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The great roofed city danced through slatted starlight, chimaera of all aspect, pure and revenant, reveling in the streets. The long road to the center of Loramendi was lit with many fires, casting long shadows off of every merry-maker as the got swept up in the great celebration. Masks hid faces both familiar and unfamiliar, creating a perfect atmosphere for mischief and secrets. For at least one night, the inhuman people of the city could live, could breathe, as if they were truly free of the chains that bound them.
The monster who observed them from on high could not yet muster any of the careless, breathless debauchery. Standing to his full seven feet of height, he inhaled through his ram’s snout, the scent in the ear nothing but strong alcohols and reeking hormones. His companion’s love for grasswine did little to banish the former scent, and Brimstone sighed heavily upon exhale. As the antlered warlord looked up to his oldest friend, the deer-faced ancient might be said to have smiled.
“Have I become such a bore to you, my friend?”
The words were teasing, boyish, and reminded Brimstone of a much younger hartkind, a dark-eyed rebel who laughed easily and fought arrogantly. The vision stayed firmly in place for a moment, before fading to the chimaera’s present look, all worn with age and responsibility. At least the former slave’s scars had healed nicely, and those that had not were easily covered by his regal wardrobe.
“Come, come, my friend, a little wine to lift your spirits.”
Brimstone’s serpentine eyes darted back to the crowds, more party-goers gathering about the dancing throng at the center of their caged city. Such celebrations had never been to his liking, the old Resurrectionist an introvert from his earliest days, but he had to play his part on these evenings, just the same as the Warlord.
The acrid reek of smoke hung heavy in the night air.
He noticed the deliberate way that the Warlord, even in private, avoided his true name. Some days, Brimstone could hardly remember it himself. The delicate Chimaera child, without horns or scars, seemed to be a great stranger to him, rather than a part of his history, the same way he could put aside remembrances of a mother’s laugh, of a sister’s gentle hands.
How many centuries had it been, since the plains were razed and his people bound into slavery?
The memory was irrelevant, no matter how the fires and the celebrants stirred something inside of him. It did not escape his notice how the Warlord continued offering him a cup, the same way it did not escape the Warlord’s notice that his friend was aware of his offering. It was a careful game, the one these two old men played. Feigning hurt feelings, the old hart sipped at the cup meant for his friend, muttering low under his breath as if offended.
“I could almost swear you enjoy being a hermit.”
Enjoy it? No, for all the ways Brimstone carried on, there was no joy in his way of life. Work offered too little opportunity for it, or even sorrow. His life was work. It allowed little in the way of feeling.
He could even remember a time that revels had brought him some measure of delight. He remembered how he, a young man, had been made to slink from the shadows that had been his protection, to meet the people that had followed he and the Warlord from the pits. He remembered the sun, warm on his back, and the wind hot across his face. His scars did not ache as much in those days. Delicate hands – a child’s hands – had pressed to his spiraling horns, the Caprine child issuing a delighted little bleat in answer to the mysterious stranger not biting her, or whatever his reputation was in those days. She had endeavored to place a crown of blossoms atop his bald head, positioning it carefully between his horns, and had been quite proud of her work.
Perhaps it was a matter of setting. It was hard for him to celebrate, with twin moons overhead. What ugly stories they gave to their heavens. It might even have been that same cage overhead, as if he and all of the other elders had fought their way out of one prison and into another.
This was not life. Waiting for the inevitable, holding their breath, did not make a life. There had to be more. All this twirling under fire and starlight was mere distraction, and it did not sit well on him.
Surely enough in the courtyard had seen him, had watched his tribute to the Warlord’s birthday. He was not so rude as to simply walk away, though his words were succinct.
“I have work.”
The Warlord did not argue, but all the same, Brimstone knew he did not believe the words. True, the old goat had work, and perhaps always would, but this was hardly his reason for leaving. Brimstone was quietly thankful that the old hart showed him off, offering little more than a “You’ll work yourself into the grave.” before motioning towards the dark pathway behind their balcony.
Disappearing into the darkness, Brimstone needed no manufactured light to see. The twin moons shining through the windows provided enough to go on, and Brimstone’s clawed feet did not stumble against the stone paths. The only noise that accompanied him was the soft clack of his claws against the floor.
The hallowed cathedral was long-empty, though the scent of incense still filled Brimstone’s every breath. Striding past the vacant slabs, he worked to shrug off the weariness that had gripped him. It is only age, he thought to himself, allowing nothing else to close in. Ascending the great stairs to his shop, he stood tall, ensuring no one would see that moment of weakness etched onto his face or bearing.
He hesitated to knock for a moment, unwilling to disrupt others. His great hand hung in the air for a moment, before he brought it against the dark door, gentle as a creature of his size could manage.
“Issa.” he rumbled. In barely a blink, the door swung open, the Naja on the other side smiling briefly, until something brought a falter to her lips.
The Warlord was not the only one who could read him, after all.
“Brimstone. I did not expect you back so early. Come in, sit down, I’ll put on a kettle–”
The snake-woman’s voice was soft, and the dim light of the shop made the serpents coiled in her hair glint like gold and rubies. Her mood had risen, once she finished studying him, and as he followed her into the shop, he spoke anew.
“There’s no need.”
It was his turn to look her over now. His molten gaze drifted over her nude body, the softness of Issa’s tawny skin and the brightness of her eyes betraying none of her age. To his eyes, she was still so young, her dark curls cascading across her chest in a way that stirred memories.
She would stay by his side even if he did not ask it of her. She had proven it time and time again, even in the wake of men who offered her more of a life. Issa was beautiful, and that was well-known. Still, she chose him over any other.
It was a matter of beliefs. He did not delude himself otherwise.
“Oh? Are you going to bed–”
“I want you to go out tonight.”
It was a simple thing, the desire for his compatriot to have one night without expectation, without work. Based on Issa’s scrutinizing response, Brimstone almost believed he had asked her to march to Astrae and strike down the God-Emperor with a few twigs. The silence stretched across the shop, and Brimstone was not as comfortable in it as he might be any other night. Before he could try again, Issa was hurrying along.
“What interest would I have out there? I can hardly even dance.”
Her chuckled admission was a lie, but he did not say as much. The Naja carried herself with a rare kind of grace, fluid as water, but he kept that to himself.
“Still, it has been some time since you’ve had a moment to yourself. I only thought that you might benefit from some time outside of the shop–”
“Nonsense.” She spoke over him, and he allowed it. “I’m perfectly content,” – Content! Such a weak word, the less-capable cousin of happiness. – “staying in for the evening. Besides, what if Sweet Girl were to awaken?”
Pursing her lips at his snort did little to stop him.
“Do you think I am so incapable of caring for a child?”
The girl in question had not been his first try at child rearing. In the early days, there were many orphans, many raised between the few adults left standing. The crash course had been enough of an education for the old goat that he did not fear a night spent as sole caretaker for the girl behind the bookshelf.
Blanching, the woman cleared her throat. “I didn’t say that, Brimstone. I only meant–”
“Issa.” He did not have to raise his voice. She stilled, hood low, before catching the sigh in her throat.
“I suppose I could spare a few minutes. I’m sure Yasri wouldn’t mind a bit of company.”
He waited for her to move. She did not, stalwart, as if he might renege on his decision and call her back.
“She’s already in bed. I’ve already given her a glass of water, so don’t let her tell you otherwise. And if she–”
As the sweet-voiced woman rattled on, Brimstone stood wondering if he would have to scoop her into his strong arms and deposit her outside of the shop, locking her out lest she try to slither in and finish her set of orders. After a few moments longer, she seemed to still.
She did not say thank you. She did not have to. With only a hint of hesitation, all saved for him to take back his words, she left the shop, the door falling heavily behind her. It made him glad. She deserved more than the dim-light and a constant stream of human faces.
The raven-bat that served as his messenger settled heavily in his master's horns, letting out a soft caw. Absently, the Resurrectionist ran one worn finger across Kishmish's feathered spine, contemplating his next move.
Leaving the center room, he found his way behind the cove of bookshelves, peering down at the sleeping child. She did not stir as his shadow fell upon her, darkening already inky hair, her pale skin reminding him of nothing so much as the twin moons outside. He could not put a name to the reason he had come here – it was more a feeling. All the worlds that should have been and those that came to be, real lives and the false, a true peace, all seemed to come together, a singular dream.
She had dared it, once. This girl had dared to dream of something better, of what could still be. Such a heavy thing for one so young, he thought. He smoothed her hair back from her face, astounded at his own gentleness, and did not flinch as the little girl stirred. She settled easily, never even fully waking, and he let out a breath he had not known he held.
Fire and field and chains fell away, for one moment. true names and their forgetting unimportant, toil and death and pushing anything else aside becoming only temporary. All things would fade, all that made this world something ugly.
Now, their world had Hope, more true than any war, and she comforted him without a word.