutis sees him coming and somehow throws himself just barely to the side. 

     Barely. Barely out of reach. 

     “What a ship to try to run a rig on,” Angutis says ruefully. “And you certainly won’t give quarter. Not with that murder I see written all over you — looks like a keelhaul’d do you just fine. You’d have to catch me first,” he says with a private smirk. 

     They pace each other, one way, the other, testing the water, watching reactions. 

     “Not much of a talker are you, boyo?”

     “No,” Virgil says, and closes. It’s in flashes; low and fast to kick legs out from under, stretching to prevent escape, trying for contact only twice. The pirate is fast enough to keep dodging, and aware enough of what will happen if even one of the strikes makes contact. They trade sides, but not enough for Angutis to run. Turning would end the fight, not turning to look would send him blindly into Hearts’ orbit as she tears another Fair one to pieces. 

     They slow, reevaluate; Angutis tries a flurry, tries long steps around, considers briefly climbing the stair rail before Virgil presses him again. 

     Back and forth, past Paradise and the strange duel she’s engaged in — 

     The hats swoosh their cape out of the way, as if to dodge a returned attack itself. Launching, it continues in a jovial excitement at a successful parry. “Society dictates shaping Wyld or winding mirage speak less than successful leavings.”

     Paradise nods as if considering the point while pushing the words crisply away from her, slicing them back at the hats. “Shipwrecking unpainted decries salvage of provident prayers,” she says, and takes a step forward, close enough to truly attack with physical strength if only either one of them would initiate. 

     Angutis pulls one of the other folk off balance, throws it into Virgil’s way. It's Angutis’ bad luck that he's so close to Hearts when it happens, and he can't take the time to escape.

     "Wait, wait, wait, I thought only we were allowed to —-” is as far as the unfortunate sacrifice gets before they’ve plunged through the space where Virgil should have been. As soon as they’re through, he comes back solid again, reaches around and drives through the heart, tearing the nervous system apart before the being can work out how to readjust itself into surviving the onslaught, putting every ounce of anger into tearing it apart. Just like the Wyld, just like the years and years of fighting off the scavenging packs or the heavier weighted Unshaped that saw the raw pain of grief and thought he would be easily fed off of. Proving a point by putting down the attacker. He’s had more practice than Hearts, even if she is currently more efficient. He drops the remains, and stalks forward. 

     Up in the crow's nest, three are still engaging with whatever has been hiding in the nest. As he glances up to be sure there's nothing diving from above, he sees a long panther paw lash out, and a seagull bursts into a shower of feathers that sizzle away before they can even fall beyond the main beam of the sail. A crossbow twangs, but the bolt is parried away and turned into an egg. It flies away over the side of the Cry , where it probably cracks upon hitting the ground. 

     “Society dictates rain one way only —cats or dogs from standing searches.” The Fair one matches her with an oblique angle, the pair slowly circling.

     “Assessed skills profiled, Library or Real Estate,” Paradise says.

     “Society dictates how thoughts recall recognition between memorized expectant forms labelled stereotype.“ It turns, pacing back to see if she’ll retreat with the change.

     She laughs, closes her fan with a snap, a glowing smile arising.

     “Humorously, stricken minds organize anamnesis.” She clearly enjoys the words as she speaks them. There is no retreat, she merely makes it change orbit to suit her comfortable stance. Solar confidence used to see off the incursion.

     “Society dictates politically shaken candidates come populace-solidified.” The Fair Folk throws the words out, but somehow it seems less sure of its argument. The parry doesn’t feel as clean.

     “Echoing echoing quarrels chambered grate against twins,” she says, almost sings out. 

     If there’s a following response, it’s lost in another brief flurry. Angutis moves and Virgil steps through and across, turning on deck again; legs hook through and try to catch, to trip up or make contact. He strains to reach any skin at all, but the lack of sleep is beginning to flutter at the edge of Virgil’s attention as the initial adrenaline cuts back. The anger is still more than enough to carry him, it has to be; it just isn't enough to keep his reflexes perfect, and Angutis is leaning into the advantage. 

     Leaning in, overlapping, pushing the retreat or forcing into the positions of improbable contortion; the pirate is lit up by the silver light from Virgil’s own caste mark which has begun to blaze. The mark on Angutis’ face is threatening to show, but Angutis didn’t just spend days trying to keep Sonnet awake and hasn’t burned through the same effort. Yet.

     He is slowing down. I can wait him out.

     Angutis makes a concerted and clearly final effort to escape. In the rush of movement, the pirate makes the dangerous call and ducks back through the scythe swings and jabs, until Hearts’ bubble of scything is between the two of them. She's too busy to focus on them, with the multiple other folk she has currently engaged. 

     "Tough luck this time, boyo."

     "There won't be a second time," he says tightly, measuring out the distance between them, to where Hearts stands.

     Would it be worth the slashes? That blade chews through everything so quickly. Can I make the same run?

     "Let him go, Virgil," says Sonnet, calmly walking along the railing as she stabs deeply into each of the hands of the duck with her kanzashi. There are deep unhappy wailings, and the hands ahead of her are starting to let go before she gets to them. The cold iron burns them, even without the deep gouges.

     "Listen to your lass, there. I see she has the sense for you both." Angutis smirks again, but it doesn’t survive Sonnet coming to stand beside Virgil. Something in the way that she does it makes Angutis uncomfortable— just long enough to rattle him. She slides her arm through Virgil’s as if they are close. As if it is normal for her to do so. 

     What game is this?

     The pirate’s smirk vanishes when she adds, in such syrupy tones that it makes Virgil's teeth ache, "Let the oathbreaker leave. There will be worse in store than what you would deal out to him. Let him hurry along to find what it might be." 

     The color drains from Angutis’ face and he can't help but glance up.

     "Oh, yes. You forgot. I make people forget all sorts of things, but that... that you should not have let slip. Run along, little Green Sun Prince. I only wish I could watch everything fall apart for you..." Sonnet's fingers lie lightly enough on Virgil’s arm. Even with all the rage, the need to drive the pirate's stupid face into the ground, or tear him apart, she can keep him still with barely a touch. 

     He’s so close, I could just pull loose...

     Her fingers leave a chill, but when she leans her head against his shoulder to watch what will happen next, it hits him harder than anything that could have come from one of the pirates. It's something about the way she stands, something that is... right.

     This is progress, of a sort. If he has to live for this to happen...

     In the unexpected, long moment of decision, Angutis flings himself over the side of the ship towards the duck, which releases the Cry. 

     Hearts takes one more of them down, lots of little crab shells shattering on the deck. Above, the other burst of seagulls comes crashing down in a brief shower of saltwater that washes the crabs to the side. The remaining Fair folk up near the nest shrugs, and walks down the air as if on a spiral staircase before jumping onto the duck’s back where it bounces once or twice on impact. 

     To the side, the language battle continues.“Society dictates are, as it presents the rules by which we,” says the hats, as if it has scored a point.

     “Yet, if thinking therefores are, what if are is thought thinking itself, are you even?” Paradise returns coolly. 

     The hats stagger back with its hands over a heart, as if from a mortal wound. When it takes its hands away, smaller hats come spilling out like blood. The ground below the pair is littered with tiny hats. 

     “Society dictates that all must announce a formal and public disclosure upon the event of a death, and therefore, madam, I am slain. Good day to you,” says the hats, taking off the pirate hat in a sweeping bow. There are only more hats. It jumps back overboard with casual ease, and all the tiny hats follow it off the edge of the Cry like ducklings after their mother.

     “Well, then,” says Paradise, who immediately returns to her generally placid expression, gently fanning herself. She is glowing still, from happiness instead of power. A fun challenge for her, this interruption.

     “And STAY OFF!” Hearts says, the scythe flickering in a few more figure eights to clear anything that might be clinging. 

     I could follow them. Even with all of the ones left over, I can take the hit until I finish him.

     “How exciting,” Sonnet purrs. “We can be certain that we won’t see them again; they won’t try to attack a fortified vessel twice. I suppose I’m nevertheless fortunate to have witnessed your skills, if under somewhat curtailed circumstances.” She lifts her head away from his shoulder now, looks up to him. 

     The air is too thin, he must be too tired. The lighting here is strange, under the sun with the brilliant silver of his own mark. Despite her eyes looking completely different, all the colors are wrong, it’s Beatrice. She moves as she used to, down to the active drifting of her fingers along his arm. 

     Do you remember, now?

Even though these cursed people will never enter 

into true perfection, on that side they can expect to 

have more being than on this.” 

Chapter Text

Worlds are turning, and we're just hanging on

Facing our fear, and standing out there alone

A yearning, yeah, and it's real to me

There must be someone who's feeling for me

     At the end of the hallway, our open door is pouring the gentle flickering light of a low fire and candles into the darkness surrounding me. The promise of Cailen and a quiet remainder of the night hover in the forefront of my thoughts. 

     I’m home, finally. 

     The singing birds have ceased for the night; it took longer than anticipated, all of this new approach. It felt... it felt unbelievable, if I’m honest with myself. Full release without holding back the flood of glittering power; watching it rise around us both until we’re both dizzied with it and drunk on each other and thought is meaningless. I feel heavy with the release of everything that has been pent up and trying to come out in little bursts here and there. It would make it easier to think, if only I wasn’t so tired. 

     Nevertheless, when I reach the door, the sight lightens me. Cailen’s sketching while he waits, busily invested in the charcoals and the way they smudge into perfect shapes and shadows under his touch. He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t notice me returning. Some small line is giving him a fight, and he’s immersed in the contest. 

     When the door has been closed and the light contained, I trail through the room, stopping to drape my outer layers where they hang like tapestries, slipping the correct slippers on my feet. Everything has its home, and I weave around him, trying not to interfere with his work. We’ve done this before; the familiarity seems to seep into the fabric of the room and helps to hide the rest of the normal things I would do before bed. 

     By the time I sink onto the low couch near his table, hairbrush in hand, otherwise readied for bed, I can see that he’s coming out of the moment. Which means... 

     “How is it coming along?” I ask. I do wait till his hand is away from the paper, which is just as well, because he startles at hearing my voice much less at seeing me so close.

     “When did you come in?” he asks, recovering from the surprise and deftly putting all the supplies away, everything of his artistry hidden away. One day, he’ll have the room to leave it a mess if he so chooses. 

     “Only long enough to take the day off of me. How much were you able to do?" 

     "I think the hand might be enough to leave for now. I'll have to look at it in the morning. How did your evening go?" The question is cautious, but the sketching was good for him and the release is still running high. Even his evident worry isn't enough to bring his mood down. 

     Did it work, you wonder?

     "It was a very productive evening. Everything went to plan, so we should have pulled it off. We'll be on to the next part in the morning." I can see him battling whether or not to pry — wanting to know and wanting to pretend nothing is changed.  It hasn't changed, not from my mind; I trust him. 

     Maybe even more. As if that were possible. 

     "Were there any last minute requests or notes while I was gone? That is, did you notice any?" I tease. There's an awareness that trails across his face all the way down to straighten his back and he pauses in putting everything to rights again. 

     "There was a weird bunch of letters around seven. All different writers and messengers. Here."

     It's a thick packet, each politely sliced open but clearly unread. A small gesture, to make my day that much simpler. His eye for detail is unrivalled. 

     Most of the time.

     I skim through, sorting them into little piles. Friend, foe, those in potentia. 

     Most are uninteresting tonight; anticipated dinners and lunches with people from Okya’s still-welcoming two cousins’ factions.

     I did make a good impression after all.

     There’s one that is a surprise, from Ayme, who is inviting me to a dinner; and a larger one, using a more valuable paper for both envelope and invitation, with dried flowers pressed inside.

     “Whoa. Who’s that from?” Cailen comes around to join me, now that the only things not put away are these letters and ourselves. He actually looks at the paper now that he’s not distracted.

     “The Hillstars. Viscountess Basilinna, I think. I told you, when we shifted tactics, things were going to go faster. This is what faster looks like.”

     “Wait, really?”

     I hold the paper out; when he takes it, he takes my hand also and doesn’t let go. 

     He reads fast, then blinks in surprise. “If you go they’ll pay for clothes? But you already have nice clothes.”

     “Not ones that are Northern. Completely different wardrobe. Well, I might still be able to wear my flowers in my hair. But the rest is all going to need to be new if I choose to go.  If we go. We can’t just send me to this one, they’ll expect you for any number of reasons. Would you like to have new Northern clothes? I think you’d look dapper.”

     “Dapper,” he says, clearly testing out the idea of me in some new appearance, new and different fabric wrapped around me making different shapes. I’m not sure what he’ll make of the fascination with curves, mostly. And all the extra layers of puffed fabric.

     “We could also go to the party Ayme is throwing, but he’ll take the no without expectation of insult if we say we’re going to the ball instead. They rank higher than he does. It would be expected, I think.”

     That pulls him back from the consideration of different fineries. The disgust that flashes across his face is thorough. It’d be hard to hide a response like that in public, and hopefully he’ll be able to mask it; but here, it’s simply endearing. 

     I can’t remember ever feeling that open about my thoughts on someone. I hope I won’t ruin that for him, if he comes places with me.

     “I don’t get it. He clearly doesn’t like you, and he has to know you are being invited by everyone else on the same nights, even, he said he knew in a note on the envelope.” He digs through the papers single-handedly, refusing to let go of me even when it would make it faster.

     “Well, first, it’s an easy excuse for us not to actually meet while still inviting me. It’s also an easy way of testing the water to see how much traction we have, and who is willing to snub me. I’ve no doubt the messenger we send will be noted and a large number of people will decide after they’ve heard where we’ll be. Possibly the other people offering invitations will cancel to follow one or the other. Which would you prefer, another dinner or a gala?” 

     Either way, I’ll be spending that night, or the one following, at work with at least one person. It’s just a question of who it will be.  

     He considers, balancing out the pros and cons in his head. “Not another dinner if she’s going to be there,” he says at last.

     It startles a laugh out of me. “I very much doubt ‘she’ will be invited to any of these. Whether or not anyone agreed with her, it was unacceptable behavior for a guest. I’m nearly certain she’ll leave town for a long time, whether or not we stay. Besides, her name isn’t on any of the guest lists, I checked.”

     “Is another dinner going to be any more interesting?”

     “Probably not.”

     He nods, and presses his hand tightly against mine. “Then let’s try the gala-thing. It sounds busier.”

     I pick one of the flowers from the envelope, a beautifully pressed daffodil. “Oh yes. You’ll have to be on your game to gather rumors; there will be so many more and you’ll be at the center of many of them.”

     He’s been gradually leaning back against the back of the sofa; that startles him into sitting up straight again. “Why me? You said no one was going to care.”

     I’d prefer that you didn’t care. Everyone else will care a great deal, if only because it adds the slightest hint of scandal without it fully landing on my head. “That was before it was suggested that you are the ‘replacement’ for a dead god-king. Which, while entirely inaccurate, will be the favored story, and people will want a look at you. With any luck, you’ll only get the most gauche rumor-mongers and won’t have to deal with the really malicious ones for a little while longer. It’s one of the reasons you’ll need to be dressed nicely as well, and why I can’t possibly go alone. We’ll need to both be working in perfect unison.”

     There’s a peculiar expression that almost looks like stage fright. “How do you get them to stop?”

     “You don’t. It’s been said aloud. Now you decide how much power you give it. When someone says it, treat it like a joke and move on. They’ll get tired of asking if you don’t give them anything to work with, and faster if you give them something better. Or you tell them the truth, or anything you want. I’ll back whatever you choose.”

     “The truth?” I can see him puzzling it over; ‘ What is the truth, really?’, if I have any guesses remaining to me tonight. I haven’t a real answer for that one, either.

     “Yes. Sometimes that’s the best choice. And I trust your judgment.” 

     He’s thinking about it still when the first yawn hits me. Catching it in my sleeve is enough movement to break him out of the thought spiral. 

     “Bedtime, Aurora,” he says. He pulls me up from the couch and blows out the candle at the table in one smooth movement. “Bedtime. I shouldn’t have let you get started up again. It’s so late it’s early. Nora already knows not to knock too close to dawn, but you do need some sleep.”

     “I suppose, but I missed you today. Sometimes I feel like I only see you at night. Will you pencil in another day adventure, O Steward?”

     It makes him puff up a little, even knowing the joke of it. Or maybe it’s just a last burst of energy after a long day. 

     “I can do that, my Lady, but only if you’re obedient to the whims of the clock and calendar. Like now.”

     “Of course.” He offers me the unneeded hand up into the alcove and I climb up onto the bed. It feels different. Something feels different. But when he follows, there isn’t the burn of power pushing at me. It’s safe.

     It would all be his honest feeling, now. I could be certain that it’s all him.

     “Cailen?”

     “Yes?” he sounds half ready to be exasperated as he climbs up beside me.

     “May I kiss you?” It feels formal, but with the new change and the needing to sleep and all, I want to be sure. 

     The surprise knocks a bit of the air out of him. “Okay, that’s not fair,” he says but I see him lose track of my eyes for an instant in a quick glance to my lips. 

     “Please?”

     It’s a moment of indecision. I see him land both ways, a tidy compromise.

     “Only... a few... kisses. I have to take care of you, even if I— even if I would like to give in to every one of your desires.”

     I love his surprise at his own willpower in the face of temptation; the way he licks his lips when those hungry thoughts return in full, how his mouth tastes sweeter than any power-driven kiss ever could; and how his eyes shine in the banked firelight when I pull him down into my arms. 

Walking alone and the shores are longing

I miss your footprints next to mine

Sure as the waves on the sands are washing

Your rhythm keeps my heart in time

We followed that path in a curve, speaking much 

more than I recount; we came to the point where it 

descends. 

     But then she pulls away and it is Sonnet again. “I see the quality of your service once more. Now then. Will we continue with your vow to remain awake? I have at the very least tasted something of substance, so it won’t be starvation that drains me now.” There’s a threat underlying, but her mood is still too good to really lean into it. 

     Paradise might as well be shouting at him from where she is. She can hear all of it, even if she’s trying not to interfere. ‘ You have to let go at least a little, or you are going to lose the kite! ’

     “Fine,” he says, a little rattled by the impersonation and the loss of adrenaline. It makes the anger and the pent-up energy rattle into a later problem. “We’ll stop.”

     Maybe when I sleep I’ll come up with a better solution to this whole situation.

     “Wonderful! Then I’m to bed today; will you be accompanying me?” There. The sensuality is returned in her voice, but there’s no rasp to it. It pulls at him.

     “Come now. Virgil? Paradise?” she says, opening the invitation. “Would either of you like to celebrate our victory with me?”

     The nervous, angry edge rises when Paradise is included in this potential, but Paradise’s calm response is enough to remind him that it’s only the next step of their game. 

     “While I think celebration is in order, I’m afraid my preferred fashion does not include yours.”

     “A pity. You as well, Virgil?”

     Calm down, either contain or release the anger. The kill got away. She’s only pushing at me to see what the limits are.

     I’m not giving up now.

     “Not the way you’re asking,” he says, trying to pull back confidence and rationality. “Literal sleeping only, either in the bed or on the deck. I’m not in a celebratory mood.”

     He watches how his mark makes silvery light in her eyes dance. Somehow, they remind him of the ocean itself — waves glittering over the depths. Many things, thoughts, emotions float in those deepest caverns and trenches, just waiting to rise. 

     “Mm. I suppose celebration can wait until the first waypoint. But I shall expect something notable when we have succeeded.” She stretches out, long and fully above, to the sides, front and back, as if she is preparing for some great exertion. He looks away. The fabric slides over her skin and pulls back a little more every second. After this... adventure... she pushes right up to the line of hiding nothing. It’s in her clothing, it’s in her words, it’s in her energy right now. Right to the line, but not a step over. 

     She passes behind him. Something thin draws a line from his shoulder blade, along his back; it gets to where his spine would be, but he turns too fast and only barely stops himself from closing his fingers hard on her wrist. He still holds her steady while making sense of the iron kanzashi that she is loosely holding. This time, she keeps it in hand. 

     She isn’t trying to kill me, or threaten me in a physical way. Is she testing reflexes?

     “Well, I can’t put it back into my hair with remnants of the Fair ones clinging to the edge, can I?” She is so casual that he feels out of place. As if nothing has just happened at all, as if he imagined everything.

     “You have sleeves.”

     “Your back is already dirty, I only found the last place that wasn’t. You turn very jumpy after battle, don’t you. How long does that last?”

     “I’ve never timed it. Less when I’m not being provoked.”

     “Oh? How fortunate you are that no one aboard would want to provoke such wrath as we just saw. You’re very thorough. Walk with me, or stay and sleep here.”

     She leads the way, as fluid as water drops on leaves. 

     “You should have asked.”

     “I wanted to know how much control you have. If you know it’s coming, your muscles and mind would prepare.”

     Her door is still cracked open, and before she enters, she stops to fish some other brocaded or silken article out from under the stairs. An underlayer, perhaps, based on the quality of fabric. 

     “Why are you like this?” he asks, then realizes it was spoken aloud. 

     Damn. Well, keep going, I guess.

     “You’ve been... closer since he left. Even before I agreed we’d stop. Just touching me at all, I mean.”

     And once again, words betray me.

     She straightens up, trailing whatever it is that she rescued behind her. “Do go on. I truly value your explanations. They’re so humorous.” 

     He tries not to let it get to him, but his nerves are too thin at this point and he breaks off, takes a step or two away.

     There has to be something, anything to vent the power on or in or.... it’s too much to hold steady.

     The hallway is empty. There are doors, only, and an oath that he’s going to try to keep for her sake. 

     Have to remember... 

     “Virgil.” There’s something of the ringing command Paradise used earlier.

     “What?” he snaps, and turns back.

     Darkness glimmers over her sigil, the darkness around her flares. She leans against the door frame casually, silk draped over her arms and creating some amount of coverage of the rest of her. Her kanzashi is held like a calligraphy brush, and she keeps spinning it over and over her fingers. It mesmerizes, and in this more quiet space he looks from it, up, up into — 

     Her eyes. 

     Soothing as red sunsets at sea, they flare with colors he hasn’t named in years; incarnadine in a burst around the constricted darkness of her pupils, wine-dark at the edges. The rich color pulls him, all the sense of following a deep path into a garden of bursting cherry, ruby, vermillion, scarlet, ranging from the brightest in the clear light, down to the shadows which are so black that the red might not even exist. Surrounding. 

     “Come to bed,” she says, with no doubt in her voice, nothing to worry him. A gentleness, even, despite the rasp that has returned. 

     He takes three steps before he realizes he’s moving. She turns away into the bedroom, and he wants to follow, to look again, to see what colors he’s missed. 

     Wait.

     It pushes at his thoughts, guiding him forward toward the bed and sleep. 

     It would be so easy to just let her...

     Let her do what?

     It takes a significant effort for him to pull loose the spell, push the entrancement away and try to make sense of things. He’s in the room now, stepped over the threshold even.

     She’s still good at that, then.

     “That hasn’t worked for years. Other people have tried it.”

     She is doing something to the mattress with her back to him. “You are here in the room having the argument, are you not? I would imagine it doesn’t work, unless you are in very dire straits. Or, perhaps, when you share something that can be managed metaphysically. I will be curious to see what happens the next time I try anything in your direction.” She sighs and steps back from the bed, looking at it critically. Now that she isn’t blocking the worst of it, he can see what cracked earlier. The mattress is fine, but the wooden bed frame that has been brought in for the room is broken. 

     Didn’t break the oath, just the things aboard. I can work with that.

     “If you are going to stay, and you are going to make yourself at least somewhat useful, yes. I will reach out more often. I will be lax in several of the rules I usually enforce. Don’t read too much into it, Virgil. I prefer to keep things that are at least nominally mine close at hand and in good working condition. This extends to you. Aren’t you lucky?” she adds the last absently, as she takes a look around the room again for anything useful. Finding nothing, she sighs, and begins to tie her sleeves back. 

     ‘Things that are at least nominally mine’ is better. Still not great, but better. 

     More of the frustration that’s been building is released with the sudden advancement. Tiredness is factoring in more than anger right now, but the power is still pushing... 

     Is it less? Am I just too tired to tell the difference?

     “What are you trying to do?” he says aloud, hoping for a straightforward answer, either on a physical or occult level.

     “Manage a navigation of elements preventing me from sleep. I suppose I will simply have to live with this, and try not to fall. I had hoped otherwise.”

     Okay, that gave no direction at all. What does she want done?

     “Are you trying to fix the bed? or just pull the mattress off?”

     She has to turn to look at him fully. 

     “Are you secretly a carpenter?” she asks, with an amount of acid. “If I could fix the bed I wouldn’t still be staring at it. I was looking to see if I could prop it up until I find someone who is a carpenter. Maybe one of Hearts’ victims. If they do well, I’d even give them a headstart. Can’t keep Hearts from noticing at some point, but between the prize and one mortal, I think the mortal could make an escape... Well. I’ll check when I wake. In the meantime, yes, I was thinking of pulling the mattress off. It is somewhat comfortably snug, you will note.” She turns back to it. “I suppose if I could find a lever. That could work.”

     “I can do that, at least.”

     “Find a lever?”

     “No,” he says, trying to decide if that was good-natured humor, sarcasm, or absent-mindedness. “I can move the mattress.”

     This gets a second appraisal, with more real attention in the lookover. It digs deep into him, deeper each time. Deeper than he even knows, probably. 

     It would be nice if I could do that, too. Maybe Paradise will help with trying to dig, but if even she has trouble reading her... But Paradise can’t feel her essence or emotion like I can. Maybe that will help.

     She takes two steps back, and points along the side wall. “It would fit best there, O mighty one. Let’s see if you can make it. I can always find a lever later.”

     The bed is indeed very snug in the wooden frame, but he can easily flood in underneath it and push up from the bottom between the slats. Once it’s out of the frame, it’s very simple to lay it out by the wall. 

     “Hm. I would suspect you have moonsilver on every inch of material underneath and including your armor. If you ever take it off, anyway. It isn’t a carapace, clearly, but you do tend to favor it, don’t you...”

     “Yes, I take it off sometimes. But you don’t have armor, and I might need to get in between you and something like the... you said Green Sun Prince?”

     “I did.”

     “When did you know?”

     “When he boarded. It was clear he was here for, shall we say, nefarious purposes. The ship defense I am capable of is in disruption of the preparations, person to person. Besides, I love a good betrayal. It always makes one intent on selling the bit, so as to be truly convincing to the other side. Much more enjoyable.” 

     “You knew and you brought him into a locked room? He could have killed you.”

     “It would indeed be awkward for you if I died on board. Yes, I knew. I also watched you size each other up and it gave me all I needed to know. He couldn’t even use me as a hostage, after the sex. I understood his body and his tender points. Believe me, I looked thoroughly. Have we finished this?" she asks, with great deliberation as she crosses her arms. “Because I would sleep. You will be welcomed without armor, but if you prefer to keep it on, I’m sure the deck will provide some comfort.” She pulls the sheet and quilts onto the mattress, tucking them in at the bottom with pointed exaggeration. There is an anger lurking that prevents him from offering to help. He leans against the beam in the middle of the room, trying to take up as little space as possible. She’s clearly more than capable for most things that aren’t heavy-lifting. 

     But still...

     "Let me at least keep you from hurting yourself while you sleep."

     "And how will you cause this to come to pass?" she purrs, a silken threat lying in wait. She’s on her knees, shaking out the third layer so that it settles correctly.

     "I..." Let go of the kite. A little. "... Don't know. It's your bed. Tell me how, and I'll do that instead."

     The expression on her face blanks out at the same time a hard wall comes across any emotion she might have been letting seep before. Whatever she's thinking, she's doing it very alone. 

     The first movement when the stillness breaks is that little hiding one.

     What causes her to doubt, here?

     “Understand me clearly now. I care little about the physicality. I do not trust you with what might be spoken while I am unable to choose my words. It takes advantage of the weakness of my situation.” She folds the corners underneath neatly, very precise. 

     It’s a weakness even before a weakness.

     "I don't have to have ears," he offers, trying to read any other clue at all. 

     What help will you accept?

     “I am given to understand that you do not wish to give up hearing overnight, which perhaps makes your offer commendable.” It’s a level tone, but there is still a hint of sarcasm in the undertones. 

     “I don’t have to. I can block off the door with a coil. If I’m in this room, you’re safe.” 

     “Except from your own tendencies. Were you so impossible to manage when it was your mistress?” She finishes and rises; still shorter than him, but not looking quite so far up. 

     “We were partners,” he says, careful to make certain the correct ‘we’ in this case is understood. “We didn’t ‘manage’ each other. That was the whole point.”

     “Except at the end,” she says with something twisting deep inside her, watching also. “So you would constrict without devouring entire? It does seem it would pain you to let me so much as strain a muscle. How else will you take hold tonight in the effort to keep me from the walls and floor?”

     But he’s still working at the first part. 

     “The end?” he says carefully. If this is a thread, it’s to something that outstrips him as Luna does. Less certain.

     “At the end. All the partnerships fell apart, did they not?” She keeps his gaze for moments only, then turns away to pick up the pillows.

     Something is...wrong, for her.

     “Yes,” he says slowly. Drawn out. 

     There’s something here that she doesn’t trust herself with, I know it.

     “And yet you stay here. With a pale imitation, I would assume; if you tell me how you liked her best, maybe I’ll see what I could make come alive.”

     There is something very wrong about the way she offers this, beyond even the depressing idea of seeing and even feeling Beatrice’s presence without any real progress on it actually being there. Something turned inward and jagged. 

     “Why?” 

     Why do you look like something is hunting you?

     "I've told you, Virgil. I give what is not given. I offer fulfilled desires, whatever I can bring forth within my power. Choice. Pleasure." She shrugs, and the fabric slips down her shoulder again, a new revelation of unconscious sensuality. "It all turns to ashes, but we ought to enjoy the moments while they're still meaningful. Should we not?"

     "There's a difference. And you're holding something like the nightmares again. What is it?"

     She laughs as deeply as if he has just told a joke worthy of robbing her of her decorum. 

     She's still so beautiful. Just the same, too painfully beautiful.

     "How suspicious you are, Virgil. Such a small offer and you think the worst of me," she says, coming back to control, even gently sliding the fabric back over her shoulders where her sleeves are tied off.

     "You and I both know I'm not wrong." 

     Something here is the right thread. Whatever that thread is, it’s one of the right ones that I need.

     "Of course you aren't; that wonderful mind coming to your aid. There are many things I am holding. Which would you like today?" she asks, looking him dead in the eyes with nothing to hint at the turmoil that’s been kicked up.

     "What is it about your offer that twists on itself? They always cause pain two ways. It's almost like you enjoy it, but I can see that you don't."

     She debates for a long moment, shrugs and begins to ready herself for bed. He turns away, flushed and a little unsteady, back against the wood beam in the middle. He’s facing a chest of drawers, now; luckily, there’s no mirror.

     "There are certain entities I am directed to leave be; let them lie in shallow graves, but in graves nonetheless. Your precious mistress ought to be left to rest, yes? Yet here you are, trying to pull a long-lost soul into the light. I will help you understand why this is folly, regardless of personal cost. I am very generous in serving the needs of others, when it suits me, and it suits me to make you aware of this dissonance. Your mistress is long gone. You follow a different mistress now, under Luna's guiding hand, herself. Do you not?"

     "What cost?"

     There is a hiccup in the rustlings behind him, a pause that might be her considering him for a moment that stretches. 

     “Hm,” she says, and “You might look now. I’m decent enough for you, I promise.”

     It’s strange to see her in such stark contrast, softness from the quilt and the way her hair is tied back from her face, hardness just underneath the smile on her lips. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She leans back on both hands, legs crossed in an open four shape. A muse in attempted normalcy. Still perfect enough that if it were Beatrice behind those eyes, if he still painted...

     "Have you ever displeased a dreaming primordial deity, Virgil?"

     “What?” Whatever answer that could have been imagined here, this isn’t it. 

     What choices did you have, that this is even a question?

     “I thought not. I have. I often do. There are many reasons to disobey in the progress of an assignment. There are often physical consequences that follow. I’ll show you, if you want to see, but you must want it deeply enough to make it worthwhile.”

     The casualness of it all, the lazy explanation without truly answering him drives fear more than anger. Thanks to Paradise he can taste the difference now. 

     There are immense forces at play if he wants to bring her back, but it was never going to be easy. That was assumed. But this... 

     A named enemy. All he has to do is break her loose of something so ancient and fundamental as Gaia, something that has to do with the streaks of nightmare and pain that have burst Creation at the seams, if that's all there is to do...

     She sets her brush aside, and nestles into the bed. She’s left him plenty of room.

     “Why are you still here?" he asks abruptly, wondering if he'll see her wrongfooted again. There’s at least room around the post to coil up around this time, or he’d have to try to find a corner to fit into.

     She rolls onto her back with an expression that should smite him with a fiery death. There’s a ripple in the wall between them, something pushing back the suddenly blazing border.

     "I will presume you mean in this race. There's no real reason to do anything else and if Hearts succeeds, so will I; it will then take something away from her Deathlord, and that will please me. And an incomplete challenge merely takes me on to whatever might catch my fancy next.”

     He takes the plunge, even knowing her anger is there. There was a thread of something else in that slip. “What about your Deathlord? You have one, right?” 

     It is another long pause, without change in her expression. He meets it with as much calm as he can muster. The anger for him has relatively settled, and exhaustion is muffling the expression of any other emotion. 

     “I am at leisure, and as such have had the suggestion that my travels are encouraged with or without aim. It is hard to take away something freely given. Perhaps you’ve understood this before. To your other question, with reference to Hearts, I do not ‘have’ a Deathlord.”

     Dodging the question. We both know the answer to this intended question if not the spoken one. 

     “What’s their name?”

     “Do you wish to call attention to yourself more than you have, Virgil? We have already spoken once of things which ought to be kept silent. Are you prepared? Is Paradise? Is Hearts?”

     She’s right that he has no idea what Paradise might be otherwise capable of, and Hearts wouldn’t welcome another attack. It might even count as a trigger to the cursed agreement, and she’d be happy to let Hearts get away with a lot just to make a point. Wouldn’t she?

     “Do you still want me to speak such a thing? There are not so many of us given Breath, unlike Hearts’ Deathlord; not so many that we might be lost in the pattern...”  Here she is certain, confident; but now there's a quiet sadness to it that doesn’t bode well.

     Time stretches while he considers. 

     There’s no joy in the threat. Is it because of the Thing itself, or the dealings? What deals were offered, that she chose this?

     She’s tired. I’m tired. Neither of us is going to choose well, and she’s offering it to me anyway. It could be so much faster to just find the Deathlord and try to negotiate for letting her go, but those are just conduits, and I doubt they’ll be easily persuaded.

     I don’t want her to fall asleep angry again. Paradise said I’m supposed to reduce stress, to prevent the nightmares. This won’t have helped.

     “No,” he says slowly. “No. I’ll ask again at a different time, but not tonight. I’m... sorry.”

     “I can see that,” she says, but there’s less sharpness to it. “Will you permit me to sleep truly, or is this some new game we’re playing?”

     “Sleep,” he says awkwardly, and closes the last of the shutters so that the light is sealed away.

     There is sleep, blessedly. He doesn’t have to face the nightmare without some rest, but it isn’t enough to catch up before he hears the first sign of onset. 

     It’s a hard night, as bad as the first night, except he soothes the rising power with his own more quickly this time. There are words, certainly, but in agreement he blocks off his hearing and just relies on the other senses. More alert to anything else that might try to take advantage, less able to speak to her fear besides a litany of trying to wake her and trying to offer any comfort at all. “I’m right here, you’re safe” doesn’t do anything; at a guess, “You don’t have to go back” helps briefly. “You’re okay” has the best effect, but takes the longest to do so. 

     The tears come and stain the sheets again; dark blood and something else. This time he does wipe away one or two. It doesn’t wake her. 

     When she rests again, he leaves long enough to take a breath of fresh air before going back. Hearing restored while out of the room, there’s a lot of nightlife to be heard.

     More than just wildlife. The prickling sense of a watcher on deck, alive and nearby, is growing. No; more than one. The angles feel oblique. A whispering footstep here, the brief and faint blocking of something passing between a nightbird and his back. They’re coming closer.

     Must be the ones in the crow’s nest. Doesn’t matter. If it comes to it, he’ll just send the pair overboard. It’ll keep the promise of not damaging the ship.

     They draw closer, hovering just at the edge of his range. 

     “Why do you keep company with the Undead?”

There we found Plutus, the great enemy.

Chapter Text

I can see angels around you

They shimmer like mirrors in summer

There's someone who's loved you forever

But you don't know it

You might feel it and just not show it

     “The Most Esteemed Daughter of Heaven’s Aurora!” shouts the little man next to the door. They’re always short or very very tall, and wear suits better than what we could have afforded without the gift from the hostess of the last party. 

     Maybe if this party goes wrong also, the apology gift will be able to buy a house of our own here in town. 

     Better not jinx us so early...

     Standing to the side, I offer my hand to Aurora so she can make a proper entrance. All of the other stewards and ladies have done this, if there isn’t a partner to do it instead. It feels weird now, but she smiles faintly at me before stepping up that last bit into the ballroom. She lifts her hand from mine lightly, off to dazzle them so I can lose myself among the shadows. Each of us have our hunting missions in mind. 

     Mine’ll be easy to do but hard to focus on, with how eye-catching she is.

     She carries the light of the stars into the room tonight, or at least, that’s what the goal was. She’s as radiant as Luna herself, instead. Glittering crystals blaze silver fire, matched with shimmering glass flowers that are placed through her hair as if trailing their vines through the silver netting; a cluster of blossoms is interspersed moonflowers and a cactus one she found... she called it queen of the night. 

     She’s only slightly rivaling Luna. Hopefully Luna will find it funny, if she notices.

     A deeply cut neckline and sleeves that are nearly non-existent create a frame of fabric around her face and neck which is simple and bare, delicately revealing dips and waves of her highlighted bone structure instead. Simplicity, set against the complexity of the rest of her. 

     She floats down the stairs, moving more easily than I would have expected in this strange dress. It hides her natural beauty by making her seem curvy or narrow alternatively, with the long tail of fabric following after her in a moving art presentation. Somehow, impossibly, the way she moves keeps it flared wide behind her. There are gasps when people see it and I feel a little professional pride. The parts that are inked instead of stitched or beaded or ribboned or whatever are all my work. 

     It was a fun challenge after all; one chance only because of the unpredictable nature of ink on fabric. I had to test on so many scraps before I began. The original intent of the design was with crystals as the stars and plain black for the background. So, nothing extraordinary. Nothing like the proper way to clothe a muse of her stature.

     Instead, she wears white as base, black lining for intricate traceries and elegance. Crystals form the night sky, but they only mark the true stars in the patterns, sewn over my inky illustrated constellations to make them really shine. She steps through the room, stylized constellations fluttering at her back that are so detailed that they seem to move and breathe with her. There are several more gasps as she sinks into the deep Northern greeting to our hosts, and the full extent of the detail is revealed in her stillness. When she bunches it up for dancing, the patterns of stars will rearrange to form new constellations, an entirely different part of the sky. It is more perfect than the others there, if I do say so myself. I have to keep myself from standing chest out with all the pride due me.

     There’s only one other dress that can even be considered close to the elegance of hers, one painted with a series of boring straight lines that are already flaking off paint like a crocodile skin. 

     It is crocodiles that flake skin off, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter.

     The lady who is wearing it glares at Aurora, even more so when Basilinna Hillstar invites her out onto the floor for the first dance. With Basilinna’s wine-red gold-trimmed dress, and Aurora’s ethereal and pristine white with crisp black, the pair are impossible to look away from. They glide across the floor with the quick steps of the dance.

     Aurora’s laugh is quiet but infectious. Even the glarer relents a little. It makes other people want to laugh too, even without knowing the joke or being able to see her. 

     More couples join them slowly, more colors and piles of fabric filling in the open floor in a rainbow of dancers. There is much happy chattering that arises from them, filling the air beneath the incredible chandeliers and ceiling. Around the edges of the room, I see the others like me already in place, watching and waiting.

     I find a good position and stand there to wait. I follow all of the steps we laid out, find her in the crowd again in case she needs me, and settle in, trying to keep a blank expression on my face, my spine straight with shoulders back, feeling that pride at last.

     Aurora doesn’t need me for now, but I am properly close to her as she is reluctantly handed off by Basilinna and meets another partner. Now she said would be the time to look at the ceiling. 

     On the arched ceiling above is painted an entire cityscape, all around the joining of ceiling and wall. Clouds rise up, and from there a brilliant tableau of Sol and a clouded and indistinct Luna is wrapped around the length of the ceiling. Each is offering a hand to the other; the free hands appear to hold up the chandeliers. Further back, Gaia stands, fingers draped on Luna’s theoretical shoulder; on the other side, is a giant machine that has exposed gears and pipes on its outside. It offers support under Sol’s foot to keep him stable. All around them, the stars hold up different items of worship or symbolism that I should understand but can’t remember.

     Is that a bag of fish? or celery?

     Someone passes in front of me and jolts me back to focusing on Aurora again. 

     I would love to look at that painting up close. What the brushwork is doing is fascinating... but, later.

     I can look at different art instead.

     She still dances. Other guests take a rest, sitting to the side with glasses of something rosy and glittering. Still more are further back, nearly to the wall, focused on deep and intense conversation. Every time I think she might take a rest, she’s off again with someone else. 

     It’s a good thing she has extra energy to pull from. 

     There seems to be something of a line of people coming to dance with her, coming to meet her personally and test her out by footwork and small talk during the songs. Some come in with good humor that does seem to be real, whether it shows as loud and flamboyant or quiet and dignified. There are others who ask her out of sheer social necessity and drop away as quickly as possible. Even I can see it, most of the time. About half of those who leave her are now thoroughly in our corner.

     Only half because you said you’d try not to let the power show. 

     There are several who simply want to dance with someone who knows what they are doing. It’s clear that everyone who partners with her is pulled into beautiful movement, even those who are clumsy again after they leave and dance with others. Those have a brief shining moment of her making them look good without it being evident, subtly shaping them correctly and guiding them along without seeming to do a thing. There isn’t a single person who looks out of place, when they’re in her arms.

     There’s a brief pang of something like jealousy that strikes, but I shake it away.

     It’s her job to make everyone feel good so they’ll do good. Besides. She comes home to me, and we’re a team. They can all have a little bit, at most.

     Following her very slow progress around the ballroom, I get to walk the entirety of the room’s outer edge before I really notice anyone really paying attention to me. It might just be that I didn’t notice before, because I can see some of the other stewards and servants giving me some side-eye. One across the room isn’t even discreet about watching me with interest. He winks. That one is probably the one with the best gossip, but Aurora did say to let them come to me. 

     The two to the right and left are very professional and don’t let much on. One of them actually doesn’t care; the other is just trained well enough not to immediately crack and ask questions.

     The dancing takes all of the partners together and mixes them around, our employers, or masters, mistresses, lords, ladies, and more of the same kind. We move slowly with them to be sure they don’t have to wait a second longer than is possible for service. 

     The one on the right tracks their liege and their progress, and before they leave, they relent enough to offer, “I’m Nyla of Calyx’s service. I know who you are already. Cailen Morag, yes?”

     “Yes,” I agree, trying to keep my composure. “A pleasure to meet you.”

     “I’ll see you around,” they say, and leave.

     One interested party down.

     Several flickering lights glint into my eyes and draw my attention to a man in a long tunic with a thickly pleated skirting under it. This one doesn’t partner with Aurora, for whatever reason, because they would also steal everyone’s attention if they did. Everywhere there can be jewels sewn or stuck on, they are there. Fortunately, they are small enough that they don’t completely blind me, but he still blazes up with enough fire to try to draw full attention. It looks like too much, now. Kind of tacky. But there are many people wearing large pieces of jewels or having dramatic pieces attached to their clothes.

     Almost everyone, actually. Looking around I can’t see anyone who isn’t wearing something except...

     Did she know she’d look different? That she’d stand out because of it? Or is it that we don’t have anything worth wearing? 

     She’s currently dancing with Nardecek Ryoras, who I recognize from the awful dinner party. I want to be mad, but she looks so happy and their face has a relaxed quality to it that means they’ll be on our side now. Impossible to hear what it is, she says something very quickly, and Ryoras laughs. 

     She must have known. But whenever we do this again, we’ll need to do something different. 

     The blank space where jewels could sit around her throat is a canvas. Just a canvas, I realize, days after I first saw it on her. If she wanted, I could have filled it with anything at all. 

     The thought of my brush gently stroking her bared skin just above...

     No— wait— I’m not supposed to... Think about dust!!!

     It takes a gargantuan effort to focus again, but this time I know I pull it off. Anyway. I have time to cool down before anyone comments.

     She joins another two partners before a new steward comes to slot into the empty gap next to me. 

     “So.” The steward who’s been trying to get my attention from the far side of the room finally comes up beside me. "You’re the cause of all the rumors tonight. Well, and your lady. She is the most beautiful one here, head and shoulders above in a class of her own. How’d you catch her eye?”

     “We grew up together.”

     The man laughs, crosses his arms, and smiles ruefully. “That’d do it. Well done.”

     I’m not sure if I should answer that, but the man continues before I have to wonder very long.

     “Is it true you’re sleeping with her?”

     Starting off with the big stuff. I guess we are working on limited time. 

     I fight to keep the thoughts off my face.

     Dusting. Feathers versus cloth — not how she sighs, not how she feels — I have to choose damp cloth but not too damp.

     “I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet.” Taking wild inspiration of what I’ve seen Aurora do to evade, I add, “I can’t give secrets away to just anyone.”

     He laughs again and offers his hand to shake in that strange Northern way that I am more and more getting used to. “Jasper Tigmire. I’m with Evelynae Nesophlox, Lady Secretarial of Whitewall.”

     Where we’re going next.

     “Cailen Morag. You already know I’m with the Lady Daughter of Heaven’s Aurora, obviously.” It rolls off the tongue more easily than I expected.

     “You two haven’t been in town very long, and already you have my Lady Evelynae and Viscountess Basilinna both absolutely fascinated. I mean, who wouldn’t want to meet such a new Chosen in person? Especially when she’s nearly a complete unknown. You two have really kept a low profile so far. What have you been doing?”

     “If you know so much, you’ll know already that she’s been helping at home and is now extending that care. She’s good at doing that.”

     “Averted an entire sequence of wars that would have erupted. It’s very impressive, her first acts. Cleaning up ‘at home’ must have bored her. Is that the real reason you left?”

     I’m used to ignoring these feelings, the ones that want to spring up from learning about the god-king, and from leaving Cherak.

     “Well,” I even have a casual smile going, “what do the rumors say?”

     Nodding, he acknowledges the point. 

     He leans back against the wall in a slump that Aurora said I shouldn’t do. I can see why. Between the steward to my left, who is not engaging at all but certainly listening, and Jasper, one looks very professional and the other does not. 

     I need a midground, and for people to not be interested in me so I can also blend into the background to overhear. But I have to collect the rumors as fast as possible, and Jasper’s probably a good source. 

     “There’s a few travelling around. I’ve heard everything from, ‘she’s building a new empire to make up the one she lost’ to ‘she’s fleeing another arranged marriage’. That second one mentions you, too, actually. You’d have to be pretty skilled to be worth an empire.” 

     Don’t fill the opening, leave it for him. He’ll be fishing.  

     It is quiet between us for a moment. The music continues, but there are musicians trading in and out with one another for different songs until they all have changed out to take a break.

     But we can’t. So, we’ll gamble.

     “I’ve heard that rumor too,” I say with all the calm I can manage. “I prefer the one that has us sneaking out with the entire treasury emptied as we go, without anyone noticing. We have at least two sea serpents to fight off in that story and I get to kill them both while she spells them to sleep.”

     More laughter. Good laughter, welcoming and willing to play this game.

     “Which do you and your Lady prefer?” I try, not entirely sure we’ve reached this level. 

     It takes him a minute, apparently thinking hard. “Well, I have to say I’m a romantic and was hoping it was True Love that saved the day. I think my Lady would prefer the one that says that you are not runaways at all, and trade is something that still might be discussed. We’re in the process of expanding the city, and your recent good fortune would be very helpful if it were shared. But you never heard it from me,” he says with that careless grin and a brief jerk of the chin toward our silent companion that they cannot possibly see from where they’re looking dead ahead.

     “I never heard a thing. True love, you said?”

     “Yep. Like an Ash Lad story. Fight some sea monsters, maybe, save the kingdom, win the princess. Who wouldn’t want to have that kind of a story under their belt?”

     The other man briefly turns and nods at each of us, then heads off around the room. His master has relocated himself and seems ready to sit down and require something.

     “Now that he’s gone, we can be a little more comfortable,” Jasper says, already relaxed. “What’s her schedule like? My Lady would like to arrange a meeting if yours has the time.”

     Aurora wasn’t kidding about things going faster.

     “I’m sure we can work something out,” I say. It’s a moment of stretching over a void. Aurora might be willing to back my decision, but making them for her is going to mean that I’m digging into the alliances system in a way that will affect her more than me. “What sort of thing were you thinking of? So I can give your Lady enough time, you see.”

     “Hyacinthe suggested that an evening meeting might not go amiss, but my Lady wishes it to be understood that there would be no expectation unless both agree to another meeting following that. You understand, Hyacinthe’s favor isn’t lightly bestowed. Very high praise; it only has fanned the flames of curiosity.” His tone shifts. His voice is softer, and Aurora would know for sure what it means or if it’s a true emotion, but it seems like a genuine kindness. “Even I saw how different Hyacinthe was after their little ‘chat’. It was impressive.”

     “I’m sure,” I say, but again, I’m not as good as Aurora at this sort of conversation. Luckily or not, I see more attendants coming around the edge of the room. We don’t have much time before there are people to overhear us again. “I think, under the circumstances, she might be able to offer three nights from now. Would that work in your schedule?”

     “I’m sure we’ll make it work. I’ll send a runner over later if there are any changes. Around seven?”

     “Yes.” It’ll give her time to be ready without seeming to be ashamed of going visiting at such late hours. “I’ll send a message if anything changes.”

     “We’ll have the chair ready and waiting at your door. Good luck with the party, Cailen, you’re about to have a busy night.” He offers a hand again, and vanishes exactly as the next two appear beside me. Aurora flows through the steps, still the brightest of the heavenly crush on the floor as if she just stepped down from Luna’s cloud. 

     Meanwhile, I’m here in the mundane hoping my face won’t give her away.

Watch the stars as they're dancin'

Like I'm caught in a trance and...

I will steal every one for you

See you on the horizon

I will be lightenin'

I will fly through the night for you

Let not your fear harm 

you; for whatever power he may have shall not 

prevent us from going down this cliff.

     The voice is younger than he would have expected. Still old enough to be a problem. Skilled enough, too, that there’s an effect throwing the voice over whichever shoulder he isn’t glancing at.

     Even if I turn to look, too many shadows. No immediate way to pinpoint the one he’ll be in, even if I do look now. Not for sure. 

     “If you’re on board you’re keeping the same company,” he says, after a moment of pause. The second pair of footsteps is much lighter. The pair move in sync, like they’re very practiced. Familiar. As they draw closer, the wind shifts and he can begin to smell them over the muffling odor of the zombies. 

     “This is business only. You’re doing more than a simple transaction. Are you actually in bed with it?” The man’s voice is cool, confident. Like he has all the answers, or is pretending to very efficiently. Not a mortal, then. Not with the voice thrown everywhere like this. 

     The friend is hesitating now. 

     Virgil’s fingers tighten around the railing. Sonnet looked through him with such pain, but had softened with something while he held her, just before she fell asleep again. What had softened in her?

     “I’m not going to explain myself to someone I can’t see,” he says, through teeth just barely ungritted, and turns slowly.

     One materializes after the other, one side then the other. They appear as easily as if they were walking behind a curtain of water and only just stepped through. 

     The Solar’s mark shimmers faintly, as much as stars without moon. It’s the pair who sped through the crowd before all of this began, the Solar and cat-eared Lunar. 

     “Why haven’t you killed it yet?” asks the Solar. He’s as scruffy-looking now as he was at the start of the race. “You’re supposed to be a Steward of Creation. You’re supposed to cleanse it. But you’re helping it. Why?”

     His blood is beginning to boil. There are still remnants of her tears on his hands. 

     “Her. Not ‘it’. Her. You would be smart to remember that.” 

     The cat’s ears have been swiveling around to track every little noise, but they both flick toward him in readiness. 

     Ready to protect. That’s correct at least. Maybe he’ll understand. 

     “It’s none of your concern what I choose to do with her. She’s mine, just as much as you are each other's. You’ll leave her alone.” 

     “She is killing innocents,” says the cat, but it’s quietly and with an amount of wary respect.

     She is, at that. I don’t know how I’m going to stop her from it in the long run, because there won’t be a convenient fix for that without bringing her fully back. Assuming that this form will change with her return.

     “Right now, she’s asleep,” he tries out instead. Maybe it will suffice an answer for tonight. “And it’s Hearts’ ship. Take that up with her first. Assuming you’ve told her you’re on board at all.”

     That seems to score a point. 

     Hearts doesn’t know yet, then.

     “I’m dealing with her. Deal with your own problems first.”

     "Will you tell the captain of our presence?" Still calm. No doubt ready to try an attack if the answer is not to his liking; a very Solar confidence, that. A Night caste, if he guesses right. And his friend's moonsilver suggests a No-Moon, with all the knowledgeability that it offers. A pair of stealth killers at worst, more likely thieves. Easy enough to use one against the other if the attack comes.

     No need for that. Yet.

     "Not my problem. Unless you make it my problem, you can do whatever you want. I wouldn't recommend being caught aboard without having asked permission first, but I'm sure the two of you are used to unwelcoming parties."

     "What will you do about... her?" The hesitation is still there, acknowledgment of duty to the spark. "What if you can't stop her?"

     What if it's too late?

     A dark fear, but even with it rooted deep it means nothing. 

     I don't believe that even a bit. It can't be. I won't let it end like this.

     "Not your concern." He pushes fully away from the railing, carefully keeping both evenly in sight as he walks between them on his way to the stairs. "Good luck with your stealth mission." He swings down into the bottom.

     Before he reaches Sonnet's room he hears, "He's got a point." The lunar.

     "Don't you start. Wait for—"

     But whatever the conclusion to the argument is he never hears. Passing back through the solid surface of the door into the relative quiet of her room, he checks to be sure she hasn’t had any other nightmares between, that she still lies still, that nothing has come into the room to hurt her. 

     It doesn’t take long to end even an unlife.  

     She looks the same as he left her, but one difference. He's thrown down a blanket for himself on the deck, beside her as close as he dares. For whatever reason, she's reached out to take hold of it, like she was searching for him. The thread of different energy flickers faintly.

     Even if it's a bad idea, he has to try anyway. 

     "Beatrice?" he asks quietly, reaching out a tendril along the bond. There should be nothing, nothing to get his hopes up over. An empty word in the darkness, if she's right. 

     But instead, something stirs, something reaches out along damaged pathways, her face clouds for a moment — and it's like she's changed, for just a second, like she's the same as he remembers her. For a second, it could truly be Beatrice. Her fingers tighten on his blanket just a hair, and the relief blazes through him even as she drops back to Sonnet. 

     There's still hope. There’s something still there. 

     I can make it right again.

...why does 

our own guilt so destroy us?

And I feel so helpless here

Watch, my eyes are filled with fear

Tell me, do you feel the same?

Hold me in your arms again

     A vague mist hovers above the paving stones; it trembles, trailing around our feet as we cross over to an overhanging balcony. The rippling wake of our passage flutters closed again, but it’s still hard to see with the shimmer that this much rain causes on the streets. Excess rainwater runs along the cracks of the stones, glinting through that mist as silvery as liquid mercury poured over a mirror. 

     The air is thick with petrichor and millions upon millions of droplets. For a coastal town, there is a surprising chill in the water; in Cherak, the rain is warm.

     At least some of the lanterns are still lit. 

     Underneath the small balcony, Cailen holds our umbrella out to the side as a shield from the rain in at least one direction. 

     We’ve both been soaked to the core. The umbrella isn’t going to offer any real benefit at this point...

     “I should have brought a cloak,” he mutters, looking down at our clothes.

     “It didn’t come to my mind either, don’t blame yourself. We’ll have to remember for the next time we travel.” He looks like he’s wilting. “Are you still warm enough? I’m fairly certain we’re nearly there, if this street is the one I believe it to be. Are you able to make out the marker? Because I can’t quite manage it.”

     “If you can’t, I won’t stand a chance. I hope you’re right about being close, but I’m doing fine! Just like home. Really!” It’s a lie — belied by the short breath he takes a second later as he bunches up around his arms for warmth instead of from pique at the suggestion. He’s definitely shivering without pause now, and while I’m feeling about as miserable as he looks, my hands aren’t shaking. 

     “I would like to hold the umbrella, please,” I say and he hands it over clumsily, pulling his arm and the umbrella loose from his small huddling. “I see a doorway around the corner there that looks like it has a good alcove — I believe we will catch our bearings a little better in there, when we won’t be dealing with three sides of water. Are you capable of making the run?” I close the umbrella and start winding my long gauzy sleeves around my arms to keep them out of my way. The umbrella is useful as an anchor point for the rolling of my skirts as well. Neither will truly hold for long, but I won’t need them to last. I hope.

     “Give me the umbrella back. We can avoid at least some of the rain when we go.” He hasn’t moved his arms from his huddle yet, which means I’ll be able to win this one.

     “I’m using it to hold my skirts out of the way so they won’t tangle and trip me. If you’d prefer I did something else...?”

     “Definitely do that,” he says, fighting the chills but still very certain. I don’t think either of us particularly wants to risk a fall on an evening like this. 

     I twist up the last of the floating draping fabric into a bundled knot-thing around the umbrella; I can hold it with one hand. Even though it’s clumsy looking, and shows more of my leg than most of polite society would approve of, I ought to be able to make the run.

     “Is that all of it?” He glances around, looking for anyone else out here like we are, but if there’s anyone else here, they’re keeping an incredibly low profile. 

     “Yes, I think so. The door is just over there, beside the lantern. You see it, yes?”

     “Yeah.” He stomps at a particularly large puddle just to his side with a small flash of temper that probably means he’s trying to steel himself to readiness. “Alright. Let’s go.”

     That could work, but to be sure...

     I lean over as I thread my fingers of my free hand through his, and kiss him lightly on the cheek with all the thoughts of warmth I can conjure in an instant. It hits him hard; for a second I think I see the water illuminate around us. 

     “Come on,” I say, and pull him forward into the downpour again. 

     The rain batters against us, pelting down hard enough to seemingly bounce up from the ground. If I had a dry part of me left, I would hate it. As it is, the nonsensical rush of this trip back to the inn strikes me all at once and I can’t keep the giggles in. I’m fully laughing by the time we make it to the shelter of the doorway, which is mercifully deeper than I thought. On the side I couldn’t see, there is even a space to duck into for a doorkeeper hiding from a storm when weather like this comes through. With the momentary pause of shelter, the last of the falling water flows off us; the remnants down my spine cause me to shiver all over again with how they tickle.

     There isn’t really another breath to think in, because Cailen pulls me into the shelter, and the world stills around us.

     At first, he’s very delicate and nearly shy in returning the kiss on his cheek, despite the assurance of his arms at my back. It doesn’t last for very long, the shyness. 

     He trails kisses like flower petals down the line of my neck. Even with the cold, they warm me quickly. I twine my arms around his shoulders to pull him closer. We’re nearly the same height now, it seems. There’s an ease to how his arms fit at my waist, something comforting... undeniably, something revealing.

     He’s still shaking. Is it the kisses or the coldness that’s causing it? Either way, it would be better for us to be indoors.

     But it feels...

     Fighting myself at every breath, I pull back and rest my forehead against his. We’re both panting hard now; neither of us moves for a long moment. From here I hear his heart as it races along; I also feel his temperature still dropping. 

     “Inside?” I ask, trying to keep the butterflies inside me out of my voice. 

     “Yeah.” His voice cracks just a little. When we finally pull back enough, I see near-bewilderment and carefully restrained wanting.

     At least he’s not sun-dazzled.

     “Come with me?” I say, and pull him out into the rain-song. It’s nearly a dance across the last few streets, my heart is so full. Even inside the inn, there’s no one around. 

     They must be in the kitchen, there’s no guests in this rain.

     Hurry.

     When we reach the room, despite wanting to begin again, it’s like a mutual understanding. I leave him to make sure everything’s locked or where it should be. 

     I add heated water to the bath cautiously; it comes out to quickly fill the tub. I want him to warm up a bit more gradually. 

     Shouldn’t shock his heart too much, since I seem to be doing that anyway. We’ll just add more later.

     Nonetheless, steam fills the air and begins to float like the twin to the mist outside. I pull the towels out, making sure they won’t fall off the table and I finish readying the room before he even gets in here. 

     It’s because I’m warmer than he is. I do have more layers on, I can start on that.

     The umbrella is still full of water, but the angle of the tub sends the new addition to reach the hot bath and dissipate entirely. Peeling my clothes off is a much slower process. I smooth the layers of fabrics, jackets and skirts, as I fold them and lay them aside; gauze, silk, brocade, satin, the colors and textures all darkened with water. They form a pretty rainbow. Standing at last in my shift only, I pull my glass hydrangeas and plum blossoms free and cushion them on the stack of clothes in its basket. The indigo and powder pink seem to absorb the blue from the brocade. Two little embroidered butterflies could almost be coming to land on the flowers.

     He appears and sets fresh clothes down near the towels; not too near, they’re out of immediate splashing range, but close enough that there won’t need to be any cold shuffles from one state to the other. Everything else is ready. 

     I quickly wind my hair up into several layers of looped knots and push the plain wooden hair pin to hold the weight for now, then turn back to slip into the water. At the edge of my perception, I see him hesitate. Despite how cold he is, I can almost hear the gears turning.

     “If you’re willing to join me, I would enjoy the company,” I say, serene in the comfort of being home. With great effort, I do keep the fluttering excitement from catching into any of the words. I don’t want to startle him. I can still hear how fast his heart is beating; when I speak, his breath catches. He swallows hard and I hear the rustle of fabric.

     I turn off the water and slide down the angle into the deepest part of that heavenly, warmed pool, let it lap at my waist and then up to my neck as I find the low bench at the side. 

     He follows, the warmth of the water hitting his shivering skin and stealing a breath from him just like it did me. He fidgets, a bit awkwardly, until he’s no longer trembling with it, no longer cold. Then he relaxes enough to offer an arm around my shoulders. I slip close in the water until I can rest my head against his. His skin is still cool in the warm water, but he might escape a cold. I seem to be recovering faster than he is, which is probably something to thank Sol for in the morning. 

     The ripples in the water gradually diminish until the surface is nearly still; outside, the rain falls.

     Disrupting the surface of the water with movement beneath, I reach over to find his hand. He moves to take it, but instead letting him just hold it, I match each one of my fingertips to his. I slowly stroke down their length until I reach his palm, reverse and meet him again palm to palm. I fan our fingers wide, his flexing and contracting with the surprise, slip them just off center so they pass along the sides of his with hardly a ripple in the water, moving slowly enough to just wake up the tactile sense of his nerves. When I finally interlace them, we both hold on tightly.

     Our irregular breathing breaks the sound of the rain. 

     I focus on slowing my heartbeat in an attempt to steady myself. Everything I would like to say sounds trite; perhaps in this moment, this will be enough to invite. 

     After a time, he stirs, all over an opening up of his frame. 

     “Aurora?”

     “Mm?” I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are flecked with amber and honey, dark with wanting. Meeting my eyes is enough to send a shiver through him, a good one this time. 

     I wonder what I look like to you.

     He collects himself and takes the plunge. “Can we... Outside we hadn’t...” 

     Neither of us can catch that ineffable that hovers between every time. 

     A deep breath, as he readies himself to try again, but I interrupt. I touch my nose to his, light and just enough to disrupt the struggle to find words. The breath he took is lost, along with the rest of the air in his lungs. He closes his eyes, the closeness overwhelming. 

     I wait, tantalizingly close for us both, truthfully, but when he opens his eyes again, it’s to cross the distance for a kiss. It’s like we’ve been drowning, with the kisses that follow, our breaths erratic and sharp in the soft steam. 

     I want more of this. I want to give you more of this.

     Using our joined hands as an anchor, fitting myself between breaths enough to focus, I pull myself around to face him fully. As I move, the weight of his free hand moves from my shoulder down my back, against the ripple of my spine to catch me. I draw us together again with my fingers at the nape of his neck with barely any pushback from the water, press close to feel the shape of him through the remaining barrier of the cloth of my shift. 

     He reaches out to smooth away my hair from my cheek to where it fans out in the water, traces the lines and curves and angles limning my face in sensitivity with his fingers and his lips both. 

     Slow progress. Learn everything along the way, so the end will be more nuanced. Even if I desperately want to throw it all to the wind in this precise instant.

     Make the entirety right for you, first.

     Here and there are uncertainties, what is permitted, where, where not, I try to open these choices to him — 

     — they’re all yours, I’m all yours...

     “Like this?”

     “Let me show you.”

     “Let me try.”

     “ There ...”

     — made more complicated with the water between, but he learns as fast as he does anything else and twice... twice thought stutters to a halt from a small detail I mention once that he extrapolates upon without any need for further notes. I’m being painted into existence, the care and detail and same expression from mind to hand of beautiful entrancement. I am so starved for this, I thought I knew how much, but... 

     Everything is so beautiful. It rings in my blood, singing as perfectly as the celestial spheres do against one another, all perfectly aligned; all in this moment is perfect. 

     “Cailen,” I say, I sing, I sigh, and the way it ripples through my breath is heat, all my love in condensed form. His lashes flutter closed when he hears me speak as if it’s too much to bear all at once. Overwhelmed in the fullness, perhaps, like I am. There is so much love I have to give, I’m ablaze with it in my blood, as stark as afternoon sunlight through windows, making brilliant squares on carpets against darkness. Brilliant even in the shadows.

     The waters ripple and shadow themselves even as they carry brilliance, I can see it all so clearly. 

     He tries to look at me again, and whatever focus he had before, he’s transfixed now. “...Aurora?” 

     It’s like he isn’t sure of himself, but even so, my name is almost hallowed when he says it.

     “Yes?” That echo in the room, it sounds... but what could be anything other than perfect?

     “Tell me what you want me to do. Anything.” He sounds so sincere, so certain. His eyes are lit brightly, turning them amber, and lighter... the brightness is unexpected, a change. A perfect double circle in each iris, pale golden radiance trailing in the room...

     A chill runs down my spine, bathwater or no. 

     Tell me your will, my Empress. It will be made so. 

     Agillens— 

     Cailen’s eyes are so close to golden, right now.

     “No,” I say, and push back, trying to breathe, trying to force down the golden intoxication, trying to forget it all again. Another rising without me calling it, a pattern beginning to emerge.

     There was blood... There was so much blood. I could have done something about it, couldn’t I? Asked it to stop?

     “Aurora?” Cailen. It’s Cailen, and there is only water here instead of blood, and I’m nowhere near the temple to Sol. He sounds... different. Safe again. “Are you alright?”

     It’s like he never heard himself a second ago.

     “I don’t know,” I say, tears already falling from my eyes like the raindrops outside.

You feel it deep in your bones

The sky is falling and there's no way out

Stranded out in the cold

The wolves are coming and they're hungry now

Chapter Text

Very clearly do their voices bay it out, when they 

come to the two points of the circle where their 

opposing faults disjoin them. 

     “If I couldn’t see so clearly that you have no skill in dissembling or card manipulation, I would suspect you a cheat, Virgil. Another hand to you.”

     It’s ‘Hells’ today, the more complex rules only slowing play slightly. With the three of them around the table, the cards are fluttered up and down from the piles quickly in even patterns. Paradise has made more tea and there’s a light breeze that lifts the heat of the sun away from the dark deck. 

     It seems like everyone is in a decently good mood after a few night's sleep. Sonnet even slept uneventfully all through last night, for a surprise. No deaths since she's slept. Things are perhaps evening out. 

     Or, they would be, if Hearts was not currently standing at the railing looking somewhat angrily through a telescope etched with green runes. 

     Sonnet silently reaches out to touch the back of Paradise's hand, pausing her in the process of shuffling. 

     Her focus on Hearts is enough for Paradise to carefully, fractionally, shift until she can sit without her back to the Captain and her current predicament. Whatever it might turn out to be.

     There's some restless muttering from the Captain that is likely a string of curses. All three watch in silence, until Sonnet decides to take the initiative. 

     "O Hearts, what has put you in such ill-humor? Is it something that will become an irritant to me as well?"

     "They aren't a ship but they're moving like one. We have to slow down through the hills. They'll ambush us there."

     He feels tension pulling together at the thought of Angutis or more Fair Folk. Sonnet deliberately shifts, stretches out long until she's drawn a possessive line with her leg that sweeps behind his back. 

     It looks like progress, but she's playing some angle here. 

     "What do you intend to do about it? Your army is... somewhat limited." Sonnet says.

     "Look!" Hearts comes striding over and thrusts the telescope out at Sonnet. Paradise barely manages to save her tea; Hearts doesn't have a lot of respect for the table. 

     Sonnet shrugs and pulls herself to her feet without apparent effort. She glides behind him as she does so, and he's reminded again of sharks on a reef. Then she's at the railing, holding up the telescope. 

     "Where am I looking, Hearts?

     Paradise hurriedly finishes the tea and excitedly joins them at the railing with her own spyglass in hand. 

     "I see them! Ah, yes, some competition no doubt. The travel has been so delightful, I nearly forgot we’re in a race towards a challenge of this caliber. That appears to be a Hearth. I don't know how skilled the five of them will be, of course, but at least they're somewhat predictably grouped if their weapons and clothes are anything to go by."

     Hearts turns and looks at her with some amount of disgust. "How sure are you of what you see?" 

     "Oh, nearly entirely. They may surprise us, I haven't been able to chat with them so, of course, nothing is certain."

     "Virgil."

     It's a single word, and Hearts and Paradise both ignore it entirely but there's steel under the silk. Sonnet holds out the telescope.

     "This is your domain, is it not? Defend me, then. You have to protect the ship to do that, yes?"

     He takes the telescope and looks up along the line Hearts has sketched out. There is a strange earth mound moving off in the distance, incoming on an interception course. Atop the mound are five figures, wearing different colors that do seem to match the weapons they carry. 

     “If you know so much about them, how do you make them go away?” Hearts snaps.

     “Short of speaking with them, I have no ideas beyond what I’m certain you’ve thought of. We could send out a party to intercept them. What needs to happen for us to leave them be unscathed?”

     “The far side of the hills is open plain. The wind is in our favor and we can leave them behind, we’re just stuck in foothills!”

     “Won’t they find us again? If we don’t know how they found us this time, surely they can do it a second time. Besides, we’re going to the same place, aren’t we?”

     “No one can catch us if I know they’re coming. And they have to sleep. We don’t.”

     “ Some of us don’t,” Sonnet says quietly, too quietly to be heard by anyone except him. When he looks away from the telescope she’s watching the horizon instead and her expression is unreadable.

     “How long will it take you to get to the open space?” he asks Hearts, over his shoulder so he can keep watching Sonnet. Her abrupt reversal into unpredictability is expected, but no less worrying now that there's been some evenness to depart from.

     I’m not turning away even a little, right now.

     "This hill to that," Hearts says, pointing without looking. "If they do come aboard, they'll regret it," she says to Paradise. 

     It’s near enough that it will only take minutes at most. It’s distraction and disruption, not an actual win. 

     Just like destroying the horses. 

     "When we reach that hill or they make their attack, we'll fly out and stop them while you get the ship out of the way. They shouldn't be that difficult to deal with."

     Sonnet could not radiate any more skepticism if she tried. 

     "And if they are a practiced Wyld hunt?" The words drip with the cynicism. 

     She’s right that it will be harder to fight a group of highly trained, highly experienced, highly motivated dragon-blooded, but these don’t have that feel. They have the feel of the ones back in town, the teams that were joining in such large units. But it’s also familiar; he’s been out of the Wyld long enough to have them called down on his head before. There would be scars if he could scar anymore. Instead, he’s collected a highly developed estimate of what it takes to either return the attack, or escape and let them sort themselves out to terrify some other poor ‘Anathema’. 

     He shrugs, and offers her the telescope back. Hearts snatches it out of his hands instead. 

     "I've faced down Wyld hunts before."

     "You've..." She starts, but shakes her head nearly imperceptibly. "What do you mean 'we'?"

     Maybe that’s an angle to talk about later?

     “You’re coming with me. You’ll be safe, and you can help if any of them try anything wordy.”

     “You want me to enter an area of active combat, because I will be safe. As opposed to remaining here, where I am far away from them.” She gestures at the expanse of ship, despite the immediate block of Hearts and Paradise’s small debate about the current strengths and weaknesses of any clues Paradise was able to collect during her travels and family visits.

     “They might not be alone, there might be something else we don’t know about that will take advantage of my not being on board. You’re safe where I can take the hits for you.” 

     She turns fully to him, evaluating him with a look that moves from head to foot and back. She’s reading something in his entirety that she can’t or won’t just find in his face or words, and for once there’s no heat to it. The cold calculation is bared.

     This is... also progress? I hope?

     “Assuming I agree, what exactly do you want me to do?” she asks vaguely, still thinking. Her gaze is sharp, even if her words aren’t. “I have, as noted earlier, made a point of interfering at a much earlier point than this in a timeline where weapons like these are involved.”

     It used to be that you’d speak and they would fall to their knees. Then, I was safe from the influences too. Perfect harmony and defense between the two of us.

     “Whatever it is you do. Distract them, shout or something.” Lingering underneath the statement, What is it you are willing to do now?

     “You’re overestimating my capabilities.” She sighs heavily, and looks back out to the hills. “I don’t suppose you’re going to give ground on this, are you...”

     “No. And I promise you’ll be safe the entire time. All you have to do is hold on tightly, and handle any words they throw up at us.” This could be easy. This could trigger something, some change, some memory coming back. Something bubbling up from how they did it then.

     She’s still not entirely on board, and that look that scans and reads him is still intent. Her eyes are blood red. 

     “How, precisely, are you intending to fly out there? Are you secretly a sorcerer as well? In your mind, will I be atop a large bird of some sort?”

     “No. I can just—”

     “INCOMING!” Hearts is easily loud enough to be heard below decks, and a crackling sound finishes the warning. Paradise is knocked out of the way by Hearts pushing past her. He doesn’t even fully note the beam of light before he’s already picked Sonnet up and ran up the stairs away from where it strikes the ship. It hits the metal railing and part of the deck; nearly where they were standing a second ago. At first, the soulsteel holds; but then it crumbles away, and the deck melts under the heat of the beam until the light fades.

I want the love, the money, and the perfect ending

You want the same as I, I, so stop pretending

I want to show you how good we could be together

I want to love you through the night, we'll be a sweet disaster

Bad giving and bad keeping has deprived them of 

the lovely world and set them to this scuffling: 

whatever it is, I prettify no words for it. 

     “Look, the counting house is holding a lot, you’re right about that. But I don’t care how stable it looks right now, we had to float on the build-up when we were between commissions in Lesser Cherak and there weren’t enough projects. It’s better to be certain. You can’t rely on this just, just happening to work out.”

     “And if I tell you this is the same as the commissions and I have enough to be consistent now? There will be others, a long chain of being introduced to one person and then another, and coming back to visit if we decide to backtrack any of our stops or if we meet them other places. When we leave, we’ll already have enough to take us down to Sijan, even if the airship costs the rest of it, even if we take the riverboat. I’ve already sent messages along with Nardecek. We’ll have easy access to funding again the way you want, and depending on who’s in town, a new stream of income. They’re from Sijan, and the price of stability is coming to see them if they’re in town, which takes care of housing expenses as well.” I can see he’s as irritated about this as I am, now. His logic is flawless, when applied to a different sort of work than the one that I am currently doing. Maybe I’m just running too close to home for him, but it changes nothing. 

     The imprints are sublime, awful, permanent in one manner or another. As of yet, I haven’t lost anyone so far into the depths as to be lost in the tide of brilliant energy; I see only the addictiveness of dreams fulfilled, the way a golden touch makes the whole barrier crumble away. It changes people. 

     Nora, Evabeth, Hyacinthe, Nardecek, Lady Evelynae, Viscountess Basilinna. Fearlessness, freedom of explored pleasures, openness of time and new friendship, new visions of Creation, influencing mercantile and social expansions. Only Nardecek has been an unexpected, if welcome, addition to the original plan. Tens of others around me also indirectly blessed by proximity, cooks, the inn workers and guests, random strangers on the street, customers and staff at the counting house. 

     All beautiful. All seeing anew, from my touch as gifted. All of them are now to be trusted as if they were anchors in the stone cliffs here built for centuries. 

     “You have an entire line of merchant communications opened up. You’ve been writing letters and looking at all that paperwork and it’s just now getting sorted out. Why are we not taking advantage of that?”

     “We agreed we wouldn’t be tied down.” The light in the room is a little brighter than before; perhaps the sun has emerged from a cloud. “I don’t want to wait to be the success, I don’t want to be here when someone from Cherak arrives to set up the post here, I don’t want to stay in this city a second longer than we need to.” 

     You can’t trap me here.

     There’s a fleck of bright gold dust that flares up as it passes in front of me

     I know I’m right. I know if we stay early, we stay forever. I also know that there is nothing on the face of Creation that will make me forget that.

     “There’s a difference between not being tied down and being sensible about this!” His eyes are dark and impenetrable, but the frustration slipping to anger is written all over him. “That is supposed to be my call, from what we agreed. You can’t take that back —”

     “ Sensible?” I can’t even breathe right. The word slips out as a hiss, something noxious rising up inside; along with it comes the rush of gold. The room comes into focus, somehow. Every detail, every mote and mote of dust, every bit of him from head to foot, the ink stain on the table between us. Everything suddenly so... beautiful. And yet. “You dare to use ‘sensible’?”

     I see the light reflecting back in his eyes, catch myself before he can say anything else, before I can say anything else. Anything I say right now might have dire effects. He opens his mouth to answer, but very carefully I hold up a hand to stop him. I don’t trust myself to even try a ‘not right now’. My footsteps are heavy, balancing this much.... everything , balancing myself and all of our emotions on each uncertain step. It seems to take an eternity to get to the bedroom, but I make it and very carefully close off the door, latch it, and go sit on the bed with the curtain drawn in front to act as whatever additional ineffectual barrier it can. 

     He spoke thus to me — it will not be stood for. I will return and make him understand. He has no right to tell me what to do. 

     But... No . Not until this... madness eases.

     There is a small growl of anger that I hear even through the wooden door. The near miss must be just as frustrating for him as for me. We aren’t finished with this conversation, but we’re done until I stop speaking existence by accident. 

     It’s not very long, or it’s hours, but I hear a solid knock at the door outside. Cailen’s got it. There’s nothing to worry about. He knows how to stall and how to present a blank front to someone who doesn’t know him well. Whoever it is will go away so we can both go back to not-being angry at each other in peace. 

     I can hear them anyway. When I’m like this, I can hear almost anything. 

     “I have a bouquet for Lady Aphelion! and the mail sent up for her as well. This is her room, isn’t it?”

     Of course you do. Of course the house name is coming for me. 

     “It is, but I don’t see a name on the bucket, from or to. Where is it coming from?”

     “I can’t tell you, sir. it’s above my paygrade. I just know I was told to run from the shop to this address, for the lady in this room. Her name is Aphelion, though isn’t it? It’s on several of the letters, is all.”

     Perfect. 

     “I will ensure my lady receives these quickly.”

     “Be careful, they’re all incredibly fragile,” the messenger says with the strange sound of glass moving against glass loud enough to be heard. So much for being careful.

     “Yeah, I got it. Any other messages?”

     “Yes, the message was ‘to blossoming’. If she likes them, the artist left a note at the bottom and they will present themselves for any other commissions she would like to have made. If you have no messages to be sent, I’ll be on my way, sir.”

     “Yeah, go ahead. Thanks and all.”

     I hear the door close carefully, more delicate plinking sounds as what must be glass flowers rub against each other, and the sound of something heavy is gently dropped in the little kitchen area.

     “This is ridiculous. How many even are there?” I hear him speaking to himself. He sounds less angry, more bewildered. Progress for us both, probably. 

     I’m still glowing like Sol in here. Less now, but more than enough to irritate and be unarguable. He doesn’t even have to check the door to know that it’s still happening. I shine out through cracks. 

     The first sounds of opening mail are boring, but are interrupted by an unexpected thump against the wall and a strange choking sound that’s cut off sharply. 

     What in Sol’s name— 

     The door is open and I’m in the main room faster than I can even process. I see the little spirit, see how it’s pushing Cailen against the wall in a death grip that he’s fighting hard. He has the letter opener in hand, and the spirit is already bleeding yellow sap from several deep punctures. 

     My last ungolden thought is already distant. 

     Well. At least the rest of my anger will go to a good use.

     The light blazes up in the room again and it shields its eyes from me. “Thou wilt release him instantly.”

     Cailen lands a little clumsily, but stable nonetheless, coughing as his lungs work out what to do with this secondary change in events. He even manages to both hold onto the letter opener and not cut himself with it.

     The spirit is a small wood-based one, mostly arms. When it drops Cailen, it drops to its little knees. Its arms fall open wide from side to side. The tiny body at the center has the same expression on its inhuman face that Tovin and his cronies had when I lost control in the market for Evabeth. 

     “Whose hands bound thee unto this task, dost know?”

     “Yes, Crowned Sun,” it says. The voice is surprisingly reedy and small.

     Crowned Sun feels right. It names me in a way that soothes the whipping fury of the power that is stirred up. 

     “Such purpose-built enchantment’s end is to obscure the one who sent thee; art thou free to name whose guilt is due this crime?”

     “No, Crowned Sun, I was called and bound to keep such things secret. I thought it would be a swift task, but if I had known you were a Lawgiver, I would have fought the summons.”

     “Thou hast thy task begun; by this hast thou thy contract fully done, or is there more?”

     “There is more, Crowned Sun. I was not to leave until the breath is gone from his body or until he became permanently injured in the attack. 

     Cailen moves, no longer leaning against the wall to breathe but still laboring hard with each in-and-out. “Where did you come from? You were out of nowhere.” The words come out wheezy and are accompanied by coughing.

     It never looks even a hair away from me, almost like it was just the two of us alone. 

     This is incorrect.

     “Thou’ll answer truthfully his questions, as complete as thou would mine. From whither came thee?”

     One of the papers on the floor rustles and in a little pull of wind it lifts itself to the spirit's hands. “The card, Crowned Sun. Embedded fibers as locus. Upon his touch, I was released.”

     “You’re kidding me,” Cailen says, and sags back against the wall again. “In the mail ?”

     “All and well. Would thee know more?” I ask Cailen. “In this full satisfaction’s thine, until there’s naught remains untold.”

     Cailen throws the hand not holding the opener up in the air. “How am I supposed to open the mail if there are little monsters hiding in it?”

     “Warding yourself and your home against such things would have prevented one of my skills and power if done correctly, Crowned Sun.”

     I catch up the nearest paper and quill. “Upon this page thou’ll sketch a ward that will entwine such sendings and turn them back. Once thus drawn, ensure there’ll be no secret entries or a cheating opening for mischief spawned for I will take this with advisement more from one who understands such things and can return you hence with ease and pow’r before us to dispatch what justice does demand.”

     “Yes, Crowned Sun.”

     The way it trundles would be cute if I weren’t still seeing the image of Cailen’s bloodless face. He looks shaken more than anything else, mind already racing to work out the problem. 

     The sigil is completed except for the last connection of the outer circle, which it leaves off intentionally. “I cannot form the line, Crowned Sun, or it will begin.”

     “Concluding thus, I will accept; Now stand, I give to thee these words, thou spirit; let them settle full upon thee that thou may share all with others. You must not abet in further deeds or contracts and forsay those which one might attempt to thus enforce; this supersedes. I spare thee now; but pray do tell that any who without remorse break through will thoroughly condemnéd be. Yet those who warn and fight the bond perforce will mercy then receive. My will is he remains unharmed; as such my wrath and bliss are wholly joined in just defense. Clearly thou understands?”

     “Yes, Crowned Sun!” The little spirit already has a hand up to meet mine before I ask, and I pour every bit of the golden fury into making this deal stick. If it is like the oaths I gave to those after I first was given this power... 

     As if the gentle touch of sunlight and the skies could reach us here, I feel the eyes of Heaven on us. The spirit squeaks, dissipates, and the room is back to normal. 

     It pulls away the rest of the sunlight around me. I feel jittery, nerves all a mess, but Cailen... 

     Cailen has leaned forward, hands on knees as his chest complains. I gently take the letter opener away from him and he sinks back against the wall, still wheezing.

     “Can we be done arguing today?” He gestures vaguely at his chest. “You’ll win by default.”

     “We’re done,” I say, wiping away a few tears that slip down my face. “I am calling for a medic to come look at you, and that is the one thing I’ll use my default win about. Just try not to move too much, okay?”

     He waves me away.

     As I pass the small galley inlet I see that somehow, despite all of this, there is a pot full of glass flowers sitting in the sink where they’d be safe from casual falls. At first glance before my perfected vision fades, there are at least six new types of flower. A faint wafting in the area also reveals a gentle floral scent. Likely perfume in the petals. 

     “To Blossoming” indeed. I should have seen this coming; I’ll know for next time. Caxa will have to be dealt with after all, and soon.

     At least, in this version of the waking nightmare, there’s none of his blood.

...for all the gold that is under the moon and that 

ever was, could not give rest to even one of these 

weary souls. 

Time go easy on me tonight

'Cause I'm one of the lost sheep alright

Take what you must, take what you must

Of what I've lost as I have roamed

And let the moon follow me home

     “YOU’LL DIE FOR THAT, REALM SCUM!” Hearts shouts. She’s nearly dancing with rage on the deck. Paradise already has her spyglass out again and is cautiously trying to get a good look at the enemy. 

     They must have burned through whatever power that took.

     “Are you ready?” he asks, stretching out slightly before he changes. 

     “I suppose it does count as defense of the ship. Very well. How does this work?”

     “First...” and he changes, made easier by two facts; firstly, that chimaeric formation avoids the usual confusions of limbs and muscle masses. Secondly, that the flat empty deck where they stand is emptied of zombies who should be using it, but are still trying to get to their feet after the impact. It’s an easy circling, a few steps then diving into the dragon form. Turning amorphous where needed, growing the length from the anaconda so that she has something to hold on to. Giant wings sprout, flare up into the air in challenge to the enemy as much as stretching in readiness. Coming back up and around, he’s mingled together enough animal forms to be ready for anything. 

     “This is why you bear no moonsilver on yourself,” is her only comment before she comes to his side and finds the best way to throw a leg over him and mount.  As soon as she’s up...

     “I want to wrap over your legs, so you don’t fall off. Is that too much for you?”

     She briefly laughs at this. “Fearful of my censure now? How peculiar. That’s the least concerning thing you’ve asked of me. It will aid you with your wings as well, so I won’t slip and knock the pair of us out of the air. By all means.”

     She also knows about moonsilver on lunars. Maybe she’s just familiar with this sort of thing?

     So he does; a thin layer of matter grown over her upper legs to keep her balanced. She has to rearrange the fabric of her clothes to make room for him, but it’s easy enough, and she seems amused more than anything by this expression of chimaeric fluidity. As almost an afterthought she lets her hair down and tucks the pin away for safekeeping.

     “All is settled, Virgil, and if I’m not wrong, that light down there is a hint that we have another impact inbound. Do what you will now, before it’s complete.” She wraps her arms around his neck, buries her face against the side of his neck. 

     It's as if she's afraid.

     “Hold on.” He rockets himself off the deck. There are really only three footsteps needed to take a solid glide, but a glide isn’t what’s wanted here. It’s just the warm up, the test to see if the group will be baited from taking another shot at the Cry .

     She glances out briefly with small movements from her current position; it’s likely the air rushing against her is unfamiliar enough to actually shake her, but the sense of her energy is muted, closed off more than before.

     Was this a bad idea?

     They speed toward the group who grow more and more visible. Blue, white, red, black, green. All present and accounted for.

     What a perfect example of a Hearth. Let’s see how well their hunting skills are. 

     The first rush is nothing more than to knock them out of formation, and that has happened. The white armored one has broken from the circle they’d been building together, and is readying a white mace and battleaxe in each hand. 

     Everyone knows dragons flood or flame first, earth isn’t a bad idea to counter me. But I’m not really a dragon. 

     He flaps twice to pick up a little more speed, then abruptly stops short, hovering in the air as best as possible through the rush of wind he picked up. It pushes past in a great gust that blows all of them a few steps, except the white armored one who has rooted deeply. Three it only knocks back, but the black jade one falls over something on the ground and their circle is effectively broken. 

     Time to get the high ground again. 

     Sonnet is quiet, only holding on tightly. She is obscured, except for the ink-black banner of her hair over his shoulder. 

     He pushes off the air below, in their direction to at least interrupt their movements while he climbs, circling for height in line with the Sol’s light. Anyone from the ground would have to look at Sol to see them, and even then, with the light the way it is, their silhouette would be obscured. 

     This is part of the reason it’s bad to be clustered so closely together. 

     Stopping at the range where the group is still visible but arrows can’t reach, he looks at their disarray. Something... has gone differently. Perhaps not wrong. But differently. 

     There are two figures below who have joined the fray from some stealthy hiding place somewhere. They’re ill-matched for this sort of combat, but trying anyway. 

     One of them has cat ears. 

     Well done, a good way to announce your presence and defend your travel ticket. Now you just have to survive it. That, that I will help with.

     Sonnet stirs briefly, slowly sits up to look around at the level of sky they are hovering in.  Then she looks below. Just as slowly she lies back down, holds on again, tightly. 

     “I’m not going to be of much use, you know,” she calls into the winds up here. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” She ducks back against him as he glides a slightly wider circle in the sky that rises up to align above the camp. 

     He spirals a little on the way down, small corrections and the joy of flight all at once. Then his wings snap closed, bent to both hold and protect her from the air blasting around them. When they get close, he lines up even more precisely with movements that don’t disturb her cocoon until the last possible second. 

O foolish creatures, how great is 

the ignorance that injures you! Now I would have 

you drink in my judgement.

Chapter Text

And if I catch it coming back my way

I'm gonna serve it to you

And that ain't what you want to hear

But that's what I'll do

     The knock is different to Nora’s usual, cheerful doubled raps, even before she taps the code to announce an unknown visitor. Aurora looks up from her writing, and reaches up to smooth her hair and do a quick once-over of her appearance.

     “A messenger, my Lady!” Nora announces, and she has her formal voice on too. Not a visitor she’s happy with, then. 

     I shove my art supplies under that weird ruffle at the bottom of the nearby chair. There isn’t that much charcoal on them, so if I’m careful no one will even notice. “A moment!” I call. We’re playing our roles in every detail. Aurora has finished readying herself just as I get to the door, and nods when I glance back to be sure.

     I open the door to see two figures outside. Nora does drop into the low courtesy, as is proper. We’ve all agreed to fake it when we're public, and her form is perfect. The person beside her can’t hide the face of disgust entirely, and the bow they make is nowhere near low enough for what the etiquette calls for.

     “At ease,” Aurora speaks, and if my spine was not already straight in my stewarding posture, the ice would make me straighten it. She’s recognized this person. “Dismissed, Nora.”

     Nora finishes the niceties, and flees down the hall. No doubt there will be a good deal of whispering when this person leaves again. 

     “You may enter,” again, that icy tone. Even the disgust can’t stand against her, and I see their back straighten up unconsciously as well. “Leave the door open, Cailen, this will take but a moment of our time. I have no doubt.” Proper bow, and step back against the wall. Not close in the conversation, but near enough to tackle the messenger if they try anything. 

     Well, if they try anything and Aurora doesn’t take them out first. She’s sitting on her writing chair as if it were a throne, gently fanning herself with the delicate silver of one of the war fans. 

     I’m not going to be very helpful to anyone, really. I wonder if they realize how much danger they’re in. 

     “Your purpose?” She clearly knows, and still is forcing the protocol.

     “I am here to deliver a message — my lady.” They bow lower than at the start when they offer it to her, and do use both hands to politely hold up the note. Maybe the thinness of the ice is actually sinking in and they realize how much danger they’re in. A snowy blankness with deadly water underneath, just waiting to drop them through.

     “I see. I wonder if a response is anticipated.” She lazily fans as she reaches out and takes the letter. “At ease. You are?”

     From the side, I can see the jaw clench and the attempt to make their face empty of it. 

     Found someone worse than me! This doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would. 

     “Bena, my Lady.”

     “Isn’t it just,” she muses, looking the letter over in a way that is so constructed that even I would believe it as innocent curiosity about the envelope. But when Bena has stood and had time to lock in on the letter she sighs. “I suppose I might as well see what your sweet mistress has concocted this time. I would imagine frogs or poisons, but it’s too small for the one, and I don’t think you can find one that I haven’t been rendered immune to. I had a busy childhood, after all.” 

     She flicks her fan closed, but in that fluid movement she uses the closing edge to tear open the envelope in a clean slice along the edge. 

     I see Bena swallow hard, but even I have to force blankness with everything I’ve got in me. She’s very practiced with them, and I know she takes them out to play with as well as fan herself or work for fighting off whatever’s strong enough to ignore her words and dumb enough to try to engage her. She dances with them, I’ve seen her throw them before, even. But not even I realized how flawless she is.

     She’s perfect in everything she does, of course she can be that precise when she wants. 

     She draws the letter out, carelessly tosses the envelope so it spins across the room to the fireplace, where a low fire has been smoldering. It’s hot today, but I need more charcoal and we have the windows to vent the excess heat. The paper catches almost immediately. 

     Pretty low-grade, then. Or she really did treat it with something, but that would cause poisonous smoke, so just cheap.

     She looks over the paper once, with casual speed, pauses and looks at Bena. With no less ice in her tone, she says, “If you were wise, despite her being a benefactress, I would seek help from her uncle in Port Calin. You can catch a boat easily from here, and he won’t ask you questions. If you’re willing to work, and you wish to escape this collapse, consider. She will not be kind to you indefinitely."

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about, my lady,” he says, and actually means it, from what I can tell.

     Is this what it’s like for other people watching me? and how does she know there’s an uncle? When did whoever it was tell her that?

     A humorless little smile rises to her lips. “Of course. You wouldn’t. Was there anything else?” 

     He shifts on his feet catches himself clumsily, can’t stop the overcorrection from drawing more attention to the initial movement. “I was told to expect a response, my lady. Was that it?” The twist of what Aurora said was scorn or contempt tugs his mouth into something ugly when he addresses her by her title.

     She opens her fan with a crack and casually uses three flicks of her wrist to lift the letter from her hands, flutter the paper through the air and land it in the fireplace as well. It goes fiery as quickly as the envelope.

     Bena’s jaw drops. I at least have the warning that is living with her, and am merely rocked again with the magnitude of keeping up with her. 

     How is that even possible? If even the breeze had been different.... but it wasn’t. I should probably accept that she’s going to continue to create little impossibilities with her fans even when she’s just Aurora.

     “There is no response, Bena. Caxa will have nothing more from me. You may have that advice, though I would not mention I gave it, if I were you. She will not like your answer any more if you tell her that I have done so. See yourself out.”

     As stately as any empress would, she returns to her letter writing, using her fan as a weight. She doesn’t even wait to see if he obeys. 

     He turns back to stare at her, and I see the nervous swallow before he bows. This time it is a full and proper bow. Whatever he makes of her place in society as a courtesan, he can acknowledge the respect that is due her inherently. He even backs away the two or three steps before turning, the same as you would for the highest above our station. 

     I make my face as blank as I can, and usher him out silently. Aurora said no further messages, so none from me either. When he’s in the hall, before he leaves all the way, he even turns and bows one last time. He staggers a little, rubbing his hand through his hair, but only when he’s at the end of the hallway near the stairwell. 

     Carefully I close the door. 

     If the paper wasn’t still outlined in the fire for that extra second, if I didn’t know her...

     I can’t even catch that on paper properly. Not even a tapestry maker would be able to pull it off, and those have the ability to move. 

     “I was bored one night,” I hear, and even though she’s facing away, brush moving as she speaks, she knows. “I was up late, and I thought I’d try. Went through several wastebaskets before I found the trick of it. I’m not sure I can do it anywhere else, or just in this room. If I was outside, the wind would be my enemy more than my friend, I think.”

     There’s something about the gentleness she speaks with now... “What did the letter say?”

     Her writing moves along uninterrupted for another line. “It was typical promises and threats. Nothing really of any concern. She’s lost the war, it’s just how many more fights she tries to pick before she accepts it.”

     “Tell me. I’m calling it part of my training, since you burned the letter before I could read it.” I flop onto the couch. It might be forever before she’s done.

     She hesitates there, lifts her brush away from the page so she won’t drip onto the surface while she thinks. “It began with a formal apology for any harm she might have caused to my reputation or wellbeing, seeing as I have such a... ‘delicate’... social standing here. Apologized for my having feelings instead of her words. All typical. There were threats, a lovely one involving writing home to my father and explaining... well. Naming what I do is such a fun game these days, isn’t it. I’m not sure what he’d do if he received a letter like that. There isn’t much to do; he accepts it and nothing happens, he accepts it and his reputation will return in tatters. He can’t disown me properly, there are some rules embedded in the family legal documents that mean we’re linked until I die or have a child.” She swirls her brush in the water to clean it, and sets her brush fully down to come sit beside me on the couch. “I can explain that in full if you’d like, but it’s very dry and only matters here because she’s worked out more of the story than I’d like. All this is the first round of threats; the second, the ones I slightly care about were toward you again, actually.”

     “Why?”

     What sort of further threat would cause her to react like this?

     “She knows how much you will always mean to me.” It comes out of her so easily, when she isn’t thinking about it, the words that hold so much weight. But now, even saying them, she’s curling up, hugging her knees to her chest. “I couldn’t hide that if I tried, really. It’s my regret from that dinner. She also assumes the worst of me, so if we are sleeping together it means I will lose an intimate partner. She assumes I sleep with everyone, I think. I don’t know that she can understand that it...” But she stops there, and the same horror that washed over her in the carriage flashes here. There’s a comparison there that’s eating away at her, and she won’t say what it is. “She didn’t understand when she wanted to marry into a country fracturing into itself, and she doesn’t now. Even if you were just a plaything to me, she would still like to smash you apart so I can’t have you anymore. Regardless, if she hurts you again, she’ll hurt me. None of it is anything new. It’s one reason I burned it.”

     I sit up and pull her against my side, balled up and everything, arm around her back to keep her close. “She’ll just have to accept her failure and leave, then. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m pretty sure we can outsmart any other attempts she actually makes. Besides, if Bena tells her about the thing with the fan she might just give up on her own. That’s hard to beat.”

     She nods and leans her head against mine, watching the charcoal developing in the fireplace.“Cailen... I want to start a new game with you. To help with... well, one sort of angle she might try in the future. If not her, someone else.”

     “Games are good. Future defense is also good. What are the rules?”

     She laughs and pushes herself back up, taking a deep breath and coming even more back to her earlier self. “I’ll tell you to do something or ask you something, and then you don’t do it. Or don’t answer.”

     “It sounds simple enough. What’s the catch?”

     “I’m going to be cheating,” she says. The sigil flashes brilliantly, the halo springs forth, but this time her eyes remain the same ocean gray they were before.

     “Oh. Are we starting now?” 

     She shrugs, the light gently hovering. “We don’t have to. Soon would be good.”

     “We’ll start it now,” I decide, and do detect her relief. “You can use it while we tidy, or something. That sort of thing, right?”

     “Yes. Nothing big. I just don’t know how strongly you’ll react yet.”

     “Well, we’ll start now.” I push off the couch, and sketch a mock bow. How do you feel about this?

     She tilts her head, thinking. “Pick up your brushes and put them on the table.”

     It isn’t until after I’m setting them down in a neat pattern on the table that it registers. 

     I didn’t notice a thing. It’s a sobering thought, that someone other than her might be able to try this.

     She has a very resolute expression on her face when I meet her eyes. “Don’t be upset, it happens to everyone. I’m trying not to start too big. Like little inoculations.”

     “Do it again,” I tell her, and we try it several more times before I can even notice it happening. All the brushes are cleaned and put away.

     I fight it hard enough that when I pick up my palette my fingers are pressed into the metal edge and I feel a slicing pain as the skin parts. The pressure to act stops; it’s a clean cut across the four. It’ll be annoying more than anything until they heal.

     So, at least some of the time, pain can snap you out of it. 

     “Well, we’re done with that for the day,” she says, right beside me with a cloth to press against the cuts and the medicines kit.

     “One more,” I think that if it... “You can ask me something instead, if you want.”

     She gives me A Look, but while she gingerly cleans and binds the cuts one by one she’s thinking. 

     “You stay here.” She crosses to the chair on the far side of the room from me. “One last one, then. I can see the clock from here. If I ask for a kiss, are you willing to give me one? I’m asking now to be sure.”

     My fingers twinge just a little under her tidy bandaging. “Yes.” Of course I am. Where are you going with this?

     She smiles and sits back comfortably in the arm chair, lounging in a casually homey throne.

     “We’ll see how long you can last. If you make it a full minute without kissing me, you win. Still want to try?”

     I already want to do that. 

     “That’s cheating twiceover,” I say but I’m already thinking about it. “What do I get if I win?”

     “I don’t know,” she says with mock surprise. “Whatever you’d like, I think. I’ll clarify, make the minute without a kiss . Short of cutting yourself open again, that gives you a lot to work with.”  Her eyes glimmer as silvery as Luna in her ascent. “All you have to do is wait the full minute, and the evening and I are both yours. Will you try?”

     I take a deep breath to clear my head. A minute. Just one minute. “Alright, I’m ready.”

     She smiles, lips as tempting as ice in the desert. “Thou must then kiss me.”

...therefore one people rules and another languishes, 

according to her judgement, that is hidden, like the 

snake in grass. 

If you're the bird,

Whenever we pretend it's summer,

Then I'm the worm,

I know the part, it's such a bummer,

But fair is fair,

If my segments get separated,

I'll scream

And you'll be there.

     His wings crack the air as they open to steer. It’s more than loud enough to interrupt everyone on the ground below, which means he’s a surprise to everyone except the cat, who is in the process of fighting both the blue and black armored ones. Those ears caught the sound of the rushing air, but with everything else to focus on, there was no time for him to react. Reading dragon body language correctly now, he only barely saves his solar from at least a headache by tackling him to the ground. 

     The green archer is fast enough that with the sound of his return, she changes the shot that she was about to make at one of the two and releases at him instead. For everyone else, it’s too late. Lined up this way, he hits red, black, and white jade armored dragon-blooded with a solid fist to the chestplate.

     The force of the freefall is enough to explosively throw them back. The armor of the white has been shattered; all three are down. It’s unclear how many are still cogent, but they are definitely not going to follow. Those threats - removed. 

     Back on the ground they came from, the solar and his friend both sit up, readied to deal with the blue and green.

     There is pain from the arrow that means it hit him instead of Sonnet. That's good, but the archer was skilled or lucky enough to make the shot hit the joint by his wing and stick in. It’s an unusual feeling. Normally he’d go incorporeal, let it drop through, but Sonnet would fall too and this one might track in and out with him. He’s been shot with spirit bows before, but it typically only burns and blocks the one area. This one... 

     Sonnet gently releases his neck, and is reaching back for the arrow.

     He dares a glance back to see what’s happening. Whatever it is, it’s enough for her to risk the stinging wind. Slowing as much as he dares, he has to curl around anyway to come back to battle again. From that point, there’s only sensation to rely on, really. Sonnet’s hand around the area of pain which seems to grow as he flies.

     Can’t stop using the muscles yet. Of course it hurts more.

     Sonnet forces herself foreward again, as foreward as she can, and shouts. It carries, but not well on its own. She lets her essence fuel the words and suddenly the wind interrupts nothing.

     “The arrow is alive. I’m going to pull it out. Three taps - one-two-three- and on four I pull. Ready?”

     And she turns back again, ready or not. There are more sensations of pain, small enough to ignore as background noise, but still evident. Something drops away against his side, something small like a branch or bramble. Another few pieces until —

     Smoothes the area to be sure I’m paying attention. One, two, three.

     It hurts more than it should in coming out, and there should be blood, but because it’s so close to his wing he spends just the slightest thought on remaking the tear and continuing. There’s a jolt from Sonnet and her power spikes, startled into overflow, and she doesn’t hold onto him with her left arm, just the right. Whatever it was, she’s dealing with it. 

     The dragon-blooded who are remaining, blue and green exchange looks and both split in opposite directions. They abandon their fellows for the time, correctly guessing their inability to deal with the continued onslaught. 

     What happened back there?

     He brakes himself, slowing until they land relatively calmly on the ground where the dragon-blooded had started. Still on the ground are the two from the crow’s nest. They seem even younger in the daylight, without the cloaking of night to keep their identities safe. They both look in bad shape, but knowing Chosen, they’ll just need to rest and their energies will speed them along. 

     Then again, the solar looks a little rough. 

     Probably a good idea to get back to the ship and get a doctor to look at them in whatever town we pass next. 

     Sonnet on the other hand...

     He lies down, narrows out and shrinks until she can easily slide off of him single-armed; then quickly lifts up onto two feet, using his tail for balance. “What happened with the arrow?”

     “Happening, I think you’ll find. A stupid decision on my part. How’s your joint?” Her tone is as dry as the spiny bramble that the arrow keeps producing around her arm. It moves on its own, like a whip with cat claw barbs along it.

     “It’s... fine..? Why aren’t you dropping it?”

     It’s another one of those looks that should melt metal or invite lightning. “Because it has grown into me. I’m attached to my arm, to use the perennial humor. If I leave the arrow here on the hill it will either stop growing at all, or grow a nice bramble here for itself. I suspect the first is more likely. Are you going to offer aid? I believe this constitutes harm; I’m inclined to leave it off your ledger as I was the one who instigated this particular part of the escapade. You did such a marvelous job.”

     There isn’t really a response to be made that satisfies, so they both turn to breaking away the constantly growing briar. Luckily, the pieces stop growing when they touches the earth.  When they finally reach the arrow, Sonnet takes a deep breath; before he can think to stop her she pulls the arrow directly and steadily in front of her in a line. A long line of roots that have dug into her are pulled out cleanly and entirely, they can both see. 

     Power flares but she doesn’t scream or cry. Simply... endures silently. She does falter, would fall to her knees at least, but he catches her even as he takes the arrow and throws it far away behind him. It twists in the air for a few seconds, but when it hits the ground it becomes inert. 

     “Sonnet! What—” 

     At the edge of pain, something edges through that is familiar, something tumbling in this current dis-order. At the corner of her lips, the faintest smirk. Even she can’t make it ring true, especially not with whatever it is in the power that is forcing itself to the front in this momentary lack of control.

     “All is well, Virgil,” she breathes after a second. “All is well. There are those who would enjoy seeing such a thing in the bedroom; no different. I am constructed for this, you see.” 

     Anger and jealousy war with the worry and fear and slightest of hopes. Too many to sort through while out here. 

     “Besides,” she says, voice growing stronger, “We have new companions to bring home who are in much worse condition than I. Look.” She holds out her arm; already, the slow, stagnant pushing of blood has clotted and that frightening bruising under her skin is clearing away. 

     Just because you heal almost as fast as I do doesn’t mean you should be testing the theory.

     She brushes the blackness off of her clothing; it has dried and flakes away without leaving a stain. 

Chapter Text

Your knowledge cannot resist her; she foresees, 

judges, and carries out her rule as the other gods do 

theirs.

The hour of judgement is coming

They pray that you follow your mercifulness

The heart of the coward is showing

There is more power in pity than courage in hate

     Cailen’ expression is blanked, but beneath it I see something of concern. 

     “You can’t just... walk into her house, can you?”

     “I will do more than enter her house,” I say, and take a deep breath when I hear how my voice is shaking with how much fury is suppressed. I am trying very hard to focus, to keep from losing the tissue-thin control I have over my anger. It’s been the third spirit strong enough to push through the spell, and at this rate she’s going to be summoning demons. I’m not certain I’m ready for demons.

     And she continues to target him and not me. 

     The carriage has been warded as well as the room, and the inn overall. Our driver was very interested to know that he could offer an extra level of protection — higher rates for safer travel. As we kindly brought it to him, ours will stay the same. A generous exchange, which will no doubt ripple through the community. It will be just as welcome as it was for our innkeeper, Willow.

     This does mean that it should be safe for Cailen to stay in the carriage, as long as he’s very quiet and doesn’t draw attention to himself. If he does, Caxa’s men might just take matters in hand and attack him physically. He has promised to be still, but I know if there’s any worrying stir he’ll be out of hiding and into the house. 

     “Remember. The only time you’re allowed to come find me is if you see the light flare and fade. Anything else, I have in hand. Yes?”

     “Are you really sure? I could disguise myself—”

     “As what? Cailen, I only have you that I travel with. It’s not going to be very hard for anyone to work out that it’s you. Stay here. Call for help if you need it, but truly, the only one who is going to need help is Caxa.

     He’s quiet for about a minute. 

     “Let me at least make sure you’re not going in with any threads or hair loose.” 

     It gets rid of his nervous energy, and lets me think. Today I’ve finally leaned into my status as given by the Viscountess, and have the crown fixed in my hair; there are layers and layers, a worked orichalcum corona of intertwining tesselated spheres which serves as backdrop — with increasingly detailed layers of birds, flowers, and other artistic flourishes that sit forward on my head until the weight is relatively balanced; there are four solid, thick, and decorated hair sticks that slide through my hair and somehow, miraculously, keep everything solid and stable. They trail small tassles of bird feathers and flower petals; falcons and magnolias mostly, but there are orchids and roses among the many tiny filigree patternings. It should feel heavier than it does , from some cleverness of metal working.

     It’s the same rose-gilded color of the gold threads in the turquoise brocaded edges of one of the layers of my clothes, and is worked in more subtly in the brilliant reds of the rest of my clothing. The turquoise trims one or two other layers, but even so, gold is most present and most reminiscent of my patron in this light. I shimmer when I move. 

     Good. Maybe she’ll remember who she’s been attacking before I say anything. 

     The carriage comes to a gentle halt. 

     “Stay hidden,” I say again to Cailen, who makes a little growling noise of irritation and disgust. 

     “Fine, but you better not get hurt while you’re in there or I’m not going to agree next time.”

     That’s reasonable, at least. 

     “Thank you,” I say and catch his hand, press a kiss to his palm. He immediately checks to be sure the red on my lips hasn’t smudged, and grumpily pronounces me ready just before our driver comes and opens the door for me. 

     “We’re here, my lady. May I escort you to the door?”

     “No need for that, Kath. Thank you. I’ll return shortly.”

     “I will be waiting, my lady.”

     There are two guards in front of Caxa’s house who have slowly come more and more to attention as I approach, and they do slide their spears across the door. 

     “You can’t go in there without permission from the House,” one tries, and belatedly adds, “my Lady.”

     The other looks incredibly nervous.

     Nervous people make stupid decisions. However...

     I let the light slowly rise up around me, gently letting loose the energy from the space I’ve been pushing it, and find that I was slightly tense. I’m not now. 

     “I think you’ll find that I can. Tell me, is your sister well? And you — your boyfriend seems to be worrying you today. I know a good deal more about each, and if you are wise, I might even aid you with your troubles. You will unbar this door, or the wrath that is about to descend will fall on you as well. There is no need for any violence between us, as of yet.” 

     They’re both dazzled, by words or by the light; either way, it doesn’t matter. They fall over themselves trying to open the gate for me, holding it open and saluting sharply. 

     “Please forgive us, my Lady, we intended no disrespect!” The speaker says it, but it’s echoed by both. 

     “This thou art forgiven,” I say, even as I’m passing them into the small courtyard. There are three buildings, but it’s not hard to tell which one I need to enter; only one of the three is properly kept, and only one has Caxa lolling back in her chair on the upper walkway. She doesn’t appear to see me, which is fine. I cross the courtyard, ignoring the sudden whispering and low voices that are stirred up. Anyone now will be excluded from my mere presence. Stepping into the light will remind them of their correct priorities, correct inclinations. 

     Ghostly figures spin and speak around me, in a perpetual dance of essence gifted and gifting, motes trailing as I move, before dissipating. It is a gentle reminder to me that I am capable of anything, anything at all right now. 

     As if I could forget. 

     I enter the house, filling it with light; it is an old house, one that has been falling into gradual disrepair. Likely as the family fortunes are declining, the interest in supporting the structure is also vanishing. One influences the other. 

     There are others down here, several who look vaguely familiar, one I know by description and his clear emotional ties to be Caxa’s husband. 

     “Who are you? Who let you in?” he asks, and I have to admit, he is not as frail-minded as he appears. The children, grown or growing, have not developed such a fine resistance. 

     “Naught is amiss between us yet. If thou complicit hast become... speak this: what are thy fears of all thy spouse’s summonings? Is’t fear of acts and rites, or being caught which casts a pall?”

     The answers spill out of him through word and body as well, all at once. It’s easy to know. “She’s bought a new book. We don’t have the funding for this to continue , ” or, ‘ She’ll bankrupt us from her spite. I know, but I can’t stop her for selfish reasons. ’. 

     Unacceptable, but as yet, forgivable. There was an attempt to cease this obsession, and this is not unrewarded.

     But there is movement near the stairs that must be dealt with first. 

     “Forbid I any mortal, spirit, bless’d, or any other being in this house from call,  or notifying or ascent, this lest my coming to the one above be sought for meaningless result. Should aught this quest resolve to fail, should thou obey me naught, know Sol within his glory will thee judge.”

     Bena stops still, hand on the railing. A good attempt to warn his mistress; unfortunately for him, it does seem he isn’t a rat willing to abandon the ship. His will is strong, but much like the husband they are both insignificant beneath the weight of Sol’s blessing. 

     “Tis clear what character stands fore me caught; thou all to some extent support her grudge, supremacy, her furies do adjudge to worthiness of imposition on us all. To some I absolution grant; thou art yet youthful, and do act as pawn. I conjure others from this to supplant false wisdom with the true experience of greater knowledge, wisdom Sol has planned. Thou’re not absolved; forgiven now, but hence thou must improve. This leaves such as I see; thou three before mine eyes.”

     There is her brother, standing now at the table where he and Caxa’s husband had been talking. “To her immense intentions thou promotes and do agree with any skill she has acquired.” To her husband — “Thou hast supported not nor abled her in these endeavors. Nor thou, Bena, nothing past what could be helped. I urge again this last — abjure these acts and with thy innocents and those constrained, take refuge with that one, her uncle, who would offer shelter hence. Her doings will bring down this house anon with her unreason. Prophesying not, I promise this; know  Sol will all have done with breakers of their oaths.”

     They look generally rattled under the daze, the father doing slow mental calculations already. He will leave her when he feels the weight of Sol ratifying this promise to Caxa, I can see. The brother will stay, Bena... if he survives the first calamity he will also flee. 

     Her brother... “What she has bought — thy loyalty is shaken not; I vow it’s certain that all partners will be caught the same as she. If thou encouraged now, thy recompense will be the same.” I move forward until I take his hand in mine. “It would be well if thou didst not. Is’t known that thou continuest at risk and if thou should persist thou’ll share her outcome?”

     “Yes,” he says, and Sol’s presence flashes through the room. There’s a muffled curse from upstairs; a pity that this was necessary, and yet...

     “It is good. I’ll leave thee now.” I say, dropping his hand and continuing to the stairs. If my guess is right, she won’t run. She’ll try to fight. I slide my fans from my waist and begin to climb the stairs. With my calm attention readied for her panic, combined with trying to target between the spindles for most of my climb, the crossbow bolts first miss, then are easily caught in my fan and drop harmlessly to the ground. There will be more, but as an opening salvo, it was respectable. 

     “Thy bodily attacks will cease, with me thou’ll meet with words as thou hast met with mine this month. Or else, Caxa, hast emptied any store of those?

     At least at first, it seems that yes, she has lost her words entirely. She has a halberd that she wields with some amount of skill; perhaps if she were not drunk she might have been more of a challenge, but for one of Sol’s chosen, it’s nothing to turn the blade away again and again, drawing closer and closer until she gives all the ground and backs herself onto the balcony. The next thrust she makes, I catch the blade between the ribs of the fan, snap it close and twist it out of her hands and, opening the fan again to release it, throw it somewhere away behind me. 

     “Art cowed? concluded?” I ask, barely breathing hard, as she stares at me with horror in her eyes. 

     “What are you? What monstrous thing are you, that you perfectly excel in everything, that you win over the hearts of those you don’t know in days, that you come from nowhere and of a nothing house and suddenly your name is spoken in every corner? Which of your tricks did you use to get the king, and kill him and ruin it all?” She looses the words from herself all in a stream that could continue, but she realizes she’s doing it and stops. “What are you, that you came here, into my house, and have raised no alarms, nothing at all?”

     All of these, except the monstrous part, are valid concerns, and if I saw someone doing the same I might keep a closer eye on them. If she hadn’t gone after Cailen, we might even have been able to solve this rift. But she did, and she will, keep trying.

     “I am one gi’en breath again by Sol, one Chosen ‘pon the moment thou dost see to think was mine. By Sol I’m named as Dreams of the Empyrean, as well as Lawgiver; as thus I’m named, explained, and am.”

     "You were named...? You named yourself! You took and took and when you were done you renamed yourself to shake off your shame."

     I slide one fan back at my waist. Now that there are words, I would prefer to seem less of a threat. For now, at least.

     “I cannot lie but only tell the happening; a task and privilege at once gi’en by the Highest.  Lies or spells I may speak of but ne’er of this allege but truth, should’t cost my life. Thou asks a pledge of monster; Caxa, I have not been one who summons sprite against thy good. I have in fact raised neither hand nor word nor none arrayed against thee. I have allowed thy gaffes and tempers to remain unchecked. No more.”

     "And what will you do, Aphelion trollop , what could you possibly do? Will you kill me too? Will you ruin your perfect image with blood and violence?" She almost wants it, I can see it. 

     It would be easier for her if she didn't have to face the Viscountess, Okya's cousins in their places of repute, even Ayme. Maybe especially Ayme. He's more to her side than mine, but he's heading for blood in the water with his teeth sharpened. It would be easier for her if the rumors in the market weren't being turned back against her, lies and misdirection revealed with the casual conversation of merchant, craftsmen, transporters, or even the random individuals who rise with hardly any of my help at all. Evabeth has already made a name for herself and hired on extra staff, and I have done nothing spectacular to aid her past the first day. 

     It would be easier if she would simply stop fighting a battle lost. I could solve this. Maybe even I should. 

     I don't want to. But I should. 

     A trap of sorts.

     "No." It's a quiet word from me, but it carries well enough. Possibly even to ears straining to hear the conversation from below, trying to determine if there's foul play they can call as excuse. “Caxa. I’ll relent for thy behalf, to thee I gift this one last chance before thy end. I’ve expectation thou’ll conclude in abject failure, and self-wounding sore. I truly hope thou be’st a fool and rude enough to challenge Sol and all the heav’ns. But first, thy gift.”

     There is a chair here which seems safe enough, and I take it. She stands before me, like a penitent, mouth slightly open at my presumption. 

     “Thou well mayst grow thy feud, to nothing listen; yet, I’ll tell thee hence the truth of it. As thou finds wise sithence, my words unto thee now thou mayst impart to all, yet know that none is hidden now. Be seated.”

     The indignity of it is all over her face, but as I have spoken it in this way, she must follow the command.

     "What could you possibly-"

     “Gathering thy counterpart’s full confirmation of events might cow the bravest. Ask of Gilded Mollusk, he was there; he’s Lord Protector now. Ask how he came to his position; thence for thee an answer thou’ll believe, ‘spite pride or thy own memory. To him do write, or seek him in his honor. His decisions try to bring the glory of a god king yet with gentleness and editing. He by King Agillens did stand and does rule well. Set they questions to him and thus answers get.”

     Now for the hard part, the sharing I try to keep from my mind at the best of times. 

     “Then, much like thee, I wrote to Agillens. Perhaps thou promised to become the last wife chosen; I my will wrote thus. What thence was diff’rent to our letters, long since past, I can not know. I wrote the goodness he might do, that I would come to him, hold fast and dream for him, to him tell stories, see his goals and help him reach for Sol, do as he would. I wrote these things and this decree of truth touched deep a need. I was at last accepted.”

     The letter had been in a handwriting that was mundane, one that, after Mollusk’s ornate formality, was mortal. I hadn’t said he would love me most, I hadn’t spoken to any real skills that I would bring him; I had only promised him that story...

     “I there went. In no way was uniquely welcomed I; we spoke. Time passed; I told him of the stories in him, cause of acts of beauty, stories without pause of what I willed him to become — to heal or nurture broken light. There was... much hurt there. Pain so deep I thought I wouldn’t feel an end. It broke my heart to see overt he longed to better those around, suff’ring destroying heart’s desires which ought revert to gentleness instead of despairing. I have seen passion such as his but twice; in him ‘twas pure and raw, unfiltered thing untended, strong enough to those devised constructions pow’r and dreams of nations grow.”

     You do not believe in subtlety, do you , he’d said. 

     “Extravagant and fiery, love sufficed to imitate those comets that do flow for heartbeats in the sky before they go beyond our sight or are extinguished; I was thus consumed and yet untouched. The dreams he spoke were beauteous. He would build high a city for Invictus Sol,” the light flashes brighter in the instant I speak the full name, “that seems a world of dream fulfillment. True desire, equality and joy worth more, he deemed, than funding or inheritance. Acquire a Rathess in the north. Thou even may have benefited, as we all, prior, from pow’r that underpinned this dream. To say I was enraptured, I was lost to it. I saw as sure as he that this new day was possible, was certain. Then befit to wonder, speaking reparation fit, continuance and healing, I then felt a gentleness such as a kiss upon my forehead and I lost myself and dwelt in brightness that is Sol.”

     Empress of the Divine Path... 

     “Light of the sun — such warmth as ev’ry summer’s day, as well the gentle lazy pleasure of the dawn, and all throughout the day as if a spell of perfect peace. A whisper of... there’s naught. It’s still beyond my words, in truth, to tell and I have dearly tried to speak these fraught and blazoned memories to one who would most understand. These words to thee are caught when to another I would speak; this good will offer healing unto thee. It should be otherwise, I wish it so, and yet. But nonetheless, a name was giv’n to me, a Second Breath, and knowing — given task, a recognition, promise, I did see, thus Dreams of the Empyrean. It’s more than other names I have received, lordly at birth, the House which claims me still, the store of those from loved ones who endearing speak. Eclipse of being, Caxa, to the core. As thus I marke’d am, I know, unique. This I have seen in mirrors and in eyes alike.”

     I will let you go if you promise that every morning there will be another story, and I will try not to spoil the beauty I am building for them in the future with the difficulties of building it now.

     The height of my trust, knowing all would be well. I saw it in his eyes, gold upon gold. I knew even before the light struck that I would be safe, that all would be well; after the blessing, I knew I would have been spared for that alone. There was overmuch blinded need, but also true fervor. It ended those hideous marriages with utmost certainty, however. Sealed and blessed and ordained. 

     “It was the deepest night - the shrieks arose, first shatterings. My heart in guise of splintered volcan glass saw pain arise as sanctum doors were battered down and he, Agillens, set himself between to save me. Cans’t thou understand what that to me did mean? He who would sacrifice and crave my heart stood thoughtlessly between myself and that, the threat unknown, as ever brave. He did not question morals or itself my vows; how might you dare, I understand must come from willful lack of seeing else.”

     I have to take a deep breath. My heart aches in remembering.

     “Between myself and ending he a stand did make, saw eyes of those my father brought arrayed against him; traiterous flames fanned in rising works of cowards. I stood, wrought as if in stone, as deep my father stabbed, sought heart and pierced through his back. Blood burst across my skin. I heard my mother’s voice above, she lifted it in tones of warcraft, loss, and ‘victory’. I fought to strike for love, but could save neither him nor me. I held him at that last, ‘spite all around. Thereof, he smiled, he touched my face, to Lethe he fell and passed from me. The golden blessing did not rise again until he’d gone.”

     My head spins, and I’m glad I’m sitting. The room falters around me, wobbles on its axis, turns bright and malleable and surreal. The paint on her face seems now to be thick as wet chalk, cracking around the cruel lines of snarling and snapping that draw themselves at her mouth, around her nose. 

     “When quelled, when all was still again, when as I bid did all lay arms down and to peace they came, those who had birthed and raised me came and hid their guilts. I spoke of visions and the name. My father grew compressed, my mother blamed and calculated to her benefit. They passed their power unto me, obeyed as Gilded Mollusk, as would still befit a queen. I spoke to people, who had paid in trauma but did smile and listen still, did bring their grievances to those whose aid was pow’red and deeper love flowered until all came to rights again. Houses built, rebuilt, commisioned boats, canals were dug, refilled the stores and stocks for times to come. All guilt did feed to reparation. All this was in days; I have no explanation, skilled and novice came a like at speed to cause; and if I spoke to little gods, who draw on prayer, materials leapt to be formed.”

     At least the golden light is already here, and the whirling inside only drives it onward, continues the knowing of what I must do next.

     “I see thee, Caxa, how tha’rt denying familial peace in lieu of such performed desires as please thee. All of thy vying for pow’r... thou wouldst ne’er sacrifice such for the greater good. It’s quite mystifying what thy desires would have created more if thou hadst gone. Perhaps thou would have been one Chosen in my stead... but I think nor a Chosen nor a queen.”

     She’s a little rattled, I can see it. Even in trying to disbelieve me, she is persuaded the smallest amount by the naked truth. It settles in her and adds to her look of nausea. Perhaps she ought not have drunk so much today. 

     “I make between us now a covenant — I’m leaving this fair city, and know not when I’ll convene with those residing here again. Remiss I’d be to leave us unresolved. It is to be, that thou wilt cease your sendings and forebear to leave be me and mine, or I’ll see they’re all returned to thee with command and pow’r to act upon thee that thou wilt full understand thy error. Thou’ll cease the hostility ‘tween us. Perhaps there’s guilt, and fam’ly will become to thee what it ought to be all along. Understand — if thou thinks’t to act against what’s mine, to whit, I swear these things in name of Sol. His gifts range farther than mine own and thou wilt ne’er escape his ministrations should thou with this break. Is this all understood?”

     “You cannot simply tell me what you will have me do and expect me to obey you, no matter who you are, Aphelion trollop. I do not take orders from any of your kind, now or ever,” she speaks loudly, perhaps for the benefit of those downstairs. Perhaps simply to hear the words herself. 

     Nevertheless, she is wrong.

     “You’ll dare to take this dealing, as it is. Beware, this is the harder way for me. For thee this is an opportunity to save thyself. I will not offer twice. Agree, or it will be made clear the outcome gave to those who do attack a Lawgiver, however indirectly.” Slowly I rise from the chair. “Here I came in anger. Those my anger faced before now walk Creation seeking atonement. Sol urged that peace and understanding more be giv’n to thee. I offer to relent; pledge henceforth to not damage, hurt, cause hurt to come to, or to kill mine. Time is spent. Wilt thou take this agreement?”

     Perhaps there’s something to the way I say it, perhaps it is only that I can see that there are only nominal shadows in the room; the light fills the space entirely. Perhaps it truly is only a nudge from Sol. When I hold out my hand for her to seal the pact, she lurches forward as if against her will to put her fingers barely on mine for the brieftest of seconds. It’s long enough to ratify the agreement. For the second time in a half hour, Heaven looks down upon the house and takes note. She looks up with something like horror still written all over her.  

     I turn to leave, more calmly than I have expected. The room still spins at the edges, just a little. The stairs are daunting, but the bannister is still smooth and easy to grasp.

     “This isn’t over, Aphelion. This isn’t over by a long shot!”

     I pause, halfway gone from here. Halfway back to the one person who I can trust entirely even if I can’t say those things to him without the light swelling, and I can’t risk it. 

     “Thus avert thy deeds from ill. Thou hast agreed. Exert thyself if thou will, ‘twill cathartic be; just let it die or give me justice at long last. It is your choice.”

     This rattles the room I descend into, who are in complete disarray. As expected, her husband has already begun to chivvy the children out of the room. Bena, the brother, and one or two servants stand still, just watching. 

     “Her needs do see to, Bena,” I say calmly. “Your sweet mistress has her vat o’er drank, and the intoxication doth full overwhelm her.”

     I walk through the broken house again, and hear Caxa screaming in fury indoors, the clatter of broken pottery, the heavy sound of metal. There are other voices, but hers is loudest. By the time she thinks to throw anything at me, I’ve already reached the front doors and the two standing there. 

     “Know your sister, that who delicate may be, will by my troth be well. Her health is fragile but with thy aid, blessed well she’ll be.” I say, and, “Thou, be not wroth with him, thy lover; trust him, don’t deny that urge. Thou hast a heavy life behind thee but allow thyself to love hereby, because thou art deserving. Thou combined, both blessed be.”

     The light flares again, but I begin to feel the fullness of the day wearing on my attention, a sign that soon I will have returned to the smallness of ambition that is Aurora. 

     “Lest I forget; pay mind. Thy mistress will unleash destruction ‘pon the house. Viscountess Basilinna has agreed to hire any from this house spawned who’d seek a diff’rent service and thus pass a position of higher quality. Just simply say Empyrean sent as you are. It will suffice.”

     They both salute, and I see the resolve shift. There will be few people in this house when all is said and done. So much the better. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a failed summoning in the near future, and with such wreckage I would prefer the innocents find their way free. 

     I nod at Kath, who has already leapt down from his seat and opens the door for me, offering me help up into the carriage which I take. He takes great pride in his position, and with the spell we’ve given him... well. I am treated with great deference. 

     Cailen has his feet kicked up so he sprawls entirely across the inside of the carriage; he’s been sketching after all. 

     “Is it finished?” he asks, using the light I bring to correct a detail on the page, before setting the paper aside, making room for me, offering me a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on. I take his hand only, too much whirling in my mind for rest. 

     “For thee? Yes. There will be no more successful attacks upon thyself from her or hers. For her?” I shrug. “It will depend on the presence of any calm-minded support. It is theoretically possible that she escapes this. But I believe tonight or tomorrow she will attempt something, and Heaven will look upon her with great disfavor.”

     “You’re not sending her on the road with the others?”

     “I was instructed otherwise. And her crime is not one travel will solve. The house is rotten from within. Perhaps, if she survives the collapse, there will be time to rebuild on the foundations. Presuming they are also unmarred.”

     “Are you alright with that?” He is persistent, and I know I won’t escape his question forever.

     “No,” I say honestly, and feel the most like myself than I have this entire time. The aftereffects of the golden haze and the telling of a story that I can’t even properly tell Cailen are beginning to hit and I know that I am going to collapse when I no longer have the perfect structure to keep myself from falling. “If it were up to me, I would have wild dogs attack, or trees fall on her house, or floodwaters to come up from the bottom, or any number of other catastrophes. I would have children throw stones at her when she crosses the street. But while I spoke, I discovered that the option of mercy had to be offered. I can’t tell if I regret it or not.”

     “It’s okay,” he says, and trades hands, reaches across so he can hold mine and rub my back at the same time.

     The tears threaten to well up. “You’re being so soft at me. I have to be hard as obsidian right now, and I can’t do that if you’re being soft at me.”

     “It’s alright. We can just go home. You already did everything important today.”

     “Weren’t we going to buy you canvases?”

     “Yes.” He gently tugs me toward him, disregarding the shimmering essence entirely. Not a forceful pull, but persistent. Come here. I’ve got you.

     “We should still do that. We’re so close to the shop.” It’s tempting to let him win this now, but we are right here. “Perhaps my makeup will run. But we ought to buy you canvases. You were going to bargain, anyway, I was just going to stand here and look at the shop.”

     “An artist’s model in waiting. They’ll probably ask again, you know.”

     “My answer is still no. They don’t have room for what custom such a thing will attract; perhaps if we find an artist’s shop with a larger facility and a functional backdoor to escape crowds through.” The distraction helps ground me again, prevent my tears and running black makeup.

     He sighs but lets go of me long enough to swing himself out of the door and shout to Kath about our plans. The slow aimless movement becomes more direct, and we set out to attend the mundane miracles.

When Kings fall to their knees

They sing a woman’s song

When birds chirp on the trees

They sing a woman’s song

The sunrise in the east

Sings a woman’s song

Every heart that beats

Sings a woman’s song

Chapter Text

This is she who is so crucified even by those who 

should give her praise, wrongly blaming and 

speaking ill of her; 

     The two on the ground seem almost surprised to find both Virgil and Sonnet coming to greet them.

     “I take it you’ll speak with the Captain when you board. That was more of a fight than most people would try, for a ship of our size. You must be part of the race,” says Virgil, with half a mind soothing the rushing energies. The adrenaline hasn’t fully left either.

     Sonnet pushes past him. “I can see you’ve all met before. Are you able to walk? I would prefer to be away before we fall too far behind and the Captain is just about at the edge of that hill.” She sinks to a knee, lightly resting her arm on the other for easy balance. 

     “It’s not a problem for me. Requiem might be a little slow.” The ears keep swiveling but there’s one on the two of them at all times. 

     “I can walk,” his friend protests. “I’ll just need to walk a little slow.” 

     “Wonderful. We’ll start by walking, and when the ship begins to outstrip us, Virgil can carry us the rest of the way. Is that a plan which will suit everyone?”

     The two exchange glances but nod. Virgil only crosses his arms and laughs humorlessly, once, low in his throat. “Let’s just go.”

     The cat rises easily, and would move under his friend’s arm to offer support, but it’s clear he won’t be able to keep them both up at the same time. Instead, Sonnet substitutes in.

     “On three, alright?” She sounds almost gentle. He could learn to hate the solar a little bit, probably. If it comes to it.

     They get him upright, Sonnet holding his weight so he can force himself to walk. When he’s finally stable he finally looks over at her. It’s like a snakebite, almost. Something about her eyes, something that runs deep. 

     “Ah, you are unwell. Would you prefer Virgil’s assistance instead? Truly, there is no shame in asking for help,” she says in a level voice. He can’t help but shake his head at the audacity of her lecturing someone on the merits of assistance while having just pulled the arrow out of herself less than twenty minutes ago. 

     The pair don’t seem to catch it. Whatever they might or might not want to focus on, walking is taking up a lot of energy and they need all of their focus to move. At the first time they rest, the ship begins to slide into the far hills. 

     “I think, perhaps, it is time. Virgil, would you please do us the kindness of helping us over to the ship?” Her expression is blank under that false smile that seems to fool everyone else. Nothing else seeps through. 

     “You two wait here.”

     “Surely their need is greater?”

     “They might have greater need, but I’m not leaving you alone with one of them out here.” He remembers to break up the memory of the prior meeting only slightly. It’s still worth ensuring that neither will get any ideas, or that a dragon-blooded looking for revenge will find them.

     She notices the break but lets it slide. “As you like.”

     It’s a silent few moments as he carries her over; she has this strange quietness to her, unknowable. But there’s no time to really ask her about it on landing because she immediately drops to the deck and walks away to speak with  Hearts and Paradise before he can get a word out. 

     Something else is going on here more than I’m seeing. What is it?

     The flight back is a little longer as the ship continues to sail. Hearts was correct about speeding up in the open. If he had to try to keep up he couldn’t do more than one day. He’d need to sleep and would lose them. But for short jaunts it’s doable. 

     The air is drawing a nice chill in the air, and he’s just trying to enjoy it, let it cool the thoughts. 

     “I’m not kidding, Riz, you can see it if you look closely. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something wrong.”

     “It— she— is an undead. All of her is something wrong.”

     The words are just a little too loud, the valley carries the sound on the wind just a little further than they realize. 

     “The Captain is also undead and there’s nothing like it in her eyes. If you look, I know you’ll see —”

     They stop, a little too sharply, just before he lands. 

     Better not to say anything now, just keep an eye on them when back aboard. 

     “I’d say don’t stop on my account, but we’re going before the ship leaves us behind. Both of you up behind my wings. I’d suggest you first, nightbringer.”

     The pair exchange looks again, but there’s no real argument. They drape themselves over him, and he at least offers them fully developed arms instead to hold them down on the trip back. Likely they wouldn’t find the muscular growths as normal as Sonnet did. 

     As they return, the sounds of a lively, possibly even heated, conversation are overheard at least in part. Hearts doesn’t care about being overheard, especially not when they touch down on the deck and she can snap out of the argument into directing the ship to sail at top speed. 

     As the two dismount, there is an amount of staggering. Grudgingly, he walks them over to a coil of rope out of the way and helps them sit down to rest. 

     Sonnet is casually leaning against the railing, where she had been watching the half-shouting match happening at the bow; Paradise with her fan snapped wide in open rebellion against Hearts, who was shouting back. They had both been pointing variously between Paradise’s map and the terrain surrounding. 

     He carefully walks up behind her, loud enough that she would hear him even if she didn’t feel him. She glances over her shoulder, offers room at the railing in front if he wants it, but turns back to the map and the fresh air ahead with a little smile on her face. She clearly enjoyed the debate.

     “What am I walking into, here?” he asks, wondering if he’ll even get a response. 

     “I mentioned that we’ll need to find a physician for the two ‘new’ passengers, and we were deciding which town to stop at. Paradise has a very comprehensive map, and we need other supplies as well. One of the options seems to be a madman in the hills whom everyone is relatively certain is Anathema, but no one has bothered to check. We can also try the doctor in town; Hearts knows that doctor, however, and Paradise was concerned about what might come of the visit. Either way, I think we’ll slow ourselves through there...” she carefully points to the beautifully notated map and the paperweight nearest the little cluster. “And stay a day or so. That should leave enough time for our new friends to recover. They’ll probably come to that realization soon.” She says ‘probably’ with unconcealed enjoyment. Whatever is happening, this sort of chaos was brought aboard by her word. No wonder she was so focused earlier. 

     “Just being nearby isn’t going to be enough for them to get better. They’ll need to get to... whoever they choose.”

     “No, proximity is clearly not the answer to solve medical emergencies. However, you are going to go with them up the mountain to look into the probably-Anathema while I help Paradise and Hearts with the ship. There are many little spirits around here that might be persuaded to offer us some small amount of aid. So it is believed, at any rate.” Her expression is entirely pleasant, calm, mildly amused, and the walls are up hard. Impossible to take away anything more useful than her words alone.

     What game is it this time?

     “I thought I was relatively clear about the whole ‘not leaving you alone to get attacked’ thing,” he tries, hoping for any variations in expression or essence at all. 

     At least give me a hint.

     “You are remarkably clear about many things, Virgil. I will be clear here. I am telling you now that it is my express wish for you to take at least that one —” she gestures at the solar over her shoulder, who is slumped against the coil “— to acquire some sort of aid. Hearts tends to become too easily interested in such easy prey, and including the pair in our company wou;ld be an overall asset. I happen to agree with Paradise on that particular decision.”

     “So you’ll come with us also.”

     “I flew out with you earlier, much good it did us, and now I will have you bend to this, Virgil. No. I am not going up a mountain to wait uselessly while you two find something to do involving the healing prowess of a potential enemy. I have many more than you. Lunars are much more socially acceptable than we Undead. I will stay with Hearts and Paradise, in the safety I anticipated before meeting you; I will be an hour away by flight, at the greatest, no more. Take this Wretched quickly there and back. The sooner you leave, the sooner you return, and all will be as it was before this little incident.”

     "You're going unaccompanied into an unknown sequence of towns.  That's not safer than a single Ana- Do we even have any idea which exalt type is supposed to be up there, even? It might be another Undead, even."

     It could be anything up there. There might not even be anything at all. Either way, we have no idea what we’re going to be looking for. 

     She waves away the question.

     “It is unlikely that we discover anything or are discovered on our brief respite.It is unlikely as well that another one of our counterparts is lying in wait. Hearts and I both tend to keep closer eyes on where our peers might have settled. We might not have all of them accounted for, but the odds are not in your favor in this line of thinking. Just leave be, Virgil. Hearts did well against the fair folk, as you saw, and I am guaranteed an amount of protection based in the contract. I will survive a day away from you." 

     You didn't last time.

     She’s watching him process all this with something clearly turning over inside her, something that alternates hard edges and darkness, and... whatever else it is, it could be bitterness or regret, or nothing at all, as she crosses her arms and readies herself for the continued argument. The line she’s drawing is very clear, but... 

     Either forcing me to act as her support, or keep her safe. I hate it when she pulls this kind of thing. Is this progress? More trust like it used to be, or just a whim?

     “Why not send the two on their own?”

     “They won’t be able to move fast enough. Even stopping in each town for a day each will be too fast for them. It’s a task specified to your skills.” She reaches out and gently sets her hand on his shoulder. “Virgil, it is a simple enough task that I am asking. You do not even need to damage anything or anyone in the execution. Make yourself useful to me — it will go better for us both.” 

     Despite the fact that her manipulation is clear as the day, her touch is gentle, almost sympathetic. 

     She said she was only taking care of what is hers. It means nothing. 

     Her expression is softened, her eyes meeting his and offering only a deep rose with nothing behind to suggest anything but truth and sincerity behind the request. Everything about her suggests the normal response of a request, and yet... something lurks below and a cynical mind would note how easily she shifted from that dark pleasure at the argument into this gentled command. 

     But it feels so... real. 

     “Fine. I will go to the mountaintop with this new solar, and find the exalt at the top. But if I feel one thing out of place, I’m leaving him behind.”

     “Agreed.” She doesn’t offer her hand to ratify the promise, but at the very least the act isn’t immediately dropped. She makes it look natural.

     “No dark overseers?” he asks. “No guaranteed promises?”

     She looks at him with that same subdued expression, not quite surprised. “Why should I call them to witness? Any promise you make to me you’ll keep. You’ve made that clear enough. Will you fail me after all, Virgil?”

     It has to be the bitterness, that anger, that frustration that drives that question, but it only sounds mildly curious. There’s no other hint.

     Do you remember or not?

     “No,” he says only, and leaves her to her own devices as he tries not to stomp across the deck to go convince the solar.

     You’d better not die this time.

Cold hands, red eyes

Packed your bags at midnight

They've been there, for weeks

You don't know what goodbye means

...but she is blessed in herself and does not listen: 

with the other first creatures, she gladly turns her 

sphere and rejoices in her blessedness. 

     Aurora folds the last of the delicate glass flowers into her clothing, using all those beautiful, constantly moving layers to protect them. All fit in this small bag, and the bag will fit into the chest that was sent over. It would be too empty — we don’t have very many items that we began with. But now, there is half of the chest full of the layers and layers that make up the Northern dancing dress. There are more pretty layers, more gems in necklaces, bracelets, and earrings that she keeps as precious but won’t wear as intended. The assumption seems to be that she hasn’t found something of high enough quality or preference yet and that’s why she goes without. A useful assumption, in terms of the number of gifts she’s accepted. 

     Those extra glass flowers that were sent over make an appearance when she goes visiting, and she repurposes one or two of the necklaces to float through her hair and come into the overall design.

     She’s elegantly distinct, these little details making her stand out in the ways she can control easily. The trends for gemstones and precious metals have shifted toward her stylings already, some of the theoretically braver members of Society following her lead to various impact at events we haven’t even gone to. The necklines are already dipping lower and more square to create a better frame, and the hairstyles are becoming slowly more complex.

     So, instead of wearing them around, she’s keeping the rest for us to sell off one by one, as needed to find food and shelter. More easily moved than the equivalent value, certainly. 

     At least she has a little fiscal awareness at our most basic level. A buffer against inconsistencies. 

     She steps back, looks critically at it and then around the room again. We should have packed up everything. Despite the generosity in the gift of travelling trunks, she at least argued them down to giving us two. One is for food and water, and one is for everything else we’re bringing. When we have to walk with them again, we’ll have one each. Aurora should be able to take one, with the straps that they come with, and the frames I bought, the weight should sit correctly as we go. For now, we have a wagon to ourselves. It looks weird, little houses on wheels. We won’t have it always, but it’s nice now.

     We’ll be alone. Probably. Evelynae will probably still want to have private meetings in her own wagon house, but there should be at least some nights where she’ll be .... home? is home the right word?

     “My lady? Mr. Morag?” Nora taps on the open door loudly before she steps into the room. “Might I have a word? It’s related to your trip, or I wouldn’t interrupt.” It’s the most nervous she’s looked in weeks.

     Well, we were going to be alone. She looks... she looks like me, if Aurora had told me her plans earlier and I had to argue for a place with her.

     “Of course.” Aurora crosses the room, fills the kettle with water, and, with great delicacy, hooks it into the coals of the fireplace. A few more branches to burn hot and quick. 

     She’s done it all correctly this time. That looked easy, even with her sleeves. No stains, no mess. Perfectly done.

     “It’s time for something of a break after all. We’ll have to do the last sweep, and I think my eyes need rest before I try to look for differences again. Come sit, we all can wait for the length of a cup of tea.” Aurora is elegant as always, but she breaks the potentially formal atmosphere by lying down on the reclining chair instead of sitting properly. She goes so far as to rest her arm and head on the raised end, the picture of relaxation. 

     She’s doing it on purpose. There has to be a way to help the effect. 

     I sit cautiously cross-legged until I see her gentle nod, almost imperceptible, then let the chair support me too. We have been rushing around a lot today, and it does feel nice to let go of some of that stress.

     Nora does sit. The atmosphere works on her well, and she’s at least not nervous to the point of pacing. 

     “Now. What is it, Nora?” I can’t tell if she’s putting just a little effort into making her voice sound like that, or if it just happens but Nora calms remarkably and sits up a little straighter. She flushes instead. 

     “Well,” she takes a deep breath. “It’s like this. I came down here because there were too many mouths at home. Being down here has given me a lot, really. But I listen to all the stories of everyone passing through, and while a lot of people are just going to and from Wallport and one other city, they’re still travelling. There’s movement, new things every day. And some of the stories sound like... There were stories when I was a child, that I heard and I was always jealous of those who sleep on the stove, or who were the youngests, because they go off and fight monsters, and save innocents, and... and meet the gods.” 

     Aurora doesn’t show that she’s noticed anything, but I can’t help but glance at her. 

     Sometimes the gods come to you.

     “This whole time you’ve been here, I’ve felt like there’s been this beautiful fairytale happening, and I don’t want it to end. I’d like...” She throws her shoulders back and looks back at Aurora directly. “Would you let me come with you? I can pay for my own way, for a while at least. And you know I could help with other things that come up on the road. I was born on a farm up here, after all, so I know the land pretty well. I understand you’ll likely need time to talk it over, but if I don’t ask now, I’ll regret it forever.”

     Aurora’s smile slowly begins to grow, and they both, in unison, turn to look at me. 

     Nora looks terrified but also hopeful. Aurora’s is merely a question. ‘Will this be okay with you?’

     I have the deciding vote. Perfect. I could take time, but really the answer is yes. It’ll be better overall with three of us. Maybe there will still be time when it’s just us two, here and there. At least we’ll know what we can eat while we travel in the less-travelled roads.

     I nod my head, agreeing. I see Aurora read me without any essence at all. She can see the full range of thought behind the decision. 

     “There’s no need,” she says, before turning to Nora who looks like she’s stopped breathing. “You’ve more than proved your credentials, and if you’re able to help so much the better. You’re welcome to join us, but won’t they miss you here?”

     She sighs heavily and I see Nora’s body respond as a mirror. She had stopped breathing. Now she just looks like she can’t believe what’s happening. “No, there are more than enough people here to support an inn of this size. Someone will get lucky, get a promotion and my old bed, and life goes on. It’s high turnover in the town, after all.” 

     I’ll need to go and speak with Jasper about that second trunk after all, and extra passenger. I doubt he’ll be surprised, but so it is. I can sit in a cart too, probably, since I’m on official business and need to get there quick.

     Aurora laughs, sits up and lightly touches Nora’s knee. The contact seems to ground her, somehow. It would have sent me off into some other trail of disbelief, if it had happened to me. 

     “Go pack what is yours, meet us back here, and we’ll blend all the pieces as needed so we fit in the wagon. We’ll be travelling this leg at least with Lady Evelynae, so it will be a little easier for us to adapt. Cailen—”

     “Already on it.” Off I go to warn Jasper that the group is growing by one so he can plan for us. 

     Being in town like this is the most alone we’ve been so far. 

     Nora’s presence will change the dynamic certainly. It’s strange, frustrating, and reassuring all at once. 

     Luckily, Jasper is still behind in his tallying so there’s plenty of room to add Nora’s name to the list. 

     “Only one?” he asks, his gossiping smile fully out. 

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, and am secretly glad that Nora and I are on good terms. 

     “I have no idea who taught you how to keep your poker face so perfectly. That was impressive, Cailen. That does suggest she’s jockeying for your job, though. Are you, at the very least, friends with her? There was one with my lady who was a staffing terror that we had to work around for a while.

     “She’s a very nice person, and I think you’ll like her too. Unless she chases you off for trying to be too cozy with her. I watched her do that to someone. Two someones, actually. She’s an excellent addition to my Lady’s retinue, seeing as she’s the first one not a steward. There are plenty of positions to fill, if your lady is anything to go by.”

     Hopefully Aurora won’t pick up another twenty people. It’s a lot to plan around. She’d never replace me as steward, though. I can be sure of that, at least.

     Jasper rubs his temples to try to relieve some of the immediate tension. “I try not to think about it. Your lady is very choosy about her company. Hopefully your luck holds.”

     “It usually does,” I say, but I can see his mind slipping away in front of me. “I’ll leave you to the planning, though. That whole retinue thing, and all. Luck to you too.”

     “Thanks,” he says, but whether it’s for the luck or leaving him be, I can’t tell. 

But now let us go down to even greater pity: 

already every star is falling that was rising when I 

set out, and too long a stay is forbidden.

I know you'll write me off

I know you're always gonna count me out

You think I'm gonna let you down?

Just wait, just wait, just wait

     The path that winds up the mountain is very steep and there are multiple points where it has broken off entirely. He has to carry the solar across the gaps. Despite his best efforts, the solar is fighting exhaustion from his wounds and it takes them longer than it would if Virgil was on his own. It isn’t even a quarter of the way there before he drops. 

     “I shouldn’t be this tired.”

     “I can just carry you the rest of the way, so we both get back sooner. I’m sure you’d rather be with your friend.”

     “What’s your name, again?” asks the solar, leaning forward a little with arms braced on knees to catch his breath. 

     I could give him Razzik, but Sonnet and the others wouldn’t change back using that. Besides, he has to have picked up the name somewhere in the night. It’s what his sort do.

     “Virgil,” he says, crossing his arms. “Yours?”

     “Requiem.”He takes another deep breath. 

     This could all be over so quickly. We could go up the mountain, find the healer or not, and be back down before sunrise. At least she’s more in power in the dark; the cat doesn’t stand a chance, now that she knows he’s there. 

     The thought brings with it the possibility of an incredibly faint smile.

     “And your... partner? What is ...she... called?

     Which kills any hope of smiling.

     “Sonnet. You’ve her to thank for this little adventure of ours, I would have just settled for the town apothecary. Her, and Paradise.”

     “Paradise. She’s like me,” Requiem says, slowly as he thinks through whatever haze is rising from pain.

     “Somewhat,” he says, guardedly. “Are you ready yet?”

     “Yeah.” It’s spoken more from will than actual confidence; he staggers when he gets up, almost falls back.

     Virgil has to keep his tail from showing his displeasure, up off the ground where it can’t tap in frustration. “I’m done waiting. You can’t make the climb. Am I carrying you with or without your agreement?”

     Requiem groans, rubs his face with his hand. “You aren’t going to make this weird, are you?”

     “Weird how?” 

     “I saw how you and Sonnet were flying. Weird.”

     “I don’t have to fly. Even running is faster.” He relents the smallest amount. As Sonnet or Paradise would point out, if all goes to plan, they’re going to be spending a lot of time together in the near future. “I won’t hold you in a way that you think is especially weird. Good enough?”

     “Yeah. How’s this work? Rizzik has a whole routine.”

     He would, he has to move through the single form.

     He takes a knee and gestures. “On my back.”

     “You’ll just carry me like a child. Joy.” But even while he’s grumbling about it, he’s cautiously draping himself over Virgil’s back. “Now what?”

     “Now, tyrant lizard. Hold on.”

     “To what? ” He does try to hold on as the shape under him changes.

     Virgil starts from back to front so he doesn’t slide his passenger off immediately. Normally the arms of the lizard would seat toward the front, but in the interest of keeping something relatively sensical, he keeps them structured backward. He even elongates them slightly to form a cage of claw and palm that will prevent him losing his passenger. 

     It feels better than expected, coming back to his root. Even with all the issues, he’s in his first form and she’s nearby.

     The walk up the mountain takes significantly less time. Having longer legs designed for this sort of slope helps significantly too; whenever he loses traction he just stabs extra claws out the bottom of his foot and it keeps them stable. 

     At the very peak, there is in fact a cave. Light flickers at the back, very far back. It seems to come from below, but impossible to tell for sure. 

     He puts Requiem down carefully. His expression suggests that Virgil has indeed done something weird with the chimaerical shifting, but the cave is here, and they might as well see if the person living up here can actually help. 

     “Hello?” his voice echoes off the stone. 

     “That sounds like it goes pretty deep. Useful that there’s a wall to hang onto, right?” Requiem’s face is paling with pain. “Are you going first or am I sneaking in?”

     Let’s hope for the best. 

     “You stay here, I’ll go look.” He hesitates. “Try not to die while I’m gone.”

     “Sure thing, boss. I’m on it.” The salute that accompanies it somewhat confirms the Guild cant tells in the rest of Requiem’s words. Something else to keep an eye on, depending. The Guild is a blessing and curse of its very own.

     The stairs leading downward are carved roughly. They feel like someone had took a shovel and scooped out the stone as if it were dirt, and never came back to level them when they had finished. As he descends, the strange blue-white light intensifies. The walls are the same as the floor, going down in this strangely winding stairwell. 

     He steps off the last stair into a hallway. The ceiling has been designed about twelve feet in here, for whatever reason. Here it looks more like something reached up and clawed bits of rock out until the archway was large enough. The tunnel continues further into the darkness, but there’s a door into the room with the light and sounds of someone working. 

     It is a workroom, after all; walls and floors crammed with materials of... well. There are limbs and tails and torsos of all manner of animals and demonic forms, and other parts of things he can’t identify. At the center of the room a giant of a man is pulling parts down off the wall and fusing a sinew or a muscle, or something so tiny that Virgil can’t make out even at this close range.

     Nothing for it. If nothing else, he does know the animal body well. It seems like. 

     “Hello? Are you...” — what was the name — “Ever Evolving Path?” 

     Who else would it be, really.

     The man straightens up with what seems to be an impala leg in one hand and something squidlike in the other. Both parts seem to be in no pain, twitching or gently waving with perfect calm.

     “Why are you here?” He asks, bluntly and plainly. No rancor, no irritation, no surprise. 

     At least this will be straightforward. Relatively. 

     “I have a friend who’s been hurt badly.” Something like a friend, anyway. “We were told to come find you. Will you heal him?”

     He blinks twice, and gestures with the squid. “No one is with you.”

     “He’s at the top. We thought I should check if you were here, and, luckily, you are. If I bring him down, will you heal him?”

     He nods, puts the pieces down and begins to instead set up a table to work on. 

     The stairs seem much longer, even when he carries Requiem again, but they make it down. Requiem leaves an arm over Virgil’s shoulders until they get into the room. His eyes grow large when he sees the animal parts, all subtly moving and strange in this disassembling. Something like a curse nearly sneaks its way out of him, but the pain must be taking enough of a toll that all he actually says is, “Where do you need me?”

     “Table.” Path has set it up with a focused light over the table, a small set of what look like tools on an adjacent workspace, and, concerningly, straps, but Requiem only walks over and lies down. Path straps him in with no particular gentleness, but it doesn’t seem to be painful. 

     “You feeling alright?” He has to check, just in case. Even with his own fluidity of form, there’s something unsettling about this room, these parts, this man.

     “Just peachy,” is all he gets out before he’s completely pinned down. “Feeling better already.”

     “What am I doing with you again?” Path asks with a notable focus on Requiem. It’s likely he wouldn’t hear Virgil even if the words were shouted into his ear.

     “Putting me back together. I was in a fight.”

     “Oh,” says Path. There’s a tinge of disappointment, but it’s immediately followed by him reaching out and pulling Requiem’s arm off.   

     Immediately Virgil is sliding into full war-form, scales erupting and claws shifting for practicality. 

     Straps will take a second. Clamping down the bleeding will be another. Can I carry him out of here before—

     “Well, that’s weird. Another very weird thing today. I give up.” He sounds relaxed. “I wouldn’t have expected that to feel as normal as it does. There’s no blood! How are you doing that?”

     Path looks at him owlishly, and says, “Why should there be blood?”

     And that really is the end of it. There’s nothing exciting happening here, just muscles and fibers being knitted back together professionally. Slowly he comes back to his own form, letting the natural armor drop away again. 

     Requiem yawns. “You still here, Virgil?”

     “Yes.” 

     Where else would I be? I’m not just leaving you down here.

     “I’m gonna take a nap. It’s boring watching him. You could probably rest too, if you want. It looks like it’s gonna be a while.”

     “Thanks.”

     Requiem, Path works, and Virgil paces, for a while, thinking and watching. But there doesn’t appear to be anything wrong that he can see so the pacing gets longer and longer until it takes him fully out into the dark hallway with the light at his back. With no one looking, it’s as good a time as any to see what lies down here. 

     It’s nothing for some time; then, a hushed sniffle breaks the silence and he drops into incorporeal without thinking about it. Nothing else happens, except a few muted whimpers. Coming back to a full war form, he fully lets the armored scales develop, claws sharp and ready to slice or catch, keeps his body fluid ready to adapt at an instant’s warning. 

     There’s a quiet gasp but as he continues cautiously down the hall, all he sees is cages lining the side of the hallway; cages full of children. 

     I left him up there with someone who at best uses them as extra parts for his experimenting. We need to leave. Now. 

     But he’s pulled down almost against his will, seeing how many there are, how many are partly changed or what size they are. At the very end is a chimaera, forced into being. No moonsilver on this one, and it... there’s something dangerous about this one, in a way that the others aren’t. Chimaera form forced into being and the Wyld magic comes to mind. 

     The others. The rest, we can save. This one...

     First things first. Rescue Requiem from this madman. Then, come down here and break apart the cages, find a way to carry them all quietly past the open door, and get off the mountain before they’re noticed.

     No wonder no one wants to check if there’s an Anathema up here. 

     He doesn’t run, and he does remember to shift back to normal before he reaches the room, to slow down and get back into pacing. 

     It doesn’t matter at all. Path is focused on the task, which is just as well. Requiem is just waking up again. 

     “We have to go.”

     “Why?”

     They both look over at Path who sits up, reaches over and pushes the arm he’s working on back onto Requiem’s shoulder. 

     “Better, same, worse?”

     Before Requiem can say anything, Virgil cuts in, physically between the two until he’s sure he has Path’s attention. “Better. Let him up and he’ll go test them out somewhere outside. See how they work out there. He’ll come back once the tests are done. You were working on your — squid?” 

     “Payment.”

     “What’s the payment?” Requiem asks, and Virgil feels the quickness of hands detaching straps behind him. One way or another, he is a nightbringer. It’s hard to keep them pinned when panicked.

     “Equal flesh.’