Work Text:
“Hallo? Is someone there?”
Zorayas froze. The downy-soft tips of the surrounding grass brushed the face and shoulders of her human guise before settling. It was tall enough to conceal her from whomever had just spoken. Or so she hoped.
“Hallo? If someone is there, I could use some help. U-unless you plan on smashing me.”
Curiosity piqued, Zorayas stood on tiptoe to peer in the direction of the voice. From that position, she could see past the amber stalks of her hideout and to the wide field of green beyond, dotted with half-buried boulders and slate-grey ruins. Her eyes, however, were drawn from the majestic vista to a closer, more unusual sight. Just beyond the tall grass, a somewhat dingy ceramic jar with a red stopper was struggling to extricate itself from a small furrow in the ground, pushing with mottled arms to no avail. She had encountered many jars in her travels, large and small, but none that spoke so politely. Her eyes darted across the open space one last time to ensure no greater danger lurked nearby, then exited the stand of grass.
“Hello. Quite a lovely day today, isn’t it?” she said, not quite sure how to address the jar, as it didn’t appear to have a front. Or eyes. Or a mouth.
“Oh! Hallo! So there was someone there after all! It is! Quite a lovely day, that is. Or, it was, until I got stuck in this hole,” said the jar, with a surprising amount of enthusiasm considering their predicament.
“Oh, my,” replied Zorayas, “might I be of assistance?”
The jar stopped struggling, and she saw now from the set of the hands that they were facing each other.
“Oh, yes! Thank you very much! Do you have a sword?”
Zorayas nodded, pulling forth the one she had taken from the armory of Volcano Manor.
“Excellent! If you go around back, and wedge it underneath me, that should do it!”
She obliged, circling around and shoving the sword into the crevice between earth and jar. The jar pushed with all their might, but remained stuck. Zorayas leaned on the hilt of her sword, pushing the flat of the blade against the base, and the jar flew free with a sudden pop. To her horror, she saw a large crack form on their back where she had leveraged her sword, and she gasped aloud. The jar turned to her, and, upon seeing her face, felt along their back to where the crack was.
“Oh no,” she whispered, falling to her knees, “I’m afraid I have damaged you! It was not my intention, I assure you.” Zorayas began fumbling in her satchel for something she could use to repair the crack. Soap? Too hard. Magic Grease? Too slippery. Her hands were trembling now, and she dropped a glintstone scrap into the furrow. The jar tottered over, picked up the item with their surprisingly long arms, and handed it back to her.
“You did me a favor twice over! A warrior jar’s cracks and chips tell their story, and are worn with pride in my village,” they said, with genuine appreciation.
Zorayas’ hands stopped shaking.
“I am Jar Bairn, of Jarburg,” they proclaimed.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Jar Bairn. My name is Ry—Zorayas,” she corrected, having vowed to use only her real name from now on, “and I am a…well, I don’t know what I am, or intend to be, but I hail from Volcano Manor. You say you are a warrior jar?”
The jar bobbed, clasping their hands together.
“I am! Or, well,” they hesitated, tree-bark like arms sliding down their sides. “I’m trying to be. I want to be a champion, like my Uncle Alexander, but I have a long way to go. The only crack I have so far is from fighting with that hole, and I’m not sure that counts.”
Though Jar Bairn had no face, Zorayas detected despondency in the slumping of their limbs, and the disappointment in their tone was palpable. She saw echoes of her own uncertainty and self-doubt in the little jar, and could not abide it.
“Do not worry, brave Jar Bairn. I have had the honor of meeting a true champion, so I will let you in on a secret.”
Jar Bairn leaned forward, eager to hear her words.
“What sets a true champion apart from a mere warrior is neither battles fought, nor glory achieved, but rather their kindness and willingness to help others, no matter how great the danger to themselves.”
Jar Bairn started at this, but she continued.
“And you, Jar Bairn, are the kindest jar I have encountered in all my journeys. You have the makings of a true champion within you, and I am certain time will prove me right.”
Jar Bairn stood taller then, and it filled her heart with gladness.
“I like the way you talk, Zorayas of Volcano Manor!” Jar Bairn said cheerfully.
They paused a moment, fingers twiddling anxiously.
“Say, do you want to keep talking by that site of lost grace over there?”
They pointed, indicating a small nearby hillock crested by a luminescent fragment of light encased in a tangle of roots. Zorayas laughed in sheer delight and stood, holding out her hand for Jar Bairn to grasp.
“Lead the way, brave champion.”
*****************
“…And so,” Zorayas finished, “I have set out on a journey to ensure I am worthy to continue the work of my mother, Lady Tanith.”
Jar Bairn nodded solemnly, though they did not fully understand what she meant.
“How can you you tell? If you’re worthy or not, I mean.”
Zorayas blinked. “I…suppose I don’t know,” she admitted, sounding taken aback.
Not for the first time, Jar Bairn noticed the hunched way she carried herself, as if shouldering a heavy burden.
“Oh, that’s fine!” they replied quickly, “I think that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to figure out on a journey, anyway!”
She giggled softly in reply, and Jar Bairn was relieved to see some of the tension leave her shoulders, though her posture remained unchanged. They wanted to make sure she wasn’t in pain, but didn’t want to be rude.
“Are you…comfy, Zorayas?” they ventured.
A shudder passed through the young girl, and Jar Bairn feared they had upset her, but she spoke again before they could apologize.
“I am not,” she said with a sigh. “This form has become somewhat…painful of late, though it was always an ill fit.”
“Well, why don’t you change it, then?” Jar Bairn suggested.
Zorayas laughed a little in reply, which Jar Bairn thought was odd, since they had not said anything remotely funny. Then she went quiet for a long moment.
When she spoke again, her voice was so quiet as to be almost inaudible.
“Most try to attack me when they see what I really look like.”
“Oh! I know just what that’s like!” Jar Bairn replied with excitement, glad to have found a kindred spirit. “A lot of people think I’m like the other jars, the ones who got…” they thought hard for a moment, trying to find the right words. “Lost,” they said finally. “I try to tell them I am a warrior jar, and not lost at all! But they don’t listen. That’s how I got stuck in that hole, you know.”
Zorayas’ face arranged itself in an expression of horror at this revelation.
“Don’t worry,” Jar Bairn said, patting their round midsection to assure her of their solidity, “no one has broken me yet!”
A tiny smile appeared on her face.
“I want you to be comfy,” they said, “and I promise I won’t attack you, no matter what.”
Tears glistened in Zorayas’ eyes, threatening to overflow onto blotchy cheeks. Wordlessly, she began to shift before Jar Bairn’s eyes: pale flesh turning mottled red, trunk elongating and thickening, arms and legs growing long and spindly, long tail snaking out behind her. Her vivid green eyes remained the same, but they were now set in a serpentine head sat much higher than her previous one, towering over the site of grace and Jar Bairn. Even her embroidered emerald raiment had changed, becoming an elegant cloak held about her white banded chest by a string of precious beads.
“Oh!” was all Jar Bairn could manage, impressed beyond belief.
“I do hope I haven’t I frightened you,” said Zorayas worriedly, misinterpreting their exclamation.
“No!” cried Jar Bairn, eager to correct her misapprehension. “It’s just the opposite! I like you much better this way. Not that I didn’t like you before. But now you are so tall! And strong! And your cloak is so pretty!”
Though it was impossible to tell with her viridian complexion, Jar Bairn could swear Zorayas blushed in response, and her forked tongue flicked rapidly in what they hoped was a sign of happiness.
If Jar Bairn knew anything in this life, it was what Uncle Alexander had taught them: the path of champions must be trod alone. But now, watching a smile split their reptilian companion’s face, they felt doubt in their insides.
Despite what he said, Uncle Alexander had made friends along the way, including the tarnished with unsmooth hands who had visited Jarburg and returned their uncle's insides.
They thought back to Zorayas’ earlier words, and knew that while they were not nearly so strong as Uncle Alexander, and inexperienced to boot, so long as they had a friend by their side, they would have something to protect, no matter the cost. That was the true path to becoming a champion; they were sure of it.
“Zorayas,” Jar Bairn began, suddenly nervous.
“Yes, Jar Bairn?” Zorayas’ form had changed, but her voice was the same: well-spoken and full of kindness. Nevertheless, Jar Bairn fidgeted as the next words came out.
“Do you want to become traveling companions?”
They weren’t used to reading serpentine expressions, but her reply came quickly.
“I would love nothing more,” she said, clasping her clawed hands together. “I am glad to have found a friend.”
Jar Bairn walked over to the other side of the site of grace, plopping down beside her. Zorayas sat down as well, though she still towered over them. They looked up at her.
“Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Of course.”
“Can I call you ‘coz?”
“No one has ever asked to call me anything before,” Zorayas said, pleased, “what does it mean?”
“Oh!” replied Jar Bairn, “well, I suppose it means…family.”
It had grown cold while they were talking. Zorayas looked down at Jar Bairn with undisguisable fondness and put one spindly crimson limb about them. Jar Bairn nestled close.
“I think I would like that very much.”