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Maria was ten years, seven months, and 26 days (and 18 hours) old when she was gifted her staff.
There was no special occasion, other than that it was a Tuesday, and Tuesdays were rest days in their caravan. When they visited a village, they usually arrived towards the end of the week, traded the weekend and the Monday, packed up Monday afternoon, and headed out on Tuesday. In all her life, Maria only remembered two occasions where they stayed in one place for more than a week. The nomad lifestyle was in their bloods after all.
So on Tuesdays, the caravan took a lazy day. They got up later than dawn, the children slept in while the adults slowly went about their chores, and they generally took it easy. Maria woke up the way she always had; hearing the chickens bawck and cluck as they were ushered out of their pens to feed, listening to the camels shuffle and snort as they were roused, and smelling meat and hot bread drifting through the cracks in their caravan walls.
The young girl stretched and rolled over, burying herself back into the blankets with a happy smile. Tuesday was lazy day, resting from all their efforts of selling and performing over the last few days, and gathering strength for the long trip ahead to the next village. And it was lovely to have those precious few minutes of lazy resting, but time was a fickle thing to the blind and so soon, Maria stretched and extracted herself from her sheets, and began her carefully-measured routine.
Shuffle to the head of her bed, reach to the side, lift her fur-lined coat from the bedknob and wrap it around herself. Stand, two steps forward, reach the dresser. Take half a step back to open the door then half a step forward, bend down, soft slippers directly at her fingertips. Put those on, half a step back to close the door, half a step forward. Turn to the left, five steps forward, reach her bedroom door. Open the door, two steps forward, greet mother.
“Morning mum!” Maria said, caught by a yawn halfway through.
She heard the light, near-musical laughter of her mother, like an ice-cold river recently released from its 8-month ice-bound form trickling over moss-covered rocks. “Good morning Martzia. Up late again with your metal puzzle?”
“Tomal can solve it in fifteen seconds, I can solve it in ten,” Maria rattled off as she walked forward (two steps forward, side step left, left hand on chair) and sat down at their small dining table. “But I want to get down to seven, he won’t be able to beat me if I can solve it in seven seconds. He was already upset that I could solve it in ten seconds because he can see while I can’t.”
“And would you say that it is easier for you to solve it because you can’t see?” her mother asked. Her own slippered feet thudded lightly on the ground (four steps) and put down plates on top of the table (hot bread with melted butter, subtle tones of warmed caramelized meat, creamier oatier smell of porridge).
“Yes,” Maria answered without hesitation, picking up her fork with her right hand while her left found the edge of her plate. “He can see the gaps between the maze edges and assumes that the ring can pass through it but it can’t because it’s too small.” A gentle scrape of wood on wood and Maria changed to gaze to before her, where she knew her mother now sat. “I have to go by feel and pressure to undo it. He was quicker to solve it the first time because he could see it, but I was faster the second and third time because I don’t go by what can be seen.”
“Smart girl,” her mother praised with a smile in her tone. “You’re very good at puzzles, aren’t you Martzia?”
Maria quickly swallowed down the mouthful she had taken. “The whole world is a puzzle to me. I have to be very good at solving puzzles.”
Her mother laughed again. “Well, after breakfast I have a gift for you. It might be a helpful hint to solving your puzzle of the world.”
And yes, the gift was the staff.
Maria was eleven years, eleven months, and twenty-two days old when she fell off a cliff.
She had been running with the other children as the rest of their caravan moved along slowly east, her staff in one hand. She always felt safe out here, surrounded by some who were older than her and some who were younger, who were always mindful of her blindness and yet were eager for her to join in. Tomal was beside her, laughing and encouraging her to run faster. They were playing tag, and Maria believed that the world around them was safe, because they only ever played when it was safe.
But she must have run too far, because her foot slipped and her balance was lost and when she fell, there was no ground to catch her.
How Maria survived that day, she honestly could not tell, because the next thing she knew after falling was clutching to her staff for dear life as she hung over an unknown drop. The top of her staff must have caught on something – a rock, the wedge of a tree branch – but it was the only thing holding her up right now as she gripped the rough wood with all the strength she had. She heard the other children screaming, the rapid sounds of feet on grass, the older ones shouting for them to run back and get help, but most of all she heard Tomal’s voice.
“Maria!” he shouted, his voice clear above her. There was a pause. “Don’t let go!” came the shriek, high with terror.
“I’m not going to!” Maria called back, her whole body trembling. “Get help!”
“We are, we are, they’re running back to get the caravan!” Tomal assured. “It’s uh… It’s not a big drop below you! Just… Just don’t let go!”
“I can hear the sounds Tomal, I know it’s a big drop, don’t lie to me!” Maria shouted back. Their voices were thin to her, lacking the usual warmth that came from grass and wood and people around her, like the world was a void that was swallowing them whole. She could only presume the massive gap that must be below her, though thinking of it terrified her.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry! Uh… Are you hurt?”
“Tomal!”
“Sorry! I don’t really know how to help!”
There were faint voices above, getting louder but no less vibrant, and Maria could only hope that the adults had arrived. A rich, deep voice called down to her, calm and steady. “Don’t worry little Maria, we’ll get you, just hang tight.”
“My arms are getting tired Uncle Tussok!” Maria called back, terrified to the point of tears in her eyes. “I can’t hold on!”
“Yes you can, you’re nice and strong and we’re nearly there. I have confidence in you, Maria.”
Tiny pebbles clinked from above and Maria flinched but none landed on her. She heard feet scraping against rock, the rough hissing of rope rubbing against itself, and then a voice calling to her from much closer.
“Fear not little Maria! We’re here!” it called, coming from her right by the time it finished speaking, the person rapidly rappelling down the cliff. “It’s Uncle Ethan.”
“And Uncle Daniel,” said a matching voice to her left. “I’m gonna put my arms around you, but don’t let go of your staff yet, okay?”
Maria nodded as strong arms went around her chest, taking her weight and giving her sore arms a break. She felt something being put around her shoulders and body and Uncle Ethan quickly explained as he worked.
“I’m making a harness for you to keep you safe, and I’ll tie you to Uncle Daniel and his harness. Uncles Tussok and Razdil will help pull you both up, and I’ll bring up your staff, okay?”
Maria nodded. Uncles Ethan and Daniel were twins like Uncles Fini and Rini, and the two humans were experts in knots and ropes and acrobatics, earning their living in the caravan by putting on performances and daring acts of bravery and skill. She trusted them without question, like she trusted everyone in her caravan.
Rope tied a bit here and a bit there, until Maria could feel it digging a little into her skin but she felt secure and not at all uncomfortable. The arms around her shifted a little to better hold her. “Right, I’ll keep my arms around you just in case, and I’ll use my legs to make sure we don’t hit the rock. You just relax, okay little Maria?” Uncle Daniel said.
“Okay,” Maria nodded, breathless.
“You can let go of your staff now Maria, I’ve got it,” Uncle Ethan told her, and Maria carefully let go.
One of the twins gave a holler and Maria felt a jolt and then a rapid movement upwards that sent her head spinning. She could have sworn that the way up was just as fast as the way down so she surely couldn’t have fallen that far, but it was all better once her feet were back on solid ground and she felt hands holding her gently but firmly, and her harness was being undone and she was being swept into the familiar warm embrace of her mother.
“Oh my ever-loving gods Martzia, please never do that again,” Maria’s mother sighed, and that was the only time Maria ever heard her swear.
“I promise,” Maria said breathlessly, holding tight in return.
Her staff was handed back to her and she, along with the rest of the kids, were ushered back to the safety of the caravan while they navigated this stretch of the road. Unsurprisingly, Maria was rather shaken by the whole ordeal but somehow the other children were more shaken than she was, and told her over and over about how it must have been so terrifying and how she was so brave and they wouldn’t have been able to keep calm like that and she had the whole caravan out there to help her and Uncles Ethan and Daniel tied rope faster than lightning just to help her!
Needless to say, Maria became something of a hero among the children for her close call, and their eager pampering and awe-struck questioning had her quickly relaxing about the whole thing, back to smiling and confident in no time. Not everyone was lucky enough to be saved by Uncles Ethan and Daniel after all, and it was very impressive to say that you fell off a cliff and didn’t get hurt. And really, what was there to be afraid of when she had her caravan?
Maria was twelve years, three months, and two days old when her caravan stopped at a village near “the border”. What border it was, Maria wasn’t entirely sure and no one specifically said. She knew they didn’t travel south at this time of the year and the air wasn’t chill enough for it to be close to the mountains, but their exact location didn’t really matter much. Her day was the same. She sold silks with her mother to the local people (she was fairly sure her mother was selling them far cheaper than usual, but their prices did sometimes change from village and village) and ran errands to others in their caravan during the day, and then relaxed by the fire in the evenings. One evening though, it was different.
“We’re going into the village tonight, Martzia,” her mother called, stopping Maria before she could step into their caravan.
“But we never go into town,” Maria said in confusion.
Her mother laughed lightly. “We rarely go into town. The village folk have offered to put on a performance for us and will provide dinner as well. The whole caravan is going to visit.”
“I hope they cooked a lot for Uncle Tussok’s family,” Maria said seriously, to which her mother laughed again and instructed her to dress a little nicer than normal.
What her mother didn’t say, and what Maria didn’t learn, was that a large portion of the village population were immigrants from across the border, often arriving with little on their backs and morale had been low lately with issues escalating in their homeland. The visit by the caravan was bringing life back to the small village, and the village people were desperate to give back.
That was how Maria found herself seated at a small wooden table with her mother on one side and Uncles Fini and Rini beside her, wearing matching fruit-patterned shirt, according to what they’d told Maria. The dinner was nothing impressive but the company and the warm atmosphere was lovely, and Maria couldn’t see the performances but she heard the laughter and joy and she assumed they were good.
Her world changed when the sound of strings filled the air, light in tone and yet piercing through the murmuring, reaching clear and crisp to Maria’s ears. The young girl immediately forgot what she was doing and her head rose, pale eyes wide as if they could see the source of the sound. It made her think of a young lady’s voice, who was neither human nor elven, but rather something more magical like the fae of the stories, with her mouth open wide as she vocalised her story with no words, telling of the ancient forests around her, about how the sun shone on a lake on a warm day, and how the birds fluttered from this flower to that.
“Mum,” Maria whispered, awe seeped into her voice as she fumbled and grabbed onto her mother’s arm.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” her mother whispered back. “Listen, Martzia. She’s about to sing.”
A second voice joined the first, a verbal one this time that was also female but human in accent, who sang words in perfect harmony to the strings. Maria’s mother let out a soft, happy hum that the girl didn’t notice, too caught up in the sounds as the words filled her world.
“When the cold wind is a-calling, and the sky is clear and bright! Misty mountains sing and beckon, lead me out into the light. I will ride, I will fly, chase the wind and touch the sky. I will fly! Chase the wind and touch the sky.”
Maria could not have properly explained what she was feeling in that moment, only that it was like the world was a turbulent storm, and only now was she taking a breath of the calm air found in the break between one stormfront and another and realising what it was to be alive.
The performance itself was short, but the sounds of strings stayed with Maria until years afterwards, bouncing and tossing around in her head until she could no longer clearly decipher what those series of notes had been. But, even months and months later, whenever she went to her mother and asked how that song went and what it sounded like, her mother would clearly sing it for her once again with a smile in her voice.
“Where dark woods hide secrets, and mountains are fierce and bold! Deep waters hold reflections, of times lost long ago. I will hear their every story, take hold of my own dream! Be as strong as the seas are stormy, and proud as an eagle's scream.”
Maria stopped relentlessly counting her age when she was fifteen years, ten months, seven days, and eight hours old, at sundown on an autumn day just east of the Bokkart River near the bend close to Viirathu. There was no reason to count it after that.
Maria was blind, yes, but she was not deaf, and she was certainly not stupid. She had said before that she believed she saw more than people with sight saw (“Prideful bitch”, people had said to her before, “Got that from your elf mommy did you? Think you’re better than everyone else?” Well maybe she did believe that. Who were they to say?).
She supposed she had an advantage since she was able to sense the magic in the world in a way that others apparently couldn’t, but there were things even magic couldn’t reveal to her. There were things she heard, things she smelt, things she felt in the vibration underneath her feet, but there were other things that she couldn’t truly ‘sense’: things that she felt without being able to explain why.
She knew Bran overexerted himself in the hold. If it wasn’t clear by the sudden over-surge and immediate uncertain fluctuation of his magic, then it was clear in the sudden lack of variation in his tone and his quick descent into sleep. Qiro was of course exhausted too and so Maria naturally volunteered to take the watch. With such a small space, Maria could listen for the squeak of a floorboard or the rustle of a window as well as waiting for Abra’s warning chitter. It was easier to stay awake when the world was quiet. It let her think and allowed her mind to wander without needing to focus on her steps and movements as well.
She had intended on asking Bran how he was in the morning, had she not been so thoroughly distracted by the near-sentimental strings of what she now knew was a violin. As it was, she didn’t get the chance, not even during their journey. And then of course, came the grief creature and all that followed.
Having her staff break on her threw Maria out of her comfort zone, feeling the splinters dig into her fingers and wrist felt like splinters straight to her heart. She felt that she should have been more proactive than she was in that fight, more quick to assist and to attack, but nothing was to be gained from self-condemnation and regretting the past. She could only learn from what happened and resolve to use her knowledge in the future.
But she knew enough to know that Qiro and Bran both emerged from that fight scathed, if not physically then emotionally in some way, more-so than Maria had. That was not to say that Maria was left okay, not at all.
That final moment so long ago, so eager to rush off and claim adventure in the form of childish dreams, an urge she did not know how to control at the time. Every intention to heed her mother’s reminder to return before sundown, forgotten in her eager chase after a creature she could not see, with heavy clouds smelling of rain blotting out the sun. Returning too late, trusting the village people to take pity on her and guide her after her caravan which had already left, back to her home…
She never asked them if her mother’s body were among the bloodshed. She didn’t want to hear the answer. She’d already known it in her heart from the moment she smelled woodsmoke.
All these Maria remembered as she sat beside the lakeside before the buried top of her staff. It was just a piece of wood she had buried, mildly decorated, but she had never gotten to bury her mother nor her caravan, and she wanted to now. She had mourned over them many a time, cried into her pillow and into Abra’s fur, and she had wiped away those tears to continue moving and living. This was simply another time to sit and mourn, and Maria would do so before getting up to live once again. People came and people went, and Maria had decided that the pain of losing them was not greater than the joy of having them with her in the first place.
So Maria remembered, and Maria mourned, and she once again bid her mother and her family goodbye as she rose and left behind a fragment of them, but kept another fragment close to her heart.
She had heard Bran’s scream the evening before as she had left to the lakeside – how could she not have? His voice was distinct to her even if she had never heard him scream like that, but she was not in the place to assist him in that moment – but as the bard had already retired to his room when she had returned, she had taken it as a sign that he did not wish for company. It was to be expected, so Maria rested, and she rose and memorised the layout of their small area she suspected would become a haven for them.
It took time and patience as Maria was out of practise without her staff. She hadn’t realised how much she had subtly used the stick of wood until the gentle vibration of wood hitting a surface never came, and it was replaced by the decidedly less gentle vibration of some part of her body hitting a surface.
Oh well. She couldn’t win at everything she supposed.
Magella’s distinct chirpy tones (and slight accent, though it was not one Maria was inherently familiar with) alerted Maria to the new ghost inhibiting the body of Chi and was greeted to the clunk of a plate on the wooden table surface followed by a quite frankly alarming array of smells that, while delicious, were… a lot. A lot of food and being blind, Maria had to take a few moments to figure out how exactly to consume what was before her. And what it was that was before her.
She heard footsteps, two pairs; deeper regular steps from a larger-bodied individual, followed by the fired grumble of Amros; before that, irregular, heavier steps that were not from weight but rather energy (or lack of it), as Bran also joined the table. There were no words to accompany that gait, and as no words from Mags nor Amros immediately accompanied Bran’s strange and prolonged silence, Maria quickly made some assumptions:
One: A physical injury was not the cause of the irregular gait
Two: Exhaustion was likely a contributor but not the entire cause, as even while magically exhausted, Bran had spoken in short sentences
Three: Bran had certainly been emotionally impacted in some way by the grief creature, just as Maria had, and had likely recalled someone close to him that was no longer around. It was probable that he was still dwelling on that
Magella’s quiet words of “Hey, buddy. Can I help?” to Bran were not quiet enough in this enclosed space to go unheard by Maria’s already-attentive hearing. She heard Bran’s pause and the small intake of breath, and a voice that had an underlying tremor that Maria would have missed it if she wasn’t already alerted spoke with feigned confidence.
“No, I am good thanks.”
The clink of cutlery from the direction of Bran’s voice and the scrape of fork and knife along their ceramic plates followed. Maria mentally added another point to her list of assumptions:
Four: Bran was hiding his emotions and his wellbeing in favour of portraying the façade of a carefree and confident half-elf
There were still unanswered questions, of course. The ever-present question of why, the reasoning behind his every action, the emotions and causes behind each carefully-weighed out portion of humour and bravado and wit that he dished out like a rationed supply feigned to be in excess. His reasons for his actions appeared wholly explanatory on the surface and yet the more Maria spent with him, the more certain she became that there was a whole other realm of reasoning that was left unsaid. Perhaps, even, a realm that Bran himself attempted to ignore, though that was pure speculation on Maria’s part.
Mags, lovely caring Mags, attempted to draw Bran out of his shell by addressing questions of concern to them all. Of course, Maria responded, not wanting Mags to be left to fend for herself alone in this uncertain space. She was honest, though her comment about Bran marking the shadow beast was on purpose, a way to covertly thank him for his forward thinking on her behalf. Still, his words felt detached, part of that mask that perhaps even he believed was real on some days. And perhaps Maria’s words were also meant to be words of comfort and advice rather than simple conversation.
"The staff was special because of the memories of my mother. The memories stay, even if the staff goes. Besides, it is not the first time there has been a threat I cannot see, and it will not be the last either. I see it more like a puzzle than an inconvenience."
Grief was part of life, and life was paired with grief. There was a balance to be struck.
"I'm glad to hear you are doing alright after everything, though I should not be so surprised."
The strange sting of hurt that pierced through Maria’s chest at Bran’s words was unexpected. Perhaps because Maria was alright and yet she still mourned, because it was possible to miss someone greatly and yet still be okay. Perhaps because the words also came with a bitter self-hatred to Maria’s ears, though she could very well have been searching for something she expected to hear. Perhaps it was that Bran perceived her to be flaunting her own stable emotions in the face of his pain. Regardless, those words and Bran’s quick dismissal of his own feelings were not things Maria wanted him to feel obligated to say.
Speaking in a group could be confrontational to those who were already defensive, so Maria waited until they were getting ready to go and Bran was saddling Muse as Mags and Amros gathered their things to approach him alone. She knew her footsteps could be heard, but she waited until his shuffled feet and the paused silence of movements before she spoke in words she had carefully thought through.
"I want to apologise for doubting you back at the Daybreak hold. You knew the situation we were in, and I know you well enough to know I shouldn't have doubted your motives, so I am sorry. On a second note, I know something is weighing heavily on your mind and for reasons of your own, you don't wish to discuss it. But I know burdens can be hard to carry alone, and while I can't promise to understand what you say or feel, I do promise to listen if you need it, or to be company if you want it."
She hears nothing for a moment, but then comes the catch of breath and the shift of clothes and whatever it was he was holding, and the feeling of some sort of intangible weight settling down on the half-elf before her. And she hears Bran’s voice whisper as if it were made of the most fragile and breakable yet beautiful glass.
"I can't right now, but when I can, I will share."
Maria has never before wished that she could see clearly as much as she wished now, just so she could catch a glimpse of the face that Bran wore when the mask was gone.
But she cannot, so all she does let her lips betray her feelings in a soft smile, and blindly reach out to touch his arm.
"We have time, Bran. Whenever you feel ready, and I'll be here."
And he doesn’t play his lute while they travel, not like usual. And Maria does not ask him to instruct her in the violin. The world is music enough for today. And she can be patient.
She cannot help but feel glad when Bran reached out for her on the beach, sensing a thin trail of his magic flying towards her a split moment before she hears his voice whisper into her mind. Of course, she responded in kind with her own magic and was quick to call Abra back from his play with the children to return to the bard. Bran took her to the workshop of the violin maker (the violin maker had found him apparently, and Maria is not surprised) and even though Maria could not see, she swore that she could see the workshop through the eyes of Bran’s words.
The dried blood on the table to her diagonal left was not of a concern to Maria, not with violins of all kinds and shapes lining the walls in carefully arranged hooks. Colours were not a thing she was entirely familiar with, but Bran was clearly doing his best to be accommodating to her and in the back of her mind she noted the gentle way his words came and the more relaxed stance she could feel from him, unknown tension dropping. The larger part of her mind was far more occupied with the wonders before her and Bran was certainly doing well fuelling the excitement of the child that had risen up inside her.
Maria did her best to speak to the maker of these violins, not wanting him to feel as though she was here simply to choose an instrument of his creation and leave rudely, even if her hands were itching to touch and feel and experience. She didn’t have much wealth on her, certainly not enough to pay for one of these instruments carved with such loving and careful hands, but if she had a price to work for, perhaps she would be able to earn wealth in some way to purchase one. 35 wealth was not as high as she had expected, and she silently agreed with the Violin Maker that his works deserved more, but she was certainly not going to complain when-
"We can pay that, Maria pick out the one you want. The one you need will feel like lightning tingling the skin when you hold it."
Maria could clearly pick the moment his words made her thoughts stall, pause, consider, and switch tracks to run along a very different path. There was no way Bran was going to be buying one of these for her. She had no doubt that he had more wealth than she did but 35 wealth was no small sum, and she refused to be the cause of another burden on him, nor would she rob him of what he had rightfully earned himself when she could easily pay for (most of) it herself.
She gave him a stern look as best as she could, but he beat her to words before she could open her mouth.
"Be skeptical, you will understand when you find it."
"Oh, that I trust your word in, Bran,” she said (because why wouldn’t she trust him? He was a skilled musician and has spoken to her with honesty and truth in everything she has asked so far), “but you are not buying me a violin. At least not all of it, I won't let you spend all your wealth on my behalf.” There was a little too much going on in her head right now to explain more than that. “May I touch the instruments, master carver?"
The calm voice said that she may (an interesting accent he had, one that was rather exotic. He was certainly not a common race) and she had instruments handed to her hands one by one, and even though none seemed to call to her, she still admired their making and beauty as best as she could and treated them all with respect as she handed them back.
The one, when it touched her hands, was unmistakable. Maria felt her magic being drawn from her without her permission, racing into the violin in her hands and making it tremor and vibrate so subtly she couldn’t be sure she imagined it, then race back into her skin which tingled from the contact. The movement was nearly too quick for even her to identify had she not already been paying attention, and yet as fleeting as it was it was already burned into her memory.
"Oh, that's what you mean when you say lightning tingling the skin.” She can’t help it if her voice is filled with wonder.
She heard the maker clapping his hands in front of her, and Bran’s voice with a smile comes from behind. "Now just play a note, any note"
A bow was carefully handed to her, and she raised the violin to the junction of her neck and shoulder just as Bran had taught her, positioning her fingers as per his instructions as well. She may well have imagined the way the violin trembled in anticipation under her fingertips, but she doesn’t think she imagined the bond just beginning to develop between her own heart and this carefully fashioned collection of woods as she drew a single note from it; a “C” chord Bran had told her, the first chord she was taught.
It felt different to when she had drawn the same note using Bree’s violin, perhaps because this one will be her own instrument. It felt freer, warmer, like a breath of fresh air across a hot windswept plain, exactly how Maria remembered it from her childhood days. She sensed her magic racing from her again, chasing up the lengths of the carved wood and dancing across the strings, and it was far too fleeting to have an affect but it gave Maria an insight, a glimpse into what she could do with this instrument at her fingertips; a world of possibilities she hadn’t truly considered before; a new way to express herself, and to engage the world.
"I believe this is the one for me."
"I think it must be indeed,” the master carver said, but Maria didn’t miss Bran’s soft whisper.
“… Beautiful.”
The master maker taught them how to tune it, and while Maria’s ears weren’t yet accustomed to the finer details of music like Bran’s, her fingers could feel the tension wobbling in the strings and together, they learn how to tune the fragile strings.
And then comes the arguing.
Well, perhaps ‘arguing’ is too strong a term. Maria knows that she is stubborn but it seemed that Bran would not be cowed, initially insisting on paying the full amount and then agreeing to pay a lesser sum, but he somehow seemed deaf to Maria’s insistence to pay the larger half, or he turned her own words back onto her. It was infuriating, and it was… lovely. In the end, Maria let go of her pride and let him have his way with her thanks and her measly five wealth, if only because it was pointless to argue over something so simple.
If only because while she could easily fend for and supply for herself, it was achingly nice to have someone else so insistent on her behalf.
If only because she could pay him back sometime in the future, in some way, for this and for all the other countless offers of generosity he has given to her.
If only because she finds no joy in arguing with Bran.
They spend the hours until sundown walking together. They don’t speak much. Words take up so much room.
- - -
Sunset came, and so too did Adrian’s house. Maria may be blind but she knows an innuendo when she hears it, and Amros always seems full of them. She also knows the secretive smirk that bleeds into a voice, followed by an embarrassed cough and a voice wobbling with a desperate need to assure them it was a “business request”. She didn’t know what compelled her to share her cheeky thought with Bran via a telepathic message.
"It sounds like the type of business request that Amros is familiar with."
"The embarrassment has made him turn red, literarily his whole body went red,” Bran responded nearly immediately.
Maria knew Bran could hear her telepathic giggle, but she kept that between them as she redirected the conversation towards slightly more important matters. She was purposefully taking the lead in this conversation, not only because she was the one to request Allexus’ presence in the first place but also because Bran deserved a restful day when he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world and their group alone on his shoulders.
Maria summarised their quest as simply as she could while still emphasising the gravity of the danger. She purposefully sprinkled in Allexus’ title as an Azural Master, appealing to that small bit of self-confidence that everyone had in some measure.
She felt more than heard Allexus’ stunned silence, but what she hadn’t expected was Bran’s familiar magic filling her with confidence and clearing her mind to speak, and Magella’s additional words, Amros’ further summary of “It’s really fucking bad”, and Bran’s own words further emphasising the danger.
It was no surprise that Allexus agreed after that. Bran asked for the Master’s espionage skills to spy on the Daybreaks and the Nightfalls, and Maria tentatively raised the idea with him for Allexus to spy on the anti-magic guild in Corodun. She did still feel mildly guilty for her doubt in the hold, but her hesitation was moreso based on the fact that Bran did have some sort of personal stake with that guild, or more so the origins of their technology. After all, Merric had quite gladly boasted that he transported the goods straight from the workers of the King of Liirac to the east, and Maria hadn’t forgotten Bran’s words either:
“These people are using items made off the bleeding back of innocent people to force their idea of peace.”
Maria had her own suspicions about where Bran had been and why he was involved in stopping this war, and the motives that drove him, but those thoughts were for herself and herself alone. The anti-magic group were still a threat because even if they were smaller than the two major guilds, they had destroyed a Daybreak hold and established control over a major city. And perhaps it was Maria’s own bias, but she didn’t trust the motives of a group that used anti-magic weapons (and it scared a small part of her; that she had no reliable way of protecting herself from them).
Bran must have agreed because while he didn’t respond to Maria, he asked aloud for Allexus to keep track of them as well. All Maria got was a small “Thanks Maria.”
And maybe she was seeing things that weren’t there again but to her, that felt a lot like trust.