Chapter Text
If we both survive this war, let’s start a wyvern courier service. We’ll make a lot of loot. —Haar
The storm was descending quickly. The house at the edge of the woods was often isolating, but the ideal location to gather firewood. Its tangled trees and hidden caves were favored by wyvern besides, the primary reason her father had chosen to build there.
There was no official trail, rather a path worn down by decades of footfall. Jill hunched against the cold, burrowing into the collar of her long coat. As she followed the trail, she instinctively glanced toward the nearby cave. She could see little past the trees in the growing dark, but knew her wyvern was tucked deep inside—far enough from the cold, but close enough to keep watch over its rider’s home.
Jill’s bootprints joined those of decades past, the same makeshift trail her father had followed. Though she’d lived on her own there for three seasons already, there was still a strangeness to taking the journey alone. It had felt much longer as a child, scampering beside her father. Now, she guided herself, gathering as many branches as she could along the path. Though she carried the small axe at her hip, there was little time to chop anything. It rapidly grew darker and colder as daylight and time were lost.
But the branches were fine enough for one night, and the wood good for burning. Jill couldn’t see the trail past the towering pile in her arms, praying there were no surprises on the careful walk back. A wind whistled past, and she forced her stinging eyes open. Despite the thick gloves, her fingers had lost all feeling. “I don’t remember Daein being this cold,” she murmured, the words falling silently as snow.
The first flakes began to fall as the house came into sight. There was a biting chill of winter when she eased the door open, shivering against the wind that came in with her. She dropped the pile of branches beside the hearth, then quickly got to work. Still in coat and gloves, she snapped the branches in half, her hands burning as they regained feeling. It would be nice to have some help, she thought, not for the first time, as she peeled off her gloves to strike the flint.
She sighed in welcomed relief as the fire burst to life. She draped her coat over her father’s customary chair and sat down, back to the fire. The seat offered the best view of the house. Like most things post-war, it was smaller than she remembered. The main room served as living space and kitchen; to her left, corner shelves were packed with all variety of kitchen tools and supplies. The wooden table with four chairs sat near the hearth, and her father’s desk near the front door. To her right, two plain doors for private rooms, the one to her bedroom crooked on its hinges. She hadn’t figured out how to fix it.
Her evening plans were to wait for the fire to burn down, then retire to bed. They hadn’t included someone knocking at the door. She sat up straighter, waiting, listening for either another knock or the crunch of snowy footsteps retreating. She wished her lance wasn’t so far away, abandoned in the corner of her bedroom. The wood-chopping axe still hung at her hip, though, which could be used in a pinch.
Another knock, and she reached for the chopping axe when her visitor spoke. “Jill, are you home? It’s Zihark.”
“Zihark!” She scrambled for the door, throwing open the latch. A rush of cold air greeted her, accompanied by Zihark. He looked comical in a long coat and knit hat, both a frost-blue that blended with the background. The right side of his coat was misshapen where a scabbard was poorly concealed underneath. The cold, dry air made the ends of his hair stand at static-fused attention. “I heard rumors of a courier service,” he said, shoving both hands into his pockets. “I don’t imagine you’d know something about that?”
Jill rolled her eyes. “Come inside,” she said, stepping aside.
Zihark removed his coat and hat, shaking out his hair. Jill threw a few more branches onto the hearth. “What brings you here?” she asked, returning to her chair. “No one should be out in this weather.”
“I was visiting an old friend nearby. I thought it might snow, but I never expected this.” He sat across from her.
“You’ve been gone too long if this was a surprise!”
They shared stories of travel. Zihark wandered between countries to aid old allies, and Jill took to the skies carrying cargo. They’d both noticed it was increasingly complicated to travel in and out of Daein. Even via sky, there were several checkpoints between Talrega and her sources in Begnion. Her last trip had taken so long that the fresh vegetables were nearly spoiled, but people had tried their hardest to preserve them in their cold cellars.
“I think they’re suspicious about how often I’m crossing the border,” Jill said. “But they don’t realize we can’t farm in this weather.”
“It’s been an especially difficult winter, too.” Zihark rubbed his jaw in thought. “But I’ve noticed it, too. I came here through Gallia, even though the route was longer. But it was easier.”
Jill sighed. “No one thinks about the common people in a war. They shouldn’t have to suffer the sins of one man.”
They fell silent. Zihark fed the fire another branch, which popped and sizzled. Jill waited until he brushed off his hands, returning to his chair, before speaking again. “Do you really have a friend nearby, or were you checking on me?”
He smirked. “Both can be true, can’t they?”
They had kept in touch well enough after the war. She wrote letters to the friends she’d made, though correspondence was slow across country borders. Jill had settled back home immediately, so they all knew where to send their letters. Zihark had something of a permanent address, but with all his traveling, Jill wondered how often he was there receive the mail.
“I presume your business partner isn’t home,” Zihark said, glancing at her father’s bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.
“This isn’t his home,” she replied. “Just... a place to sleep.”
“Then he should get good use out of it.”
Jill couldn’t help but laugh. “I hope you’ll use the room tonight. You can’t go back out there!”
“Normally I would try to refuse, but in this case, I must agree.”
Jill was pleased to not spend the cold night alone. Her father’s old quilt required little but a good shaking-out, dispelling any dust or mites that may have buried there. Zihark claimed exhaustion after a long trip, insisting on retiring early. Though the storm had blocked the sunlight for hours, so there was no telling if it was early or not. With Zihark settled and the bedroom door closed, Jill returned to the dying fire. She had been distracted with preparations for the coming storm, but now Zihark’s concern for her absent business partner piqued her own. The house was far from Haar’s permanent residence, but she didn’t know where else he would be, stranded somewhere in the elements.
She and Haar had returned to Talrega, tended her father’s grave, and cleaned out the house that miraculously still stood. They hadn’t had many personal belongings, and what little they’d owned was scavenged in the war. At least the furniture remained intact, and the squatters didn’t seem to have used the bedrooms. Some clothes still hung in her wardrobe, and she cringed at the thought of someone rummaging through them.
They had made good enough plans for the courier service, at first. They fell into transport naturally, carrying supplies for Daein’s restoration. She’d offered her father’s room to Haar if he wanted it, and he’d spent a few nights there at first. But recently, the bed was mostly empty. His only visible belongings were a razor on the bedside table and an axe propped in the corner. She didn’t even think he had a change of clothes there, as neither had wanted to open the wardrobe. But gradually, he’d stopped staying the night. Then, he wouldn’t show for meals. His sporadic appearances were unscheduled; she knew not where he slept at night, and often went days without seeing him in Talrega at all.
But she had plenty of work to keep busy. Her wyvern loved carrying cargo, saddled with parcels for delivery. But as the seasons passed, Begnion occupation made it more difficult. More checkpoints were hastily set up, more soldiers hovering around their homes. She’d been doing well enough on her own, but that hadn’t been the plan. She needed him to keep his promise.
Zihark remained a few days, as the land was buried under snow. But they both enjoyed the company, so neither complained. Zihark trudged through the woods to help gather firewood, and made an enviable stew with whatever food they could scavenge. The village appreciated it as well, having another set of hands to gather food and supplies. He made friends with them all, talking to her neighbors more than she had in the months since the war. In the evenings, they made tea and sat at the table, warmed by the fire and Zihark’s now-famous stews.
But it was a comfort that couldn’t last. Zihark hadn’t said it aloud, but he was visibly restless as the snows began to melt. He would sit outside long after sunset, staring off toward Nevassa. It was during breakfast one morning, over boiled eggs and bread from a neighbor, that Jill finally released him. “I know you have places to be,” she said. “I’m fine on my own, and Haar should be home soon.” She didn’t know why she added the latter part, and Zihark raised a brow in disbelief.
“Home, is it?” Jill flushed, but didn’t correct herself. “While I know you’re a capable woman, I’m not sure I believe that second part. But I should be moving along, anyway. There are”—he paused—”rumors.”
Jill frowned. “Of what?”
Zihark leaned over as he reached for the bread. “It’s the real reason I’m in Daein. Begnion has been... you know.”
Jill nodded.
He lowered his voice. “There are people we can trust in Nevassa. If the rumors are true, we could use some more good soldiers.”
Jill stared over his shoulder, at her father’s desk, empty of the stacks of papers she remembered. From outside sounded hammering and people shouting to one another. She thought of the cemetery over the hill, with its small gravestones, now hidden beneath the snow. She thought of her wyvern in its cave, and the nest it had built there.
“Talrega needs me,” she replied. “These people need help.”
Zihark nodded. “I understand.”
But later, as he strapped on his sword and buttoned his coat, his expression said otherwise.
Father, I…
She seldom knew what to say. Sometimes just sitting at the gravestone was enough, same as when she’d wordlessly climbed into his bed as a child. The simple word— Father—held everything, which other words couldn’t encompass: loneliness, sadness, regret, fused into a feeling only expressed in a single sob as she knelt at his grave.
Gravestones were amazingly fragile. They were merely hewn rock, left to the elements to eat away at the etched names and dates. Shiharam Fizzart was still legible, not yet worn down by wind and snow. It sat amongst a row of similarly-sized markers, all bearing names of men and women she’d known, people who had seemed so grown-up when she ran barefoot through the camp. Jill traced the letters of her father’s name with a finger, cleaning off some unseen dirt and ice.
She stared at the sky, blinking away unshed tears. There was little color to speak of that day, no break of cloud and sky in the endless gray. The air was still, a silence known only to snowfall, though it hadn’t snowed in days. In the distance, her wyvern was circling the mountain peak, the only spot of color across the shades of gray.
Once, she and Haar had met at the cemetery, in weather better suited for flowers. She smiled at the memory now: He’d brought a small plant, something that hadn’t flowered yet, holding it in both hands like an offering. He had no sense of flowers, but knew too well this basic task of maintaining a gravesite. They had no tools suitable for planting, so used their hands to dig the hole for its fledgling roots. She had forgotten the details until that moment—Haar on his knees, dirt in his hair from when he pushed it off his face, the scowl when the plant wouldn’t stand straight.
Jill couldn’t remember its exact location, buried in the snow now. She started to dig near the gravestone. The gloves hindered her progress; despite them, her hands were chilled. More and more of her father’s gravestone was revealed until she reached the frozen ground at the bottom. It was just a layer of dirt, but—
There it was, that sad little plant, not entirely dead. Its leaves were gone for winter, but it seemed to unfold from the snowy depths. She touched its naked branches, though her fingers were too cold to feel anything.
The tears burst, pouring down her cheeks, disappearing into the collar of her coat. She wiped her face but it was no use, with the snow-damp gloves, doing little but freezing her face even more. Her vision blurred as she watched her wyvern, circling that distant peak, too far to hear her cries. She hated that it, too, was alone, willing its black companion to appear. But it disappeared in and out of clouds, always emerging alone, a speck against the endless gray.
Sir Haar,
I hope all is well. You haven’t been here in a while, so I was getting worried. Winter came early, but Talrega was ready with all the work we did a few month ago. Even though it’s cold, some people are still outside doing repairs. The house is fine, and I’m staying warm. Beastie is happy in that big cave we found, but I think she misses her friend.
Zihark came to visit as he was passing through. It was nice to have the company.
Jill paused. She moved to dab the quill in the inkpot, but changed her mind. She read over the letter, then set down the quill. A blotch of ink dripped onto the corner of the letter, a fine waste of expensive ink.
“This is stupid,” she mumbled. She balled the paper, which crumpled easily in both hands. It was cheap paper that held ink poorly, something picked up from a traveling vendor. The black letters bled through the underside of the sheet, a swirling mess of ink and crumpled paper.
It was strange to use her father’s desk, not because it was his, but because she properly fit at it now. No longer did her feet swing in the chair. This was my father’s view, she thought, looking down at the inkpot and quill, at the cheap paper stacked in the corner. The quiet sounds of winter surrounded her, with the crackling hearth and the soft thump of footsteps in the snow outside. She was so distracted by the desk itself that she hadn’t noticed those footsteps were approaching her door until it rattled. She startled out of a reverie. The door was latched closed, but any polite company would’ve knocked first. She rose slowly, balling the rejected letter tighter in her hands.
Finally, there was a knock. “Jill? Are you in there?”
She hadn’t realized how tightly her jaw was clenched until it eased at the sound of his voice. “By the goddess,” she muttered, throwing the door open. “Where have you been?!”
Haar rubbed his jaw, failing to stifle a yawn. The armor was a surprise—he’d rarely worn it since the war’s end—and she wanted to ask where he’d been, or how far he had traveled. But he wasn’t meeting her eye, staring past her into the house itself. Even when he spoke, he spoke to the desk rather than her. “Mind if I come in? It’s a bit cold out here.”
Jill stepped aside, allowing a wide berth. As he passed, she caught a hint of whiskey, sharp on his breath. He blinked slowly, the fine lines around his eyes pronounced. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he hadn’t slept recently.
She glanced outside before closing the door. “Where’s your beastie?”
“Having a nice, long nap, I hope.” His gaze fell to her hand. “What’s that?”
She clenched her fist, having forgotten about the balled letter. Her palm began to sweat; she squeezed the paper tighter, willing it to disappear. “Nothing,” she replied, walking briskly toward the hearth.
“Did you mean to attack an intruder with a ball of paper? What is it?”
“I said nothing!” Jill flicked it into the fire, where it immediately caught and disintegrated. Thank the goddess for cheap paper, she thought. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
Haar frowned in reply.
“Forget it.” She shook her head. “Are you hungry?”
“No.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Just tired. Can we talk later?” He didn’t wait for an answer before turning for her father’s room, but paused at the hearth. He stared into the fire, like he searched for some hidden secret, before disappearing into the bedroom.
“Incredible,” Jill muttered. “Welcome back.”
Haar slept through the next morning; she left bread and ham on the table for when he woke. He hadn’t bothered to close the bedroom door all the way, so she felt no guilt peeking in. He lay sprawled on the bed, the quilt partially covering his torso and one leg. His armor was thrown on the floor, and he slept in the padded underlayer. At least he’d had the good sense to remove his boots. They lay haphazard at the foot of the bed, as if kicked off in a hurry.
Jill bundled in her coat to head outside, where there was already a bustle of morning activity. Vendors were opening their doors, and the sounds of sawing and chopping echoed down the street. She waved to distant neighbors, too far to stop and chat. Besides, they were busy beginning their days as well, breath puffed in clouds and often carrying heavy parcels. Jill turned up her collar and turned for the woods.
It was a rare sunny day, so her wyvern was curled beneath a canopy of trees. It was awake, watching Jill as she approached. “Good morning, beastie,” she said, scratching its jaw. Haar’s mount was close by, full and properly asleep in a patch of sunlight. “And you, too,” she said, patting its neck. “It’s nice to have a friend here, isn’t it?”
It didn’t take long to find Haar’s pack, still hanging from the saddle. The bag likely contained only a change of clothes and some provisions for the ride. The leather bag was soft, the straps visibly newer, with a cheap metal buckle. Her wyvern lifted its head, watching with interest, as Jill threw the pack over her shoulder. She spied an axe partially concealed by one massive black foot, which she left alone.
She expected to see Haar at every turn—hoped, perhaps—but it was a quiet walk back, with only the receding rattle of one snoring wyvern. When she returned home, the food she’d left out was gone. Her father’s door stood wide open, the bed vacant, the quilt folded neatly at the bottom. The armor remained in its unorganized heap, but the boots were gone. Jill dropped the saddlebag on the bed and went back outside.
The courier service had a reliable stream of clients, especially those heading up the rebuilding. Autumn had been successful enough, but winter hit hard and jobs had plummeted. Not only for her, but for all of Talrega—she started being more lenient with payments, accepting food and items she could barter elsewhere. But as winter progressed and border security got tighter, it was increasingly harder to fend for herself.
Not to say she didn’t try, walking town each day to offer her services. Often, her wyvern flew overhead, trying to seal deals in its own way. It was slow and unsteady work. Jill knew she missed out on potential jobs, not having a proper storefront and no coverage when traveling longer distances. Over time, she limited the runs to Talrega and neighboring towns. Now, she walked the streets, greeting neighbors and admiring their handiwork. She chatted with the local farmer, who wouldn’t have a shipment for several weeks. She visited the blacksmith, who had nothing new yet; he promised to call on her later. She plastered on a smile and told them it was fine, that she would be ready when they were. After stopping by the usual spots, she turned back. She passed her house, passed the old path into the woods, and walked up the hill toward the cemetery.
She wasn’t alone. Haar stood at her father’s grave, head lowered, back of his hair mussed from sleep. It was rumored he could sleep while standing, but that wasn’t the case now: he fidgeted like he didn’t know what to do, crossing his arms only to uncross them again, shifting from foot to foot, exhaling loudly in cold puffs of air.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise that he sensed her, but he knew, in the slow way he looked over his shoulder, the unblinking, one-eyed stare. When he turned back to the grave, Jill wasn’t certain it was an invitation. She took the risk anyway, one step at a time through the muddy, melting snow, until standing at his side. He didn’t move, but didn’t step away, either. She took it as a good sign. His hand was limp at his side; she reached out tentatively, then hurriedly shoved her hands into her coat pockets.
“I was in Begnion,” Haar said. When Jill didn’t reply, he added, “I went to see if anything was left.”
She paused before asking, “Of what?” But she knew the answer.
“The barracks are demolished. There’s not even a home to return to. Be glad this one is still standing.”
They stared at the gravestone to avoid looking at each other. “Why would you do that by yourself?” she asked. “I would’ve gone with you.”
“For what? To visit the ruins of your father’s heritage? You don’t need to see that.” He stared down the row of graves, each the same size, bearing the name of a fellow soldier, a comrade, a friend. “I just need to rest.”
If the rumors are true, we could use some more good soldiers.
“I hope we can,” she replied.
“What do you mean by that?”
Jill rested her head on his shoulder. She stared at her father’s name on the stone, unnatural, impossible, the thought of him lying beneath their feet unfathomable. She traced over each letter again and again until they no longer made sense.