Work Text:
Leisure time does not come often. When it does, H’aanit claims the opportunity.
While Master is safe and at home, the requests never cease. During her extended travels, once-fledgling hunters studied their craft well and now hone their skills in the field. Of course, none can compare to Z’aanta or herself. Rumors of H’aanit’s grand accomplishments spread, and she carries monikers abound. “Dragonslayer” for her feat in the frigid north, slayer of Redeye in the sweltering south… fanciful as they are, she knows herself best.
She is simply H’aanit.
Frequent visitors to S’warkii remain unsatisfied with the plain response, seeking more so that their journeys are not in vain. H’aanit respects their time, and so she spins tales new and old beside the nightly bonfire. She stumbled over her words in the beginning, yet with each passing day, her confidence grows. Lessons from dear friends sound within her head: say what’s on her mind, speak the truth, twist it (if she’s bold). It’s a type of artistry she continues to hone.
Were it not for Linde, H’aanit’s view of the Frostlands would be neutral, at best. However, the snow and cliffs represent Linde’s second home, one where she’s free to roll around like a kitten. She would be terrible to deny her best friend the chance to play.
H’aanit wears layers of thick furs for the journey, handcrafted by one of the village’s elders. She’s fortunate that one of her many companions is close by, should she seek the company.
Green and grass transitions to white and snow as the two enter the Frostlands. Immediately, Linde leaps forward, landing upon a pile of snow with delight in her eyes. She rolls back and forth like children during the winter’s first snow, and H’aanit laughs. Ah, the joy on her adorable face!
The remainder of the trek is calm, as they are blessed with mild weather and little snowfall. Linde hones her exceptional climbing skills against the numerous cliffs they pass, and H’aanit believes she’s merely boasting. Still, she allows Linde to retain her pride. She can save the teasing for her human friends.
Snow crunches against her winter boots, and the glimmers of the cathedral greet them upon arrival. Flamesgrace is a peaceful town amidst the cold climate. Whatever wind blows past is a ‘warm zephyr’ compared to the town of Northreach, as one resident described. H’aanit knows quite well, from experience.
“Playest in the snow whilst we aren here,” H’aanit addresses Linde, though she’s already leaving in the middle of her sentence. This town speaks to Linde - a comfortable chill, the view atop the hill, the hill...
H’aanit watches silently as Linde climbs up the hill overlooking the cathedral - Ophilia’s favorite area in the town. She recalls how Ophilia gazes from the top, pondering the past and future. It’s a place that provokes many thoughts, many memories.
For Linde, it’s the best place to play. Her long tail disappears behind the base of the hill, and then she’s rolling, down and down with no care in the world. She slides a bit following her otherwise graceful landing, and climbs again. Townsfolk gather in curiosity and, after noting the familiar ribbon tied around the leopard’s tail, leave her be.
H’aanit visits often. This is simply another visit, a break from the routine of forest life.
Flamegrace’s cathedral stands tall, its glass windows shining rainbows of light against the snow. It’s an extravagant sight, yet H’aanit finds most buildings extravagant compared to her village’s humble lodgings. The knight on duty recognizes her and bows in greeting. She nods in return and enters the central room.
The air’s warm against her cool cheeks, and she rubs her gloved hands in relief. Aelfric’s brilliant blue flames crackle in the distance, more alive now that the Flamebearer is home. It’s what H’aanit believes, in her mind.
“Lady H’aanit, yes?” A cleric greets her kindly. “Welcome back. I presume you wish to meet with Sister Ophilia?”
“Thou art correct,” H’aanit responds. “But I am in no hurry. If duty calleth her, I canst waiteth here.”
“Ah, that would be best. She is currently in a meeting, but I shall inform her as soon as I can.”
“Thanken thee,” H’aanit offers a smile and seats herself on a pew closest to the sacred flame. Up close, the blue flames mystify her, like crystals dancing in the air. She recalls a point from one of Cyrus’ many lectures: blue flames are incredibly hot, compared to their red counterparts. Yet here, a gentle warmth radiates against her skin. The flames reflect the heart of the Flamebearer… the warmth makes sense.
While Linde plays outside, H’aanit ponders here. She appreciates the tranquil air in the church, with worshippers tending to their own matters. It’s a different stillness compared to her quiet forest home, but it’s a welcome one.
She thinks of their journeys; she thinks of their memories. How odd that eight stories intertwined into a collective whole, filling in the cracks of wounded hearts and weary souls. She’s grateful, truly. Should she need some time away (or the other way around) there’s a place to call home throughout the land.
Ophilia, in particular, carries a lot upon her shoulders. The youngest Flamebearer in Orsterra’s history, or so the stories say. More important, however, is the appointment of a new archbishop. Through events Ophilia wishes not to repeat aloud, the position remains vacant. The elders of this town must tend to the matter until that time comes, H’aanit presumes.
Given their group’s exploits, it comes to no surprise when Ophilia shares her interest in the role. The higher powers of the church support such interest, as well. Most matters of the church are foreign to her, but H’aanit supports Ophilia without fail. H’aanit assures her that the light and strength in her heart shall guide her, just as she guides the others. If beliefs falter, H’aanit shall offer her own strength. She cares for Ophilia dearly, after all.
“H’aanit!” a familiar voice sounds nearby. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Exiting the room is Ophilia herself. She wears more elaborate robes than the customary cleric attire, a testament to her rise in the ranks. In time, she will become the new archbishop, a shining light for the people. (Already does she shine brightly, of course.)
“Not at all,” H’aanit embraces her in greeting. She glances around, noting the bowed heads of townsfolk offering their own prayers to the gods. “Ah, shouldst we talketh elsewhere?”
Ophilia sees her wandering eyes and understands. “The usual place?”
“Aye, the usual.”
Hand in hand, the two walk toward the peak of the hill. H’aanit only pulls away to offer the beast’s hide against her shoulders, but Ophilia gently denies the offer.
“I’m more used to the cold, you know.”
She knows, of course, but she wants to make sure.
H’aanit calmly steps out of the way of a rolling leopard, while Ophilia receives the answer to Linde’s whereabouts. Surely, Linde would be welcome inside the church (by choice or not), but why a plain church when glorious snow exists?
They leave Linde to indulge and reach the top of the hill. Stained-glass windows, in their vivid glory, glimmer as sunlight peeks through the clouds. If Marsalim’s palace is the jewel of the desert, then Flamesgrace’s cathedral is the jewel of the Frostlands.
“How are things in S’warkii? Well, I hope.”
H’aanit brushes away the thin layer of snow from the ground. She motions for Ophilia to join her once she sits.
Ophilia’s hopes are correct, as they often are.
“Many visitors comen to hearen tales of our adventures - many more than I hath imagined.”
It doesn’t disturb the overall peace of her village, but rather, she is not used to such company. Even so, it’s a challenge she’s willing to take each evening around the bonfire. She spins her tales - mainly truth with white lies - and grows to enjoy the genuine praise. Her confidence grows with each tale, and she may even rival Master’s tales, someday. (With less lying, of course.)
“You’ll never run out of stories, then!” Ophilia offers more praise. “Townsfolk speak of the famed Dragonslayer here, and that’s only one of them. Surely, you must have heard many!”
“Ah, thou art too kind,” H’aanit tries to object. Fanciful names are simply names, and she adopts Linde’s mindset: they matter little. She’s simply H’aanit, and apparently a flustered one.
“Oh! I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Ophilia apologizes. “Not too much, at least. I never even asked about your visit.”
“Leisure alone is mine reason for travel. I oft filleth requests of the hunt to passeth the time. However, I thinketh I deserven this much.”
“Well, I’m grateful you came here to visit,” Ophilia smiles. She turns to face the cathedral.
“Coming here feels like a warm hug. Always welcome, no matter what I happen to be feeling.”
“And what dost thou feelest?”
Ophilia is silent for some time. H’aanit watches her expression change, from subtle furrows of her brow to parting lips as she exhales.
“Many things. A nervous calm, the kind that comes when I’m thinking of times ahead.”
“Thine attire speakest for thee,” H’aanit gestures. “ ‘Tis wrong to presumen such?”
A pat against the warm sleeves of her robes, and Ophilia shakes her head.
“His Holiness states that I will be ready for the role in due time, that I was making quick progress with my studies. With such high praise comes the thoughts.”
Given past conversations, H’aanit can make a guess. Thoughts of the future, thoughts of what that future entails. She is still young, and youth are eager to explore. It’s not a life she herself would consider, having wandered across the continent and back. Yet, if Ophilia wishes to be a light for others, and this role can help her reach such a goal, H’aanit can respect it.
“Much responsibility hangeth upon thee.”
“A lot, yes. I often wonder if I can handle it all.”
H’aanit reaches out, resting a gloved hand upon hers. It takes a moment, but Ophilia moves to clasp it with her own. Fingers intertwine; they stay like this, for a while.
“ Tis difficult to ponderen what we cannot know,” H’aanit says with a gentle voice. “I asketh this - dost thou seeketh this goal for thineself? It wouldst paineth me if thou seeketh it for another.”
She feels Ophilia squeeze her hand for comfort and waits. Patient, always patient. Where she fumbles in speech, she makes up through listening. Only the sounds of Linde’s climbing and rolling fill the air. If H’aanit was a snow leopard, she would wonder why humans talk so often.
“Ah, you need not fret,” Ophilia reassures. “It’s for me, yes. I suppose anything in the public eye makes me wonder if I can do well. I… I don’t wish to let others down with my mistakes. Maybe you understand?”
She thinks she does. As for putting her thoughts into proper words… well, she’ll try her best.
“I hath been both a student and teacher in mine village. Thou art aware of mine Master, so I needest not prattlen on about him, when he canst do it himself,” H’aanit chides. “I hath taught fledgling hunters mine way of the trade. I hath corrected their forms, challenged them, assessed their skill with the bow. Oft they fail, and fail again. ‘Tis the resolve inside their hearts that they canst groweth stronger and wiser.”
Ophilia watches with an expectant look, and H’aanit continues.
“If they expecteth one to learneth something new with nary an error, they aren a fool. We groweth through mistakes. To maketh one, or many, shouldst not bringeth shame.”
A hum, and Ophilia closes her eyes, appearing deep in thought. H’aanit considers a future with Ophilia as the archbishop. Would she have time to care for herself, to tend to her own health? To serve as a beacon risks losing the light, should it start to flicker.
“I guess… part of me tries to handle everything on my own. Keep the thoughts inside, and maybe they’ll go away. It’s not so simple.”
“Aye, ‘tis a habit we hath sharen - our friends, I meaneth,” H’aanit offers a warm smile. For a moment, it seems to coax Ophilia from her doubts.
“Knoweth this - thou hast many who shall lendeth their warmth, shouldst the cold feelest too harsh. Letten them in, and they shall be a guide.” A sacred flame of her own, H’aanit thinks to herself.
“A guide… heh,” Ophilia almost laughs.
H’aanit wonders if she said something wrong. She spoke about learning from mistakes mere moments ago, and yet, it’s-
“I truly should remember this,” Ophilia’s words break the same thought process. “Ah, but… it helps to hear it aloud.”
“Oh? I canst tryen to sharen more… if it wouldst helpeth thee.”
“It would. And I always enjoy hearing your thoughts. But for now, why don’t we rest?”
H’aanit looks up at the sky as golden light peers through the thinning clouds. Perhaps Linde is correct - humans truly do talk too much. Time passes much too quickly.
Ah, but no matter. Someone matters more.
They lean against each other to ward off the chill, and H’aanit drapes half of the beast’s hide over Ophilia’s shoulders. She insists that the cold doesn’t faze her, but H’aanit can never be too careful. Linde eventually curls against the pair, weary after a proper day’s play. It’s a day well-spent for all of them.
There is much to handle in the coming days, in the coming moons that shall pass over the sky. Renowned huntress, renowned archbishop, the numerous achievements their friends will claim (and H’aanit knows they’ll claim them) - it’s a lot to consider.
For now, this moment’s rest, hand in hand, is enough.