Celestial Writes Medieval Fics

[Celestial]

So I wrote a Margot fic and it...isn't totally heartbreaking? Clearly I need to step up my game but it's nice to give the poor woman something pleasant, for once.

The Things We've Shared

SPOILER: Click to show

26th August 1315. Destrier, Bern

Noble weddings were usually grand affairs and no exception was granted to the one where only the bride was of noble blood. The ceremony that had been conducted at the Cathedral had been grand but the feast was even more magnificent. Wine had flowed freely and the cornucopia of food had been laid out to accompany it had gone down well with the myriad of guests that had come to celebrate. By the growing loudness of their voices and the good cheer that had infected the atmosphere of the great hall of Destrier Castle, it was clear everyone was enjoying themselves. Even the Guinnes, uncomfortable as they were being seated by tradition next to the most powerful family in Bern as though they were equals, managed to loosen up enough to have fun. Though given how much the groom was beaming at everything, especially his bride, it would have been impossible not to be infected with his cheerfulness. Isabelle too, had smiled brightly throughout, with her smile being the widest gazing at Hector.

The whirlwind of emotions that had to be going through her mind, the pleasure of knowing that she was marrying the one she loved, had been as intoxicating as the wine that had been laid out as part of the celebrations. Isabelle was blessed to feel like this and given how full her eyes were of love for her new husband, even a blind man could tell that she was perfectly aware of that.

It had been a feeling her mother had remembered all too well. Isabelle’s sister too, had smiled like that at her own and more poignantly, so had Margot. Her daughter, for all their differences in temperament and personality, now bore that same expression that she had once worn. But seeing how much Sir Hector was also grinning from ear to ear at her, this day was going to end for her far better than it had done for Margot.

There was, however, not a trace of envy in her heart. What kind of mother would she be if she begrudged her own daughter her happiness? Isabelle deserved it and Margot was more than satisfied to let her have something so wonderful. But even if she distracted herself with a piece of baked salmon, a sip of wine or by watching the musicians who had been hired to perform, sometimes, an errant memory would drift to the top of Margot’s mind, stealing her away for a brief glimpse of the past.

Her own wedding all those years ago had been so much like this one, down to the locations and some of the noble Houses in attendance. Even after all those years, it was impossible to forget.

She had no doubt that Alain also remembered it. But the occasional glance that she cast across to her own husband only showed him to be smiling to himself while enjoying the proceedings. As usual, he betrayed nothing of what was on his mind and Margot would never expect otherwise. She would have broached the subject with him, but between the festivities and all the guests they had both wanted to speak to, there had been no time. The question had remained unasked.

Yet all things, great or small, had to end eventually. The wedding feast was no exception began to draw to a close as darkness began to creep in through the windows and the guests, exhausted by the day, bloated from the food and drunk on the wine, began to retreat to their quarters. But it was only well and truly over when Isabelle and Hector had left, arm in arm, going towards what was going to be their room for the foreseeable future.

Margot had watched them go out of the corner of her eye before looking away and standing up from her own chair. But as she got to her feet, she heard heavy steps stop beside her. Turning, she shuddered as she found herself gazing into Alain’s ever-familiar icy blue eyes. He smiled slightly down at Margot, his hands folded across his cane.

“You’re not tired, are you?” the Grand Duke’s inquired.

“Not really,” she raised her eyes up to meet his. “Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if I could have the pleasure of your company,” Alain told her, his smile growing a little wider. “Just so we could talk, together.”

Margot stared at him in disbelief. “Is...is something wrong?” she choked out.

He shook his head. “Nothing is wrong. I just thought it would be pleasant, that is all.”

“It’s just...you never do anything without a reason.”

This prompted a soft laugh from Alain. “I only want to speak to you, Margot. That should be enough of a reason,” he blinked once, slowly, continuing to look at her. “If you want to, of course.”

“I do, of course I do,” she nodded. A tiny smile began to spread across her face too.

“Good,” Alain turned away from her, directing his eyes towards the door. “I asked the servants to prepare one of the small sitting rooms for us; the one with the unicorn tapestry. Does that suit you?”

“Yes. I trust your judgement,” Margot replied, bowing her head slightly. “Lead the way, please, Alain.”

He nodded and turned on his heel, walking out of the great hall but keeping his steps short. It took barely any effort from her to keep up. Together, they walked along the corridor and up the stairs closer towards the private family quarters, the only sound being their footsteps and the metal tip of Alain’s cane tapping against the flagstones.

One of the doors was open, the warm golden light streaming from it indicating that a fire had been stoked inside. It was towards that room that Alain headed and Margot followed him. At the entrance, he stopped and extended out one hand, gesturing for her to go in.

Inside, as promised, a warm fireplace crackled, providing heat and precious light for the cosy room. A few lanterns lit up the darker corners, giving the two armchairs and the table in the room several small, faint shadows on top of the big one cast off by the light from the fire. On the opposite wall hung an enormous and complex tapestry dominated by a white unicorn with a flowing golden mane and tail.

Margot entered into the room, though she did not take long to linger on the details: she had seen every single one of them before, after all. Instead, she walked over to one of the armchairs, the one closer to the fire, and sat down in it. Only now did she notice the tray containing the pot and two cups that stood on the table between the two chairs. Rose hip; the scent betrayed it. There was even a tiny jar of honey beside it to sweeten the normally sour tea. The woman could not help but smile a little at this. Of course, he would know exactly what she liked.

“I’m glad it meets your approval,” Alain said with a hint of amusement in his tone as he sat down in the opposite chair, resting his cane against the table. “Help yourself.”

Margot nodded, taking the silver spoon out of the honey and scooping some into her cup before pouring the tea in.

“Do you want some too?” she asked him. Alain gave a nod and Margot poured some of the tea into his cup before setting the pot down. There had only been enough for the two cups but if that was not enough, they could call for more. Putting the thought out of her mind, she stirred in the honey, watching Alain opposite her.

Once he had settled, he took a sip of his own tea and turned to her, smiling. “That was quite a wedding, wasn’t it?”

Margot nodded. “It was,” she gave off a small sigh. “I’m happy for Isabelle. It’s good that she’s found somebody like Sir Hector who evens her out like he does.”

“Me too,” Alain replied quietly before his face broke out into a grin. “She took her time telling me about it, however.”

“You did push her into it,” his wife remarked, a hint of amusement coming into her voice.

He laughed, the grin growing even wider. “Of course! Isabelle would have not said anything otherwise.”

“Poor girl, she was so angry and so scared,” Margot sighed, taking a sip of her tea. “And...forgive me for asking but...did you enjoy that?”

Alain smirked. “You know I did,” he waved his hand dismissively. “But seeing how happy she is now, I’d say it was worth it.”

“Yes,” she lowered her eyes, folding her hands across her cup. An aura of sadness settled around her.

The Grand Duke raised an eyebrow and leaned his elbow against the armrest, placing his head in his palm. “Care to tell me why you suddenly changed to such a gloomy mood?”

Margot gazed deeply into the ruby-red liquid in her cup. “Aveline...was like that too.”

“So she was,” Alain’s eyes grew slightly more distant while a tiny smile spread across his face. “She took a while to confess her feelings about young Baron Ewan to me too.”

The woman sighed, running her finger across the smooth surface of the ceramic. “For all of their differences in personality, our daughters turned out quite similar in these matters.”

“Of course they would have some similarities. They’re both our children after all.”

“Our children...” it was Margot’s turn to smile. “It’s hard to believe they’re all so grown up now.”

“They are,” Alain nodded in confirmation. “But it is said that time flies, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Margot sighed “They’ve grown up...and we’ve grown old.”

“There is nothing wrong with growing old and if there was, it cannot be helped,” the Grand Duke replied.

“No, it can’t.”

Margot took another sip of her tea and turned her head up, gazing at her husband sitting opposite her, the unicorn from the tapestry looking over from behind him. Light from the fire and the candles caught in the silver of his circlet and hair alike while the shadows they cast deepened the lines and contours of his face. His cheekbones in particular, had gotten more prominent with age. But his eyes were still as blue and piercing as ever, and even in his seat, the easy way he sat with his head resting lightly in his hand betrayed that time had not sapped any of his confidence. Time had changed him but she would not dare say that it had worn him.

A smirk spread across his face. “And you are surprised that our daughters have similarities, Margot.”

She blinked. “W-what do you mean?”

“That same look that was on Isabelle’s face today, the one that had been on Aveline’s face in Baron Ewan’s presence,” Alain’s eyes acquired an amused glint and rose to meet hers. “It has just passed across yours too.”

Margot turned away suddenly, feeling the heat spread across her cheeks. “I...I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” the smirk lost its edge to become a gentler smile. “It’s nice to know that even though so much time has passed, some things have not changed.”

Her shoulders drooped as she relaxed but the woman still did not turn back to Alain. “How long has it been?”

“Thirty seven years,” Alain’s tone was neutral but his voice was quiet.

Margot took a drink and lowered her cup, letting her fingers curl around it. “It does not feel like it.”

“It wouldn’t, today of all days,” he replied. “It’s been on your mind throughout, hasn’t it?”

“It has,” her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Everything was so similar. How could I not remember?”

“They were both the weddings of Stallion heirs. Of course they would be similar, in ceremony and in scale.”

“Yes, I guess they would be...” Margot turned her gaze to the floor and took another sip of the tea, trying to hide her thoughts.

“But I wager what happened after is very different,” Alain asked, his tone a prying needle.

She closed her eyes. As usual, there was no point in concealing anything from him. From the first day, he could read her like an open book and after all this time together, that ability would only have gotten more potent.

Her heart began to race. Margot opened her mouth to reply but then closed it, realising there was no point. He would figure out what her words were going to be better if she remained silent. That was how he was. Instead, she kept her head bowed. A lock of hair slipped out of the containment of her headdress and fell across the left side of her face.

Alain blinked slowly, keeping his eyes on her. “I don’t regret what I said to you then, Margot. That was something you needed to hear, sooner rather than later.”

The woman gave off a soft sigh, digesting the words. He was right, he was always right. But that did not make the pain of him telling her he did not love her back then any less.

She was about to take another drink of her tea when she felt soft leather brushing against her skin. Margot glanced to the side, just in time to see Alain’s gloved hand sweep aside the stray lock behind her ear.

“That was thirty seven years ago,” his voice was slightly closer and kinder, “A lot of things have happened since then.”

There had been plenty of wine at the wedding but nothing so far had suggested he was drunk. Her eyes widening, she turned her head to face him just as he moved his hand, briefly and lightly caressing her cheek. The surprise at the sensation only lasted a brief moment before the woman lowered her eyelids, savouring the touch like some people would savour the taste of food.

A tiny smile had formed on her face by the time Alain pulled his hand back, and Margot managed to meet his gaze again.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I certainly would never have given up any of our children. Not for anything.”

“Neither would I,” he replied and looked up from his cup to her. “But it isn’t just the good things that we have experienced that matter.”

Margot frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What I said,” Alain lifted up the tea to his lips, taking a sip of the last drops of the liquid in his cup before meeting her eyes. “No matter what happened and no matter what happens, I know you’ll always be there. Even when you could have strayed, you still remained. And I am grateful to you for that.”

She lowered her head after a few seconds, unable to maintain eye contact with his icy gaze. “How could I not have? I’m your wife. That is what a noble wife does.” her hand curled around her own drink as she paused. “And you know...how I feel about you. How I’ve always felt.”

“I do. But I can still be grateful to you. For the children, and for your loyalty.”

Margot swallowed, a flush spreading across her cheeks and a smile curving on her lips. “As...as am I.”

She leaned back in her chair, looking deeply at the last few drops of the rose hip tea at the bottom of her cup, its sweet scent lingering even though the liquid was almost gone. Behind her, the fire crackled and the candles flickered, sending shadows to play across the tapestry to animate the beasts on it. Aside from this room, the entire castle seemed still, resting from the festivities. She and Alain were the only ones awake.

Margot’s head lolled to the side as she glanced across to her husband. Even though he was at arm’s length to her, just his presence, so close and all to herself, was more than she was used to.

She sighed, her eyelids drooping. “I wish it had been like this thirty seven years ago.”

“Back then, we did not have those thirty seven years,” Alain remarked and tilted his head slightly at her, smiling. “You look tired, Margot.”

The woman snapped open her eyes and bowed her head. “I’m...I’m not.”

In truth, her body, warmed by tea and tenderness, was sinking heavily into the comfortable armchair. If only she could stay like this, in his company forever, she would have done it without a second thought. But after all that had happened today, Margot could not feel sleep creeping up on her, threatening to steal this away from her.

“You are, I can see it. And the tea is gone too, so it’s time we both went to bed.”

Alain stood up from his chair, picked up his cane and, as Margot watched, went over and snuffed out the candles between his fingertips. The fire could be left to the servants to tend to. After that was done, however, he walked back over to her and held out his hand. “Shall I escort you to your room? Since mine is close to it anyway.”

“Yes please,” she nodded, placing her own hand, palm-down, on to his. Margot stood from her chair, helped by Alain pulling her up. He lowered his hand as she got to her feet but she kept her fingers wrapped around it, not wanting to let him go. Half of her expected him to shake her off but instead, all he did was give her an indulgent smile and curled his fingers around hers.

“Let’s go then,” he turned towards the door and began walking at a slow pace out of the room. Margot followed, not daring to get any closer but quietly basking in the closeness of her husband. Though she could not feel his skin through the glove, the warmth emanating from it was enough.

They walked together in silence, neither wanting to speak much as they ascended up the stairs and headed down the hallway to where their rooms were. Memories stirred in Margot’s mind, of how she once walked like this with him on their own wedding night, how happy she had been before he told her how he had felt. But she was older now, she knew better than to expect what her younger, naive self had been awaiting, even if she still craved it.

Finally, they reached the door to her room. Alain slipped his hand out of her grip, resting it on top of his cane and looked down at her. In the faded light of the scant candles lighting the hallway, she could barely see his eyes but they almost seemed to be softer than usual. His smile, certainly, lacked its usual edge.

“Good night, Alain,” she murmured, bowing her head to him.

“Good night, Margot,” he replied and turned on his heel, heading further down the corridor towards his room.

Briefly, Margot watched him go before turning the lock and entering into her own room. She had gotten used to his coldness over the years and accepted that he would never return her feelings. But that was why moments like tonight were more than enough: it made the rare affection that had built up over the years all the sweeter.

[Celestial]

A collab we did with Kristykimmy. ^^ It's cute.

Welcome Home

SPOILER: Click to show

April 1285, Destrier, Bern

Her heart had leapt into her throat as soon as she had heard the horses coming into the courtyard but it was only when she had caught a glimpse of them from out of the window did Margot's face break into a wide smile. Then when she saw the white horse and the blond-haired rider upon it did she breathe out a long, joyful sigh of relief, feeling the weight of the past year fall off her shoulders and dissolve into nothing.

It had all ended. The war had ended as quickly as it had begun but even after, there was still the aftermath to take care of. Margot had received the message telling her when he was going to return, and a messenger had been dispatched ahead of the main party this morning. But now, for her, it was well and truly over. He was home.

She hitched up her skirts, not giving any thought to the fact that she was running, not even caring that she did not have far to go. Margot turned the handle of the room next door and ran in, smiling widely when her eyes fell on her daughter.

"Aveline!" Margot cried and scooped the girl into a hug before she stood up and took her hand. "Aveline, it's your father. Your father has come back!"

Aveline had been standing on a stool so that she could peer out her window, having heard the commotion around the castle that accompanied the return of her father, and curious as to what was going on.

Her mother's embrace and words filled her with glee, and she bounced up and down as she held her hand tight. He had come back. He had not been one of the people who went away to war and never returned.

“For good?” she asked. “Will he have to go away again or is he home to stay?”

"Yes. He's home at last, Aveline, and he's staying here, with us," in between that knowledge and the excitement on her daughter's face, Margot could not contain the happy smile on her face. Their daughter would have a father and she would have her husband back.

She gave Aveline's hand a squeeze. "Do you want to go see him? It's been so long, don't you want to see your father again?" the woman had already turned towards the door, feeling like she knew what the answer was going to be. She had been the opposite of blind to her daughter for the past year after all.

Aveline bounced on her toes as she nodded. “Do you think he will recognize me? Nanny says I've grown so much. Can we go see him right now?”

"It's why I came to get you. Let's go see him now, say hello to him," Margot smiled and nodded, taking Aveline's hand and walking out of the door. She tried to keep her pace moderate for the girl but she could barely contain herself at the thought of finally having her husband back. "And of course he will recognise you, Aveline. Your father loves you very much; he would never forget you, no matter how much you grow."

Aveline skipped alongside her mother, occasionally having to jump forward when Margot got a little faster. “I've missed him, Mother. I'm going to give him the biggest hug I've ever given him!”

"I missed him too, Aveline," Margot replied, smiling a little at the girl's enthusiasm. "He will appreciate the hug, I’m sure, especially from you. It will let him know how much you missed him."

She continued to guide the girl down the spiral staircase of the castle and into the front entrance hall. Unlike Aveline, Margot strained to contain her excitement but it showed in her smile and in her pace how much she wanted to finally see Alain. The distance from the stairs to the front entrance across the hall seemed too great, especially with Aveline in tow, but eventually, she crossed it and exited out into the courtyard.

The returning company had dismounted from their horses and were now heading to the stables, Alain included. However, as soon as he saw the two who had come out of the castle, he stopped.

"Take her to the stables," he ordered the senior knight next to him, handing the reins of the grey warhorse over to the other man. The knight raised an eyebrow but as he caught the direction of the Grand Duke's eyes, his expression became a knowing one.

"Yes, your grace," he replied, pulling the mare on after him. Alain gave him a grateful nod and broke from the main party, beginning to stride over to Margot and Aveline. Even if there was usually a smile on his face, he still had to keep himself from beaming.

Aveline shrieked with joy when she saw her father and pulled her hand from her mother's to run to him.

“Father, Father, Father!” she shouted, her smile as wide as it could possibly be.

Alain could barely contain the joy he felt when he saw Aveline running towards him. His stride grew wider as they rushed towards each other in the courtyard. Just as she got close, he bent down and opened up his arms, letting her run into them. Getting a firm grip on her, he lifted her into the air, though he noted with some satisfaction that it had gotten harder to do than when he had left.

"Hello, Aveline," he smiled widely, holding her up at eye level with him. "Oh I've missed you. You've grown so much."

Aveline clutched tight to Alain as he lifted her off the ground.

“I missed you so much!” Aveline said as she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. “I'm so glad you're home. Mother says you don't have go away again. Is it true? Will you never go away to war again?”

"I can't say I will never go away ever again," Alain said quietly, hugging his daughter back and stroking her hair. He hoped dearly he would not, that the Langeans had been beaten back for a long time. But, putting it out of his mind for now, he brought the girl up to his eye level again and grinned. "But I am not going away for a while, Aveline. I'm going to stay here, with you and your mother, for as long as I can."

Aveline hugged him again, as tight as she could to show him how happy she was. “I'm so glad! I've so many things to show you. I've gotten much better at reading, and nanny has been teaching me how to sew dresses for my dolls, and Mother won't be sad anymore now that you're home.”

Alain let Aveline hug him, not even bothering to pull her away. It was so nice, after so long, to have his daughter chattering away in his ear with her arms around his neck.

"You're going to have to show me everything then, Aveline. I want to see what you have learned while I was gone. I don't want to miss anything now that I'm home," he said before finally putting her down. Even with his strength, she was getting far too heavy. Another sign that his daughter had grown up. "I am sorry I missed your birthday, by the way. I wish I could have been here but I got held up at the front."

Aveline clung to Alain's hand when he put her down. She knew she was too heavy for him to carry around now, but she didn't want to let go of him after being separated for so long.

“It's okay. I'm just happy you came home. We're going to have a party; Mother said that we would have a feast when you came home! I'm so glad you're home,” Aveline told him, bouncing on her toes in excitement.

Alain smiled down at Aveline and squeezed her hand in his, kissing the top of her head. "I'm very happy to be home too, Aveline."

He looked back up over the girl, noticing that Margot was hanging back, her head lowered as though she was studying something on the ground. That was strange. Alain would have thought she would have been glad to see him, given the tone of the letters he had received from her on the front.

"Come on, let's go back to your mother," he told the girl, leading his daughter by the hand as he started walking towards his wife. "I hope you have been getting on with your new brother or sister too. I don't want to come back to you two not liking each other."

All of the happy feelings Aveline had been feeling went away as she looked up at her father, her mouth dropping open, but no sound coming out of it. Aveline knew all about Eve, despite the fact that no one had actually told her about the baby sister who had not lived. Just as with the war, Aveline had read between the lines of what people said based on their tones and their expressions. She had heard the whispers others thought were too quiet for her to hear, and she had understood all about the baby who had come to early and left too soon. What she hadn't known was that her father didn't know that baby Eve hadn't lived. She had mentioned that mother was sad, but she thought Alain knew why she was so sad. Now her father would be sad too, and after coming home thinking he was about to meet his new daughter.

“I would have been good; I would have loved her. I'll be a good big sister next time, I promise,” Aveline said, looking up at Alain earnestly, feeling sorry that she hadn't had a chance to be a good sister to Eve.

Alain blinked and frowned as he took Aveline’s words in. The past tense, the use of the phrase ‘next time’...it barely took him a second to understand what had happened. After all, that was exactly how he had been when his little brother and then sister had died. Now one of his children had followed them. A child he had been so looking forward to meeting since he had known about their existence from the letter he had received in the front. Now, he would never even know this child. Another girl too, judging by Aveline’s words. It did not matter, however, whether it was a son or a daughter. She was still his child who had gone before he ever met her.

“It’s alright, Aveline. I know you would have a good sister,” he said with a smile and squeezed her hand. “I’m sure you will get another chance.”

With those words, he looked back up at Margot. She was still where she had stopped, not daring to look him in the eye. Alain halted in front of her with Aveline, his expression neutral.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked her quietly, though it was more inquiring than angry.

Nevertheless, Margot flinched at his words. She knew exactly what he meant. “Because I...I felt guilty. I didn’t know what you would think about me...about me losing your child.”

“I would have found out anyway, so you should have told me,” Alain replied.

“I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. Don’t be angry,” she murmured, her voice beginning to hitch as she tried to contain her tears.

Alain brought up the hand that was not hold on to Aveline and with it, gently lifted up Margot’s chin, making her meet his eyes and letting her see his smile. “I haven’t seen you for over a year now. Now that I’m home, I’m not going to be angry at you over something you could not prevent. Especially since our oldest child is still alive and you’ve done a fine job raising her in my absence.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you,” she said quietly. A hesitant smile began to creep across her face. “Welcome back, Alain.”

He smiled widely and leaned forward, press his lips to hers. Margot’s eyes widened with surprise at the gesture before she closed them, soaking in the kiss.

After a few moments had passed, Alain pulled away, though the smile still remained on his face. “It is good to see you again, Margot. Now,” he turned back to Aveline, stroking her hair. “Let’s go inside. There’s a lot to catch up on.”

[Celestial]

Blame GLQ for this, it's sad. Wrote it quickly in between finishing the Absolon prologues and marrying myself to several months of intense writing of the main fic. But regardless...enjoy, I suppose.

Falling

SPOILER: Click to show

Destrier, Bern, late 1266.

Two siblings, a boy and a girl, play on the edge of a cliff by the sea. The boy’s blond hair streams out behind him as he calls out to the girl, his sister by the high amount of resemblance they have, and runs towards the border of the cliff. She shouts after him in a barking, harsh language, her words unrecognisable but her tone clearly distressed. Her brother, however, paid her absolutely no need and continued to run, stopping right on the edge of the drop and peering over. He points excitedly at something below, just as a rock comes free of the cliff face and falls into the waters below with a soft splash, a phenomenon he watches with fascination. The girl, by now, is hot on his heels and he waits for her. More dirt and stone falls from the cliff face before suddenly, a crack opens up between the siblings. She stares in horror and the boy cries out, turning and beginning to sprint back to her. Just then, the cliff beneath him collapses completely, sending tonnes of rubble tumbling down into sea below. There is only a scream from the boy but it is soon lost in the roaring of the waves as they receive both the rock and the child caught in the landslide. For a while, only that noise dominates until the dust finally settles, revealing the new outline of the cliff face and the girl, her eyes blank with shock as she tries to process the sudden, unexpected death of her brother. Then she begins to scream.

And five hundred years earlier and hundreds of miles away, a six year old child screamed too as the vision of this disaster finally let him go.

Ambrose fell to the floor, wrapping his arms around himself to try and stop the shaking that had overtaken him, his breathing ragged as though he had just run several miles. Everything had changed in just a few short seconds. He did not want to see that, he never wanted to see any of it. But why was he seeing those things? The adults had never really given him a clear answer, just a few short glances here and there as they danced around with their words, never explaining anything. But they had to know what was wrong with him, how to make it stop.

The terrified cries of the children and the roar of the collapsing cliff kept playing in his mind over and over, hammering in the horror of what he had just seen. The boy threw his hands up to his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks while sobs racked his body.

“Young lord Ambrose?” came a croaky female voice above him. He frowned, trying to remember who it was, fighting through the murkiness that the vision had left behind in his memory. It took a while before the woman’s came to him: it was the servant who was tasked with watching over him when nobody else could. As far as he could recall, her name was Esther. Before, he could remember the names of all the servants he had encountered. Now, he snatched information about the world between visions while fighting through the horror of what he saw and the dullness it had left in his mind.

He winced. Something so simple should not have been so difficult. He had been able to remember most, if not all of them before instantly. Now, he had to fight the vision off first.

Ambrose sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve before turning his head up to face the servant, meeting her concerned eyes.

“Esther...” he murmured.

She frowned. “Did you see something else, little lord?”

“Y-yes. There was...a brother and sister. The brother...he...” Ambrose tried to hold back the burst of tears as the image of the cliff side collapsing with the boy still on it flared across his memory again.

“It’s alright, little lord, it wasn’t real,” Esther smiled and reached out to stroke his hair but the boy flinched away from her touch, curling in on around himself and gripping his sleeves.

“It was real. I saw it. It was as real as you or me,” he cried, his voice hitching.

“Yes, but...” the servant sighed deeply before she smiled again. “You’re distressed. You should go to bed. I’ll tell your tutor you can’t make lessons.”

Ambrose gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes at the servant. That smile and that tone of voice had become so common over the past few months and he hated it. He did not need adults to talk down to him like that. “I’m not sleepy. I want to go to lessons.”

In truth, he did not really have any desire to face his tutors, who would no doubt berate him for not paying attention, or worse. But he did not want to listen to Esther either. Not to mention, if he went to lessons, Alain might also be there.

Alain...Ambrose gasped as the image of the boy from his vision flashed through his mind again. The blond hair that they both shared...and how adventurous he was too, just like the brother of the girl he had seen.

His breathing grew rapid as he thought about it. Wasn’t Destrier Castle also built on cliffs, like the one he had seen? Alain was not the boy in the vision, they did not have a sister after all, but what if the same thing happened to him? What if his brother was in danger?

“Alain...I must see Alain!” Ambrose pushed himself up from the floor, scrambling to his feet.

“That’s not a good idea, young lord,” Esther said, a hint of disapproval passing across her face.

“But what if he gets hurt?” the boy shook his head, leaning against the wall. His eyes dashed back and forth as he tried to judge the distance between the door and himself. “What if he falls off the cliff? I have to warn him.”

“Young lord, you need rest,” the servant’s voice was firmer now and she placed her hands on his shoulders, trying to keep him in one place. “Your brother will be fine.”

“No! I need to see him!” Ambrose cried, clenching his fists and looking right up at the woman. “Let me go!”

“No. You need to stay in your room. Or you will get hurt,” Esther replied, her voice acquiring a sterner edge. “Do you understand?”

“I don’t care! I want to see brother!” the boy wriggled his entire body like a snake, causing the servant to lose her grip on him. Before she could grasp on to him again, Ambrose dashed away from her, making a beeline for the door. Esther shouted to him and reached out to grab him but he barely felt her fingertips brush against the fabric of his shirt.

He reached the door and pulled it open, squeezing himself through the crack and sprinting down the corridor. Running away from the aftermath of a prank with his brother had given him plenty of practice and experience on how to avoid angry servants but right now, the only thing that mattered to him was not getting caught, at least not until he had found Alain. His life might depend on it!

“Brother?” he called out, feeling tears sting in his eyes. “Brother, where are you?”

There was no reply, not even as the boy turned a corner. Once upon a time, just over a month ago, the two brothers had been practically joined at the hip. Now, Ambrose barely saw Alain. Only during lessons and the few mealtimes that they still shared together did he catch a glimpse of his older brother.

His eyes had grown icier, not in colour but in attitude. Alain carried himself differently too, putting on the air of a lord. Day by day, his brother was looking more and more like a stranger. Which, as far as Ambrose was concerned, was all the more reason to see him. Hopefully Alain would still remember him.

The hallway opened up to a set of stairs, forcing Ambrose to slow down. His- no, their mother had always been angry when she caught them running down the stairs and he was in enough trouble already. Despite voice in his head that urged him to hurry up, to get to Alain as quickly as he could, before Esther could catch up to him, he slowed down and began walking down the stairs.

He was going to find Alain and tell him what happened. But what if Alain did not believe him? No, he would. He was his brother. If he could not trust brother then-

Several men shout to each other in a language barely similar to Kythian. One is pointing in several directions while his companions lay down small boxes equal distances away from each other into the stone face in front of them. All of the boxes connect via thin ropes towards one single, different box with a handle on top of it, set a fair distance away from the stone and the boxes. Finally, the men finish and all step away to safety. Their leader pushes down on the handle and suddenly, the stone blossoms into dust as a loud noise rips through the quarry.

As abruptly as the explosion, the vision let Ambrose go. He moaned and stumbled forward but where there should have been solid ground, there was nothing but air. It took him a second to remember; he had been on the steps when the vision had overcome him.

The boy cried out and flailed his arms around, grasping at the stone walls in an attempt to regain some purchase or to prevent himself from losing his balance. His fingers scrabbled but they found nothing that could stop the fall. All he could do was scream, helpless, as his foot fell forward on to the step below and sent him tumbling down.

Every bump prompted another yelp out of Ambrose as he fell until at last, he came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. For a second, he lay motionless at the bottom, feeling the pain flare across his body. He could feel the bruises beginning to form across his arms and legs. Ambrose slowly shifted his arms and tried to push himself up. But as soon as he put weight on to his left ankle, sudden pain flared across it, making him scream in agony. He collapsed down on to the floor, wrapping his arms around himself. A sob racked his body, followed shortly by another.

It hurt. Everything hurt. Now he was never going to get to Alain. He could not warn his older brother about the danger. He could not do anything. Not run, or play, or even go to lessons. Even walking down stairs was impossible. All he could do was witness those things. Why could he just not be normal?

The sobs broke down into hysterical crying. Tears rolled down his cheeks and on to the flagstones that he had landed on while his ankle throbbed painfully along with the various bruises that he had no doubt sustained during the fall.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he cried his heart out. He barely heard the sound of footsteps until they were almost upon him, heavy and purposeful. As soon as he caught it, however, Ambrose bit down on his tongue, trying to muffle his distresses.

“Ambrose?” a deep voice echoed above him and he froze, recognising it. Slowly, the boy lifted up his head and met the deep blue eyes of his father.

“Dad...” he choked back a sob.

“What happened?” Lachlan frowned, kneeling down to examine the boy. “You are not supposed to go outside your room without somebody watching you.”

“I ran off” Ambrose tried to push himself up to a sitting position, causing another flare of pain in his ankle. He collapsed painfully on to the floor again. “I wanted to find Alain I...I have to warn him.”

“About what?” the Grand Duke asked, his hands hovering over his son’s ankle as he checked for injuries. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to keep the scepticism from bleeding into his voice.

It did not escape Ambrose’s attention and he bowed his head. “I...I have to tell him to be careful of the rocks. In case they collapse and he falls.”

Lachlan sighed. “Ambrose, Alain is in no danger. The castle is built on stable stone and he won’t go near it anyway,” he gently squeezed the boy’s left ankle, prompting an agonised cry from Ambrose.

“Don’t, it hurts,” he whimpered. “I think I broke it.”

“I doubt it. It’s most likely sprained,” his father replied and shook his head “But I’m taking you to the physician anyway.”

“But Alain...let me see brother!” Ambrose cried.

“You can see him later,” his father scooped his hands under the boy’s prone body and lifted him up, getting a firm grip on his son.

“But I want to see him now,” Ambrose whimpered and clung tightly to him, burying his head in his father’s chest. “Please? Please let me see him now!”

“Now you are going to the physician so he can look at you and treat that ankle of yours,” Lachlan replied sternly. His eyes ran over the child in his arms and as they did, his frown deepened. “And then we need to get your clothes repaired, again.”

He lowered his eyes away from his father and they settled on to the brand new holes in his shirt, holes which had not been there this morning. They must have happened when he had fallen. He choked back a sob and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, bowing his head so that his father could not see. Even when he was doing nothing, just trying to get from one place to another, he still hurt himself. His father was right; he should not do anything without supervision. He couldn’t do anything. Ever since this had begun happening, he was useless.

His tears resumed flowing and he sobbed into Lachlan’s clothes, not from the pain this time but from frustration. He couldn’t even see Alain.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured in between tears.

His father stopped and leaned down to kiss the top of the boy’s head, cuddling him closer. “It’s not your fault, not really. You’ll be fine.”

Ambrose gave off a soft whimper. “Can the physician cure me?”

“Of course. He’ll take care of your bruising, and your ankle both,” Lachlan tried to give him an encouraging smile but the boy shook his head.

“Can he stop my visions?”

At the question, his father froze for a moment and his smile grew weaker. “He can try? We’ll have to see when we get there.”

The boy curled up around himself. Even though he was young, he could tell what that smile really was.

“You’re lying,” he whispered. The silence from his father in answer to that statement confirmed what he already knew.

Bitter tears continued to pour down Ambrose’s face as he was carried away, but it was not so much from the pain, which had faded to a dull throb. He wrapped his arms around himself, just in time for another vision to steal him away from his father’s arms.

[Celestial]

A collab-fic done with the esteemed Shinko and Liou. ^^ Enjoy!

Locks, Talks and Hard Knocks

SPOILER: Click to show

It was a decidedly dismal day in Medieville. The sky overhead was covered over leaden clouds. While it wasn’t raining quite yet, thunder growled ominously every so often, making no bones about the fact that it was most certainly going to rain.

Weather like this reminded the aging locksmith Morgaine of the region where she had grown up, Corvus. It rained there daily in the summer, and quite a bit in other seasons too. She was long accustomed to having to function in bad weather, so she didn’t complain about it as someone from a drier place might have. Instead she just got her gear together as she’d been planning for a week now, and headed out to work. Today she would be at Raven’s Keep- the royal palace. And today, her partner was not Rosalie Dylas.

“I will never get used to that climb,” Morgaine remarked wearily as she and Lawrence Kidde finally topped the rise at the end of the spiral path that led up to Raven’s Keep. With an amused glance at the young maid-turned-assistant-locksmith she added, “I can only imagine how much fun you had going up and down every time you visited your family.”

Laurie looked up from the ground, distracted from his thoughts.

"I did get used to it eventually. The view is nice on the way down..."

Like a good humble assistant, he was slouching slightly behind Morgaine, and not only due to the weight of the backpack full of equipment that he had offered to carry. Even though he was wearing a set of plain old masculine clothes, with his hair pulled back very tightly from his face, he couldn't help but be ever so slightly terrified at the idea of returning to the Keep. For the past month, he hadn't got any trouble from the Shadows or anyone associated with the crown, so now would be a very bad time to be recognised by old acquaintances. He just couldn’t resist helping Morgaine - and Rosalie, indirectly.

“I imagine so- and it’s easier to walk downhill than up,” Morgaine admitted. “Corvus, is all flat, so we don’t really get views like this anywhere. Except maybe the fireknights, who can look down at the ground from on the backs of phoenixes.”

She glanced at the wide expanse of the Kythian countryside behind them, then turned back to the Keep with a beckoning gesture. “Well let’s get on then- the sooner we finish up here, the sooner you can enjoy that downhill view, hm? There’s supposed to be someone waiting to meet us in the entry hall, and they’ll take us where we need to go- and probably supervise, since of course security in places like this means we can’t just loll about on our own.”

"Yes, they'll have someone..." Laurie went through all the Keep employees he remembered, wondering which one would deal with the locksmith. "At least it'll be just one person, probably."

He picked up the pace, gazing up at the ramparts with a knot in his throat. He made himself as small as he could behind Morgaine, as if the tiny locksmith could somehow hide him from view. When they reached the first set of guards near the massive gates, he carefully swung one side of the backpack off his shoulders, slipped the contract out and handed it to Morgaine. The locksmith accepted it, and as one of the guards stepped forward to ask their business she presented it for his inspection.

“Hello lads,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Morgaine Braham, of the Braham-Dylas Lock and Key Trust. This lad is my assistant. We’re here at the request of Master Aines to do some repair work on the locks in the Keep after last month’s fiasco.”

The guard who’d approached them skimmed the document for a moment, then nodded. “Everything looks in order. Very well, Mrs. Braham, follow me.”

He turned, leading them through the gates and down the main courtyard. Eventually they reached the doors that led to the main entryway of the Keep, and the guard ushered them inside. As soon as they had entered the building, he scooted in around them, bowing to the person sitting on one of the benches in the hall and calling out, “My lord, I present Mrs. Morgaine Braham and assistant, of the Braham-Dylas Lock and Key Trust.”

Ambrose’s head snapped up as he was addressed, yanked out of his own thoughts. It would be a lie to say he was not nervous about interacting and supervising a stranger. Even a month since the Coronation and he was still unused to the amount of new people he had to not just meet but be in charge of, and being the newest advisor, it was often he who got these rather menial tasks. But this was his job and he had no choice, not if he wanted to prove himself worthy of the position. He could not refuse, no matter how much his heart hammered in his throat.

He smiled a little at the guard and gave him a nod. “Thank you. I shall take it from here,” the Stallion said quietly and pushed himself up from the bench. He carefully checked his clothes for any creases and imperfections and adjusted his red cloak and the silver pin holding it together. Once he was satisfied with it, he turned to the pair that had entered. Immediately, however, his eyes were drawn to the face he was more familiar with.

“Hello, Lawrence. I did not know you worked at the locksmith’s,” Ambrose smiled widely at the young man, in male clothes now and carrying a backpack. “But regardless, it is good to see you.”

Somebody he knew. Inwardly, the older man gave a sigh of relief as his nerves unknotted just slightly. It was much better than interacting with two people completely unknown to him. Hopefully he could rely on Laurie in case anything happened.

With that thought, Ambrose turned his attention to Morgaine, bowing his head to her. “I apologise. Your assistant is a friend of mine,” he gripped his left sleeve with one hand. “You must be Mrs. Morgaine Braham. I was asked to supervise you. My name is Ambrose.”

After a moment’s hesitation he spoke up again. “Just Ambrose. I don’t like being called by any title.”

The old locksmith gave a slightly crooked smile, her good eye twinkling. “Well met, ‘Just Ambrose.’ Yes, I’m Morgaine- It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held out her left hand to shake, adding, “A friend of Lawrence’s is a friend of mine- he’s been indispensable helpful to me since I… took a few injuries while the foreigners were here that have been slow to heal.”

As soon as Laurie recognised Ambrose, the tension in his back eased and he stood a little straighter next to Morgaine. The twitching that he felt whenever he wore male clothing was soothed. It was partly thanks to Ambrose that he had dared to step out in these clothes at all. He had certainly not expected to find the Stallion dealing with the Keep's locks, but it was a happy surprise. This might go much better than he had expected.

"It's good to see you again, Ambrose," he said with a nod and a smile. "I hope you enjoy working with Morgaine as much as I do."

Ambrose flinched slightly in response to Morgaine’s words. Even though her tone did not sound mocking or condescending to his ear, he had known far too many people who would tease him or worse, quietly humour him thinking he would not know better. She did not seem to mean it, and was perfectly civil and friendly otherwise, but he could not help but latch on to that one seemingly innocent comment.

Nevertheless, he accepted her offer of a handshake, though the Stallion did not look her in the eye. “I am...sorry if my request was odd. You may call me ‘Lord’ if you feel more comfortable addressing me with a with a title, it’s simply that...I prefer not to be called that,” a small, polite smile appeared on his face. “But it is good to meet you, Mrs. Braham. And likewise, any friend of Lawrence’s is one of mine. You must be a good person for him to trust you.”

He withdrew his hand after a while and moved a step away, looking over Morgaine again. Now that she had mentioned her injuries, it was hard to miss the unnaturally sealed shut eye, or the intermittent tremor in her arm.

“I am sorry about your injuries, however,” he murmured quietly, bowing his head. “Were they sustained during...during the Coronation last month?” Ambrose winced. “I hope I am not prying by asking that.”

“You’re not, it’s fine,” Morgaine replied with a shrug. “And I’m sorry if I gave you the impression I disapproved of not calling you by your title. I certainly don’t mind, if that’s what you prefer.”

She lifted her jittery arm and gave it a grimace. “As for this, no I didn’t get it at the coronation. It actually happened the day before. One of the Courdonians tried to steal some valuable magical items from my shop, and when I refused to give them to him he tried to force the matter at knifepoint. I didn’t go to the coronation at all- I was still recovering from the blood loss of the previous day and after the attempted robbery I knew something horrible was bound to happen.”

The locksmith let the arm fall again and shrugged. “The healers say it’ll mend, eventually, but it’s slow going. In the meantime I’ve been imposing upon dear Lawrence’s patience and borrowing his two functional hands.” She flashed a grin in the young man’s direction. “He’s been a very quick study and a tremendous help.”

Laurie glanced back and forth between Morgaine and Ambrose as they conversed, relieved that they seemed to have avoided a misunderstanding.

"Oh, well, yes, you had to teach me very fast. Anyone would have helped after everything that happened at your place. After the Coronation... it was hard to feel safe anywhere." He caught himself before too many memories could return, and smiled back at Morgaine. "Hopefully you'll heal faster if you leave most of the arm movements to me, and then you can happily go back to those ridiculously complicated orders you love." The locksmith chuckled at this comment, as if at an old joke.

The knot of worry that had formed in Ambrose’s chest at Morgaine’s teasing had fallen away at her comment. It was normally odd for nobles to insist on their first names, he knew that and he had been wary of being called out on the strange habit, or having to explain it. There were far worse things he could be mocked for but any mockery, as far as he was concerned, was best avoided.

He winced as he listened to her story and heard of the difficulties she had. “I am truly sorry about your arm. I cannot imagine, given the complexity of your work, that it would help much, But it was...a good thing you avoided the Coronation. That was...awful,” Ambrose swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing the memories of that day. He had see worse, far worse, but there was a difference between seeing and really living, a difference he was only recently beginning to truly understand.

“Still,” a smile returned to Ambrose’s face, “I think you are lucky to have Lawrence as an assistant. He’s a very good young man and I’m sure that he is very helpful to you. I don’t think you could find better.”

The irony of a former thief turning locksmith did not escape him but he suppressed that thought quickly. It had been necessary thieving and he knew that Laurie regretted it, had wanted to change and live a normal life. If he could utilise his skills in an honest profession, all the better, and Ambrose could not be happy enough for his friend.

He coughed and shook his head. “I apologise. I know you have work to do and probably don’t like me wasting your time,” the Stallion glanced out of the windows, seeing the clouds building up. “The Keep had most of the outside ones fixed but the ones in the corridors where the fighting took place are still broken. Shall I take you to them, Mrs Braham?”

“By all means, Ambrose,” the locksmith replied. “Please, lead the way.” Turning to Lawrence she added, “You still got everything? It was a long climb up, I can take some of the bags for a while if you need.”

Feeling quite cheerful in Ambrose’s company, Laurie had grown accustomed to the weight on his back and mostly forgotten about it. He bent his knees and shifted the straps on his shoulders, letting the load settle as comfortably as he could.

“I can keep it up for a while, thank you. I’ll put it down and stretch as soon as we reach our first stop.” He glanced around, checking for any faces that might seem familiar. Only a few people had passed them rather hurriedly to return indoors and escape the impending rain. Laurie started to follow Ambrose, hoping that they wouldn’t end up in the more bustling areas.

“The first one isn’t far so you won’t have to carry it for long,” the Stallion told them as they walked out of the hall and into the corridor. One month had been enough for him to memorise the labyrinthine layout of the Raven’s Keep, These days, he could navigate it well enough to give off an air of knowing where he was going and the locations of the locks that needed repair was fixed firmly in his mind. He kept up a slow pace so the two could keep up with him and turned a corner, heading down the main corridor leading towards the throne room and then turned again. If they kept going, they would reach the stairs leading to the private chambers but the nearest door they had to fix, a meeting room, was located long before them.

Ambrose stopped as they got close to the place before confirming that it was the right door. It hung open limply, its lock stuck in place, refusing to budge.

“This is the first one. Some need to be replaced completely but...I think this can be fixed?” he glanced away from Morgaine and stepped away from the lock, letting her have the space to examine it. “But you are the expert. I should leave that judgement up to you.”

“Hrm…” Morgaine knelt down, putting her good eye to the keyhole critically. “It’s not a pin and tumbler, or a warded lock. Fact that it has a keyhole at all means it’s not one of those magic locks that you hold up a certain stick to if you want it open. So… probably a level tumbler. Given the design of the thing, chances are it’s jammed because the pin that holds the levels in place was dislodged so they’re not turning right.”

She chuckled suddenly. “Sorry Ambrose, I forget sometimes not everyone cares to hear me ramble.” Turning to Lawrence she said, “Here, if my hunch is right this is a sort of lock I’ve not shown you before, so it should be interesting for you.” She reached into her tool belt and offered the former thief a tool that had the appearance of a small crowbar. “If you can pry off the faceplate, I’ll show you the mechanism and we can get started fixing it.”

Laurie, who was rolling his shoulders to unwind after setting the backpack down, tore his eyes from the entrance to the private quarters and focused on the lock. "I don't think you've shown me one of those before, no."

He used a lump of wood to wedge the door into place, took the tool and started to work on the faceplate. That posture probably made him seem very thief-like. He realised that he was working in front of not only one, but two highly skilled artisans. He kept his eyes firmly focused on his fingers, growing more self-conscious and praying that he wouldn’t ruin the door that belonged to his former royal employers. Fortunately, the plate came off without too much effort.

Ambrose, meanwhile, had been listening to Morgaine as she examined the lock. He did not understand the terminology she was using, and he felt rather odd asking. However, when she broke off, he smiled and shook his head.

“It’s alright, Mrs. Braham. I...I hope you don’t mind if I watch you and Lawrence working?” he smiled shyly. “You see, I have...some interest in how things work, in particular complex mechanisms such as locks. I have never had the chance to observe their internal components, not like this anyway.”

His mind tried to conjure up images instead of what it could be, based on the limited descriptions and his own experiences. Yet as with all new inventions, he found himself fascinated. As Laurie pried it off, he found himself taking a step closer and peering at it, waiting for the locksmith to open the lock up. If she objected, he could back away but even a glimpse would be enough for him. It usually was.

Morgaine was surprised by the request, but she smiled. “I don’t mind at all, you can listen while I explain it to Lawrence. Bit of a tinkerer, hm?”

She gestured to the two men, and pointed at the lock with her good hand. “I was right- it’s what we in the lock buisness like to call a level tumbler. If you look on the inside it has several thin metal plates stacked here, with holes in the middle at different points. The bolt to lock the door has a piece that sticks up through these holes, keeping the bolt stuck in place.”

She prodded the plates with a finger. “They jiggle up and down on the pin that holds them in the mechanism, and if you line up all the holes just right, the bolt can slide back and forth to unlock the door. The key for this lock is fashioned to push up each of the plates- or levels as they’re more properly called- just enough to line up the holes.”

The locksmith pulled out one of her lockpicking tools from her toolbelt, and carefully maneuvered the levels to demonstrate what she was talking about. She couldn’t quite manage to line them up with one hand, however, and they weren’t set quite right in the mechanism.

“Hm. Looks like I was right. The screw to bolt them in place has snapped. Lawrence, if you take all the levels out and pry the screw loose from inside of them with some lubricant, you should be able to set them back and put a new screw in to have the lock right as rain again. Think you got it?”

Laurie inspected the little pieces closely, memorising how Morgaine moved them around, though he was careful not to block Ambrose's view of the lock after hearing the interest in the Stallion’s voice.

"Yes, it's... they need to be held in place so they can swing around, the ends have to be aligned, I think I got it."

He took a tin of lubricant and another little tool from the bag he had been carrying, then started to prod the levels too. He shifted them cautiously at first, just to check that he could move them the same way Morgaine had done, then began to slide them out bit by bit.

"So... you've never worked one one of these either, Ambrose?" he asked timidly. "Has your work been going well, though?"

Ambrose smiled a little and glanced down at the floor when Morgaine called him a tinkerer. “I...I suppose, yes,” he said and leaned closer, observing the lock mechanism inside. Though he listened to her explanation, much of his attention was focused more on the plates and the bolt that slid neatly into the hole inside them. In his mind’s eye, he could almost see how they would have moved normally when a key was inserted into the hole. Then, with continued interest, he watched Laurie as he shifted and slid out the levels, observing how they fitted on to the pin and the bolt both.

So focused he was that he barely heard the question that was asked of him. The Stallion blinked up at Laurie, taking a few seconds for the words to register in his mind before he shook his head. “I’ve made a lock of a kind but not one like this. I’m not even quite sure what it was called and I doubt it would stand up to the work of a master anyway,” he bowed his head in respect to Morgaine before turning back to Laurie.

Morgaine chortled, “Thank you, I’m flattered.”

Ambrose smiled back at her but at the mention of his work, he shuffled his feet slightly. “It’s...it’s going well. I have completed a blueprint that has been bothering me for a while but as for building...I need to find somebody who could create the parts I require. So far I have had no luck.”

The levels had all been coaxed into Laurie's hands, and soon the shards of the broken screw joined them, with a bit of prodding from a tiny pick.

"Ah, that's a pity, after coming so close... I hope you find someone soon!" Laurie started to forage for a replacement in a box from the backpack, comparing the screws' sizes with the broken one.

"The only blacksmith I really know is Clarissa Falconer, who used to work here too," he said pensively. "You might have met her, now that I think of it! She's probably busy with her job and with the er, new council... but I've always known her to be quite innovative, experimenting with new things all the time."

With a glance at Morgaine, he started to put the levels back into place with their new screw, hoping they were still in the right order.

“Clarissa?” Ambrose searched his mind for the name. “I seem to recall her...she was one of the Shadows I met, a few times actually,” he said, pondering. He had never seen Clarissa’s work but from what Laurie said, she seemed like she would be a good choice. It was not like he had other leads, and this time he would not have Stallion to help him find a blacksmith. The Shadow was as good a choice as any.

“I’ll ask her later then, if she accepts at all. I hope she does, if I can’t get the parts I need, I won’t be able to invent anything. I would like to try to make this new device too, though it will require several complex sprockets and-” he realised he was blurting things out. Ambrose glanced down at the floor, suddenly self-conscious in front of Laurie and Morgaine. “I apologise, I should not ramble about my own work.”

He leaned in closer, watching Laurie and how he worked with a lock. “Mrs. Braham, you mentioned the pin and tumbler and the warded lock, correct? How do they differ from this one?”

Morgaine had remained silent through this exchange, not being acquainted with the blacksmith in question and not knowing enough of the nobleman’s tinkering work to be able to offer an opinion or insight of her own. She had started massaging her bad arm absently, a habit she’d gotten into as a sort of psychological placebo more than because it actually helped the pain, when she realized Ambrose was talking to her again. She smiled.

“Well a pin and tumbler is designed in the shape of a cylinder on the inside, and it’s filled with little pins that are cut in half along some point of their middle. When you stick a key into it, it pushes the pins apart at that break. If it’s the right key, it pushes the pins out of the cylinder entirely, and allows you to turn the key and unlock the door. If it isn’t, the pins will jam in the cylinder and keep the door locked.”

She waved her good arm vaguely. “I have an example of one back at my shop, but I didn’t think to tote it along, I’m afraid. As for a ward- ugh!”

The locksmith clamped her teeth down as the fingers on her bad arm thrashed, sending a line of agony shooting up to her shoulder. She clutched it instinctively, glaring hard at the damaged limb as it continued to twitch a bit, the pain fading back to a dull ache only slowly. “And this is why I needed Lawrence’s help- I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much damage could potentially be done of that happened while I was trying to work with delicate parts. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Ambrose had listened carefully as Morgaine had explained, trying to imagine the locks and comparing them to what he knew and had seen in his own experiences, visions or otherwise. While he could see the mechanics in his mind’s eye, getting to see an example intrigued him.

However, he could not ask about it before the locksmith gave off a cry of pain and her arm twitched. His eyes widened and he froze, watching helplessly for a second before snapping out of it as though out of a trance. Tentatively, the Stallion reached out to her and then snapped his arm back, unsure if Morgaine even wanted the contact, given the pain that she seemed to be in. Besides, he did not know her well, he had no idea how she would ever respond to touch, even without her arm convulsing like that.

“Are...are you alright?” he asked, his voice quiet. “I...I can see why that would be a danger and I’m sorry. It cannot be pleasant, having this impairing you.”

Ambrose could not help but wince in sympathy. “Don’t worry, I can assure you I have seen much worse. Will you...will you be alright to continue working? Can I get you any medicines or would you like to take a short break while you sort this out?” he glanced up at Laurie, silently pleading with the young man for help. “Lawrence, what do you normally do in this situation?”

Laurie had straightened up abruptly upon hearing Morgaine's grunt of pain. He watched her, paying close attention to every move of her body, making sure that it was nothing different from her usual spasms.

"I'm afraid there is nothing much to do, Ambrose. I wish there was a quick fix." Though Laurie always felt annoyingly powerless during Morgaine's fits of pain, he was glad for Ambrose's presence, hoping that it would have the same soothing effect on the locksmith as it did for him.

"I'll at least finish your work as fast as I can, Morgaine." He checked the lock again, having put all the pieces back in place. "It... looks quite all right, if you want to check it?"

He started packing up the equipment he was done using and tidying up the contents of the backpack, keeping it right next to him. He certainly wasn't going to let Morgaine carry any of that.

The locksmith rubbed her arm, smiling thinly. “I appreciate your concern, Ambrose, but Lawrence is right- there’s really no help for it. I have some medicines for the pain but they make me too lethargic to focus on my work. I’ll get by. ‘Pit cursed Courdonians...”

She leaned over to inspect Laurie’s work on the lock, giving it a few flicks with one of her tools. “Looks good, I’d say. There is one crucial test though before we set the faceplate back on- Ambrose, if you’ve the key for this door?”

The Stallion had remained close to Morgaine as Laurie completed his work on the lock, occasionally glancing at the woman and inwardly wincing at the pain she must have been feeling. “Still...I’m sorry you have to suffer like this. The Courdonians hurt so many people while they were here, even people who did not go to the Coronation. It’s...horrible. I wish I could recommend something but medicine is not my strong suit. The only painkillers I know are those for headaches.”

He shook his head and drew his hands back away from Morgaine as she leaned to examine the lock. When she turned to him, however, he nodded and began to fumble in the pockets of his robe.

“It should be here, yes,” eventually, Ambrose pulled out a set of keys all hanging off a ring. Aines had presented it to him earlier that day, explaining carefully which of the keys went with which lock. He had memorised them all carefully, wanting to succeed at this task, even though it was one that was relatively small. He wanted to prove himself.

Finally he picked out a long brass key with a single deep notch in its middle, accompanied by three smaller notches after it. “It’s this one, I remember it well,” Ambrose said and inserted the key into the lock, watching as the levels lined up with the grooves in the key. Turning it, the lock gave a satisfying click, and he withdrew the key from it, smiling a little.

“That seems fine,” he nodded, putting the bunch of keys back into his pocket. “If you would like to replace the faceplate we can move on,” he gave Morgaine a sympathetic look. “Assuming you can, with your arm, of course. I don’t want to rush you.”

“It’ll be alright, but thank you for your concern, Ambrose,” Morgaine replied, still rubbing the limb absently. With a wry chuckle she noted, “It’s funny, but I just remembered now the last time a nobleman took notice of my injury- the Grand Duke Alain Stallion of all people, if you can believe that. I’m still baffled he paid me any attention considering I’d only spoken to him twice before that, and neither conversation was a long one.”

Ambrose blinked, his eyes widening. “You know Alain?” he gasped, looking over the locksmith again. Certainly she did not seem like much but if Alain of all people had spoken to her, let alone shown concern for her, she had to have seriously impressed him. Though, thinking back to her skill, and to some extent her teasing when she first met him, that was not as surprising as it would initially appear.

The Stallion smiled slightly. “You must have earned his respect,” he glanced back at Morgaine, his eyes acquiring a glint of curiosity. “If I may ask, when did you meet him? He did not mention you.”

Laurie looked up from the faceplate he was fitting back and opened his mouth hesitantly, glancing between Ambrose and Morgaine. He wasn't sure how much each of them was intending to say, but decided to warn Morgaine before she could speak again. He cleared his throat quietly.

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't introduce you properly - Morgaine, Ambrose here is His Grace's brother. He came to Medieville for the coronation with the rest of House Stallion's representatives. I... I hope you don't mind me saying this?"

Morgaine was initially startled when Ambrose reacted to Alain’s name as if they were very close friends, but when Laurie explained the relation she laughed. “Ahhh, I see it now- there is a family resemblance, isn’t there? Sorry I didn’t see it before.”

She shrugged, her expression rueful. “I’m afraid we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances, but perhaps that’s why he took an interest in me like he did. The first time he was dressed up like a peasant, going under the name of… Alban I think? We were both at the King’s Arms, and there was a bit of an incident there that he and I helped clean up. The second time…”

The locksmith looked at Laurie, her good humor fading somewhat. “The second time, I had gone to Stallion Manor at the request of Briar Kidde, when she was summoned there and never came back after. I…” she grinned crookedly, “I may have called your brother out a bit for kidnapping and demanded he release the girl. Sort of expected him to get offended, but he seemed impressed if anything, though obviously he refused.” She coughed. “I felt bad there wasn’t more I could do, but legally my hands were tied. Still, I was rather shocked after blatantly defying him like that to find out he’d apparently taken a liking to me.”

Ambrose shook his head at Laurie and smiled a little when Morgaine mentioned the family resemblance, putting a hand to his cheek as he did so. The two Stallions’ features by themselves had enough in common to mark them as brothers but most people never guessed the Grand Duke of Bern and the madman he sheltered were brothers unless somebody mentioned it. The gap in ability and attitude between the two was too great for even blood to bridge.

His smile persisted as the locksmith gave her account of her first encounter with Alain but as soon as she mentioned the second, his expression fell. Nervously, the Stallion glanced up at Laurie, watching for his reaction, before sighing deeply.

“That...sounds like Alain. Both of those incidents have his character all over them. He picked up the habit of going about as a peasant from our father, though he uses it for spying more,” he lowered his eyes. “As for Briar…”

Ambrose shook his head. Morgaine did not need to know what Alain had done, or would have done to the girl in order to get what he needed from her. Neither, he realised, did Laurie.

“Standing up to the Grand Duke of Bern like that takes a lot of courage, especially given how intimidating my brother can be, and he knows that. He respects bravery and protectiveness, even if those qualities are channeled into defying him. I’m not surprised that you impressed Alain,” he said quietly and bowed his head, his hands clenching as he clasped them together. “I am sorry though, about Briar.”

Laurie was still crouching in front of the door, facing away from them. He had kept himself busy making minute adjustments to the faceplate and brushing specks of dirt off the wood around it, until his hands stopped moving altogether and he stayed still as a statue. He was smiling peacefully as he rose back to his feet. It was quite nice to hear some of his favourite people in the world having a friendly conversation. He looked up a little hesitantly to meet Ambrose’s eye.

“We are very grateful… to both of you, for all you’ve done for us.”

His throat clenched and he felt too warm all of a sudden. He ran a hand along the back of his neck, chasing memories away. It was better to focus on the present.

“My family is doing better than we have in a long time, thanks in no small part to you. Shall… shall we get along, though?”

Morgaine was surprised by Laurie’s remarks, but she gave him an understanding smile. “Of course Lawrence. I’m just glad to have made a difference.”

More briskly, to spare her assistant when he was obviously asking for a change of subject, the locksmith said. “Well we wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome. Ambrose, if you could show us to the next lock we need to fix?” Tilting her head she added, “If you don’t mind my asking- if you’re his Grace’s brother, how did you come to be an employee for the Keep?”

Ambrose frowned slightly as he caught sight of Laurie’s distress, no doubt caused by the mentions of Briar. His sympathy was apparent in his eyes and he gave the young man a small smile, followed by a nod of acknowledgement. But with Morgaine having spoken, there was no need for him to add anything more.

“It’s this way,” he turned around and began heading up the corridor. At Morgaine’s question, however, he gave a small smile. “It’s not unusual for a young brother of a major noble House to go work for the king’s service. But…” he gripped his sleeves, “I began working here not long ago, just after the Coronation. Alain offered my services to King Galateo, because I…”

Was this even a good idea to mention, given the previous topic of conversation? But Morgaine seemed to be a decent person, and Ambrose did not want to lie to her. With a glance at Laurie, he took a deep breath and lifted his eyes up to the locksmith.

“I was the only one of the nobility who dared to go speak with the Shadows and try to negotiate with them. So my brother thought I would be the best person to work for them,” he sighed, looking away again. “Even though with this job...I don’t feel prepared for it at all.”

"They won't really be prepared either, Ambrose," said Laurie as he followed with the backpack, "or they won't be used to working in this sort of setting, at least. I'm sure you'll do great. No one in their right mind wouldn't warm up to you after hearing you speak."

He felt heartened by Morgaine and Ambrose's sympathy, and tried to seem as serene and comfortable as he could. Laurie was aware that he had been quite a wreck these past few weeks, including when Ambrose had visited him at home. He hoped that the Stallion wasn't still seeing him in that pitiful state.

Morgaine nodded her agreement. “I imagine there are quite a few people up in the Keep who don’t really feel ready for the job that they’ve landed in. ‘Pit, didn’t the town sculptor end up king? I’d wager he’s a little intimidated too. The events of the coronation and the weeks leading up left a pretty big mess we’ve now all got to sort through.” She shrugged. “But that’s life. You get handed situations you weren’t prepared for, and you make it up as you go along and hope for the best.”

She smiled. “From what I was able to glean about his Grace, he’d not have put you up for this if he didn’t think you were capable of handling it. He seems a very shrewd man. As amicable as you’ve already been during this conversation, I can see why you would be an excellent candidate for parlaying with a group of people who are disenfranchised with nobles in general. That takes patience, understanding, and - forgive me a moment of bluntness- a degree of humility that most nobles simply do not have. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job, Ambrose.”

The Stallion could not help the wide smile that spread across his face at both Morgaine’s and Laurie’s words. Between the young man’s kindness and the locksmith’s matter-of-fact encouragement, he felt just a little bit more buoyed up. Despite the fear and uncertainty that plagued his mind as soon as he paused to think about what he was doing, he could not deny they were both right; he was not the only one who was getting used to the situation.

“...T-thank you, Lawrence, Mrs. Braham,” Ambrose murmured, looking away from them both and down at the floor, trying to contain the pleasure in his voice at the compliments. “I hope I can live up to the things you say.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “If I did not know my brother well, I would have thought he made a mistake,” his hand rose up to grip his sleeve. “I need to stop thinking of the worst but the thought I am worth anything at all is a new one.”

Ambrose bit his tongue and shook his head. Morgaine did not need to know that. “I apologise. I’ve said too much, again.”

Laurie was beaming quietly at Morgaine, though he stayed alert, glancing around the corridors and inspecting everyone they passed. No one looked at him too intently or stopped to talk to them.

“It’s all right, Ambrose,” he said somewhat sheepishly, “you listen well, so it’s only natural that you should be listened to. And, I think see what you mean... it's hard to change your thoughts when you've had them for years.”

He cleared his throat and turned back to the locksmith. "Oh sorry, I should get a move on for these locks - you probably would have fixed them all by now..."

Morgaine’s face was a study of concern as she looked back and forth between Ambrose and Laurie. She wasn’t sure what their whole stories were- she didn’t even know part of Ambrose’- but the part of her that had been a mother for twenty-eight years ached to say something comforting.

“Way I see it,” she said softly, “If there are people in the world who love you and have faith in you, then you can’t possibly be the worst, or worthless. Obviously you’re worth something to them.” She glanced at Laurie with a wan smile. “Your girlfriend taught me that, by giving me someone who needed me after I’d spent eight years alone and cutting myself off from the rest of reality. Rosie loves you, and your sisters love you,” she looked to Ambrose again, “And even aside from your brother, clearly Lawrence has faith in you, Ambrose. So does the king, or I wager he’d not have accepted you as an advisor. I’m just an old merchant woman, so take me with a grain of salt, but I think given time and room to grow you’ll both do well.”

She gestured at the Stallion, smiling again. “That being said, would you like to lead us to our next destination, as Lawrence suggests?”

Ambrose too, felt his own smile slowly returning. She put down her advice but it felt so...right. As much as he wanted to dismiss her encouragement, to think that she did not know the full story, there was something in her voice that made him hesitate to do that. And Laurie...he knew and yet he still had as much faith in him as anybody. That was impossible to ignore.

He shook his head. It was best to focus on the task at hand. “You’re right. We should probably get go-”

NO!

The Stallion’s hand shot up to his face and he staggered against the wall, hiding his face away from the locksmith and her apprentice, before going completely still as the vision stole away his consciousness.

Morgaine tensed as Ambrose covered his face and staggered, turning to him with panic on her face.

“Ambrose?” she said urgently. When he remained perfectly still she repeated it, her voice rising with alarm. “Ambrose, what happened, are you alright?”

Startled at first, Laurie quickly understood what was going on and lay a hand on Morgaine's shoulder.

"It's... don't fret, Morgaine, really. He has that sometimes, it's normal and he's not in danger. I think." He kept observing Ambrose carefully, afraid of making the wrong assumption, but this looked exactly like what had happened to the Stallion the last time they'd met.

He slid the backpack from his shoulders and set it on the floor for a break. "It shouldn't last too long. We just need to wait for it to stop." He glanced around, hoping that no one else had been around to see Ambrose. "Or at least I really hope it's only that... There’s no need to fuss when he comes back, the poor man was so flustered."

Morgaine frowned. “What’s going on, Lawrence? I don’t understand, you’re being very cagey.”

She looked at Ambrose again, but he’d not so much as twitched since leaning against the wall. Turning back to the younger man she said, “What do you mean by ‘comes back’? Has he gone somewhere?”

"I'm sorry!" Laurie glanced up and down the corridor again, feeling very foolish now that he had to explain that to Morgaine. "It's... it happened the last time I met him, and he was all right afterwards and told me about it... it was hard to believe, but apparently he's perfectly healthy. No illness of any kind."

The locksmith still looked badly confused, but she sighed. “If… if you say so, I guess. You said this only lasts a short while, right? We don’t need to get him help or anything?”

“No, really. You’ll see. It’s... unusual, for sure, but aside from that he’s all fine.”

“Alright, if you’re sure,” The old woman said, rubbing her face where her bad eye was. With a dry sort of amusement she remarked, “I’ve come to lead an infinitely more interesting life since King Starmey’s passing, I can definitely say that.”

There was a sudden gasp from Ambrose and he hit the wall with his shoulder, bracing himself as he tried to regain his balance. He drew in several sharp breaths and blinked rapidly, trying to chase the vision out of his eyes. A quiet whimper escaped him and he brought up a hand to rub the bridge of his nose but as he did, he remembered his two companions. His eyes widened and he stared at them, in particular at Morgaine, horrified.

“I’m sorry, Woo, I’m sorry you had to see that. It...it happens to me sometimes but it’s nothing, I swear! It’s...I know how it looks but it’s not what you think, it really isn’t. Please...don’t think less of me for it,” his voice started off sharp but gradually grew softer, his eyes silently pleading with her to believe him. They had been getting on well too until this-

The Stallion forced himself to look at Laurie. This had happened in front of him too and yet, the young man was still kind to him, still seemed to...respect him, somehow. “Lawrence...did...did you explain?” he murmured. “A-about me…”

"It's all right, we were just chatting here," Laurie said hastily. "I haven't said much yet, I wasn't sure..." Now he could tell that Ambrose might not be in the best state to explain, and Morgaine was still quite confused. "To sum up, it's like... a lifelong curse, that he has to resist?" he added hesitantly for the locksmith. "And when it slips for a moment, this happens."

Ambrose’s obvious alarm made a jolt of panic shoot through Morgaine again, and her shoulders tensed a bit. But she had been a mother for twenty-eight years, and she was used to trying to keep fear out of her face. She looked at Laurie when the young man started talking, and her eyebrows rose. “A curse? I didn’t think Bern had much in the way of magic. And if that’s been with you your whole life…” She winced. “I can’t imagine it would’ve been fun in a place that stigmatizes magic. I’m sorry, no wonder you would be worried how I’d react.”

She gave him an understanding smile. “I’m a Corvid though, so I do understand a little. And contrary to popular stereotype about people from Corvus being conservative sticks-in-the-mud, I try to keep an open mind.” She gestured at Ambrose coaxingly. “Are you alright now?”

“I’m...I’m alright,” the Stallion sighed deeply and pushed himself up to stand free of the wall. “Lawrence has provided a decent short description of this but it’s...it’s hard to explain what happens to me. It’s magic, yes, but even in Corvus, it’s unlikely you would have anything like...like this.”

He closed his eyes briefly. Morgaine was right, Bern barely had any magic whatsoever, but if Alain was right, this magic was uniquely tied to the region. To a Corvid, it might even be blasphemous. So it was best he explained things to her all while telling the locksmith as little as he could.

“I have a very specific form of time magic. I cannot control it, only resist it, but sometimes, I lose control. Usually, that manifests in what you saw. What actually happens is...I see visions of the future,” Ambrose spoke quietly, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “I have done since I was six years old. And until last month, after the Coronation, everyone- no, most people, thought I was insane.”

Laurie awaited Morgaine's reaction with bated breath, wringing his hands as if part of Ambrose's tension had been transferred to him.

Morgaine listened to this explanation, her good eye widening somewhat. Certainly Ambrose was right- she’d never heard of such a thing before. She digested this quietly for a moment, then bowed her head. “I’m sorry- it must’ve been a terrible burden, to be presumed insane from the time you were a small child. No wonder you’d worry about how people will react to it. But I stand by what I said before- clearly there are enough people who have faith in you that even if you have this power you can’t control, you are still a competent, intelligent, reliable person.” She smiled. “So, there was a lock we needed to fix?”

The Stallion blinked and looked up at Morgaine. She had just...accepted it. Well, of course she would, he had given her a decent explanation, and certainly a better one than what he had been able to give people before the Coronation. But nevertheless, to hear those words, to have his powers so casually brushed aside and not allow them to overshadow other things was still so novel to Ambrose that he could not help but be surprised.

He glanced from the locksmith to Laurie and back to her again. Xavier, Laurie, even Princess Karma, they were people who looked up to him, for whatever reason, and even though that was new to him, he appreciated it. But Morgaine was much closer to him in age, yet here she was she was not just expressing sympathy or pity for him but showing faith in him? A different kind of faith, one without the admiration found in the younger people he had befriended, but it was faith nevertheless. And this was a woman who had won Alain’s respect. Her opinion definitely counted for something.

Ambrose could not help but feel his eyes sting a little. “T-thank you…” he smiled widely at her and nodded, taking a few steps forward. “T-the lock is further along, it’s one of the storerooms. I’ll take you. I...I’m not sure what it is called but it’s a different type from the level tumbler back there.”

Laurie was instantly relieved to hear Morgaine's reply. This reminded him oddly of the day when he had revealed his nature to her. He needn't have worried; after all, she had accepted his own idiosyncrasies as easily as Ambrose's. He even felt proud of her, as if he'd been granted an opportunity to show off this precious friend to Ambrose. Laurie had no way to return everything the Stallion had done for him, but bringing him friendly support, especially in his new workplace, seemed like a good way to start. It was certainly worth the trek to the Keep and the risk of being recognised.

Laurie gave Morgaine a grateful, cheerful you-made-Ambrose-happy grin, and followed after the Stallion. He raised his hand and, after a moment's hesitation, wrapped his arm around Ambrose’s shoulder in a light, brief half-hug.

"I think we're doing well, aren't we? I'll do my best to fix them faster. Maybe it's another new kind of lock we can learn about."

Ambrose was slightly startled at the unexpected touch but after a few moments, he put his arm around Laurie and returned the gesture. It only lasted for a few seconds but the warmth and gratitude that the Stallion put into it should have been enough to convey what he was feeling.

“This one is a bit more complicated since it was more badly damaged, but I believe you’ll manage, Lawrence. From what I saw back there, you’re really good and have a great person teaching you,” he looked back at Morgaine at this, “For now, I suppose...you best follow me. There’s a lot to do still and we should probably get to it.

He continued on his way down the corridor, towards the lock to one of the reception rooms that had been broken during the invasion. ”But...thank you, both of you. It’s..hard for me to convey how much your faith means.”

Morgaine chuckled, keeping pace behind the two men and smiling serenely. “No problem at all.”

[Celestial]

A collab with Avery. Takes place in late spring 1284, on the Langean warfront.

A King's Power- Part 1

SPOILER: Click to show

Most Bernian forts were positioned on hills to better overlook their territory. Not Tersk, which stood on a flat plain. Fortunate, it made up for its poor position with thick, defensive walls. They wrapped around it in two layers, one encircling the town itself and the other hugging the main fortress from which the southern part of the Langean border was normally watched over. The few gaps in its walls were to draw water from the nearby Loch Wall, which also served as the city’s protector, shielding its northern flank from attack. It had been carefully designed by the finest architects and engineers in Bern to withstand the enemy’s attacks, no matter what they might be. Simultaneously, it served as a rally point for its allies and a base for them to launch their own offensives from.

Right now, these properties were being put to the test. As soon as the snows had melted even slightly and the roads had become passable, an enormous Langean force had thrown itself against the Kythian border like a storm wave against the cliff. Raiding parties were a fact of life but an invading army something completely new and unheard of in living memory. The Bernian nobles had no choice but to levy their armies, mobilise their knights and head out to the border to meet them, a border that soon became a front. All across its length, both in Bern and Kine, battles were fought and skirmishes occurred almost on a daily basis. But the fortresses of Konik and Tersk held, even as the spring had begun to turn into the promise of a hot summer and the conflict solidified into a full-scale war.

But the fortresses had not remained unchanged. Tersk in particular had been packed to the brim with tents in the squares and outside its perimeter. Each was full of soldiers from all over Bern who had been drafted to defend their land. The main keep at the centre of it all had also been transformed from a relatively quiet headquarters for the local knight garrison to a full-blown command centre from which the entire war effort was being coordinated. To say it never slept would not be an exaggeration. News was being received, plans were being made and troop movements were being coordinated.

And in the middle of it all was the young and newly ascended Grand Duke of House Stallion.

He sat at his desk, covered in reports from the various units deployed across the front and maps of the region. The war had been nothing short of a baptism by fire for Alain. Taking over the House after the death of his father had been a challenge but the war had been something else. He had been prepared for giving orders, for planning strategy and how to fight, and he had excelled at all of those things, but putting those skills into practice, in a place where his life and the lives of all the men under him depended on everything he had learned, that had been something else. Not to mention all the other terrors that war had brought with them. The slap in the face that had been his first battle had faded, and now the Grand Duke found fighting, killing and sending men to their deaths as easy as breathing. He knew he was changing, but whether for the better or for the worse depended on the course of this war. It was an opportunity and a challenge, a puzzle to be cracked and learned from. How he handled it was everything.

But on the outside, at all costs, he kept up an easy, confident appearance. His calm smile never faded from his face, his eyes always contained that knowing look and the way he walked, striding widely and without hesitation, told anybody who so much as glanced at him that he was in total control of the situation. So young, so new and so inexperienced, yet he seemed to know exactly what he was doing, he never seemed to doubt that he could win this war. Perhaps his men should not doubt either. And Alain needed to inspire that faith. He knew enough about people to realise that without it, he would be lost.

Except his men were not the only ones he needed the faith of. The Grand Duke pushed himself up, adjusted the silver circlet upon his head and strode down the steps of the keep, down towards the stables. He had to be ready; King Falcon himself said he was coming and he had gotten word that a few days ago, he had left Destrier and was along the road for Tersk. Falcon’s escort had kept him well-informed of their status via carrier pigeon. By all accounts, they were nearby. And of course, what kind of Grand Duke would he be if he did not meet the king personally?

It was only a matter of time before Alain had descended down into the courtyard and examined the knights contained within. The company that he had requested accompany him to meet up with the Falcon was all assembled. All elite men, and he had made sure to include a few of the Icehounds with him, which he could see now, dressed in their summer armour but with the emblem of the wolfhound upon their gloves betraying their allegiance. No doubt the rest of their comrades were ahead scouting the road and making sure it was safe. Much like a loyal dog’s, their attention snapped to the Grand Duke as he walked into the courtyard, and he gave them a small nod of acknowledgment. He was taking no chances, not with Falcon. He had been warned how the man saw any trace of weakness or failure.

Once the grooms had arrived with his horse, a silvery Noblesse mare named Tara, and Alain had mounted up, he headed up to the front of the column and turned his head towards the men behind him, briefly giving them a look over.

“Move out,” he commanded and nudged his horse forward. The order trickled down the column and the mounted men followed him out of the main keep and through the streets of Tersk towards the Destrier gate. The red and silver banners of Stallion and the purple and grey colours of Kyth fluttered in the breeze above them.

The unit had paused in front of the thick, wooden gates and watched them slowly crawl open. As he waited, Alain smiled to himself. His first meeting with the king in the official capacity as Grand Duke, and it was going to be on a war front too. It should prove to be interesting, if nothing else. Another challenge on top of the ones he already faced.

Finally, with a deep clang, the gates ground to a halt and the mounted men rode out, their horses hooves thundering along the stone road. They kept up a light trot as all of them, including Alain, watched for the banner’s of the King’s party, or, Woo forbid, an enemy ambush.

Around a bend in the wood, the sound of thumping hoofbeats from ahead echoed in the crisp morning air. The grand duke’s party paused as a medium-sized contingent cantered into view, led by a knight clad in purple-and-grey livery and holding a banner to match, its rippling surface stitched with the likeness of a silhouetted raven. The knight’s comrades, mounted atop matching roan horses, formed a tight flank around a tall, dark-haired man in the center of the group, who was clad in armour of particularly fine make and polish and whose horse was of a nearly glimmering chestnut that starkly contrasted the nearly-foggy grey coats of the others.

At the sight of the stalled Stallion assemblage, the purple-clad party drew to a halt, as well, for a moment saying nothing as the suddenly on-alert knights studied the other travelers. Then, the bannerman in front called out, “Be still and identify yourselves!”

Alain lifted up his hand and pulled Tara to a stop, making the rest of the column halt behind him. Once the hoofbeats had quieted, indicating that they were all still, he smiled and nudged his mare forward, letting her walk a few feet towards the other group before he tugged at her reins again.

“I am Grand Duke Alain Stallion of Bern, and my escort,” he smiled and his attention snapped to the man in the centre. He bowed his head, though his smile didn't fade. “It is an honour to have you visit us, your Majesty.”

The tight formation about the well-dressed man in the center parted like butter for a knife as the man gently eased his horse forward. For a moment he said nothing-- neither introducing himself in turn nor calling the grand duke up from his bow-- instead choosing to study the Stallion lord with a narrowed, critical eye. The others around him were so quiet and still they might have been but statues carved of marble, as they awaited a sign from their leader as to how they ought proceed.

“Grand Duke Alain,” the man said finally, breaking through the sudden, weighted silence. “You’re looking well, all things considered.”

After a while Alain had straightened his back out, though he did not meet Falcon’s gaze just yet. Instead, he patiently allowed himself to be examined, keeping his pose easy and relaxed while allowing the small smile to remain on his face. But at the assessment, he finally looked squarely up at the king and his mouth curled up even more.

“Thank you, your Majesty, I have been doing my best,” he said while blinking slowly. “I would be a poor commander indeed if I let this war wear me down.”

“Tenacity is well-served during difficult times,” Falcon agreed, before nudging his chin toward the road that stretched beyond the grand duke’s party. “And as much as I enjoy pleasant exchange, during such periods it is also best to utilize all time efficiently. Shall we, then?”

“Of course, your Majesty. I’m sure we can chat once we reach the fortress,” Alain gently tugged at Tara’s reins, turning the horse around so that he faced his own escort. “Take formation around the king’s knights. We ride for Tersk.”

Their commanders picked up on the order and the men responded, nudging their horses forward and arranging themselves around Falcon’s men. Very soon, the party was encased in a protective outer layer of Stallion knights, their horses impatient to head back.

Alain smiled and nodded to Falcon. “For extra protection. Cannot be too careful, especially now.”

“Of course,” Falcon agreed. A few moments elapsed in silence then, before the king shifted as though in boredom atop his saddle and glanced toward the grand duke. His voice was all business as he prodded, “Any updates since I’ve left Destrier? Or news that didn’t make it to Destrier at all? Sometimes I fear news loses itself along the road.” The king frowned.

The Grand Duke turned to him slowly. “There have been a few interesting occurrences. Our scouts up north, near Konik, intercepted a Langean party near one of the villages close to the fortress. Which would not be odd except we found the exact same thing here. We suspect they are planning something and have sent out further scouts,” he smiled a little and shook his head. “But aside from that, it has been quiet here on the front for now. If it wasn’t, I would not be here talking to you.”

“Quiet is not necessarily a good thing,” Falcon returned. “It means the enemy is thinking.”

“It gives us some time to think too,” Alain replied, glancing ahead as the walls of Tersk once again came into view. He signalled to one of the nearby bannermen, who drew up close to him and the king.

“Send word ahead that we are returning with the king safely in our midst,” the Grand Duke ordered. The man saluted and nudged his horse’s flank with his heels, breaking away from the group and galloping out towards the fortress.

Sure enough, when the party arrived at the gates, they had been opened wide to receive them. The horses walked through, being plunged into darkness for a few moments as they passed through the deep walls and out into the main city itself.

“I hope our defences are to your satisfaction, your Majesty,” Alain remarked. “My late father had the foresight to expand upon the walls here during his reign.”

“We shall see how it holds when the tsar’s men are battering at the door,” Falcon said simply, as their party continued to thread deeper into the fortress, past another layer of walls, before finally they reached the main keep in city centre. Built of a dark, imposing basalt and guarded by a heavy clip of soldiers, who parted for the grand duke and king like water for a kicking foot, if Falcon was impressed by it at all, the king’s impertinent face betrayed nothing. “My knights have traveled far,” the king said as they drew to a halt in the courtyard and proceeded to dismount from their horses. “We have much to discuss, Grand Duke, but see to it that they’re given a good meal and bedroll to rest their heads.”

“Of course,” Alain nodded, getting off his own horse and handing her over to the waiting grooms. “We have prepared for your visit ever since you announced it. A large tent had been erected for your knights by the gates, with all the provisions they require inside, and I also asked for rooms to be made ready for you, in case you wish to rest after your journey as well.”

He smiled as he swept his gaze over the king, taking in how tall and proud he stood. Not like a man who needed to relax, or who perhaps even could. “Or perhaps your Majesty would like to get straight to business? If so,” the Grand Duke gestured towards a heavy iron door that was the main entrance to the Keep. “Shall we go inside?”

“I’ve hardly come all this way to twiddle my thumbs,” Falcon agreed. “Lead the way, Grand Duke.”

Alain nodded and beckoned over one of the native knight commanders who had dismounted. The man saluted and walked over, the red chevrons on his armour gleaming.

“Your Grace?” he asked.

“Commander Munro, please escort King Falcon’s men to their quarters. Then, once the patrol from the east bank of the Loch gets back, brief them and pass on any new findings to me once I am free,” he ordered. Munro saluted and turned around, walking towards who he assumed was the highest ranking of the King’s knights. Satisfied that his Commander would take care of things, Alain turned on his heel and led the way into the Keep itself, the king following him.

He led Falcon through the main entrance and towards a reception room he had instructed the Keep’s servants to prepare for their arrival. Two sofas stood opposite each other, surrounding a small table, which had been laid out with fruit and wine.

“Sit down, your Majesty, help yourself,” Alain said, gesturing at the seats and and the food as he waited for the king to make his move before he did anything. He did not want to come off as rude, after all.

Falcon sat, although he did not make a move for any of the food or wine. Gesturing for Alain to take a seat opposite him, the king said, “How many men do you have garrisoned here now? And do you feel your numbers are adequate with only troops from Bern and Kine compelled? I’ve been considering sending marching orders to Corvus and Rindfell as well.”

Alain did not hesitate in sitting down. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, touching his fingertips together in front of his face. “The Tersk garrison that is permanently stationed here has been filled by knights from Destrier, with only the skeleton force you saw left behind there to defend the city and keep the peace. As for ordinary foot soldiers, we received the men from Lord Wallace Tobiano a few days ago so I can declare the Bernian levy complete, and I have been informed that Kine is in the same situation. You’ll also be glad to know that since Earl Camden Sabino’s unfortunate death, I have assumed direct command of his troops.”

He tapped his fingers together, pondering. “We are holding for now but more troops from Rindfell would be of use for when we go on the offensive. As for Corvids,” a smirk blossomed across his face, “With all due respect, your Majesty, men from Corvus would not be able to handle the weather here when winter comes. And of course, there is our ancestral rivalry, which I’m sure you are aware of.”

“Petty blood feuds have no place in wartime,” Falcon said flatly. “But the point about winter stands. I’d prefer to be overprepared than under, so I’ll send the marching orders to Rindfell at once. Albion, too, if need be. Those soldiers ought have no problems shivering through the winter.” He sneered. “Although if the Langeans are as disorganized as I’ve been told, hopefully this affair will be concluded long before the first snows, and the tsar can scamper back to Tiraspol with his tail tucked between his legs.”

“We shall see, though I must say I doubt it, your Majesty. Border skirmishes are common but this is far larger in scale than that. The Tsar seems determined to take this land and is throwing everything he can at us. Disturbingly, we have encountered a very large amount of northern mercenaries that he recruited, more than ordinary peasants levied and put into arms,” Alain remarked. “This is what leads me to believe this was an attack arranged quickly, and he hopes to end it quickly. Mercenaries are expensive after all.”

He laughed softly. “I suspect this is my fault. Tsar Seraphim thought that I, being a new, inexperienced Grand Duke, would have crumbled quicker,” his icy eyes acquired an amused glint. “But rest assured, your Majesty, I have no intention of doing that. And with the troops you are so generously sending, I will be able to put my money where my mouth is.”

“You’d hardly be the first man tested by flame.” Falcon smiled grimly. “Nor will Tsar Seraphim be the first to ultimately burn only himself with his poor judgment. I have all confidence that we will crush him like the snake he is.” Finally, the king made a move for the wine pitcher on the table, carefully pouring himself a cup. “Take no prisoners. I want the tsar to see precisely what happens to his men when he thinks to challenge my kingdom. If he dares bring war to our lands, then we show him no mercy in return.”

Alain smirked and picked up the other cup, waiting for the king to pour himself a satisfactory measure. “I assure you, your Majesty, I have no intention of doing otherwise. I might be young but I have been taught well, and I do hold the idea of serving my country loyally very dear. My late father instilled those values in me very firmly,” he glanced upwards at Falcon, watching for a reaction.

“I was most aggrieved to hear of Lord Lachlan’s death,” Falcon said neutrally, taking a sip of the wine. “And a pity that the tsar has used it as an occasion to cause us all such a headache.”

“The best occasion for him, not so much for us,” Alain took the pitcher of wine once the king was done and poured himself half of a glass. He gave off a humourless laugh. “Though...tell me, your Majesty, are you aware of our esteemed enemy’s curious heritage?”

“I am,” Falcon confirmed coolly. “Tsar Yuriy and his wife, Una.” The king paused, his eyes settling squarely on Alain’s inscrutable face. “Your paternal aunt. Which, of course, makes Seraphim your cousin.”

“You would be quite correct. Funny how fate works,” Alain took a sip of the wine and smiled at Falcon, resting his head in his hand. “You’re not worried are you, your Majesty? About any kinship I might feel regarding my shared blood with the Tsar?”

“Ought I be?” Falcon returned.

“If I say no, that immediately becomes suspicious, doesn’t it? But I obviously cannot say yes,” Alain laughed and smiled. “So I will let you draw your own conclusions based on what you see with your own eyes and ears, your Majesty. “

“However,” the Grand Duke swept a finger along the rim of his cup. “It is a lot of effort for me to go to, mobilising these defences and commanding this army, if I was going to surrender Bern to him anyway, wouldn’t you say?”

“The best games of pretend are always the most elaborate.” The king set down his wine goblet, before continuing thickly, “That said, such a line of thought brings me to an interesting point, Lord Alain. Your armies fight in my name-- and I assure you that regardless of your own motives, Tsar Seraphim will wrest Bern from my cold, dead hands-- but all the while, you’ve not yet taken your own vow of fealty to me, have you?”

“No, I have not,” Alain gave a shrug, followed by a humourless laugh. “I would have done so but the snows blocked my passage. And by the time they had melted to allow me to travel, I had a Langean cohort at my border. But rest assured, your Majesty, I planned to do so at the earliest convenience.”

He swept his gaze around the plain room before focusing his eyes on the king. “I know this is far from the grandiose setting of the Raven’s Keep. But if it suits you, I could say my vows to you now.”

“All alone without any witnesses to hear them?” Falcon’s expression was halfway between a smirk and glower. “What are we, Lord Alain-- two children whispering secrets to each other in the dark?”

“Of course not, your Majesty,” the Grand Duke’s face and voice was perfectly calm in the face of the king’s intense look. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Who would you prefer to witness this? I have a few of my senior commanders in mind but I assume you would want people more loyal to you.”

“Any of my knights should be sufficient. I brought no one but the most loyal to accompany me on this… uncertain… journey, after all.” The king leaned back in his seat. “You seem very eager to demonstrate your allegiance to me, Lord Alain. I mean not to dissuade fidelity, of course, but with your tenure as grand duke but months in, and a war already knocking at your borders, initiated by a blood relative so close… and given what else lurks in House Stallion’s not-so-distant history when it comes to cavorting with enemies of the crown...” Falcon shrugged, the unsaid words left implicit.

Alain’s smile grew wider and a laugh escaped from his mouth. “I can assure you, your Majesty, if I had any notion of betraying you or Kyth, I would do it from Destrier, where I can enjoy the comforts of home and family. Nor I would not do it in such a convoluted way. Why bother sending an army when one man with a knife can do the job just as well? And furthermore…”

He glanced pointedly down at the pitcher of wine that stood between them, a ruby line on its inside marking its level of wine before the two men had helped themselves to it. “Had you really not trusted me, you would not have come to an active front, met me alone on my territory, or helped yourself to the wine I had so generously provided you with,” the Grand Duke grinned, “You can think whatever you wish about my fidelity, but I think I can gauge how you feel about it well enough anyway.”

“Some might say you’re speaking to me flippantly, Lord Alain,” Falcon returned, his voice flat but eyes almost predatory. “Need I advise why I would highly recommend against this?”

“Not at all, your Majesty, I understand why perfectly. Let me assure you it was hardly my intention to be flippant towards you,” Alain bowed his head but his voice remained measured and calm. He put his cup of wine down on to the table and stood up off the sofa, turning on his heel. “I shall ring for a servant to fetch some of your knights. How many would you like to be sent up, your Majesty?”

“Three shall be adequate,” Falcon replied. “I trust that should be sufficient for you, as well? I’d hate to bother your commanders and take them from their duties, after all, over a matter so far above their station.” He added quickly, “And of course this shall merely be… temporary. After this war’s conclusion, I still expect you to travel to the capital for a more formal vow to be undertaken.”

If the statement provoked any emotion in the Grand Duke, it did not show in his face. “And if I die, your Majesty?” he asked, his voice serene and flat, far more than it should have been at such a statement. “Is it not better for me to formally swear my full loyalty to you now, while I still am capable of it? Who knows how long this war will last, what will happen during it, or whether I shall be in any state to obey your order to go to the capital.”

“If you die, then it shan’t matter your loyalties, no?” Falcon asked coolly. “You will take your oath now, and then again in time after the war concludes, before the full valour of the court.” This was clearly not a request.

“As you wish, your Majesty. If that’s the case, I shall do my best to remain alive until the time comes,” Alain said and bowed to the king, one hand on his heart. The gesture only lasted a few seconds before he straightened back out to his full height and turned on his heel, heading towards the door. He opened it and caught the attention of a passing servant with a polite cough.

“Please go down to the camp, find three of King Falcon’s senior knights and ask them to come up here,” he ordered. The servant nodded hurriedly and dashed off down the corridor. Satisfied, Alain closed the door and returned to his seat, sitting down opposite Falcon with his usual calm smile.

“That should not take long,” he remarked and leaned his elbow against one of the armrests, placing his head in his upheld palm. “Is there anything else you desire, your Majesty? I can send for more wine, or tell you more about the course of the war.”

“Tell me more of the war.” Falcon shrugged. “I’ve hardly come to Tersk to get drunk off middling wine, after all.”

“Then you must try the whisky here. Tersk whisky is something else,” Alain laughed softly before clearing his throat and lifting up his head. “Much of the skirmishing has been taking place south of here, closer to the Ursine river, due to its strategic advantage. The move north is recent, we suspect because they want to weaken our fortresses.”

He smirked. “Useful for us; the river skirmishes have made trade with Lyell difficult, especially because to get to it, you must pass through Lange. Because of this, a patrol has been installed on the river and unless something drastic occurs, I intend to keep it that way. It reassures the merchants, and keeps the Langeans from disrupting our trade,” the Grand Duke folded his hands together. “So far, it has proven effective. We’ve captured a spy and a scout, as well as...well, my men weren’t quite sure who she was, aside from a noble. Either way, all of these people will be sent up for interrogation and I will let you know any further developments regarding that.”

“When will the prisoners be here?” Falcon asked, before furrowing his brow as he further assessed what the grand duke had just said. “A noble? What kind of noble? Langean or Kythian? And a woman, no less?”

“Kythian, apparently. The crew claimed she had bought passage to Lyell. Her House origin, however, was not mentioned in the report,” Alain said calmly. “Any clues on this story will have to wait until we can interrogate her here. She will be brought here along with other prisoners within two days. If you are so curious, your Majesty, you can sit in on the interrogation when it comes to it.”

“So kind of you, Lord Alain, to grant me permission to sit in on the interrogation,” Falcon said with a simpering smile that hardly met his lips, let alone his eyes. “Perhaps I will. She sounds like a curiosity, and Woo knows there’s never much good to be found in such curiosities. Not during wartime.”

“Good or bad, they remain curiosities, and still retain their value as such. Whoever she is, she shall prove interesting to us, I am sure,” the Grand Duke’s eyes were fixated on the king’s face, watching his expression. “But we have to be patient.”

There was a knock on the door and after a few moments, the servant entered.

“Your Grace, your Majesty,” he bowed to them deeply in turn. “I brought his Majesty’s men as requested.”

Behind him, three knights in Ascension livery filed into the room. As soon as their gaze alighted on Falcon, they bowed deeply. While their faces were neutral, it was clear in their eyes and their stance they were waiting for their orders.

Alain nodded to the servant. “Thank you, you may go,” he waved his hand to dismiss him before returning his attention back to Falcon. “We can deal with the mystery woman later, your Majesty. Right now, we had more pressing matters?”

“We do,” Falcon agreed, before gesturing to his men. “The grand duke is going to be taking his preliminary oath of fealty to me now. You will serve as witnesses-- although of course once this war concludes, he’ll be coming to the capital to say the vow in a more… traditional… environment.” Standing abruptly, he glanced down toward Alain. “On your knees.”

The harshness of Falcon’s tone caused the Grand Duke to quirk an eyebrow but if he thought anything of it, he kept his words to himself. Instead, he simply gave the king the same relaxed smile that he had been wearing during most of the interview and dropped down on one knee in front of him. Though the king had specified to get on his knees, one was the usual pose of supplication between a royal and a noble.

“The other knee,” Falcon said coolly, towering over the grand duke’s bowed form like a lion above its half-bled meal.

For a split second, a tiny frown crossed Alain’s face. So this was the game the king wanted to play. He had to admit, it was a new sensation to be ordered around like a servant but not an entirely unexpected one, from what he had gathered of Falcon during the meeting. That same information, as well as what he knew of the king from his father, told him that it would be a very poor idea to refuse.

But who else would he ever kneel to except the king? Falcon was harsh, and he clearly wanted to assert his dominance over the Grand Duke, perhaps even a little too much, but he was also helping with the war, and he had proven himself a decent king even before Alain took over. There was no shame in submitting to him, and no benefit to be gained in defying him except fanning his own pride.

“As you wish,” he stated his mouth curling into a smile. Slowly and deliberately, Alain lowered his other knee and bowed his head to the king, but his eyes flickered upwards to where he could feel the Falcon’s gaze upon him.

“Shall I begin, your Majesty?” the Grand Duke asked, his tone perfectly level and steady, without a flicker of doubt or fear despite his prone position.

Falcon nodded shortly, before drawing his sword from where it was holstered at his hip. Balancing it nimbly in his hands, he pointed its tip loosely down toward Alain, so that it ended merely inches from the grand duke’s prostrate head. “Begin,” Falcon said.

Alain nodded and drew his own sword, holding it point down in both hands. Closing his eyes, he recalled the words which he had rehearsed in his mind the entire winter, the ones he did not think he would say until the war was over. Ones he would have to repeat in the capital eventually.

This was practice. And how many lords could boast they pledged their fealty on the battlefield? Not many at all.

He took a deep breath and his eyes flickered open. “I, Grand Duke Alain Stallion of Bern, firstborn son and legal heir of Grand Duke Lachlan Stallion…”

A King's Power- Part 2

SPOILER: Click to show

“Your men could be a little more prompt with her, no?” Falcon sneered two days later, the king’s arms crossed at his chest as he paced about the small, windowless interrogation room deep in the belly of the fort. “I hardly want to spend all day waiting around for this mysterious noblewoman who was plucked off a boat like an apple from a tree.” A beat, then: “I’ve half a mind to bet this is all just some grand misunderstanding. I still don’t understand how a Kythian noblewoman could make it nearly to Lange through an active war zone without anybody reporting her gone, or launching a search for her.”

“Which is why I have asked for her to be sent down here; so that we can find out. Rest assured, your Majesty, I am just as curious as you are what her story is,” Alain stood leaning against the wall, tracing the king’s path with his icy blue eyes. He smiled a little. “Have patience, we shall get our answers soon. It has hardly been any time since I sent my men out for her. It will take them a while to get to her quarters and back down here.”

As if on cue, the door opened and a small group of knights filed in, surrounding a young woman in her mid-twenties. If the soldiers at the river had determined her to be a noblewoman, it had certainly been through means other than her appearance: she wore rough-hewn peasant’s garb that would have looked sooner appropriate on a beggar in the street, her skin grimy and her pale blonde hair in good need of a washing. With a knight holding on to either one of her arms, she kept her chin tucked and eyes planted firmly on the floor, as though in some means of denial over her present situation.

The leader of the men at the head of the column bowed his head submissively, first to Falcon and then to Alain.

“Your Majesty, your Grace, we’ve brought her.”

At the words your majesty, the woman’s head suddenly wrenched with the force of a glass bursting on the floor. Her light blue eyes danced across the room toward Falcon and Alain, lingering on the grand duke only briefly before they settled instead on the king. The king’s own eyes, in turn, latched on to hers, Falcon’s face abruptly shifting from an expression of surly curiosity into some far, far darker.

The change was not lost on the Grand Duke. Alain frowned slightly, watching the king very carefully, focusing on even the minutest change in the smallest line of his face. This was definitely unusual.

“Is something wrong, your Majesty?” he asked, only letting a small hint of enquiry slip into his voice. “Do you know her?”

Falcon only shook his head, his jaw clenched as, without another word, the king stormed forward toward the woman and guards. The heels of his shoes stabbed at rather than struck the floor, and the moment he reached the other side of the room, he shot out a hand and clamped it over the woman’s wrist, squeezing down on it like a snake constricting its prey.

“What the hell,” he snarled, as the guards who still held her by either bicep exchanged reluctant looks with each other, clearly uneasy over their king’s sudden close proximity to this unknown and untrusted woman, “are you doing here?”

“I… I could ask the same thing of you, Falcon,” she murmured.

The Grand Duke’s face had now shifted into an unrestrained frown. What was she doing calling the king by name? A sign of disrespect, perhaps, but nothing in her stance or voice suggested such defiance.

The guards, meanwhile, had reached over to try to separate her and the king but upon seeing how dark the king’s expression was, they hesitated, their hands hovering in the air around them or over their swords. Unsure of what else to do, they turned to Alain, silently pleading for guidance from their commander.

He traced the king’s footsteps, coming to stand a short distance away from him with an unhindered view of both Falcon and the girl he had now latched on to like his namesake bird of prey does on to a dove. The king’s reaction had been immediate and violent, completely unlike the measured and cold mode of address he had adopted with Alain. Whoever she was, she was not some random escaped noblewoman.

“Your Majesty,” Alain put a stress on every single word. “What is going on here? Who is this girl?” His eyes had turned steely as he glared at both of them. “Is she a danger to us?”

“No danger,” Falcon said shortly, before gesturing to the guards with the hand that wasn’t snared around the woman’s wrist. “Let go of her. And leave.”

“I--” the woman started before the men could even fully process, let alone oblige, their king’s command.

But Falcon quickly spoke over her, his voice no more than a snarl as he cut in, “Be quiet. You do not have permission to speak without being spoken to.” Then, again to the guards: “Let go of her, and get out. Now.”

The guards recoiled from the king as though from a poisonous snake, but they did not let go. They exchanged looks that headed up the chain of command, each man deferring the decision to his own superior, until finally, the captain of the guard’s gaze was fixed directly upon the Grand Duke.

Alain stood perfectly still as he assessed the situation, first turning his head to look at Falcon. The king clearly knew the girl, which meant he could trust that he also knew she was no danger. She also provoked anger in him like he had never seen, let alone expected in the otherwise controlled man. And the woman...he looked over at her and felt a twinge of familiarity at her face. It almost felt like he knew her and this was not the usual sensation he sometimes got that gave him a name or a face, or an idea of events. This was perfectly natural, which piqued his curiosity even more.

For now, he met the eyes of the captain of the guards. “Do as the king asks,” he ordered. “Leave and wait outside.”

The men reluctantly let go of the noblewoman and shuffled out of the door, the last one closing it behind him with a click, leaving only the two men and her alone in the room. Alain, however, remained perfectly quiet as he continued to watch. His hand drifted over his sword, just in case the king was wrong about her being a danger and he was wrong to send the guards out.

The woman, though, did not seem apt to make any aggressive moves. Grimacing beneath Falcon’s iron hold, she shifted her gaze alternately between the king, the grand duke, and the floor, her throat openly quavering and her entire posture wilted like a rose beneath pounding rain.

“You were going to Lange?” Falcon demanded of her, taking a rough hold of her other arm, as well. “Why in all the hells would you have gotten on a ship bound through Lange?”

“I… wasn’t going to Lange,” she whispered. “Lyell, I was--”

“And how does a ship get to Lyell from Bern?” he growled. “I know you always slept through half your lessons as a girl, but certainly not to that extent.” He paused for a moment before adding, “And even if your route hadn’t meant a jaunt through Lange, you speak as though you have permission or reason to go to Lyell at all, Gan. And I know that you do not.”

The Grand Duke quirked an eyebrow upwards. The mentions of lessons and permission, not to mention the way Falcon spoke or acted around her, with such raw rage and fury...he knew it. At least, he recognised the place it was coming from. He had not had Aveline for five years now without knowing at least some of the emotions that come with being a father. But King Falcon had no daughters who he would ever refer to as Gan-

Gan. Gannet. A smile spread across his face. Of course. The same girl who had trekked from the capital all the way to Bern, the girl him and his brother had played with during that winter before she went back to whatever fate she had in store in the capital. It explained how she managed to get all the way to that ship from Morgan.

She was recently widowed too. There was no way that was a coincidence. Alain smiled, the pieces beginning to fit together for him. But he had to wait until the king was finished with her before he could interrogate her himself.

“I had a reason,” Gannet said softly, her tone taking on a strangled note as she added, “You should know that.”

Falcon laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “Is that what this is about, Gan? Is that what this is? You throwing a temper tantrum like a spoiled brat?” His fingers curled down even harder around her, so that his fingernails nearly ate into the sleeves of her ratty dress. “Where’d you get the money for the passage south?”

“It was House money.”

“You mean you stole it.” He laughed again, incredulously. Furiously. “Most people would hang for stealing from a noble House, Gan.”

“Is that a threat?” She pursed her lips, finally forcing herself to stare at him for more than few moments without at once snapping her gaze back away. “You’re going to hang me, Papa? But what will Maia say?”

Abruptly, he let go of her wrist-- but only so that he could slap her, the heel of his palm connecting with her cheek. “Watch your tongue.” Finally sparing a glance back toward Alain, the king demanded of the grand duke, “How far out from the Langean border was the ship when it was stopped?”

“Not far. The front runs along the border and the inspection point is set up at a safe distance from it, around fifteen miles so that it can be moved if there are reports of a Langean cohort coming that way,” Alain stated before smiling a little and looking over at the noblewoman, his eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts regarding the king’s rough treatment of her. “Correct me if I’m wrong, your Majesty...but this is Cosmos Gannet, recent widow of Earl Camden Sabino, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Falcon agreed thickly. “And being in charge of Bern, you certainly know of the general tactics and mindset of Tsar Seraphim better than most anyone else in Kyth, Lord Alain, wouldn’t you say?” Eye falling sharply back to Gannet, he finished, “So why don’t you tell Lady Gannet here precisely what might have happened to her had she made it those final fifteen miles into Lange and gotten caught there, by the tsar’s men? Surely Seraphim would have treated a child of the Kythian king with utmost care and respect, right?”

The Grand Duke’s icy eyes flickered over to Gannet, boring into her own. “No, he would not have,” he stated, his voice perfectly neutral. “I have met Tsar Seraphim once before this war. If I am to wager a guess, had you been captured, Lady Gannet, you would have been taken prisoner and most likely have been used as leverage against Kyth. I cannot guarantee that you would have been safe either.”

He paused, giving her a second to let it sink it. “So it is probably fortunate that you were caught. I’m sure your betrothed is worried about you.”

“He’s not my betrothed,” Gannet spat. “I won’t marry him. Tsar Seraphim would have used me for his own goals? Fine. At least he wouldn’t have pretended to care about me as he did it.”

Falcon twitched, as though he wanted to hit her again, but instead the king merely gritted his teeth. “You think that I pretend to care about you, Gan? That you’d be better off a prisoner of war? Have the Bernian winters frozen away all of your Woo-cursed common sense?” A beat. “Not that you ever had much of that to begin with.”

“I won’t marry Elgin,” Gannet hissed. “It’s wrong. And you can’t make me.” She looked back toward Alain, desperation rising in her like a swelling tide. “You’re the grand duke, aren’t you? I remember you from when I was small. And you oversee the Sabinos-- so you can tell them that Elgin isn’t to marry me, you can tell them that--”

“Say that I do,” Alain tilted his head slightly, smirking. “And what is in it for me, Lady Gannet? What do I gain from blocking your marriage to Earl Elgin?”

“Do you want to be the sort of lord who stands idly by as a woman is forced to marry her dead husband’s brother?” Gannet asked. “What kind of person would--”

Quick as a pouncing cat, Falcon smacked her again, cutting the woman off mid-sentence. “Be quiet, Gan. You’ve just been caught on a ship merely miles from enemy territory, having lied your way onto it and using stolen money to book your passage. I hardly think Lord Alain wishes to hear your petty whining, and I certainly do not wish to, either. And he may oversee the Sabinos, but who do you think oversees him?”

“It’s alright, your Majesty. She clearly has something she wishes to say and I, for one, want to listen,” Alain held up his hand before turning back to Gannet, a smile playing on his face. “But if I understand this correctly, Lady Gannet, you are appealing to me to block your marriage on moral grounds? Or simply personal?” he shook his head a little. “Is Earl Elgin Sabino such a terrible man?”

“Moral and personal,” Gannet murmured. “He’s my husband’s brother. And it’s not as though Camden and I were merely married for months-- it was eleven years and half a dozen lost pregnancies and…” Her voice cracking, the woman cut herself off for a moment. “You had a brother, didn’t you? Back when I came to Destrier? How would you feel-- if you died in this war, and your wife was made to remarry him?”

Alain flinched and his eyes hardened to steely points, boring into Gannet’s skull. “I would be very happy that he has a wife. But that will not happen. My daughter is my legal heir,” he said in a perfectly calm, even voice that nevertheless sounded like the growl of a lion. “Earl Camden, however, left no descendants and now Elgin is taking his place as Earl. Part of a noblewoman’s duty is to produce an heir for the House she is marrying into, is it not? Elgin Sabino has no wife either. The way I see it, this is simply killing two birds with one stone.”

“Of course,” Gannet said thickly. “That’s all I’m good for: producing heirs. As if I’m the only one who has that capability-- as if Elgin can’t marry some other woman who hasn’t belonged to his brother for the past eleven years--”

“He’s not blocking your marriage, Gan,” Falcon interrupted. “Nor am I. And if you don’t wish to be smacked a third time, then I highly suggest you shut your mouth until you’re once more given explicit permission to speak.” Looking back toward Alain, the king said, “I want a pigeon sent to the Sabinos-- and a darned good explanation from them how she managed to make it off their lands, let alone this far south, before she was caught. Do you know if Earl Elgin is on the front, or is he still up in Morgan?”

“The latter. The Earl has surrendered all control of his forces to me in exchange for staying in Morgan. After all, if he dies too, House Sabino will have nobody at their head, which as you can probably guess would be most tragic. As for how she escaped,” the smile returned on to the Grand Duke’s face, “After making to Destrier from Medieville at the tender age of ten, are you really surprised she could cross the relatively short distance from Morgan to here, your Majesty?”

“At least I knew about that,” Falcon replied flatly. “I’ve never been one for surprises.” Scowling at Gannet, who had wisely obliged the king’s command and fallen silent, the man added to Alain, “Send for Elgin. Order him here. He ought be the one who drags his bride back to Morgan. Woo knows I shan’t be fronting the coin nor the men to do so.”

“Yes, your Majesty. I’ll send him a red dove,” Alain nodded and smiled. “If we are done here, of course. I don’t think there’s much else we need to discuss with Lady Gannet, we’ve found out all we need to know. So perhaps it is best if I arrange for the guards to send her back to her quarters, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Make sure she’s someplace well-secured. And I want one of my knights on her as well as one of yours at all times. I would like to see to it that Lady Gannet’s days of running off without permission are behind her for good.”

“Let me assure you, Tersk in the middle of a war is harder to escape from than either Morgan or Medieville,” Alain said with a smirk and turned on his heel, heading towards the door. “I shall arrange for that then, your Majesty. Then I’ll send a pigeon to Earl Elgin.”

He put his hand on the lock, opening the door. “Let’s just pray the next week or so is uneventful.”

A King's Power- Part 3

SPOILER: Click to show

A dove to Morgan was dispatched in record time, carrying with it the red capsule which marked the message it bore as urgent. Sure enough, only a few days later, a hurriedly written reply came from the new Sabino earl thanking the King and the Grand Duke for finding Gannet and that he would be in Tersk as soon as possible in order to take her back home. Content with that, Alain put the thought of Gannet out of his mind for the time being. She was under guard, as Falcon had ordered, therefore she was no threat. At least, not a bigger one than the Langeans. A few skirmishes had been reported around Konik, and moving down the border to Tersk. A worrying development, especially with the king staying longer than anticipated, but one that was remedied by increasing military presence to the north. Until he left, keeping Falcon safe and satisfied was Alain’s primary task and one that he threw himself into quite happily.

About a week later, the gates of the fortress opened up to receive what was clearly a hastily put together party displaying the red, grey and black colours of House Sabino. At the centre of it was a red-headed man whose twitching eyes and terrified expression marked him as constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Without any hesitation, the group headed for the inner fortress. As soon as they arrived, he got off his horse and asked to be taken directly to the Grand Duke.

Alain smiled as he heard the knock on the door, already anticipating who it was. As soon as the man entered, he sat down at his desk, looking straight at the Sabino noble. “Hello, Earl Elgin. Thank you for making it up down here so quickly,” he glanced over at the knight. “Tell the King our visitor has arrived. And have Lady Gannet escorted down here.”

Elgin swallowed and gripped his hands together to stop them shaking.“I came as soon as I heard,” he bowed deeply. “Thank you again for taking care of Gannet, your Grace, and I apologise for letting her slip away.”

There was a soft laugh from the Grand Duke. “While you are quite welcome, I suggest you save those words for King Falcon, Earl Elgin,” he smirked. “It is he who was more concerned with this matter.”

Gannet arrived before the king, escorted in by two Ascension knights. The bruise on her cheek from where Falcon had struck her had already healed, but she otherwise looked a sorry wretch, not the adopted daughter of the king: her skin was sallow, her hair greasy, her eyes underscored by heavy black circles.

She took but one look at Elgin before turning sharply back toward the door-- as though she thought she had any chance of successfully fleeing in spite of her guards. “I don’t want to talk to him,” she said, her voice cracking. “Take me back to my room.”

Those words were like a slap in the face for Elgin and it reflected all over the Earl’s hurt face. Despite himself, he stood up and carefully approached her as one would approach a skittish cat. “Gannet...please,” he murmured. “What happened to you? You look...miserable.”

He tried to come closer but the guards around Gannet blocked his path. Knowing he could not get any closer, Elgin swallowed and bowed his head, giving off a deep sigh. “Please...let’s just go home.”

“My home is not with you,” she replied thinly. “And if you proceed with this marriage knowing it’s against my will, then you’re just the monster you claim not to be, aren’t you?”

The Sabino Earl recoiled. “I...I don’t have any choice, do I? The King says I must, the Grand Duke does…” he moved his hand past the guards, reaching out to her. “I promise I’ll be a good husband to you. Like Camden was.”

He glanced behind him to where Alain was watching this, unmoving, his icy blue eyes fixated on the scene in front of him while a tiny knowing smile played on his face. Elgin felt a shiver run down his spine. Trying to push the Grand Duke’s hawkish gaze out of his mind, he turned back to Gannet. “Please don’t make this difficult. Please. Not with the King and the Grand Duke around.”

As though his ears were burning, the king arrived just moments later, the guards snapping to attention as Falcon strode coolly into the room. The man spared only the briefest of glances toward Gannet before instead his dark eyes trailed toward Elgin, surveying the earl up and down.

“So you,” he drawled, skipping the preamble, “are the one who was meant to marry my Gannet, and instead let her run to within a few miles of the Langean border.” His jaw squared, he waved away the knights, dismissing them, before he continued, “I do hope you have a grand explanation for how such a thing happened. For how-- in a time of war-- you nevertheless let your woman slip off your lands and make it nearly into enemy territory. With filched House money, no less!”

Elgin remained frozen in place as now the King’s eyes swept over him. If the Grand Duke’s gaze was like being dipped in ice water, Falcon’s judging glare made him feel like a prey animal on the ground before a wolf tears its throat out. He he to fight with himself not to hyperventilate.

“It’s...my House has been going through a difficult time. Between the loss of my brother and setting myself up as Earl, on top of having to support the war effort, we...we lost track of Gannet. And we also thought it would be good to give her space to mourn her husband,” he bowed deeply. Anything to stop Falcon’s eyes boring into him. “I’m sorry, your Majesty. It will not happen again, I swear!”

“How reassuring,” Falcon leered, his face impassive but his voice caustic. “Hopefully you’ll have a better time keeping track of her once she’s your wife rather than merely your intended.”

“I’m not marrying him,” Gannet hissed, the woman now slumped against the wall with Falcon between her and the door. “I--”

The king rounded on her. “Quiet,” he snapped, before glancing back toward Elgin. “This fort is no place for a woman; I don’t want her here for long. But since clearly it’s terribly difficult to simply marry her and legitimize the union, I think I should like for that to be done before you head back north. Just so that I’ve assurance that it’ll actually be done. Understand, Earl Elgin?”

Elgin stared at Falcon, his eyes growing as wide as saucers. “You...your Majesty, do you want me to marry her here? In Tersk?”

“I do not see why that should be a problem,” Alain remarked, getting up from his post by his desk and walking over to Elgin. “There are plenty of churches in the city and no shortage of priests who would be glad to have marriage rites to perform instead of their...usual duties during the war. And it will save you having to arrange a ceremony while no doubt, House Sabino is still in mourning for Earl Camden.”

He smirked. “You could marry Lady Gannet today, if you wish, Earl Elgin. I would appreciate that,” his eyes turned to Falcon. “I’m sure his Majesty would appreciate that too. And I doubt you wish to stay here, on the front that killed your brother, any longer than you should.”

“N-no,” Elgin bowed his head, trying to keep his breath under control and under no circumstances show that his legs were shaking. He glanced sideways at Gannet before bowing to Alain and Falcon. “I’ll do as you wish, your Grace, your Majesty.”

“Let him rest a night from the road, at least,” Falcon said dryly. “But tomorrow should be adequate, the marriage legitimized and Earl Elgin and his bride headed back off to Morgan by the morning after.”

“I won’t.” Gannet’s voice was close to a growl. “If you bring me to a bloody church in the morning, I’ll run screaming from the altar, I will. I’m not marrying him--”

“Then I’ll bring a priest here into the fort.” Falcon twitched. “You can marry in a locked room, Gannet. It doesn’t need to be pretty; it merely must be.”

“And if I were you, Earl Elgin, Lady Gannet, I would finish this and get out of here quickly. I have a war to manage and I would like to do it without distractions,” Alain’s voice was calm but there was a slight edge to it. “And you don’t want to get trapped here in case of a siege either.”

Elgin heard the Grand Duke’s words but they barely registered in his mind. Instead, he was staring at Gannet, biting his lip. “I’ll treat you well, I promise. I might not be Camden but I’ll...I’ll still be a good husband to you. Please...just give me this chance. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you seem to think.”

“Clearly no one in this room cares for my opinion,” Gannet hissed. “So don’t bother whispering empty reassurances into my ear, Elgin. They’re worthless, and I don’t care to hear them. And you’re right: you’re not Camden. He was my husband. You?” She shook her head. “You’re just… nobody. To me. And that won’t change even if I’m made to marry you.”

He winced, looking for all the world as though he had been punched in the stomach. “No, of course not. I can never be him. Everyone’s told me that,” with a grimace, Elgin blinked back tears though he could not tear himself away from looking at Gannet. “But I want to try to be somebody for you. Even if I can never be Camden. Please, Gannet...I’ll do an-”

The Earl broke off, glancing around at the King and the Grand Duke before turning back to her again. “...what can I do to at least get you to accept me?”

“Nothing,” she said simply. “Not unless you’ve the power to change time to make it so that it’s you who died in the war and not him.”

“Gannet, enough.” This was Falcon. “If you’ve nothing productive to say, then you can be escorted back to your quarters until the wedding tomorrow. I’ve no patience for your wretched rantings.” Taking a sharp step toward her, he added, “And I’d like to think that any child I helped to raise would have turned out better than to wish her intended dead. How do you think that reflects on me, Gan?” A note of threat creeping into his tone, he finished, “Surely you wish to redact such a macabre statement?”

“I don’t,” she replied, although there was a sudden, marked tremble to her tone.

Rage flared in his eyes, as potent as an acid eating through flesh. “This evening, then,” he growled. “If you’re to huff and whine like a petty, rotten child, then I’ll have the priest brought here this evening. You can go to bed tonight his wife, Gannet.”

“I’ll have the necessary arrangements made then. Most priests in the city would be glad to do a wedding ceremony rather than the usual funeral fare that’s been their lot these days,” Alain turned on his heel and headed towards the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Without waiting to be excused, he turned the door handle and exited, leaving the king and the soon-to-be couple alone together. Elgin barely acknowledged the Grand Duke leaving, still rooted in place by Gannet’s words. He bowed his head, not wanting either her or Falcon to see the expression on his face.

“It’s...it’s alright, your Majesty,” he murmured. “I understand this is a trying time for Lady Gannet. What she says does not reflect upon you at all. I’m...I’m sure it’s just grief speaking.”

Maybe it would have been better if I had died instead of Camden, he thought but did not dare voice that doubt in front of the King. Woo knew, he was already an inadequate suitor.

The Earl bowed deeply. “Is there anything else either of you require of me, Lady Gannet, your Majesty? If not, it’s probably best that I get ready for tonight.”

“That would be best,” Falcon agreed, before Gannet would so much as think of responding. “I trust that you can see yourself back to your quarters? I think I shall escort Lady Gannet to her own.”

“Yes, of course,” Elgin kept his head down, not looking at the king. “But I was wondering, your Majesty...can I speak to you about something? Alone?”

“I suppose I shall have a knight walk Gannet, then,” the king said thickly, before gesturing for one of the guards to do exactly that. Gannet’s face was still drawn tight in a blend of misery and hatred, but wisely she chose not to resist, following without a word; the knight shut the door behind them. “What is it, Earl Elgin,” Falcon said then, “that so urgently requires my undivided attention, and that you cannot say in front of your bride?”

He took several deep breaths to steady himself but still could not pluck up the courage to look Falcon up in the eye. “Gannet seems...really upset about this. I don’t want her to be,” Elgin finally said, though his voice was as quiet as a dying echo. “I was wondering...you’re her father, you know her well. Is there any way I could...make her happy? At least try to win her favour, either before or after we marry?”

“She’ll get over it,” Falcon said simply, with a disaffected shrug. “That girl’s been sullen over something or another as long as I’ve known her. If you feed into her brooding, she’ll only keep it up. The best thing to do is ignore it. Make it very clear to her that you won’t tolerate her acting like a spoiled, whiny brat. It’s not about winning her favour, Earl Elgin. It’s about showing her that she has no other option than to cooperate. Otherwise, she’ll take advantage of your leniency-- as she already has by daring to run away from your lands at all.”

The Earl shuffled his feet like a child being accused of some misdeed. “I thought giving her time alone to mourn my brother was the decent thing to do,” he murmured before daring to glance up at the king. “I just...hope she gets over it soon. I already hate having to force her into the marriage, I don’t want to be too forceful with her otherwise.”

“If you give that girl an inch, she will drag you a mile. If you give her a foot, well…” The king shrugged leadenly. “That, Earl Elgin, is how you’ve found yourself in Tersk. And need I remind you that her being caught was merely a stroke of serendipity? Next time, you’d hardly be so lucky. And if anything happens to that girl, well.” The threat in Falcon’s tone was implicit. “You are in charge of your lands now, Earl Sabino. If you cannot even bring yourself to act an authority with your wife, then I question your ability to suit the role as earl at all. Have I cause to tell Grand Duke Stallion that the Sabino lands are in insecure hands? I cannot imagine he’d be enthused.”

Elgin wanted to look away from the king, to try to tear his eyes away from the man in front of him but he could not. Every muscle in his body had locked in place so that he could only stare in fear. There was no mistaking the meaning of any word that Falcon spoke to him.

“I...I understand, your Majesty,” he forced himself to crumple into a bow, if only to get away from that piercing gaze. “You...you don’t have t-to do that. I will...will do as you ask.”

The door behind them swung open. “Are you terrorising my lords, King Falcon?” Alain’s calm voice purred as he walked into the room. He stopped in front of the king, giving him a shallow bow. “I’ve had word sent to the priest of the church that deals with most of the garrison matters. He will perform the ceremony,” a smirk appeared on his face. “I hope that suits you.”

“It will,” Falcon agreed dully, shifting his focus from Elgin to Alain. “Although,” the king continued after a moment, “if I were you, Grand Duke Stallion, I would wipe that sneer off your face. You wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re being flippant, would you?”

“My apologies. These days, there is very little to smile about so I have to take advantage of every chance I get,” Alain bowed his head again and when he raised it to met Falcon’s eye, the smirk had vanished, only remaining as a hint in the corners of his mouth. “I do hope I am not interrupting anything.”

“N-n-no, your Grace, I’ve...said what I wanted to say to his Majesty,” Elgin stammered, turning towards Alain. It suddenly struck him how much the man in front of him resembled Camden. Not just in looks, though they both had the same blond hair and blue eyes, but the way they exuded confidence, as if everyone else was beneath them. It served to make Elgin feel the same way as he had done in front of his older brother.

He lowered his gaze, glancing sideways at both Falcon and Alain. “May I have permission to leave?”

“You may,” Falcon said. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from having time to rest up before the wedding, after all.”

The Grand Duke also nodded his head to the earl. With that, Elgin bowed deeply to them both and without wasting any more time, hurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

After he had left, Alain turned his eyes over to Falcon, “I best take my leave as well, your Majesty. Some scouts have arrived recently and I would like to hear their reports,” he turned on his heel. “Unless you also wish to hear them.”

“I trust if it’s anything interesting, you’ll keep me informed,” Falcon replied thickly. “You may go.”

The Grand Duke turned his head back to him. “I’ll let you know if we pick up any more...curious strays then, your Majesty,” he smiled and gave a shallow bow before heading for the door.

With his subjects gone, Falcon let out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. Things in Tersk certainly had not panned out as he’d envisioned they would, but at least the ship seemed as if it would soon be properly righted again. And once it was-- and Gannet and Elgin gone back to Morgan-- then focus could be returned back to its proper place: the war being raged by the mad Langean tsar.

Even if he had doubts about Elgin’s ability to keep Gannet in check, and a broad feeling of distaste toward the cocky Stallion grand duke, at least the same reservations did not apply to the war effort. If nothing else, Falcon was at least confident that that mess would be taken care of soon enough.

[Celestial]

Another collab with Avery, with help from Shinko, introducing Corbin and Ainsley at their...best. >>;

Little Cuts- Part 1

SPOILER: Click to show

“Brendan, are you sure?” the girl glanced up and down the icy wall of the stable courtyard, biting her lip as she surveyed it. “It looks dangerous.”

“It will be fine, Maisie, I’ve gone this way many times,” Brendan smiled at her. “Besides, you said you wanted to see the Noblesses, right?”

“Yes but…” Maisie swallowed. “I thought you would just get permission from your dad, or grandad. Not…” she gestured at the rough stone in front of her that was covered in a thin layer of ice. “This.”

“They’d just say it is too dangerous for us to go in there alone, let alone get close to them. We’d be surrounded by grooms keeping us as a distance and won’t be able to see anything,” the boy replied and put his hand into one of the gaps in the rough stone. “Now let’s hurry, before anybody notices we’re gone.”

“We’ll get in trouble if we’re caught,” she murmured.

“So we just have to not get caught,” Brendan grinned at her before turning back, continuing to test the slippery wall. Carefully, he put a foot into a lower gap, trying to pull himself up. However, the stone had completely frozen over. For all his efforts, his hand slipped out of its handhold and with a cry, the boy fell down on to the snow below.

Maisie gasped. “Are you alright?” she cried, rushing up to Brendan.

“Yes,” he got up, brushing the show off his clothes and tucking a few locks of auburn hair back into his hat. “But we can’t go up that way.”

His grey eyes dashed around the courtyard, looking for another way. There was a large wooden box, probably used for storing equipment or feed, pushed up against the building just by the wall. If they could just push that across...a smile spread across his face.

“Maisie, help me with this,” Brendan ran over to the box and put his hands against it. He tried to push, gritting his teeth together. Even when the girl joined him, the two children were nowhere near strong enough.

“What if we took things out?” Maisie suggested. The boy nodded and forced open the lid, giving it to her to hold. Nobody had bothered to lock it, and why should they have done? All that was contained inside it were some tools; pitchforks, a few spades, a rake, no doubt used for cleaning out the stable. Hurriedly, Brendan pulled them out and scattered them all around, not really caring where they landed. After a while, he gave the box an experimentory kick and to his delight, it felt much lighter.

Maisie let go of the lid, slamming it shut and the two children with some effort pushed it towards the wall. Grinning that his plan was working, Brendan climbed up on to it and with the extra boost, his fingers just barely curled around the top of the wall. They were close. Kicking with his feet, he tried to find purchase on the icy wall to push himself further up. Slowly but surely, he ascended up the wall, first wrapping his hands around the top, then his elbows. His head poked over the top and he could just see the courtyard beyond, as well as the Stallion crest that hung over the Noblesse stable entrance. He could do this.

“Maisie, just wait. I’ll help you up whe-”

His hand slipped. Brendan tried to scramble to gain purchase but his gloved fingers slid uselessly off the snow and ice. He lost his grip and with a loud cry, tumbled down. One foot landed on to the box but it too, slipped off the icy lid, sending him falling down on to the ground.

A flare of pain exploded down the side of his leg. Brendan winced and turned around. A pitchfork had grazed his thigh and now, little red droplets glistened on it. The same red was beginning to well through his trousers, staining the grey fabric.

“Brendan!” Maisie ran over to him, falling on her knees in the snow by the boy. Her eyes settled on to the wound and she gasped. “Oh no! We need to-”

“I’m fine,” he shook his head, slowly getting back on to his feet. “It’s only a scratch.”

“But you’re bleeding and-”

“It didn’t get far through all my clothes. See?” Brendan pulled aside the torn fabric, revealing several thin gashes running across his leg. “It’s stopping bleeding already.”

Maisie nodded, biting her lip. “Still...we should get you to the physician.”

“No!” the boy exclaimed. “If we tell him, he’ll tell mum or dad or grandad. And then we’ll really be in trouble,” he looked at her worriedly. “Don’t tell anyone, Maisie.”

“I...I won’t,” she glanced back at his wound, the worry apparent all across her face.

“Good!” he leapt up to his feet. The gash gave off a small twinge of pain, making him wince but he quickly covered it up. His eyes turned back to the box. “I’ll try again.”

“Maybe you shou-”

“Hey!” a rough voice shouted across the courtyard. One of the stable hands, no doubt. “What are you two doing here?”

“We’ll go next time,” Brendan murmured and grabbed Maisie’s hand, racing off out of the stable block and back towards the castle. He winced with each step as the wound twinged but he did not let it slow him down. It was better than being punished.

They only stopped when they were out of sight of the stables. The two children collapsed on to the snow, their rapid breaths coming out in thick clumps of steam, much like a dragon’s fire. Brendan took the opportunity to examine the wound closer. The running had made it bleed even more but it seemed to have stopped now. All he would have to do is bandage it. But it was on his leg. Nobody would see it.

“Will you be okay?” Maisie asked beside him.

“Don’t worry, silly,” Brendan smiled, covering up his leg. “I’ll be fine. It will heal soon.”

***

It did not heal. The wound festered and Brendan began to steadily get worse as the infection set in. By the time the castle physician got to look at him, he was already confined to his bed with a high fever. By that point, it was far too late.

Ainsley was already in a grim mood when he entered his son’s room that day. At the sound of the door shutting behind him, the Duke’s mother, Lucrezia lifted up her head, turning to him. She did not say a word and her expression did not shift but the redness around her grey eyes told him all he needed to know. His heart leapt into his throat.

He adjusted his glasses on his eyes and looked up at the physician. “Chervil?” Ainsley’s voice was perfectly steady. Everything about him was calm, too calm, as he braced himself for the news.

Chervil Allendale, younger brother of Baron Kale Allendale and long-time physician for the Stallions, had the look of a man who had not slept in far too long. There were deep rings under his blue eyes, and his normally well groomed golden brown hair was in disarray. He sighed softly his expression full of despair as well as leaden fatigue.

“I’m sorry, your Grace,” the physician murmured, his voice raw. “I did everything I could, but… it was already terminal before he even got to me.” Slowly, gently, Chervil began to cross Brendan’s arms over his chest. “He’s gone.”

Ainsley closed his eyes, exhaling. He could feel a small scowl tugging at the corners of his mouth, though he did his best to restrain it in case Chervil thought it was directed at him. Idiot. Brendan was such an idiot. Why had he not said anything until it was too late?!

He took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. It did not matter anymore. Brendan had not told anyone. And now he was dead. His heir was dead.

“I see. Thank you nevertheless, Chervil,” he murmured, nodding his head to the physician.

Lucrezia curled her fingers around Brenda’s hand, gritting her teeth. “Why didn’t the servants watch him? They know he has a way of getting into trouble!” she growled. “Or had. If they had kept an eye on him-”

“He also had a habit of slipping away,” Ainsley replied, his voice eerily calm for a man who had just been informed of the death of his child. It had simply not yet registered in his mind that his energetic seven year old boy was gone.

He put a hand on his mother’s shoulder and glanced back towards the door, exhaling softly. Corbin needed to be informed. Oh Woo, Corbin. He had a feeling she was going to take this badly.

Ainsley glanced down at Lucrezia. “Mother, could you tell my wife about this? You are probably better to handle this. And,” he glanced back at the physician. “I want to have a word.”

His mother stiffened before lifting herself up on to her feet, turning her eyes to him. “You can cry, you know, Ainsley,” she said very matter of factly. “Losing a child is not easy.”

“I know, mother. When I can, I will,” he lowered his head.

“Good. Because I hope you realise Corbin is going to need to know you feel something now,” Lucrezia replied curtly and turned around, exiting the room.

Ainsley gave a sigh, fixing his glasses before turning back to Chervil. “Do you have any idea how it could have possibly happened?”

Chervil gave a helpless shrug. “I can take a guess, your Grace, but it’s difficult to say for certain. The wounds were already putrid by the time the boy came to me. If I had to take a guess, I’d say it looks like he hurt himself on some sort of sharp implement. There were three evenly spaced lacerations on his hip and leg. Maybe a rake or something similar.” Chervil looked at the boy grimly. “The wounds aren’t deep, and they’re at an odd angle, so I don’t think he was struck intentionally. Maybe he knocked something over on himself?”

“Perhaps. It would not surprise me if he was somewhere he should not have gone. Especially if he did not come to you or me or anybody immediately. No doubt he wanted to keep out of trouble,” Ainsley put his hands behind his back and gave Chervil a nod. “Even if you did not save him, however, I realise you tried. But it’s out of your hands now,” his grey eyes swept over the physician. “You look like you need a rest too.”

Chervil didn’t reply at first, instead taking the sheet of Brendan’s bed and drawing it over the child like a shroud. Finally he murmured, “I don’t know if I will have that luxury. Lady Corbin is not going to take this well- you know as well as I do her penchant for rash action when she’s upset- I’m the one who has to deal with the repercussions of those instances more often than not. And… she’s pregnant. In her condition, I worry what the shock might do.”

“Worry about that if and when it comes, Chervil,” Ainsley replied, turning his head and glancing down at the now covered form of his son. A part of him almost expected to see the sheet lifting up and down as he breathed, waiting to spring out and surprise them all, but there was nothing there. He was eerily still.

The Stallion felt his spine grow a little cold as it slowly began to sink in. Regrets and what-ifs crept into the edges of his mind, gnawing on his thoughts like starving dogs gnaw on old bones. Closing his eyes again, he pushed them away, focusing instead on the here and now. Brendan was dead. Corbin was undoubtedly going to take this poorly. His father...would find out in due time. No doubt Sorrel would soon begin asking questions where his brother was.

“Just in case, Chervil, please ask the midwife to be on standby. And you get some rest while you still can,” Ainsley remarked, turning back to the physician. “No doubt this has been hard on you.”

“I shall,” the physician replied, gathering up his supplies and putting them into a bag he’d left on Brendan’s bedside table. “But take care that you don’t neglect yourself either, your Grace.”

And with that, Chervil left Ainsely alone with what was left of his son.

The Stallion stood still for a few moments, soaking it all in. He could swear he smelled the scent of the decay still in the air and he desperately tried not to think about where it was coming from. Slowly and deliberately, he walked over and peeled the sheet back from Brendan, his eyes running over the boy’s still face. Reaching out, he touched his son’s forehead, brushing aside a messy lock of curly hair from his face before leaning down and kissing the spot he had cleared. It was almost like kissing him goodnight, except for the cold sweat and dissipating warmth of the boy’s body.

With that, he drew the sheet back over him, just as the door opened and Lucrezia walked back in. Her face was even more gloomy, like smoke against a thundercloud.

“I take it things did not go well?” Ainsley asked.

“You are very right,” Lucrezia folded her arms. “And if you know what is good for you both, you will go to her. Now.”

His eyes widened. Shooting just a quick glance back at Brendan, he rushed out of the room, his long cloak swishing behind him. “Corbin?”

She was nowhere to be found. Ainsley looked around, trying to spot any sign of where his wife had gone. However, all he saw were a pair of curious eyes peering at him from behind the column.

He tilted his head. “You’re Brendan’s friend, right?”

Maisie gave off a frightened squeak, peeking out behind the column. “Y-yes, your Grace,” she replied, shuffling her feet.

“Have you seen Lady Corbin, my wife?” he asked. “It’s important.”

“I...umm…” the girl kept staring at the floor awkwardly. Fat tears began to bubble out of her eyes. “I’m sorry, your Grace. I’m so sorry! I told him we shouldn’t go but he didn’t listen!”

“What are you talking about, girl?” Ainsley asked, frowning. He cast his eyes around the hallway again.

“Brendan. I heard Lady Lucrezia say he’s dead,” Maisie was bawling now. “It’s all my fault. If I had not asked to see the Noblesses, he would never have slipped and fallen.”

“It’s too late for that now, girl,” the Stallion barked at her, staring away from the child and at the far end of the hallway. Woo, why now? Why did this child have to come and confess her sins to him now?!

“But it’s my fault!” her face had turned red and she was almost hysterical now. “I told him to go to the physician. I told him! But he did not want to get in trouble.”

Ainsley rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. All this information was useless to him now, not with Corbin apparently in bad shape and missing. He wanted to run after her but he hardly wanted to leave behind a distressed girl who was mourning the death of her friend.

“Look….what’s your name?”

“Maisie,” she choked out in between sobs. “Are you going to punish me?”

“No, Maisie, you are not going to be punished. What happened was not your fault,” Ainsley leaned down to her, putting a hand on her shoulders. “But I need you to tell me if you’ve seen Lady Corbin, my wife.”

The girl wiped her eyes. “Is she the lady with frizzy red hair?”

“Yes,” Ainsley nodded. “Which way did she go?”

“That way,” she pointed a shaky finger to the left, down the hallway. “She looked very distressed.”

“Thank you,” he sighed. “I am sorry about Brendan. I wish there was something we could do but there was not. Now, Maisie, be good and go back to your parents, understand?”

The girl dashed off without being given any further instructions, realising that it was best not to disobey the Duke. Ainsley did not even wait for her to disappear out of sight before he turned around and headed in the direction that she had indicated Corbin had gone. At some point, somehow, he even found himself breaking into a run.

He had to ask several other people to piece together where she had gone after that. Every servant he passed by gave another piece of the puzzle as his wife’s whereabouts, and the more he learned, the more Ainsley’s stomach began to grow heavy with unease. He finally reached the front entrance hall and his eyes immediately alighted upon the front door. White flakes of snow swept into it through the crack. It had been left ajar. Nobody left their doors ajar in the middle of a Bernian winter, not unless they were in a hurry.

He could feel his heart start to beat faster. Running into a cloakroom and grabbing the nearest coat and winter cloak in his size, Ainsley threw them around his shoulders and dashed out of the door.

Just in time to see one of the horses run past him, carrying his wife on its back.

“Corbin!” he shouted but she did not hear him over the howling of the blizzard. Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, Ainsley ran through the snows towards the stables, keeping his arm over his eyes to keep his glasses clear.

He approached the stables just as the grooms were beginning to shut their doors. Upon seeing him, they seemed to pale slightly, though it was hard to see with the gathering darkness of dusk.

“Why did you not stop her?” Ainsley cried.

“We-we’re sorry, your Grace. She was insistent and just...grabbed the horse,” the head groom replied, his voice just barely loud enough to hear over the wind.

He ground his teeth together. “Get my horse saddled. Hurry,” he glared at the head groom and the men behind him. They did not need to be told twice. Without another word, they scrambled into the stables, soon bringing out a grey Noblesse stallion and outfitting him with the proper tack.

While they worked, Ainsley stepped inside the stables, rubbing his hands and pacing anxiously up and down the entrance. What was she even thinking, running off into the snow? Corbin never made good decisions when she was distressed but this was something else. And why did it have to be so cold and dark too? Silently, he cursed the blizzard for choosing the worst time to come down and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. Woo, he hated the cold so much. The ice had already taken his son this year. If it took his wife, to say nothing of his unborn child...

“Your Grace,” the groom spoke behind him, trusting out the reins to the stallion. Ainsley did not need to be told twice. Leaping on to the stallion’s back, he nudged his sides, getting the horse up to a canter and followed Corbin’s path out of the castle.

Despite the gathering blizzard, the snow had not completely obscured all traces of her horse’s hoofprints. The strong Noblesse ran through the castle gates and down the High Street, Ainsley guiding him down the path that Corbin had laid out. Snow blew into his eyes and stuck to the lenses of his glasses, occasionally forcing him to slow down and wipe them. Thankfully, that was the only obstacle. The empty streets provided no obstructions as the horse and its rider raced down them.

His heart was racing inside his chest. Ainsley tried to keep his head down in order to avoid being blasted by the blizzard but he had to look up sometimes to check if his wife was in sight. However there was nothing but the prints her horse has left behind. His vision was obscured by the flurrying snow, making it difficult to see even a few feet in front of him. He was only vaguely aware they crossed the High Bridge and only when the path ahead suddenly opened up did Ainsley realise he was in Cathedral Square. Normally, the enormous building would be looming over them, a silent protector, but it had cloaked itself in snow and darkness so that only its presence could be felt by those who knew it was there.

He pulled his stallion to a halt and looked around, trying to catch his bearings. Their breath escaped in thick clumps that were quickly swept away by the harsh wind. Woo, they had to get to Corbin, and quickly. If she was out in the snow for any longer, who knows what would happen…

Ainsley turned his horse around, continuing to follow the hoofprints that had led him here. They were barely visible now, mostly filled by snow. Only a few even-spaced indents remained to indicate a horse had gone by there recently. She was heading for the Percheron gate. It would probably be closed by now but nevertheless, if she got lost in the city, or even ran out into the river…

He shook his head, chasing the thought away, and urged his horse on forward, down through the square and past the monastery. The hoofprints eventually disappeared, giving way to footprints, which Ainsley after a few moments deliberation decided to follow instead. They continued to gallop until he glimpsed a figure through the flurry. Slowing down, he urged the Stallion closer, his heart leaping into his throat. Could it be..?

Yes. Nobody else had frizzy red hair like that in all of Destrier. He had found her.

Little Cuts- Part 2- Content warning for suicidalness

SPOILER: Click to show

Ainsley drew his horse up to Corbin. He dismounted and ran up to her, grabbing her by the wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?” he gasped. “Let’s go home.”

At the duke’s touch, Corbin recoiled as if she’d been grasped by a stranger, with a desperate lurch trying to wrench out of his grip. While she’d fled the castle atop a horse, she’d since somewhere lost her mount, now standing wild-eyed and snow-dusted in the middle of the street. Even through the haze of snow, it was clear she was ill-dressed for the weather: no cloak, no gloves, no hat or furs. She looked more like a beggar wretch than the wife of the province’s heir.

“Let go of me,” she hissed to Ainsley, twisting her arm again in an effort to loose it from his hold. “Let go of me and leave. Now!”

His eyes hardened as he gripped her tighter. “No, Corbin. You are coming back with me to castle,” Ainsley replied. “You’ll freeze if you stay out here.”

Corbin laughed, then-- a manic, strangled sound that was no closer to joy than the evening’s weather was to warm. “So?” she practically screeched, wrenching again. “At least then I’ll be with him. Now let go of me. If you want to go back to the castle, then fine. But I’m not coming. I’m not.”

Ainsley felt as though he had just been slapped in the face. His grip on Corbin’s wrist tightened. “And what about Sorrel? He’s already lost a brother, are you going to rob him of his mother too? To say nothing of our unborn child,” he glared at her through the snow. “You will come back to the castle with me before you freeze. Don’t make me drag you back.”

As Ainsley’s fingers dug into Corbin’s wrist, she let out a grunt of pain. “Let go of me,” she demanded again, before snarling: “Sorrel will still have you. And your parents. And--” She shook her head, her unruly, snow-flecked curls whipping against her cheeks. “Let me be. I… I can’t go back with you. I can’t. Not when he’s gone. Not when he’ll always be gone!”

“You think any of us are a substitute for you? Do you want me to tell him that both his brother and his mother are dead?” Ainsley could feel a scowl cross his face. “Yes, Brendan is gone, whether you like it or not. But that is no reason to die with him. You have to try to move on.”

“You don’t understand,” Corbin growled. “You’ll never understand. What it’s like to carry a child in you and watch him grow up and then have him just… just…” Her voice fell away with a manic gasp, as if the emotions festering inside her had smothered out any further attempts at verbal exchange. Changing tacks from merely pulling against her husband’s hold, Corbin abruptly launched a knee toward his groin, trying to startle him into letting go.

However, the Stallion heir was much too well-trained to allow himself to be startled with such a cheap tactic. He sidestepped her attack and twisted her wrist behind her back. Normally, he would never have used any kind of violence on his wife, especially in her condition. But here, she was giving him no choice. If her let her go and she bolted, there would be no finding her.

“I was still his father, Corbin. He was my son too and I loved him. I know you’re grieving but this…this is too much even for you,” Ainsley ground his teeth together to stop them chattering. “Come home. If not for your sake then for the sake of the child you’re carrying now.”

“You have no right to make judgements,” Corbin rasped, trying to kick him yet again. “You don’t even know what love is, Ainsley. All you care about is what’s practical. What’s most efficient. Your son just died, and you hardly even seem upset! Get the hell away from me, or gods help me, I’ll-- I’ll--”

“Just because I don’t show anything, Corbin, doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything,” Ainsley growled. He sidestepped her kick again and moved behind her, pulling her arm up tight against her back. “Do you expect me to be wailing and paralyzed by grief while you are out here in the snow freezing to death? Right now, all I want is to get you home safe. If I don’t do it, it won’t just be my son I’m losing and I don’t want that.”

His voice hitched slightly and he swallowed. “Now please, come back with me. I don’t want to force you.”

“Then don’t,” Corbin said starkly, her teeth gritted. “Let go of me, and leave me be.” She exhaled deeply, her breath frosting the frigid air. “I want to be with him, Ainsley. That’s all I want. That’s all I need. Anything else… I… I can’t, I just…”

“You are not going anywhere except back to the castle. That is all,” Ainsley told her, doing his best to keep his voice even and measured. Without even waiting for her to reply, he started walking back towards his horse, dragging her behind him by her arm.

Corbin quailed, attempting to dig her heels into the ground beneath. But against the snow and ice, she was unable to find any purchase. Frustrated, she let out a sound that was halfway between a whimper and a squawk, her voice a tremulous blade as she shrieked, “Let go of me! You brute, let go!”

He turned back to her, shooting her a glare. “And leave you to freeze to death, Corbin? Not a chance in the ‘Pit,” Ainsley hissed, continuing to drag her after him.

Clearly sensing that she could not physically outmatch her husband, Corbin debated for a brief moment before switching tactics yet again: Without any warning, she went deadweight in Ainsley’s grip, bearing down toward the icy ground beneath.

Though a lifetime of Bernian winters had taught him how to walk on ice and snow, Ainsley was not prepared for the sudden loss of balance that Corbin’s fall had caused. He barely had time to react, tightening his grip on Corbin and throwing out his free hand to cushion his fall. Nevertheless, both of them fell into the snow together.

A tiny scowl formed on his face. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed at her. Removing his free hand, he wiped the snow off his glasses, shooting Corbin a glare. “Your tantrum will get you, me and the baby killed.”

He shifted himself up on to his knees and stood up, lifting up her arm with him. With his other hand, he grasped her below the shoulder and lifted her up to her feet. “Woo, I had no idea you could be this selfish.”

“Selfish?” she snarled, trying to thrash herself free again. “I’m selfish? You’re the one who’s trying to drag me back to the castle against my will! I told you to leave me. That you won’t makes you selfish, not me! Now let go!”

Ainsley ground his teeth together. Reason and logic were useless on her when she was like this. Instead, he gripped her tighter, latching on to her like a wolf to a prey animal and resumed dragging her back to his horse.

The sound of another rider, however, forced him to look up. For a second, there seemed to be nobody there. Had he just imagined it? No, he had not. Peering out into the snow, the Stallion heir could just make out a white shape, more solid than the blizzard around him. As the shape approached, he soon realised why he had trouble seeing him: the knight was clothed completely in white winter armour and had an equally pale horse to match. His cloak flapped slightly in the breeze, exposing the wolf fur in its lining, and if he wanted to look closer, no doubt he would see the wolfhound emblazoned upon the man’s glove.

“Your Grace,” the man saluted. “Grand Duke Emil sent us to search for you and Lady Corbin once he heard you had both run off,” he raised an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?”

“No. I require help taking her back,” Ainsley shook his head, giving Corbin a sharp, sideways glance before turning back to the knight. “Help me get her on to my horse.”

“Yes, your Grace,” the knight replied, climbing off his horse and walking over. Ainsley, meanwhile, shifted around to grab Corbin by the shoulders.

“Take her legs,” he ordered.

At hearing this command, Corbin let out a noise that was barely human, wrenching so hard against Ainsley that she might as well have been but a caught fish flopping on a line. “Don’t you dare touch me!” she growled to the knight. Then, to Ainsley: “You wretched oaf, what are you going to do, tie me up like a roasting pig?”

The Stallion pondered this for a second. “If it will stop you struggling,” he turned his eyes up to the knight. “Do you have a cord or rope that we could use?”

“Your Grace, you can’t be-”

“I am serious. I have had enough. The only thing I care about now is getting her back to the castle,” Ainsley replied, continuing to stare straight at the knight. “Now do it.”

The other man nodded and dashed over to his horse, searching his saddlebags while Ainsley tightened his grip on Corbin to stop her struggling. Eventually, the other knight returned, carrying a length of rope.

“Will this do, your Grace?” he asked, holding it out.

“Yes,” Ainsley pressed down on Corbin’s arms, pinning them against her torso. “Tie her up and then hoist her on to my horse. And ignore any of her protests,” he peered at the knight over his glasses. “That is the order and you will obey.”

The man nodded, acknowledging him and unwound the rope, tying it tightly around Corbin. As he nimbly looped it, her adrenaline suddenly gave way to something else altogether: terror. Memories flickered in her mind, cold as the blustery wind, seizing her like a vise. She let out a gasp, strangled and jagged, and went very, very still, tears flowing freely from her vivid green eyes. For the first time since she’d fled she realized just how godsdamned cold it truly was out here, and almost automatically, her body gave a heavy shudder.

“Ainsley.” The fire, the vitriol, was gone from her tone now, replaced instead with a tremulous, miserable desperation. “Ainsley, p-please don’t tie me up. Please.”

He ground his teeth together as she pleaded with him. Her voice sounded genuine but he was not yet ready to trust her sudden change of heart, not when she was fighting and struggling just a short while ago. Instead, he pressed her against him and gripped her tighter, partly to keep her from suddenly fighting back and partly to prevent her from shivering.

After what seemed like far too long, the knight tied the knot in the rope and stepped back as though to admire his handiwork, though there was no pleasure in his eyes at what he did.

“What now?” he asked.

Ainsley started walking forward with Corbin, partly pushing her along, back towards the horse. The knight followed after him, waiting for any further instructions from the Stallion heir should the latter choose to give them.

Finally, they approached the stallion, who had stood still during the whole ordeal just as he has been trained. A small mercy, Ainsley supposed. He turned back to the knight. “Help me get her up.”

He lifted her up by the shoulders while the knight held her legs, somehow getting her into the saddle. Without wasting further time, Ainsley climbed up in behind her. For extra security, he unstrapped his belt and looped it in between the ropes, tying them together in case she decided to be dead weight and fall off. A part of him prayed it would not occur to her to do so, especially with the baby, but after all that happened, he did not trust her.

He wiped the snow off his glasses again and unpinned the cloak from around his shoulders. Immediately, a blast of cold air hit his back, making him wince and shudder, but he could cope. Corbin, however, was a different story.

Ainsley wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and gripped the reins of his horse, the action also managing to trap her between his arms. Without another word, he turned the stallion around and nudged its flank, setting it off in a trot back towards the castle with the knight following behind.

Corbin slumped against him, shivering again in spite of the cloak. Gloveless, her fingers had gone nearly numb, and her cheeks stung from the bitter wind. Inside her belly, she could feel the baby kick, and the movement made a sick feeling rise in the back of her throat. A baby. Gods, how could she have a baby? Brendan was gone. Her boy was gone! The idea of raising a new child in his place-- a child who would never meet him, never know him, never be him…

She let out a pitiful whimper, barely fighting back the urge to vomit as Ainsley spurred the horse over the ice-slicked bridge that separated Destrier’s western and eastern halves. “Please,” she moaned miserably to her husband. “Please, when we g-get home untie me. Please.”

“I will, Corbin,” Ainsley replied, not failing to notice how defeated she seemed. Good. He did not care what methods he ended up using as long as she gave up on her attempts to die out in the snow. Woo knew he could not manage that, not so soon after Brendan’s death. There had barely even been time to grieve for his son.

They ascended back up the hill towards the castle, passing through the gates and emerging into the courtyard. Ainsley pulled his horse to a halt and undid the belt that held him and Corbin together. Once he had done that, he climbed off the Stallion and carefully lifted his wife down on to the ground, wrapping an arm around her both to support her and to make sure she did not run away.

“Take the horses to the stables,” he ordered the knight pulling up behind them. Restraining the urge to shiver violently from the cold, he rushed up the steps leading to the front entrance and swung open the door. Warmth embraced them both and Ainsley audibly sighed with relief. He hated the cold.

“Ainsley! Corbin! Thank Woo, I was so worried. I even sent men after you when I heard you’d run off,” Emil leapt out of the chair he had been sitting in, rushing over to them both. His cloudy-blue eyes immediately ran over them, taking in the snow clinging to them both and lingering in particular on the ropes. When he finally looked up, his gaze had hardened significantly. “What happened?”

“She refused to go back, father. I had to force her,” Ainsley replied calmly, though his eyes dashed back and forth. “Where is the nearest fireplace? She needs to be warmed up as soon as possible.”

“You should untie her first, Ainsley,” the Grand Duke replied, his eyes narrowing. “I doubt Corbin appreciates it.”

“And if she tries to escape?” Ainsley’s voice hitched.

“She won’t, look at her,” Emil gestured with his hand towards Corbin. “Now untie her.”

The younger Stallion nodded, removed his gloves and leaned down, digging his fingers into the knot. However, he had not escaped the ravages of the cold completely. Even though he had gone out more protected, his fingers still felt stiff and numb. He did not even want to imagine how much worse Corbin felt.

Finally, however, he managed to work the knot out and the rope fell away from her. Ainsley picked it up, winding it around his arm and making a mental note to give it back to the knight later. Emil, meanwhile, put a careful hand on Corbin’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently. “Are you hurt?”

Corbin wrenched away from Emil’s touch like he’d burned her. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed, her eyes gone bloodshot from the tears that still flowed down her cheeks. Trembling, she ran a hand over the indent left on her wrist by the rope’s pressure, dark, long-haunting memories once again flaring in her mind. “I want to be alone,” she added miserably. “Please.”

Emil pulled his hand away from Corbin, visibly wincing as he noticed the indent of the rope. However, soon, he turned to Ainsley, his hands behind his back and his eyes stopping short of glowing with the intensity of his glare.

“You should not have done that, Ainsley,” he replied, his voice carrying a distinct edge.

The younger Stallion involuntarily flinched at the sudden harshness of his father. “Why not?”

“Think about it; who do you usually want to stop from escaping? A prisoner,” Emil’s gaze swept over them both. “Something you might have forgotten that Corbin has been.”

Ainsley’s eyes widened with shock as the realisation hit him like a slap in the face. “Oh Woo....” he murmured, turning to his wife. “I’m sorry. I did not realise…I should have realised,” he rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. “Please forgive me. That was stupid.”

“You can choke on your apology,” Corbin managed tersely, as she fought back an involuntary shudder. “What you did is just further proof that you only ever think of yourself.” She bit down on her lip so hard that it drew blood. “Now leave me alone. I want to be alone.”

“So you can run off to die in the snow again?” Ainsley hissed, his eyes growing steely. “And you call me selfish, Corbin? You think you’re the only one hurt by Brendan’s death? Do you want to put everyone through twice the amount of grief? To say nothing of the child you’re carrying inside you-”

“Ainsley,” Emil cut him off before sighing and turning to Corbin. “I doubt he was thinking clearly. But neither are you, by the sounds of it,” he swept aside, gesturing at a door leading off to one of the sitting rooms. “There is a fire prepared. You both should go warm yourselves up before...anything happens..”

The younger Stallion could only nod. A shiver ran down his back as he realised that he was still cold, despite having come into the castle. And Corbin, Woo, if she got frostbite...

He swallowed, deciding not to think about that. Putting one hand around her shoulder, though gently this time, not forcefully as he had done outside near the cathedral, he began to lead Corbin through, with Emil following on their heels.

They entered a small antechamber lit up by a roaring fire burning in the stone hearth in the centre. Standing guard around it were several armchairs, towards which Ainsley directed his wife. Without waiting for a word from her, he pushed her down into one of them. There was no point in asking her anymore, she would have protested anyway. Once she was seated, he kneeled down in front of her and took her hand. Despite the fact that they had been inside for a while, it was still icy-cold, and bringing it closer to the light revealed a sickly blue tinge.

He opened his mouth to speak before closing it again. There was no point trying to reason with her. Instead, Ainsley focused on massaging some warmth and life back into her fingers.

“Ainsley.” Her voice was jagged. “Stop touching me. Please. If you won’t leave me alone, then please, for the love of the gods, just give me space.” But when she noticed the unnatural cast to her fingers, her stomach gave a nauseous flutter. In his coffin, would Brendan look so wrong and pale? “You should have just left me,” Corbin murmured. “Ainsley, gods, why didn’t you leave me?”

He did not look up at her, forcing himself to concentrate on the movement of his hands to warm her up. “We’ve already lost Brendan. I don’t want to lose any more of my family,” Ainsley replied with barely a waver to his already unnaturally calm voice. “That’s why I can’t leave you. If I go, I don’t know what you will do.”

“You’re still touching me,” she hissed. “Stop. Please, stop.”

Her husband shook his head. “You need to get your fingers warm again. If you don’t-”

“Ainsley, leave her alone,” Emil told him, the edge in his voice indicating this was not a request.

The younger Stallion looked up at him, startled. “Father-”

“She asked you not to touch her. Preventing frostbite is the physician’s job, not yours,” Emil sighed, keeping his eyes squarely on his son. “I understand you want to help but right now, you’re better off fetching Chervil and letting him take care of things. Please.”

Ainsley gritted his teeth together, glancing between his wife and his father, even as the latter continued to watch him hawkishly. Eventually, his shoulders slumped and he pushed himself away from the armchair and on to his feet. Without giving either of them another look, he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Little Cuts- Part 3

SPOILER: Click to show

An almost palpable wave of relief swept over Emil once Ainsley had gone. He pulled up a chair next to Corbin, stretching out a hand to touch one of the armrests near her. “Is that better?”

She nodded shortly. “Yes. Thank you.” A beat, as she once again trailed a numb finger over the marks left by the rope binding. “I suppose if I asked you to leave, though, you’d refuse?”

“That’s right,” the Grand Duke nodded and sighed. “I am sorry about Ainsley. I’m sure he meant well but he is not thinking clearly at all. I can’t blame him but....”

Emil turned his eyes back up to her. “You’re not doing that great either. I know losing anybody you love, let alone a child, is difficult. But running out in the snow, especially in your condition…why, Corbin?”

“Because I don’t want to live if he’s gone,” she replied plainly, as though she were merely talking about what sort of wine she might like with dinner. “I can’t live if he’s gone. Babies and little children… they die sometimes. It just… it happens. Like with Connall.” Her and Ainsley’s third-born had llived for only a few brief months. “But with Brendan…” She shook her head, a fresh set of tears pricking in her already-bloodshot eyes. “I can’t picture waking up every morning for the rest of my life knowing that he’s dead. Knowing that if only I’d… I’d noticed his cut, if only I’d been more careful, if only I’d been a b-better mother, he’d still be alive. Don’t you understand, Emil? He was my son. And I didn’t notice. I didn’t notice, and now he’s dead, and…”

“Shh, Corbin, I understand. I know what that’s like. But you have to realise that it is not your fault. All of us should have been more careful and kept a better eye on him, but Brendan was clever and hid things from everyone deliberately. You could not have known,” Emil shook his head. “But giving up on life without him…”

The Grand Duke’s eyes became hollow and distant, staring off somewhere unknown to anybody but him. “You never met my dad; he died a few years before you arrived. But after my mother died, he ended up like you now: without the will to live,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead beneath his circlet. “And watching him spiral down like that was torture.”

“So what, then?” Corbin hissed. “I’m supposed to pretend as if I’m okay for everyone else’s sake? I’m supposed to give birth to this new baby and love it and raise it, just so that I can maybe lose it one day, too? I can’t, Emil. I can’t. It’s not even that I don’t want to: I can’t.” Her eyes falling to her lap, Corbin hesitated before continuing, “And Ainsley… I can’t be near him. N-not after what he did. Not after he…” She forced a ragged breath. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t understand. What he did to get me back here… what he was willing to do to me...”

Emil’s hand slipped down the bridge of his nose before he trained his gaze back on Corbin. “Ainsley’s methods were extreme and what he did was wrong on many levels. I will not blame you for not being around him for a while. But you should at least understand that this is what grief does to him; it blinkers him, makes him push everything aside in order to focus on one specific goal. And that goal in this case was no doubt to protect you and the baby, to prevent you going the same way as Brendan.”

He sighed. “I’m not expecting you to pretend, or to be okay within a few days or even months. I’ve lost people, I know grief lasts a while. Right now, it seems like the end of the world, but you should not completely give up and lose all hope,” his hand slipped closer to her, though he was careful not to touch her unless she wanted that contact. “If it’s too hard to do alone, let us help you.”

Anything else he was going to say was interrupted when the door opened. Ainsley walked in, with the physician following him. His pace quickened as he approached Corbin and Emil but the Grand Duke stood up from his chair, blocking his path.

“Let Chervil take a look at her. You’ve done enough for today, Ainsley,” he told him before nodding the physician.

Wordlessly, Chervil strode over to Corbin, kneeling close to the fire beside her. His eyebrows snapped together when he saw the clothes she was wearing, utterly soaked from when she’d fallen into the snow with Ainsley. “Great Woo, why is she-” He looked around to Ainsley and Emil. “Someone needs to be sent for a change of clothes. Now. She’d be better off naked than wearing what she’s wearing.” Turning to Corbin and pulling off his own cloak he added, “Here, you can use this for now, but you need to change out of the wet things.”

Emil glanced sideways at Ainsley. “You heard him. Go get her warmest things from her room.”

“Why do I have to?” Ainsley replied, his voice carrying an edge. “We can simply send a servant for it.”

“Because it will give you something to do, Ainsley, away from Corbin,” the Grand Duke stated, folding his arms. “Go.”

His eyes narrowed behind his glasses but the younger Stallion could see there was no point arguing with his father now. Wordlessly, he skulked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. In the chair, Corbin shrunk back from the physician as he held his cloak out toward her, pursing her lips into a waspish scowl.

“I’m fine in these, thanks,” she said thinly. “I’m not ill. I don’t need your assistance. You can go, Doctor Allendale.”

“All due respect, Lady Corbin, but a physician has the authority to countermand the orders of a noble if they deem that noble incapable of rational decision making,” he replied, his voice firm and implacable but not without sympathy. “I was trained to save lives, not watch them slip away. Wet clothes off. Now.”

“I’ll turn around to let you change if you wish but you’re not leaving this room until we are both convinced that you are not going to freeze. Do it, Corbin,” Emil’s tone indicated that this was not negotiable.

Corbin balked for a moment, still glowering, before a quick glance down at the marks on her wrist reminded her of what had happened the last time she’d resisted a command. Fury, white hot and raw, flared through her, but with a quavering throat, she forced it away.

“Fine,” she hissed, her hands trembling as she yanked off Ainsley’s snow-soaked cloak. It came off easily, but her numb, preternaturally pale fingers fumbled as they reached the buttons of her dress. As she did, Emil turned around, examining the wall opposite him with great intensity. Wordlessly, Chervil reached up and gently pushed her pale hands aside to perform this office for her.

“Breathe on your hands to warm them,” he said softly. “Don’t rub. The friction will chap your skin even worse. I have some aloe in my bag, I’ll apply it in a few minutes.”

“Can you make the rope burn go away?” Corbin murmured, her movements almost mechanical as she brought her hands beneath her mouth. “I just… I just want that to go away. I don’t care about anything else, but that, I…”

“Rope burns?” Chervil repeated, looking more closely at her hands. He hissed softly when he saw the angry red marks on her wrists. “Woo, what-?”

“Ainsley wanted to get her back home by any means necessary. When Corbin refused, he tied her up and took her back by force,” Emil said, still keeping his eyes averted. “Anything you can do for her about those, Chervil?”

Chervil scowled slightly but kept his opinions on Ainsley’s actions to himself. “I can’t will them away- I’m no Corvid healer-mage. But I’ll clean them and bandage them. I’m sorry, Lady Corbin.” He gently tapped her shoulder, still draped as it was with wet cloth. “But you still need to take your wet clothes off first.”

Swallowing back the objection that wanted to ratchet through her lips, Corbin obliged, revealing damp and pale skin beneath that was closer to the colour of the snow outside than its usual Courdonian bronze. “I don’t feel that cold,” she whispered, unable to tamp back a cringe as the baby kicked inside her. Woo, she didn’t want to think about the baby. “I k-know I should, and I did, but now I… I don’t, really. So I think I’m okay.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Chervil replied, though internally he was cursing. Not just a chill then, but hypothermia. He might’ve guessed. Under normal circumstances he’d treat a chill by getting her to walk around to warm herself up, but if she was going into hypothermia movement was the last thing she needed. Turning to Emil he said in a voice that was deceptively light. “I’ll need blankets- as many as the servants can spare. Lay some on the floor by the fire, but not too close. The rest she’ll cover up with. I also need something warm brought up for her to drink- preferably something sugary, but by all the feathers in the Woo’s wings nothing alcoholic.”

“Tea then. I’ll get those arranged,” Emil turned, still keeping his eyes averted and opened the door, poking his head out of it. Flagging down a passing servant, he relayed Chervil’s instructions to her before closing the door again. “Hopefully these will get here quickly,” he said, his voice leaden. A part of him wished that Ainsley had gotten her back sooner but he doubted Corbin would appreciate the thought.

Chervil nodded, turning his attention back to Corbin. He draped his own dry cloak over her shoulders, then reached into his bag for a jar of thick, transparent goo. “This is the aloe. I’m going to apply it wherever the wind got to your skin- though given how lightly you were dressed I may have to apply it to your whole body. It’ll help prevent the frostbite from getting any worse. And it should also help with the pain from the rope burns.” He dipped his fingers in the jar, and gently began to apply the stuff to Corbin’s wrists. She gave no indication that she felt it at all, only clenching her jaw and staring straight ahead. As he continued to medicate her skin the physician added, “It would be too much of a shock for her system right now, but if you could have some servants take a few blankets and pack them with stones in the sauna, that will go a long way towards helping warm her once her body temperature is back into a safe range.”

“Once the blankets get here, I’ll make sure that some of them are sent to be warmed,” Emil stated. “Is there anything el-”

His head whipped around just as the door opened. Ainsley stepped back in, carrying a bundle of clothes under his arm. He quirked his eyebrow at the sight that was in front of him but gave no other indication of any emotion, only striding forward and handing the clothes to Chervil.

“That’s her warmest dress, a cloak and everything else,” he informed the physician. “That should be enough.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” Chervil said crisply, taking the clothing from him. In a somewhat scathing tone he added, “Is there anywhere else on your wife’s body besides her wrists I should look for rope burns, while you’re here?”

“She got burned by the rope too?” Ainsley sounded genuinely surprised before lowering his eyes, seeming to wince. “Only the skin on her wrists was exposed to it. Everything else should be alright…” he glanced at Corbin, though he immediately looked away.

“Ainsley,” Emil spoke up, making his son turn his head towards him. “If you can find the servants fetching blankets, ask them to put some of them into the sauna to warm them up.”

“No, father. I’ve had enough of running errands. I should stay here with my wife,” the younger Stallion replied, looking back at Corbin.

“You will go, Ainsley. You’ve done enough damage for today and right now, you are better off running errands that will help instead of doing what you only think will help,” Emil did not even mask his tone of disapproval.

“Damage?” Ainsley gasped. “I know what I did was wrong but I...I brought Corbin back, I tried to warm her up-”

“You brought her back in ropes, Ainsley, and if you remember, rubbing is the worst way to treat frostbite. Whatever your intentions were and whether you like it not, that won’t be undone easily. And if you were thinking clearly, you would have realised all that,” the Grand Duke’s voice carried a steely edge. “Now, you will do as I say or I will have your mother lock you in your room to pace and fret instead of doing something useful to take your mind off this.”

He stiffened at the sudden rebuke before swallowing and nodding, dashing off without another word. Emil watched him leave and only when the door slammed shut again did he close his eye and rub his head. “Woo…”

“She warned him,” Chervil muttered darkly, his face and voice revealing something of the strain he was still feeling after days of sleeplessly tending Brendan. “Lady Lucrezia warned him not to try and play cool and collected about this. He shouldn’t have chased after Lady Corbin himself, for all his lip about pragmatism he’s not thinking any more rationally than she is.”

The Grand Duke smiled a little. “Perceptive as always, that’s her. She’s his mother, she’d know exactly how he was going to react. I only wish he’d have listened to her,” Emil continued to rub his eyes. “He’s just lost a son, of course he would not be thinking clearly, and I understand wanting to do something, but he didn’t have to do...all that.”

He sighed deeply. “And you’re left to clean up this mess after all the trouble with Brendan. I’m sorry, Chervil.”

“It’s not like I wasn’t expecting something of the sort,” he remarked tiredly. “I told him that too. But I am not watching another patient waste away today.” Turning his attention back to Corbin, Chervil knelt beside her and offered her the dry clothing. “I’ll help you get this on. Try not to move around too much, you don’t want to let too much body heat escape. Once you’re dressed I’ll wrap the wounds on your wrists, and hopefully by that time the servants will have returned with the blankets.”

“Fine,” she murmured hollowly. “I’ll do what you say. I w-won’t fight you. But I…” She flicked her gaze to Emil. “I don’t want to see him again, Emil. Ainsley. At all. If he shows up again-- if he tries to see me--” Cutting herself off, she shook her head. “Keep him away from me. Not just t-tonight, but… for as long as I say.”

“I’ll do my best, and I pray that he realises how badly he’s hurt you, but you can’t ignore him forever, Corbin. He’s going to want to apologise,” the Grand Duke replied with a shake of his head before lifting it back up. “For now, you need to try to get better. The hypothermia can be fixed but grief takes longer, though neither are incurable. You just have to try, and let us help you. Me, Lucrezia, Sorrel and everyone else.”

***

Emil remained true to his word. A separate room was arranged for Corbin and the option was given to have her meals brought to her in order to let her stay away from Ainsley. If the Duke himself had made any move to get close to her and apologise, there had been no sign of it yet. In the days following Corbin’s escape out into the cold, she barely saw hide nor hair of her husband. For all intents and purposes, Ainsley had disappeared from Corbin’s life, even if it was only temporary.

Meanwhile, the entire castle settled into an atmosphere of mourning. Life went on as normal, it had to, but there were signs here and there that not all was right in the Stallion household. Black hung over the stone walls and black crept into the vibrant reds and silvers that normally clothed the family. The servants rushed around with bowed heads and the family walked around with red, tear-filled eyes. On occasion, undertakers was glimpsed in the corridors, their presence as ominous as a circling carrion bird, not letting anybody forget the tragedy that had occurred, at least until after the funeral was all arranged.

Corbin, for her part, did not want to think about the funeral. She took up Emil’s offer to have her meals brought into the guest chamber she’d requisitioned, but she hardly wanted to touch so much as a single scrap of bread. In the end, the Grand Duke had to coax her into consuming enough to merely subsist, and even though logically Corbin knew that he meant well, gods, how she hated him for it. She spent a lot of time sleeping, even more time crying, and far too much effort and energy cursing Ainsley in her head. Wishing that he hadn’t dragged her back here. Wishing that he’d simply let her go, no matter what such a move would have entailed.

It had been four days since Brendan’s death when the door to Corbin’s temporary chamber creaked open in the middle of the night. She was asleep for once, but it was a light slumber, and she snapped upward at the sound.

“Who’s there?” she hissed into the darkness, praying to the gods that it wasn’t Ainsley.

“Me, mummy,” a small boy peeled himself away from the door and wandered over to her bedside. In the pale moonlight, it was barely possible to make out the deep red colour of his hair, identical to hers, but the grey eyes that peered up at her were a perfect match for Ainsley’s.

“Grandpa told me you were here but he said not to disturb you,” Sorrel bit his lip and sniffled. “But I can’t sleep, mummy, and I can’t find daddy and it’s cold.”

Corbin’s heart stopped beating quite so violently in her chest. Sorrel. It was only Sorrel. A sudden spike of guilt flared in her as she realized she’d not seen her son in days. “Come here, honey,” she said, her voice catching. “You can sleep with Mummy. We can keep each other warm, okay?”

“Okay,” Sorrel murmured. His hands gripped the edge of the bed and he pulled himself up on to it, crawling over to Corbin and lying down beside her like a dog next to its master. He threw his arms around his mother, clinging to her tightly and giving off another sniffle. “Did you miss me? I missed you, mummy.”

Had she missed him? Gods, until now, she’d been so lost in her haze of grief she’d hardly even thought of him, and at this realization, yet another surge of guilt bowled into her. “Of course,” she lied, not bothering to swallow back the knot in her throat. “Mummy’s missed you a whole bunch. I’m sorry I haven’t seen you, honey. I’ve just been…” She struggled for a moment. “... Sick. I’ve just been sick.”

“Grandpa said that too. Is it the baby? Is the baby making you sick?” Sorrel nuzzled against her, shivering a little. “Maybe you shouldn’t have the baby if it’s making you sick. I don’t want you to be sick, mummy.”

“It’s not the baby,” Corbin murmured, knowing better than to mention the fact that she wished she didn’t have to have the baby, too. “Don’t worry about me, love. I’ll be okay.” She drew her arms around him, nesting her chin in the crown of his ruffled hair. “You shouldn’t be wandering the castle this late at night, though,” she whispered. “I don’t like you listing about in the dark.”

“I’m sorry, mummy. But I couldn’t sleep and I was scared and it was cold,” Sorrel whimpered. He reached out and grabbed her blanket, pulling it over them both. “Can I stay here? I don’t like my room anymore, it’s too quiet.”

“Yes, you can stay,” Corbin said, sighing. “And hopefully we can both get some sleep, honey.”

“Thank you, mummy,” Sorrel murmured, shifting under the blanket to get a comfortable spot. “I miss Brendan. Grandpa said he’s gone and so did daddy. I want him to come back.”

Corbin had to blink very rapidly to keep from bursting into tears. “I wish he could come back, too,” she said softly. “But he’s gone to be with the Woo, Sorrel. So he can’t come back. But you’ll see him again one day, okay? After you’ve grown and lived a long and happy life.” She didn’t believe this, not really; her conversion to Wooism had only ever been a gloss move, at best. But maybe it could bring a measure of comfort to Sorrel, and gods knew her son seemed as though he needed every bit of solace he could get right now.

“But I want to see him now,” the boy whimpered, looking up at her. “Why does the Woo need him so much that I can’t see him now? Why do I have to grow up first?”

Part of Corbin thought that perhaps she should give Sorrel a canned, flowery response. A soliloquy about everything happening for a reason, that the Woo must have plans for Brendan. But she couldn’t force herself to say such saccharine words. Promising her son that he and his brother would reunite one day was one thing. Carrying on as if it was okay that Brendan was gone? This was a far more unpalatable beast.

So instead, the woman merely stroked a hand through her son’s hair, tenderly. “I don’t know, sweetie,” she admitted. “It’s not very fair, is it? But you still have me. And Papa, and your grandparents. And we all miss Brendan, and we’ll all get through this together.”

He shifted slightly, moving his head into her touch. “Everyone is sad though. Papa is sad, grandma and grandpa are sad, auntie is sad, you’re sad...and I’m sad,” Sorrel gave off a small sob as though to emphasise the point. “I don’t want everyone to be sad. I want things to be just like they were, with you and daddy and everyone.”

“I know,” Corbin said, a lump rising in her throat. “I wish they could be like they were, too. But they can’t be. And we’ll just have to get through it, okay?” Her own jaw trembling, she smoothed the blankets around her son and leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Get some sleep, Sorrel. And I’ll get some, too. Mummy will be right here for you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

The boy tried to smile weakly at her and wrapped his arms around his mother, closing his eyes. After a few moments though, he shivered and sniffed again. “I won’t be able to sleep, mummy. I keep trying but I can’t,” he bit his lip, staring at her. “Could you...tell me a story?”

With a sigh, Corbin nodded, considering for a moment before selecting a tale she remembered from her own childhood: a simple Carriconic parable about a raven and a small girl (although for Sorrel now, Corbin amended this to a little boy), simple at its face but that in its core message painted the values of faith and family. She started first in Kythian, but after a few lines she stumbled, the words sounding all wrong translated into the northern tongue. Throughout their childhoods, Corbin had spoken to both of her boys enough in her native language that they were very nearly fluent in it, and still stroking Sorrel’s hair, the woman softly switched over to Courdonian.

Sorrel listened with his eyes wide open for a while, kept enrapt by the story. However, as the story wore on, his eyelids grew heavier and his breathing slowed down. He leaned into Corbin’s chest, still keeping his arms wrapped tightly around her. “You won’t leave me, mummy, will you?” he murmured before closing his eyes and relaxing his grip on her, falling fast asleep.

“No,” Corbin whispered, more to herself than her slumbering son. “I won’t leave you, Sorrel. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since Brendan’s death, the woman truly meant it.

[Celestial]

I don't really know what to say about this aside from it was mostly written as practice but I decided to post it anyway. It's always best to start at the beginning.

Lost and Found

SPOILER: Click to show

The unrelenting rain had finally ceased but it had come far too late to prevent the devastation that it had wrought. Debris floated on the murky waters of what had once been the Kingfisher River, with wood and straw scattered alike all over its surface, carried by invisible currents to unknown destinations. The tops of houses that had somehow survived the rage of the flood poked out from the water, a grim reminder of how this had once been a thriving village. But the sudden, harsh rains that were the hallmark of summer in the region had drowned whatever life it had. Amidst the floodwaters, however, a man was rowing along a small boat, much like a barge, carrying a woman dressed in green and gold, a wand at her side. They had departed as soon as the rains had stopped and now, they surveyed the damage, looking for any life that had clung on despite the flood washing it away.

Something floated alongside the flat-bottomed craft, making the two turn their heads. A body floated face down in the water, unmoving. Both of them grimaced. The man standing up on the back of the boat pulled up the pole he was using to propel it and thrust it down on to the other side, turning the boat towards the corpse. His companion, however, turned to him and shook her head.

“Leave her,” she said. “That’s not our duty.”

“Ma’am,” the rower frowned. “With all due respect, doesn’t she deserve a proper burial?”

“Yes, but we can’t waste time with bodies,” the woman’s tone was heavy. She looked down at the floor of the boat, clutching the wand in her right hand tighter. “At least, not dead ones.”

“Still,” he glanced back at the corpse that was floating away on the current. “It feels wrong, just letting her wash away.”

“We need to save space for anybody we can help,” she sighed deeply. “She is with the Lord Woo, beyond the reach of any magic.”

The man narrowed his eyes but pulled the pole back up, steering the vessel in the opposite direction from the corpse. As they pulled away, the woman raised the triple feather pendant that hung on the cord around her neck to her lips in a gesture of prayer, closing her eyes.

He also bowed his head, joining her silently in the prayer before remarking “A lady like you shouldn’t be out here, seeing such things.”

She lowered the Woocifix and turned back to him, her shoulders slumping. “House Jade sent me here. These people need all the mages they can spare.”

“That we do, I can’t deny that,” it was the man’s turn to sigh as he looked around the scene around them. “What did we do to deserve such a punishment?”

“Who knows? The Lord Woo has his own reasons for doing things, reasons we should not question,” she replied. “The least we can do is help those who have been spared.”

“I know, ma’am,” he pushed the pole down deeper into the ground beneath the water. “Except we’ve been out here for hours. I’m starting to think we’re not going to find anyone.”

“But we cannot give up hope!” the mage woman cried, her head jerking up to look directly at ahead of them. “There have to be survivors somewhere.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” the rower said quietly, his tone betraying his scepticism and resignation. He continued to drive the boat further, towards a copse of trees. With their thick trunks covered by the water, the only thing that remained were the green leafy canopies of branches stretching up to the sky, trying to snatch even a drop of sunlight that would have snuck past the low clouds.

The mage woman pushed herself on to her knees and leaned against the stern of the boat, scanning the horizon ahead. Ever since they had arrived here, the Jade mages had their work cut out searching and healing the survivors of the flood. Even though she had plenty of rest and sugar to help with its effects, she could nevertheless feel the pull lingering in her fingers, distracting and uncomfortable as the ache of a bruise. The weight of the thankless task she was engaged in hardly helped matters. So far, they had found more corpses than living people. The souls of the dead were with the Woo now but that hardly made up for the pain of their loss, especially to any surviving family that they might have.

She shook her head. No, she could not let herself be distracted by that. Looking back to the trees, the mage continued her vigil.

For a single moment, in the corner of her eye, there was a flash of white in the trees before it disappeared. The woman blinked, sharply turning her head towards where she thought she saw the light. It was too brief to be magic and magic was usually green anyway. Was she just seeing things?

No, there it was again. A tiny orb of white light floated like a soap bubble amongst some of the branches, swirling around something before disappearing again. In the dull, leaden light that barely precipitated through the heavy clouds, the pure white glow stood out like a beacon. And it looked like...

The boat rocked dangerously and the woman threw herself back in order to keep it from capsizing. Waves slapping against the sides threatened to drown the small craft in dirty water.

“Careful!” the rower shouted, kneeling down and bracing himself against the hull. “What is it that’s worth plunging us into the river too?”

“I think there’s somebody there!” she pointed towards the tree which she had been peering at. The man carefully stood up, keeping his balance on the still-swaying craft, and narrowed his eyes, trying to peer through the mist that lingered over the landscape.

“What makes you say that, ma’am?” he frowned.

“Lights. There are white lights in that tree and they look like...” she looked back at her guide. “Do you know what happens when a child discovers magic?”

He pondered.”I don’t, no.”

“Sometimes they change the colour of things. Other times,” the mage-woman swallowed, “They make lights. Lights that look exactly like those ones.”

“You think..? Oh no,” the man drew in a sharp gasp and with renewed vigour began to push the boat towards the trees. The woman leaned forward on the stern, though she was careful this time not to go too far over the edge. Her hand tightened around her wand. Oh Woo, please, don’t let them be injured...

She could see multiple tiny lights now, hovering like fireflies around a vague shape on the branches. From a distance, it would have been hard to distinguish it from a large gall on the tree but as they drew close, the features of the person clinging to the tree came into focus. As she had suspected, it was a child, a boy judging by the length of his hair and the clothes that clung to him, soaked to an identical shade of black by the floodwaters. Droplets ran down from his body and fell into the brown swill below. He could not have been any older than four or five, if that. His pale arms and legs had wrapped around the tree’s limb, clinging to it for dear life against the current that had threatened to rise up and swallow him. His head, however, he had pressed into the branch as though it was his mother’s skirt he was trying desperately to hide in. So focused he was on clinging to whatever safety he could muster that he did not even seem to notice the approaching boat. At least, he did not open his tightly shut eyes, let alone look up from his perch.

The woman’s heart clenched with pity as they drew close. From here, she could hear the boy’s frantic gasps for breath but aside from that, he was not crying or whimpering like a normal child his age would. There were no obvious injuries either to indicate that he was silent due to any pain. His injuries might have been internal, but even so, that much agony would make a child scream, not keep his head down and stay silent as though he was in church.

Or maybe he had seen so much that there was simply no breath in his lungs to scream anymore. Woo, for a child to have to witness this...

She glanced back at her companion. “Do you recognise him?”

“No. I didn’t have many dealings with the villagers here, let alone their children,” he replied with a shake of his head.

The rower pushed the pole into the silt below, trying to halt the boat as close to the tree as he dared. For a moment, it threatened to slip out from under him and he dug his heels into the hull to stop its momentum. The mage-woman, however, barely noticed this. She stood up, throwing out her arms so that she would not lose her balance in the rocking craft, slowly making her way over to the child.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, you’re safe now,” she said to the boy in as comforting a tone as she could muster. He barely seemed to react, only closing his eyes tighter. The woman frowned but, after holstering her wand, carefully reached out to him, her fingers working under his to try to pluck the boy from the limb of the tree. Instead of letting go, however, he curled tighter around it, giving off a tiny whimper that sounded like ‘no’. His violent shivering, however, made the branch shake. From his hands emerged another white light.

The woman swallowed, gazing at the boy with obvious sympathy. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to rescue you,” she lowered her tone. “I’m Klara, my companion is Eli. What’s your name?”

No reply. He continued to shiver, grinding his jaw together to stop his teeth from chattering.

“Poor child. He must be scared out of his mind right now,” Eli remarked, stepping down from the stern of the boat to join Klara, feeling the balance of the craft through his feet so as to not tip it over by putting too much weight on one end.

“No wonder,” the woman murmured, looking over the boy, cold and soaked to the skin. “But we have to get him off the branch.”

“Leave it to me, you stand back,” Eli told the mage, pushing her back with his arm. She did as she was told, sitting down low in order to keep her footing in the rocking craft. The man, however, stepped on to the bow as far as he dared.

“Come on, easy, you don’t have to be afraid anymore,” he told him, trying to keep his tone as gentle but firm as possible. Reaching over to the boy, he put his hands around his tiny waist, getting a grip on him despite the wet clothes making the child as slippery as a toad.

The child’s reaction could not have been more severe. Instead of letting go, he tightened his grip, his arms sliding up from the branch to cling on to the folds of his clothes, trapping the tree’s limb in a vice-like hold. There was a small whimper as he pressed his face tightly against the bark of the wood, not daring to open his eyes, even if he was able to given how tightly he has pressed his eyelids together.

“We’re here to help you,” the man tried to tug again but it only made the boy continue to cling. “Let go of the blasted branch!”

A cry of pain escaped from the boy’s lips and tears oozed out between his eyelids, mingling with the floodwaters clinging to his face.

“Don’t shout, you’ll terrify him even more!” Klara yelled at Eli, an action which caused the boy’s hand to twitch. He tried to lift them away and move them to his ears but as he did, the branch swayed beneath him. With a strangled cry, he clamped down tightly on to his lifeline, his knuckles turning white as though he was trying to make himself one with the tree. Had his shirt not been so soaked, it was entirely possible he would have ripped through it.

Eli growled and slowly withdrew his hands from the boy, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Woo knows what we are going to do with him. We can’t leave him.”

“I don’t know if coaxing will help either,” the mage sighed deeply and turned to the child. “I’m sorry for my earlier outburst. I promise we’ll get you free.”

She removed her wand from its sheath and her eyes scanned the branch, trying to decide the best course of action. The tree was too big to move by itself and it was unlikely that she could make him let go with magic without hurting him. All the while, waiting meant wasting time they could be using to rescue other people trapped like this boy was, either in the trees or on rooftops or worse.

An idea blossomed in her head. It was risky but it was the only way she could see of getting the boy down.

“Stand back,” Klara told Eli firmly. He nodded and as he stepped back, she moved forward on the boat, adjusting her feet so that no matter how it moved, she would not be thrown off. Swallowing, she held out her wand, trying to ignore the sensation of the Pull still lingering in her fingers. If she did this right the first time, she would not expend too much magic, but it was getting everything right that was a priority.

Quietly, she prayed to the Woo that the boy would not startle but given how hard he was clinging it, was unlikely. The mage took a deep breath and aimed her wand just above his head, her hand steadying as she focused on the spell.

“Dwoofindo,” Klara murmured. A flash of green erupted from the tip of her hand and flew towards the tree limb, slicing it clean through just above the head of the child. There was a groan from the tree as the part of branch that the boy was not attached to separated from its parent and fell down into the water. Like a boat without an oar, it slowly began to drift away from them; its green leaves pale imitations of the sails of ocean-going ships.

By the Woo’s kind grace, the child had barely moved on his perch. Now, with the first part of the tree cut away came the harder part. The mage drew in another breath and slowly forced it out again. She took a few steps back, as far as she could go on the small craft, and extended her wand out.

“Eli,” Klara said, turning to the man. “Get into a position to catch him.”

He frowned. “With all due respect, ma’am-”

“In case I’m not fast enough. Or in case I miss, or he lets go,” her voice strained and she turned to her companion, her eyes flashing. “Do it!”

The man winced and scrambled back over to the bow of the boat, holding his arms out under the boy as far as he could manage. Behind him, the mage woman took another breath and aimed her wand behind the child, squarely at the root of the branch that was supporting him. Inside her chest, her heart was drumming, making her aware of the feeling of being pulled again.

“Dwoofindo!” she cried again.

There was another groan as the living wood was sliced in two by the spell. For a single, terrifying moment, the section of tree with the child on it plunged downwards, forcing a stifled shriek out of his throat. But the mage woman was ready.

“Woobiliarbus!”

Like a bird extending its wings and catching the current, the limb stopped in mid-air and hovered, waiting for instructions, wrapped in soft green light. Though he was shaking violently, the boy clung to it still, giving off a few soft, tiny whimpers. Klara felt her shoulders loosen. He was not going to fall.

She drew the wand back towards herself and, as though tied to it by an invisible string, the branch hovered closer. Eli moved back towards the stern and put a hand on the pole before fixing his eyes firmly on the branch and its cargo. Klara did not want to move it too quickly in case the child holding on suddenly lost his grip so she kept pulling the wand back slowly, moving the wood through the air an inch at a time. As a result it took what seemed like an agonising amount of time before the severed wooden limb was above the craft. Once it was there, she lowered her wand and placed both it and the child down on the flat bottom.

“Endium,” she murmured and the light disappeared. The Pull had began spreading up her hands and the woman buried her fingers into her palms, trying to arrest the sensation. Nevertheless, she had done it. The boy was safe.

“Good job, ma’am,” Eli pulled the pole out of the silt below and pushed the boat back with it, away from the tree.

“Thank you,” Klara murmured and sat down on her knees, shifting closer to the boy. Wand at the ready, she examined him, but aside from a few superficial cuts and bruises, there appeared to be no injuries. Though she winced at the sight of them on a child so little, it was best for her to conserve her magic. Holstering her wand, she leaned closer to him.

“Hey, it’s fine now. Look, you’re on the boat, you’re safe. We’re taking you somewhere where you’ll be warm,” the woman smiled and reaching over to stroke him “Won’t that be nice?”

It was as though she had touched him with a stinging nettle. He dropped the branch, flinching away from her fingers while keeping his eyes shut.

Klara frowned. “What’s wrong?” she put a hand on his shoulder but the boy recoiled from her again, pressing himself against the side of the boat. He tried to inch further away, not even caring that he was near the edge.

“Careful!” the mage woman cried, reaching out a hand to him. “You’ll fall!”

However, he barely heard her warning, instead clamping his hands tightly over his ears and leaping away from. The boat rocked violently and the child lost his balance. Instinctively, he screamed and threw out his arms, trying to regain his balance.

There was a cry from the woman and she grabbed him by the sodden shirt, attempting to pull him back, the strain from having two people wresting for control making the boat shake violently on the water.

“WATCH IT!” Eli screamed, dropping the pole down on to the deck. He grabbed the child, practically throwing him down on to the bottom of the craft. “You could have capsized us, you brat!”

There was a terrified whimper from the boy and he clenched his eyes even tighter. At the same time, however, his hands flew to his ears, his palms pressing into them painfully.

“Be quiet, you’re scaring him! He’s already terrified!” Klara yelled at her companion, causing another pained shriek from the boy.

“Quiet, quiet, please quiet!” he cried. “Hurts, stop!”

Both adults immediately whipped their heads around to look down at the child. He had curled in on himself at the bottom of the craft, trying to bury his head as much as possible to block out the infernal noise. Klara dipped down on her knees beside him and almost on impulse stretched out a hand but drew back, remembering how he reacted last time. Eli, meanwhile, sighed and picked up the pole, returning to steering the boat.

“Where does it hurt?” the mage-woman took out her wand, giving the boy another examination. Perhaps there was something she missed earlier.

The child, however, kept his hands over his ears and his eyes firmly closed, still wrapped in that small ball he had made of himself as though he was a caterpillar attempting to cocoon himself. But all he was doing was covering his ears to protect himself from their shouting. Of course a stressed child would do that.

“What’s your name?” she asked, careful to keep her voice just barely above a whisper. However, there was no reply from him. Most likely, he could not hear her.

Klara rubbed her eyes and then turned to her companion. “Let’s take him back to the church.”

Eli frowned. “We can still pick up more people.”

She sighed. “If we find them, and I would rather not terrify this poor boy any more. Besides, it might better if we get him safe and warm first, and try to find his parents.”

“If they’re alive,” the rower remarked and pushed the pole deep into the mud below them, holding it stuck in place and trying to rotate the boat by directing it with his feet.

Klara’s eyes widened but then, as she caught a glimpse of the destruction around her, a chill ran down her spine. She gripped her Woocifix tighter. “I pray to Woo they are back with the survivors.”

“Let us pray,” Eli nodded solemnly.

Slow and ungainly, the boat made a u-turn and, carrying its three passengers on the surface of the floodwaters, made its way back to higher ground.

It did not take long before they reached the edge of the floodwaters. Eli rowed the boat until it stuck into the ground before leaping out and dragging it out of the water. Once they had gotten on to dry land, he tried to pick up the boy but he flinched away from his grasp.

“Come on now,” he barked, making the child wince. The man snarled and grabbed him by the shoulder, causing the boy to cry out in pain.

“What’s wrong with you?” Eli growled, reaching over to try to scoop him up but the boy only did the same as before and recoiled from his touch.

“Eli, please,” Klara stepped between them, blocking the man from reaching him. “If he does not want to be picked up, don’t force him,” she turned to the boy, smiling a bit at him. “Will you follow us to the church? Please?”

He nodded. “Don’t touch,” he murmured and started walking towards it, keeping his head bowed.

Eventually, they arrived at the door of the high church and entered inside. People were clustered in between the pews; some of them were huddled in blankets while others were at the altar, whispering prayers up to the Lord Woo. The low hubbub of murmured conversations echoed in the church, punctuated here and there by the cry of an errant child which was quickly silenced by their anxious parent, while all around, the footsteps of the various priests who had volunteered to help sounded off the stone floors. Here and there, amidst the columns, the grey robed nuns from the nearby convent flitted like ghosts, occasionally stopping to check on a person before moving on to the next one who needed them.

It was one of them who approached the two that had walked into the church clutching the boy. She averted her eyes from Eli but bowed to Klara.

“Hello, esteemed mage of Jade,” she greeted her, her voice gentle and soothing, before glancing over at the boy that they had brought in. A frown formed on her brow. “Who is this?”

“We don’t know, Sister, and he refuses to tell us,” Klara told her.

The nun peered closer at the child, who had covered his ears and closed his eyes as soon as the whispers of the church hit him. “I don’t recognise him. What is wrong with him?”

“We don’t know that either, sister. All he said is that it hurts but he never specified what ‘it’ is,” the mage replied. “But you might want to know that he also manifested the gift of magic; little lights. That’s how we found him.”

“That can be dealt with later. Mage or not, the child is clearly no use while he is so terrified and stressed,” she told them and leaned down to the little boy, lowering her tone to barely above a whisper. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Though he did not remove his hands from his ears, the boy looked directly up at the nun, focusing on the woman with big brown eyes.

“Too much sound. Too much colour,” he whispered. “Hurts.”

The nun tilted her head. “Don’t be silly. This is a church, there’s no sound too loud or colour too bright here, not enough to hurt you.”

He bit his lip and lowered his eyes but she did not miss them filling with tears. She sighed deeply, her shoulders drooping. The church was quiet, with even the crying children soon falling silent in the presence of the Lord Woo, and yet it still bothered the boy.

“He’s not going to talk while he’s like this,” Klara shook her head. “He refused to talk throughout the whole boat journey even if we made no sound.”

“Didn’t like voice,” the boy murmured. “Bright yellow, gross. Man’s voice murky-green-brown, gross too,” he tentatively opened his eyes back up and turned to the nun. “Your voice is blue, pretty.”

The woman blinked, staring at the child. “...thank you,” she replied, lost for what else to say. “You have...quite an imagination. But it’s rude to judge people by voice.”

“Mama said that too,” he squeezed his eyes tight shut. “Mama...”

“What happened to your mama?” the nun leaned closer to him. “Where is she? Who is she?”

“Mama...she...”

A loud cry echoed around the church as one of the children brought in earlier started sobbing. The boy gave off a strangled whimper and fell to his knees, curling around himself and clenching his hands around his ears. His fingers dug into his hair but he seemed to ignore whatever pain came from tugging at it.

The nun winced. A baby’s crying was never pleasant for anybody but the boy reacted as though a needle had pierced his eardrum. And, like the mage and the rower, she noticed that, despite how much pain he was in, the four year old child barely made any noise himself. Of course he would not; he would not want to add to his pain.

Her fingers stretched out towards his shoulder to comfort him.

“Don’t,” Klara exclaimed. “He does not seem to like being touched, especially when he is like this.”

Withdrawing her fingers sharply, the nun sighed. Behind her, she could hear a novice monk walking, and even though he had his ears covered, every sharp slap against the flagstones made the boy flinch. She was clearly not going to get any answers out of him, not as long as he kept behaving like this at the slightest sound.

“Listen, child,” the woman leaned closer to him, still keeping her voice low, “How would you like to change clothes, then go somewhere quiet with me and tell me about your mama?”

The boy opened his eyes and slowly gazed up at her as though she was the Lord Woo himself.

“Quiet...” if his gaze was reverent then that one word was a prayer. “Yes please. Quiet first.”

“Good boy. Alright, I’ll take you to a quiet place,” the nun turned around before she glanced held out her hand to him. “Do you want to follow me? Leave the nice mage and the rower alone.”

He nodded and ran after her, obviously eager to get away from the two people whose voices he deemed ugly. The woman smiled down at him and gave a polite nod to the rower and the mage before walking off with the boy.

“Ungrateful child,” Eli murmured.

“We did all we could for him, it is out of our hands,” Klara replied and spun around to head back out of the church. “Let’s go, we still have work to do.”

The two exited the church just as the nun left the main nave and entered into a smaller, closed-off chapel. Though it had been deemed necessary to have those left homeless from the flood take temporary shelter in the church, the chapels were orders to be left sacrosanct to the Woo. As they came in, the woman bowed her head.

“Lord Woo, forgive us for disturbing you but this child requires the peace that your chapel can offer him,” she prayed and touched them first to her chest, then her head and shoulders before she turned to look down at the boy, smiling at him.

The child at first did not move but as the silence of the chapel settled over him, he slowly looked up and removed his hands from his ears. His arms drifted down to his chest and he wrapped himself up in them, giving off a tiny shudder.

“I’ll get you something dry, you wait for me here,” the nun told him, seeing that the child was a little more comfortable. The boy replied with a small nod and sat down against one of the pews, pressing his knees against his chest. A part of her wondered if she should leave him alone like this in a sacred place and the nun hesitated for a few seconds, watching him. But there was no indication that he was waiting for her to leave in order to cause trouble. Instead, the child had adopted a contemplative expression more suited to a meditating monk.

It would be safe to leave him for a short while in order to ensure the boy’s comfort later. With that thought, the woman turned around and walked quickly towards a supply room, taking some time to find some child-sized clothes before returning to the chapel. As she had expected, the boy had barely moved. As soon as her footsteps echoed off the stone floor, his head had shot up as though he was a dog waiting for the return of his master.

“I brought you some clothes,” the nun held out her peace offering to show him and stepped closer. The child uncurled from himself and reached out for the clothes.

“No touch. Dress myself,” he stated, very quiet but firm. The woman blinked at this sudden assertiveness.

“Don’t you think-”

“No. Touch hurts,” he stood up shakily and held out his hands. “Please. I’m cold.”

She was powerless to resist. Resigning herself, the nun placed the clothes carefully in the boy’s hands.

“Tell me when you’re done or if you need help,” she said. However, the child ignored her.

True to his word, he seemed to know well enough what he was doing and the nun turned around to give him some privacy. Only when she heard the boy sit down on to the floor again did she look back. He sat in the same huddled position he been in before while his wet clothes had been dumped down on to the chapel flagstones, a puddle forming around them. The shirt and trousers she had bought seemed several sizes too big but he barely seemed to mind that. As she stepped forward, however, he squirmed a little, wincing and pulling them away from his neck.

“I’m sorry if they’re itchy. But it’s better than wet, right?” the nun asked, smiling at him. The boy gave the tiniest of nods but continued to wriggle in the all-too-large clothes, trying to adjust to them. A few droplets fell from his soaked hair, staining the dry fabric where they fell.

For a moment, she considered getting a cloth to dry his hair but if he would not let her touch him, it was unlikely that he would enjoy that. After all the effort it took to get the child calm like this, she could not waste it.

The nun sat down beside him, ignoring the wet clothing pile for now. The Lord Woo would understand that she had more important things to worry about.

“You promised to tell me about your mama,” she murmured, giving him a smile.

The boy gave off a soft whimper. “Mama...mama gone. Water came, washed away house. Papa, mama inside. House gone. Mama, papa gone...gone...so much water...water...” he clenched his eyes shut as fresh tears threatened to burst out of them. His knees curled all the way to his chin and he buried his face in it, his shoulders shaking.

Oh Woo, the nun thought. In just a few moments, he had gone from a relatively calm child to the terrified mess he was when he had been first brought it. She listened but there had been and were no sudden sounds that could have disturbed him, not even the soft tap of rain against the stained glass. But of course, asking about parents when they had been so traumatically swept away would have triggered a reaction in any child, let alone one as sensitive as this.

The nun’s heart tightened with sympathy. In just one fell swoop, this boy had become an orphan. He was not the only one whose parents the Lord Woo had deemed fit to take away with this flood, but the thought of this quiet, strange, sensitive boy being all alone, when his distress was so easily triggered by something as simple as footsteps, made it so much worse somehow.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you must miss your mama and papa.”

He only curled up tighter around himself while tears soaked into his clothes.

“But I promise that me and the other sisters, we’ll look after you and other children,” she smiled. “Won’t that be nice?”

The boy shook his head. “No. Other children loud.”

The nun sighed. Of course they would be, everything seemed loud to him except utter silence. She rested her chin in her palm, trying to think of what she could say to try to calm him, or at least distract him.

What was it that the Jade mage had said? That the boy had magic?

“Is it true that you made lights appear?” she asked, tilting her head.

The boy opened his eyes a fraction and lifted up his head. “Yes. Don’t know how.”

She paused, considering this. The woman did not know much about magic; it was the gift of Lord Woo, yes, but mages were not common and most were in the service of the nobility or the church. But if the boy had magic, it would be a sin to waste his gift. Certainly it would guarantee him a far brighter future than the one that loomed over him now.

“Do you want to try again? Maybe if you focus, you can?” the nun smiled at him.

The child pondered this. Slowly, he uncurled his arms from around himself and held them out, palm up as though receiving sweets from somebody. He frowned and gritted his teeth with concentration. At first, there was nothing and then a tiny white light appeared just above his palm, hovering like a little bird before flying upward towards the chapel roof. The little boy’s eyes lit up as he watched it and he stared at his palms, focusing even harder. Sure enough, two more little lights appeared and spiralled up to follow their predecessor.

A grin appeared on his face and he turned to the nun, beaming proudly. For a moment, he almost looked like a regular child.

She could not help but grin back. A mage child presented its own set of problems, including finding him a wand and training him to control it, but right now she was simply happy that the little boy, after having suffered through so much trauma and pain, could smile.

“It occurs to me that I don’t know your name,” the nun shifted, looking over him. “I’m Seraphina.”

He tilted his head. “Saint?”

“Yes, like that,” the nun raised an eyebrow. “You obviously know your saints.”

The boy nodded. “Mama teach me.”

“So what is your name?” she asked him quickly before the child could get distracted.

He paused. “Absolon.”

“That’s a nice name,” the nun impulsively reached out to pat his head but pulled her hand back just in time. “Don’t worry, Absolon. Me and the other Sisters will look after you, I promise. You’re going to be fine now.”

[Celestial]

Continuing the theme above, because I want to keep these things in a cluster. Have another chapter of Absolon's life, mostly written because SYMBOLISM!!1!!

The Symbol of a Mage

SPOILER: Click to show

The bell above the door of the wand maker’s shop rang out, jingling for several long moments before it was drowned out by the loud, shrill voice of the wand maker’s apprentice.

“Master Aiden!” she cried. “You have customers!”

In the back of the shop, a dark-skinned, black-haired man looked up from where he had been organising a selection of materials in a fine wooden chest. Shaking his head, he placed the goose feathers he had been holding into one of the boxes that were inside before stacking it on top of the ones that were already inside. Each one contained a potential wand core for a young mage; he did not want to get them mixed up.

“I’ll be there in a minute, Carina!” he yelled back, wiping the dust off his tunic and ruffling his beard to get any dirt trapped inside it out. Only after checking his reflection in a nearby bowl of water to make sure he was presentable did he step out into the front of the shop, putting on a wide smile as he did so.

His apprentice had gotten there first. She was chatting eagerly to their latest customers, her attention focused in particular on the child with the adult. They had come as a pair, which by itself was hardly unusual: children often came with their parents when they were selecting their first wand. It was rarer, however, for one of the pair to be a woman of the Woo, and yet going by her grey robes, the solemn white veil tightly wound around her head and the Woocifix hanging down from her neck, there was no mistaking her for anything but that. She was bent protectively over the brown-haired boy that with her, and Aiden wondered why until he saw his face: it was scrunched up in pain.

Carina, however, had not noticed anything wrong and was smiling widely at him. “Aren’t you excited? I know I was excited when I got my first wand,” she trilled to the child, taking out her wand from its holster and showing it off proudly. “Wren feather encased in poplar, with a quartz crystal. It’s perfect for me, and Master Aiden will find you a perfect one just like it.”

There was a pained gasp from the boy as he bent over suddenly, slamming his hands over his ears and pressing his knees against his knees. The nun winced, looking between the apprentice and the boy. “Miss, please-”

“Oh, did I say something wrong?” Carina kneeled down in front of the child. “I promise it won’t be a scary process. Don’t be shy.”

“Please, miss, for the love of the Woo-”

Aiden coughed, clearing his throat. “Carina, could you please leave our customers alone? There’s work in the back that needs doing, like checking our supply of wood. Could you do it while I deal with them?”

The girl stiffened in place and turned around, obviously cowed by his words. “Yes, Master,” she said and walked past him, disappearing into the back of the shop.

The wand maker breathed a sigh of relief before turning back to his customers. “Sister? I apologise for my apprentice. Is everything alright?”

The nun’s eyes shot up to him before she immediately nodded, averting her gaze. “Yes, it is. He just got overloaded by the sound,” she said quietly, glancing back to the young boy. “It’s fine, the lady is gone now. Are you alright?”

Carefully, the boy uncurled from himself and slowly removed his hands from his ears, a gesture which reminded Aiden of a rabbit poking its nose from its warren to see if it was safe to come out. “Yes,” he murmured quietly, nodding.

“Forgive her. My apprentice has great passion for her work but she can be far too exuberant sometimes,” the wand maker said with a laugh, giving the boy a smile. “I’m sorry if she startled you.”

He nodded again, wrapping his arms around himself, the action causing his clothes to bunch up as they pressed against his body. They were far too large and baggy for him, as though he had been given hand-me-downs from some older child. Coming in with a nun too, instead of his mother or father...

Aiden turned his attention back to the woman with the boy. “Sister-

“Seraphina,” she bowed as she introduced herself.

“Sister Seraphina. Forgive my prying, but is this boy is in the care of your convent?” the wand maker inquired.

She nodded. “Yes,” her head turned towards the boy, who was still standing silently with his arms around himself. “He is, however, gifted with the Woo’s magic. It would be a sin, therefore, not to teach him.”

“Indeed. Not to mention a well-trained mage, no matter what his background, stands a good chance of making a name for himself,” Aiden remarked cheerily, putting a hand on his hip. “I assume you are here to choose a wand for him then?”

“If possible,” Seraphina replied, glancing sideways down at the boy, who had closed his eyes again. “Though I must warn you, he is very shy and sensitive, especially on the issue of loud noises. You should not touch him either; it seems to cause him pain.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the wand maker turned around, drawing back a curtain that partitioned the front end of a shop from a small side-room. “Would you like to follow me inside?”

“Come on,” the sister whispered gently to the boy, gesturing with her finger at the side room. “Let’s go get you a wand.”

He looked between them fearfully. “No loud girl?” he murmured.

“No,” Seraphina shook her head. “We’re just going to pick your wand.”

At the prospect of a wand, the child’s eyes lit up and he nodded, taking a few shy, tentative steps towards the side-room. He skittered inside, skirting Aiden and stood at the entrance, taking in his surroundings. The room was very plainly furnished; containing only three chairs around a table, along with an oil lamp to provide light should the window cut into the wall prove inadequate, as it did right now with the December cloud blotting out the sun.

Aiden took the furthest right chair and sat down, gesturing at the others. “Sit down, both of you.”

The boy scurried towards the chair opposite him, pulling himself up into the seat and sitting there, still as a stone, his eyes downcast and his arms curled in around himself as if he was trying to hide some kind of shame. Beside him, the nun too took her seat, occasionally looking at the child with some concern.

However, the wand maker did not worry. A part of his job involved knowing how to coax out shy mage children to get them to reveal enough of themselves so he could match them with an appropriate wand. He was sure this boy would, with a little bit of plying, open up as well.

“Let’s get started then,” Aiden leaned forward towards him. “Do you want to tell me your name?”

The boy hesitated for a moment, squirming in his seat. “Absolon,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s a nice name,” the wand maker remarked. “I am Aiden. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He held his hand out to Absolon, trying to see if he would shake it. The boy looked up at it, his brown eyes full of understanding before turning away, keeping his hands firmly down. It took the wand maker a few seconds to remember the nun’s warning and he promptly withdraw his hand, clearing his throat.

“Would you like some water, Absolon?” he asked. The boy shook his head. “In that case, I’m going to ask you some things. Do your best to answer them, alright?”

Absolon remained silent, his gaze fixated on his lap as though he was studying the weave of the clothes on his body. Aiden watched him, waiting for an answer, but when it became apparent that none would come, he leaned forward on the table, doing his best to smile at the boy. He was clearly shy, and no doubt not used to the strange, new situation. That, in its own way, was a start: at least the wand maker knew one aspect of this particular child’s personality.

“Do you want to tell me a little bit about yourself?” the wand maker enquired. “What do you like? What do you dislike? Anything you want to tell me, I’ll be happy to listen to.”

The boy’s eyes veered to the right at he thought about the question. While he waited, Aiden rested his hands on the table, absently tapping it with his fingers. At first, Absolon responded with barely a flinch but as Aiden continued, his flinching grew more pronounced and his expression began to show more pain until he was wincing with each tap as though it was a hammer blow against a bell.

“Noise. No like noise,” he said, taking in a few deep breaths. “Stop.”

“Ah, sorry,” Aiden gasped, remembering what he had been told. Seraphina leaned over to Absolon, smiling gently at him.

“It’s alright,” she murmured. “It will be fine. Just focus on my voice. You like it, don’t you?”

Absolon nodded, turning his head towards the nun and closing his eyes as though entering some kind of trance. Gradually, the lines of pain that had etched themselves into his face melted away and his shoulders drooped as he relaxed.

Seraphina smiled. “Good boy,” she glanced back up at Aiden. “Why don’t you try to answer his question now, Absolon?”

The boy nodded, closing his eyes and covering his ears but this time, his expression was the very picture of concentration. After a while, he opened them back up, lifting them slowly to the wand maker.

“Like...quiet,” Absolon murmured. “Magic. Lord Woo, Lord Woo’s stories. Seraphina. Blue. Purple. Fruit, peaches. Songs, when not loud. Cats. Don’t like...noise, yellow, red, water...mama...” he began to shake violently, wrapping his arms around himself. “Water took mama-”

“Shh,” the nun cut in, placing a hand on his chair. “It’s alright, there’s no water here. Don’t panic. I’m here, just focus on my voice. It’s sky blue, you said, you like that.”

The boy nodded, closing his eyes and reopening them again after a short while. He took several deep breaths as though he had just run a mile and swallowed, glancing up nervously at the wand maker in front of him.

Aiden gave him an encouraging smile, all the while processing his answers. Some, like his favourite colour or food, were typical of a child; they did not tell him much. Others, however, intrigued him. It was from that angle that the wand maker decided to approach the subject.

“You said you like the Lord Woo?” he asked, leaning forward again. “Did Sister Seraphina teach you?”

The boy shook his head. “No; mama.”

Aiden winced, deciding to quickly divert the question elsewhere. “You must have a lot of faith?”

Absolon nodded. “Lord Woo is kind. Want to be good, for him. Want to learn to read, to read Book of Woo.”

At this, the wand maker could not help but beam widely. “You certainly have taught him well, Sister, for him to have such faith at his age,” he said to Seraphina.

The nun smiled back. “It was not all our work, but his faith is extraordinary,” she sighed, clasping her hands together. “I wish I could have met his parents. They must have been amazing people.”

Aiden nodded in agreement, silently praying that they would find peace with the Lord Woo. However, right now, he owed it to their child to do his best for him. The boy was reticent, which in itself told him some things, but he was beginning to get a clearer picture of his personality now.

“Absolon,” he said quietly, snapping the boy’s attention back on to himself. “You said you liked cats? How would you feel if I gave you a kitten?”

Absolon’s eyes widened to the size of saucers and he shot a scared look at Seraphina. “No cats,” he hissed, looking slightly panicked. “Not allowed!”

The wand maker blinked, confused for a moment before it dawned on him what the boy meant and he burst out laughing. “I’m not going to literally give you a kitten, Absolon, I have none to give away,” he said with a smile. “But imagine I did. Close your eyes and imagine it.”

Absolon did as he was told, shutting his eyes tightly as he tried to see this make-believe animal. Aiden watched him, making sure the boy was not completely lost in the fantasy, before speaking up again. “So, what would you do with this kitten?”

For a while, the boy was silent, still keeping his eyes closed as he ruminated on this question. “Stroke it,” he murmured at last. “If not painful. Maybe...have friend?”

“To play with?” the wand maker asked, inquiringly.

Absolon shook his head. “No. Just...have friend,” he brought his arms in around himself. “Lonely.”

Sympathy tugged at Aiden’s heart and he was filled with an intense desire to hug the boy. He stood up in his chair, reaching out with his hand only to see Absolon flinch away from him. Of course, Aiden suddenly remembered, sitting back down. “It’s alright; I’m not going to touch you.”

Once the boy had relaxed as much as he could once again, the wand maker leaned back, smiling at him. “But thank you, Absolon: I think I have a very good idea of what your wand core should be.”

The boy’s head shot up, his eyes bulging out at Aiden as his mouth stretched into a smile. For a moment, he almost looked like a regular, excitable child. Seraphina too, looked pleased upon noticing Absolon’s happiness.

“Of course, we still have to figure out what wood best suits you. For that I’m going to have to ask some trickier questions,” the wand maker placed his hands on the table, looking directly at the boy. “Can answer them for me?”

Absolon nodded once, curling up in his chair and watching the wand maker, waiting patiently for him to begin his second round of questioning. “Not loud,” he murmured. “Quiet.”

“I’ll be quiet, I promise. I know by now that you don’t like sounds,” Aiden said gently. “Now, tell me, Absolon, what do you want to do with your magic?”

It was a simple, broad question and Aiden had heard plenty of answers in his job. Most children could at least say what they wanted to be when they grew up, even if their answer was an improbable flight of fancy. Some thought in the short term, describing pranks they wanted to do or spells they wanted to learn, or perhaps even expressing admiration for an older sibling who was also a mage.

Absolon, however, stiffened at the question, his breath hitching and his eyes dashing back and forth as though he had lost something. After a few moments, he looked back at the wand maker, his brown eyes wide and terrified. “Don’t...don’t know.”

Surprise flashed across Aiden’s face but he quickly suppressed it with a smile. “That’s alright. Just think about it,” he said, trying to sound encouraging. “Maybe you want to go into noble service? Or the church? With your faith, you might make an abbot, or even a bishop, or more!”

The boy flinched at the wand maker’s exclamation, sucking in deep breaths and pressing his arms closer to himself. “Don’t know,” his voice hitched up as he spoke.

“Well...” Aiden glanced away briefly, scratching his head. “Maybe there’s a spell you want to learn? Or a type of magic? I hear potion-brewing is interesting, maybe you want to try that?”

“Don’t know,” Absolon shook his head, clenching his eyes tightly shut. Lifting up his arms, he dug his elbows into his chest, so hard that Aiden wondered if that hurt. “Don’t know!”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” the wand maker put his hands in front of himself. Oh Woo, this was not going well. “Not everyone knows what they want to do at your age. But I’ll accept something as simple as what you will do when you get your wand?”

“Don’t know,” the boy repeated, pressing his hands over his ears. Tears began to roll out of his eyes but he did not bother to wipe them, instead letting them drop down his cheeks. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“Shh, Absolon, shh. You take some time, let the pain settle,” Seraphina murmured to him before her gaze shot up towards the wand maker. “Master Aiden, may I speak to you in private?”

“Of course,” Aiden said, pushing himself up from his chair just as the nun got up from hers. “But...will he be alright?” he gestured with his head towards Absolon.

“He needs a little time, that’s all,” she told him, keeping her voice low as though the boy was a deer that could startle at any moment. With that, she stepped out of the room and out into the main shop, waiting for the wand maker to follow her. Aiden shot a glance towards the boy but the latter did not seem to want to move from where he had curled up. He wondered for a moment if it was wise to leave him alone, but at the same time, from what he knew of the child, it was unlikely he would get himself into any kind of trouble. His guardian too, seemed to think it was for the best.

With a sigh, Aiden exited the room and glanced towards where the nun was waiting for him. He crossed the distance between them and bowed his head to her.

“I apologise, Sister,” he told her. “It is a standard question I use to determine what kind of wood would suit my customer; most children can answer it in some capacity. I did not think it would cause him that much distress.”

“I did not think so either, but I should have anticipated it,” Seraphina lifted up a hand to her forehead, rubbing it just around the edges of her wimple. “The poor child lost his parents in a flood just over a month ago, and he found out he had magic from the same event. His entire world has been turned upside down; I doubt he can even think about the future now.”

“Oh Woo,” Aiden put a hand over his mouth, glancing back through the crack in the door at Absolon. Even a brief glimpse told him the boy had not moved an inch. “He hardly seems like the sort of boy who would tolerate change well either.”

“No. He’s excited about his magic, at least, but everything else has been an uphill struggle, especially with his condition,” the nun sighed. “I pray to the Woo he can adapt, but sometimes I doubt it.”

“Let us pray,” Aiden nodded solemnly, his hand sliding down to stroke his chin. “But that does not solve the question of what wood to construct his wand out of...”

The wand maker continued to run his fingers through the hairs of his beard, pondering the problem before suddenly smiling as an idea struck him. “I think I know, Sister,” he exclaimed. “Are you a mage yourself?”

Seraphina shook her head and Aiden leaned on the counter, preparing to explain. “A wand’s core is the essence of who a mage is, but you cannot determine the full development of a person when they are that young. So the wood is designed to encompass who they will be,” his smile turned into a grin as he grew more excited by his idea. “Or what they can try to aspire too.”

Though she seemed sceptical, the nun nevertheless nodded. “I shall have faith in your expertise,” she clasped her hands, offering up a silent prayer before lowering them again and looking up. “Now, even though the Lord Woo tells us not to covet material possessions, we should nevertheless discuss the matter of payment...”

***

A wand was a delicate tool, requiring at least a few days to craft, so Aiden had told the two to return then, when he would present the boy with his new wand. Once they had left, he set to work, praying to the Woo almighty that his intuition was right. If not, they were back at square one. While that was hardly uncommon- it sometimes took several tries before a mage was matched with an ideal wand- if it was possible, the wand maker wanted to avoid wasting materials, charging the church more or forcing Absolon through another round of questions.

He could only wait and see what would happen. Which is why, after the wand was crafted, he did not waste any time sending Carina to the convent to inform them of its completion and then waited at the front of his workshop for the nun and the boy to arrive. It took them longer than expected; a sudden winter deluge broke out during which no sane Corvid would step out of their home. Only after it had ended, and just before the wand maker was about to close the shop, did the Seraphina arrive with Absolon trailing behind her.

“My apologies for being late,” she said, bowing her head. “Absolon cannot stand the rain: I could not force him outside.”

“Sorry,” the boy murmured, his voice barely audible.

“It’s alright, no need to be. I would not expect you to go out during such a squall,” Aiden said before leaning forward and smiling at Absolon. “Do you want to see your wand?”

He looked up suddenly before nodding once but his eyes betrayed the spark of anticipation that had lit up within him. The wand maker could not help but feel a little satisfied at that as he reached beneath the counter and took out something wrapped in thick linen, placing it down on the wooden surface. As he unwrapped it, he noticed the boy standing up on his tip-toes to get a better look, making the wand maker hurry more.

Finally, he removed the last corner of cloth, revealing Absolon’s wand. It was not particularly big, only eight inches in length, its smooth tan surface plain and unadorned, without even a crystal to grace its tip. Him and Seraphina had decided that was the extra expense that was best done without. Nevertheless, Absolon stared at it as though it was bar of gold or a saint’s relic.

“Go on, try it,” Aiden said, pushing it closer to him. “I want to see if it works.”

Absolon nodded and carefully reached out towards the wand. His hand hovered over it for a few moments before he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and stroked it with the tips of his fingers. Only after touching it for a short while did he wrap his right hand around it and lift it up off the counter. He held it up in front of himself and slowly opened his eyes.

The boy glanced between the Seraphina, Aiden and the wand in turn, his breath hitching. “What now?” he asked quietly.

“Hold out your other hand,” the wand maker instructed. Absolon obediently held his left hand out. “And now try to summon lights, like you did before, but through your wand.”

Absolon took several deep breaths before closing his eyes and going absolutely still. Both Seraphina and Aiden also froze in place, watching him intently. For a few moments, nothing happened. Then, the tip of his wand began to glow. It coalesced into a bright light that hung on the edge of the wand for a moment before disconnecting itself and drifting up to the rafters. Absolon opened his eyes just as another began forming and flew up to join its sibling. He smiled widely, lifting his head up to watch them, the lights reflecting in his pupils.

Aiden grinned widely, also watching the lights. “I’d say that’s good enough,” he said, walking out from behind the counter and stopping in front of the boy. “We don’t need to do any more fittings; this wand seems to suit you well.”

Seraphina breathed a small but audible sigh of relief. Absolon blinked, seemingly snapped out of his trance but eventually, his eyes turned back to the wand, continuing to study it.

“What...is it?” he finally uttered, turning his head up to Aiden.

The wand maker leaned down on the floor so he was eye level with the boy. “Your core was easy to work out. Somebody as timid, gentle and sensitive as you needed an animal to match that, and with your faith, it had to be one of the Lord Woo’s birds,” he smiled. “Inside your wand is a dove’s tail feather.”

For a second, the boy shut his eyes tightly, but before Aiden could worry, he opened them again, looking at the wand with renewed awe. “Dove...” he repeated in a voice that was barely a whisper, more suited to saying a prayer in church.

“Yes,” the wand maker nodded. “As for the wood...I took a gamble with it. It’s made from a birch tree. Do you know what that is?”

He shook his head. Aiden smiled more as he too, turned his gaze towards the wand. “It’s a tree that grows further north. They are small and seem weak, but are in fact strong and adaptable. Often, they’re the first to spread to new areas and flourish in them, even if things there are hard,” he lifted his eyes up to Absolon. “Do you understand?”

Again, the boy shut his eyes tightly, grimacing, before opening them up and shaking his head. Despite the odd behaviour, the wand maker kept the smile on his face and continued to look Absolon in the eye. “You’ve been through a lot and your life must seem confusing now, but I and this wand believe you can be strong and overcome it, like the birch tree,” he stood back up again, looking down at the child. “Can you do that?”

Absolon lowered his eyes, deep in thought. Carefully, he pulled the wand to himself, pressing it against his chest the way other children would cuddle a toy or a blanket, and gave a single, slow, deliberate nod.

“Will try,” he murmured. “If wand says.”

“Good boy,” Aiden grinned at him. “Thing are going to get a lot better now that you can learn magic. I promise.”

[Celestial]

This follows on A Rocky Start, in particular part 3 and part 4, but if you haven't read it, don't worry, past knowledge isn't required, since the prologue should sum everything up. The fic introduces House Bay in detail and deals with the political marriage of Corrin Bay and Eleanor Dun, and all the fun times that come from it. ^^

A New Wind in the Sails

Prologue

SPOILER: Click to show

Upon his return to their home in the city of Kustanair, Ian, the Lord of House Bay, headed straight down the corridor which lead to the library, knowing he had the best chance of finding his son there. Indeed, when he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the reading space separating the entrance from the shelves, he was immediately greeted by the sight of him hunched over a book. Ian smiled, softly closing the door behind him ,waiting for the young man to notice his presence and taking a chance to examine him.

The heir of Bay bore more than a passing resemblance to his father: the same bright blue eyes and wavy hair, though his was a shade darker than Ian’s, closer resembling the colour of chestnut. However, he lacked the sharp angles of his face which had been a hint of Ian’s Stallion blood, instead taking on the rounder, smoother characteristics of his mother’s features. Perhaps he was not particularly tall, or muscular, befitting his bookish nature, but he was hardly a bad-looking boy. Surely Eleanor would be able to see that.

Eventually, the young man seemed to become aware of the other presence in his vicinity and lifted his head up.

“Dad!” his face broke into a wide smile as soon as his gaze came to rest upon his father. He leap up from his chair and Dan up to Ian, who held his arms out in a warm hug, a gesture his son readily accepted. ‘You’re back!”

“It’s good to see you too, Corrin,” Ian exclaimed before pulling himself away, though he still kept his hands on his son’s shoulders. He grinned good-naturedly. “Are you slacking off in the library instead of working? For shame.”

“N-no. Just there was no work for today and we recently got that new book gifted to us about building ships to resist icy conditions,” Corrin glanced from side to side. “I thought it would be fine.”

“I know, I’m joking, don’t worry,” the Lord of Bay clapped his son on the shoulder. “But how have you been managing here?”

“Just fine, dad,” his son replied in a keen voice. “There were some merchants who came in complaining about tariffs but I dealt with them so you don’t have to worry about that. Aside from that, it was all quiet, nothing unusual happened.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you,” the Lord of Bay ruffled his son’s hair affectionately before looking around. “And where’s Fran? I thought she’d have met me outside.”

“Mum went into the city, to look at the wares in the market. She probably got caught up chatting to somebody from Lyell, as she usually does when she meets a countryman,” Corrin replied, smoothing his hair back into place with one hand. “But how did your trip to Jennet go? Did you work things out with Lord Dun?”

“Aye, that we did, though you might want to sit down,” Ian spoke and chuckled softly, pulling out a chair for his son.

Corrin blinked, looking slightly startled, but did as he was told. “Was it bad?”

“No, quite the opposite,” the older Bay said as sat down beside him. “At first we only talked of how to better defend Jennet before we got on to a discussion of linking our coastal defence system with that of House Dun. Then we also offered to link our trade up with that of the Dun furs.to provide them with financial assistance in this endeavour. So to make a long story short…as of now, House Bay and House Dun have secured an alliance.”

The Lord of Bay clapped his hand on his son’s shoulder, smiling a little. “And I’m sure you know how such agreements are sealed between the nobility?”

“Of course; through marriage,” Corrin replied almost automatically because pausing, his eyes widening until they bulged out of his sockets. “Wait, you don’t mean...I am…”

Ian nodded to confirm what he was thinking. “As of now, you are engaged to be married to Lord Aaron’s younger sister, Eleanor.”

The younger Bay’s jaw flew open and he went limp in his seat as though he had been struck in the gut. He blinked several times, expecting any time to wake up from a dream as he processed the new information his father had thrust upon him. Several moments of silence passed as he remained catatonic like this before Ian sighed deeply, giving his shoulder another squeeze.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to take in all at once,” he remarked, trying to meet Corrin’s eyes.

The younger Bay shook his head. “I always knew this would happen: I am heir and this is part of my responsibilities,” he brought his hand up to rub his head. “But I didn’t think it would be this soon…”

“It always seems far too soon,” Ian nodded sagely.

“Woo, I don’t even know what to do with her! I’m not good with girls,” Corrin exclaimed and his head shot around to look at his father, a trace of panic in his blue eyes. “How am I going to manage with a wife?”

“You’ll be fine, Corrin,” his father brought him around his shoulders, pulling him closer. “I know you have trouble with girls but Eleanor’s a lovely person, she won’t bite you. You both speak Kythian, just try talking to her. It’ll be easy when you get the hang of it,” he met Corrin’s eyes, smiling. “And me and your mother will help you both every step of the way, so don’t panic. Take a deep breath.”

Corrin did as he was told, breathing in and out again several times until Ian felt the tension go out of his shoulders. “Feeling better?”

“A little,” the younger Bay murmured before glancing up at his father. “You said her name is Eleanor? What’s...what’s she like?”

Ian laughed softly. “She’s a wonderful lass. Very kind and gentle, well-mannered and wise. Experienced in managing a House, since she’s been Lady of Dun since the death of her mother. Oh, and,” he winked at his son. “You’ll be glad to know she’s very pretty.”

“I see. She sounds nice. Though if she’s pretty...” Corrin’s cheeks went slightly red. “I’m even worse at talking to pretty girls.”

“You’ll manage. If anything, this is a good opportunity to practice,” Ian patted his shoulder again. “You’re a good boy, Corrin, and I have faith in you, I know you’ll make Lady Eleanor feel welcome.”

“Thanks, dad,” the younger Bay smiled shyly up at his father. “I’ll do my best, for the sake of the alliance.”

“And for Lady Eleanor, I hope,” the Lord of Bay raised an eyebrow before smiling back. “I’m sure you’ll make friends with her,” his smile grew slyer. “Who knows, you might even fall for her?”

Corrin lowered his eyes. “I don’t know if I want that. Mum said it’s pointless if the other person doesn’t love you back.”

“Did she now?” Ian remarked before getting up from his chair, though he still kept a hand on Corrin’s shoulder. “Regardless, Eleanor will be arriving in June. Until then, we’ll see what happens.”

“I suppose…” Corrin sighed, lowering his eyes back towards the book on the table.

“Don’t you worry about it either. Everything will work out fine, I promise, even if right now it seems like a daunting prospect,” Ian gave his son’s shoulder a final squeeze. “Maybe I should leave you for a while to get to grips with it? And maybe let you read some more about those ships in ice too.”

The younger Bay thought about it for a few moments before nodding. “If you could,” he smiled up at Ian. “Thanks dad, for reassuring me. It’s still going to take me a while to get used to the thought that...that I’m going to be married.”

“It usually does, that’s normal. Just be ready by June, alright?” Ian replied, smiling back. “Shall I break the news to your mother then, when she gets back?”

“Please. At least she’ll be excited to not be the only lady in the House anymore,” Corrin’s voice was wistful and for a moment, his gaze drifted.

“Aye, that she will be,” the Lord of Bay laughed softly before nodding to his son. “I shall see you later then?”

“Yes. I’ll come down for dinner, don’t worry,” the younger Bay waved to his father as he left before turning back to his book. But no matter how much he gazed at the page and tried to bury itself in its words, his thoughts kept straying back to the prospect of being married come June, hoping that he could figure out how to be a good husband, and hoping even more strongly that his future wife would like him, or at least tolerate him.

Part 1

SPOILER: Click to show

The carriage was far from the most resplendent of things. Painted in goldenrod with dark-brown stained wood for the trim, and drawn by two pure white mountain ponies, it could have been any other vehicle of transport for someone relatively wealthy. Except for the device on the door- an otter, swimming against a goldenrod backdrop with a white border. The emblem of House Dun.

Inside the carriage, two auburn haired people were sitting across from one another- a man and a woman, about the same age, with enough resemblance between the that no one could ever have assumed them for anything but siblings. The man pushed a pair of awkward, triangular spectacles up on his face, glancing out the window.

“We’re nearing the city now,” he remarked. “Look- ye can see it just there.”

The woman looked up from a small pile of embroidery she’d been fussing with, her heart leaping into her throat. Sure enough, in the distance she could just make out the sprawling coastal metropolis of Kustanair, seat of power of the second most powerful house in Bern- a house she would very shortly become a member of.

“Aaron, are… are ye really sure I can do this?” she asked, turning to her brother with an expression of stark panic. “I mean it’s House Bay, they’re so wealthy ‘n powerful, we can’t hold a candle to them!”

“Which is why we need this alliance,” Aaron pointed out. He reached towards the woman, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Come now Eleanor, ye met Lord Ian when he was in Jennet- he was very kind.”

“Yes, but I’m nae marrying Lord Ian,” she pointed out. “I’m marrying his son, Lord Corrin. I don’t really know what kind of person he is, or how he feels about this, I mean he was the last person to find out about the arrangement ‘n he might be resentful! I mean saddled with a woman from the lowest ranked house in Bern aside from the foreign turncoats-”

“Stop,” Aaron said, gently but firmly. “Nory, yer beautiful, intelligent, ‘n sweet. Ye’ll be a wonderful Lady Bay, ‘n after the way you helped raise Seamus I know ye’ll be a fine mother for Lord Corrin’s heirs.”

Eleanor sighed, looking back out at the city. Nervous anticipation writhed in her gut, making her hands tremble over the embroidery she was working on. Dear Woo, she wasn’t ready for this. Her father had just died three months ago, brutally slaughtered by pirates that had also ransacked the city where she was born. Her entire world felt terrifying and unsafe, and now she was about to meet the complete stranger who Aaron had promised her hand to.

But ready or not, by the week’s end, she would be married. She could only pray that at least her husband would be tolerable. Dear Woo, please don’t let him be cold and indifferent. He doesn’t have to be my friend, I know that’s asking for too much from a political match but… someone kind. Please?

***

The Bays were waiting for them by the city gates. A tight circle of knights on horseback carried several banners of the House, displaying the navy blue selkie on its sea-green field. They had positioned themselves around two men who stood in the centre, their identical blue eyes fixed on the road leading off to the distant horizon. One was middle-aged, the other in his late teens. The latter was staring directly ahead at the road, his hands fidgeting with the reins, indicating not all was smooth and placid in his mind.

“Nervous, Corrin?” the Lord of Bay smiled at him from atop his own grey mare.

“A...a little,” Corrin nodded, his shoulders slumping as he tried to keep his hands still. Contrary to what he had thought before, as the appointed time for him to meet his betrothed grew closer, his anxiety had not settled. It had gone in the opposite direction.

“You’ll be fine. I keep telling you, Lady Eleanor is wonderful, she won’t bite,” Ian’s voice was full of optimism. “You’ll like her.”

“I hope so,” the younger lord shifted in his saddle, hiding his face from his father. “I just hope I make a good impression on her, that’s all.”

“At worst, you’ll talk her ear off explaining the differences between a caravel and a carrack. If I’ve lived through it, so will she,” Ian laughed.

“But what do I say? What if I do something wrong?” Corrin began to fidget with the reins again, only being cut off by a bad-tempered snort from his horse.

Another laugh emerged from the Bay Lord. “I never received any complains from your diplomacy tutors that you didn’t pay attention to them, so unless you’ve been secretly bribing them to get them to praise you-”

“I haven’t!” Corrin exclaimed and sighed, his shoulders slumping. “But this is somebody who is going to be my wife…”

“And?” Ian shrugged. “If it makes it easier, treat Lady Eleanor as a diplomatic guest. From there, you can take steps to try to make friends.”

“I suppose...I hope we can be friends,” the younger lord glanced back towards the road. At the back of his mind, he found himself yearning to be back in the library of his home, the local branch of the admiralty or out on the docks examining the latest merchant ship that had come in. The last few months had done nothing to ease his nervousness. A visiting fellow Lord he could easily handle; he had memorised the script of politeness and politics since he had been a young boy and could act it out at the drop of a hat. But he had no idea what to say to somebody who was going to be his future wife. This was a political arrangement, just like his parents’ marriage had been, but it seemed like his parents had always been good friends with each other. His father had spoken highly of Eleanor Dun doing his best to reassure him since he found out, and while Corrin had listened and believed him, the fact remained, he did not know her or what she was like. Or even what she would think of him.

“Ah, there they are,” Ian exclaimed, pointing towards the distant carriage. He shot his son a grin. “Here’s your chance. Don’t break her heart now, Corrin, I raised you better than that.”

“Dad!” Corrin cried before lowering his head. “I won’t, don’t worry.”

“Good. And don’t you worry either,” the Lord of Bay replied before turning back, watching as the carriage of the visiting lords approached them. The driver of the carriage pulled it to a stop, and shuffled around to open the door. Once it was open, Aaron emerged from within, stopping just long enough to offer a hand to his sister before both of them stepped down onto the ground. Aaron smiled when he saw Ian, inclining his head politely.

“Greetings, Lord Ian, it is good tae see ye again.” The Dun lord said cheerfully. Just behind him, Eleanor echoed the greeting softly, her sea-green eyes darting briefly towards where Corrin and the knights were hanging back. She clasped her hands together to stop them trembling- she’d caught sight of a young man who couldn’t have been much older than her amongst the knights. Could that be her betrothed?

“It is good to see you too, Lord Aaron, Lady Eleanor. I am glad you both managed to make it here safely,” Ian replied, smiling at them. He dismounted off his horse, giving its reins to one of the knights flanking him.

Corrin, meanwhile, had hung back, keeping his head bowed. He knew he should approach the Duns and say hello as his father did but he could feel his stomach flipping at the thought. No, it was probably best to wait and let his father introduce him first. After all, he was the Lord of Bay and he had arranged this.

Any excuse to put off the inevitable.

“I thought we should come meet you. The streets of Kustanair are labyrinthine to those who don’t know them, and I’m afraid there’s some districts in my city in which a noble party should not get lost,” Ian continued to speak. “I trust you had a pleasant journey so far, however?”

“That was very kind of ye, much obliged,” Aaron replied with good humor. “I admit I dinnae take the overland route between Jennet and Kustanair very often, so the novelty was enjoyable. I just hope ye have nae grown too impatient with the inordinately long travel time.”

Eleanor meanwhile was getting worried. The young man she assumed must be Corrin had made no move to approach- he’d not even looked up at the Duns. Maybe he was just shy? But what if he wasn’t? What if his reticence was born of a lack of enthusiasm? Oh Woo, what if he hated her, resented her for tying him down with the responsibility a wife entailed? Or almost worse, what if he just flat out didn’t care? What if she was about to spend the rest of her life shackled to a man who regarded her as nothing but a vehicle for producing heirs?

She forced herself to keep smiling politely at Ian, though no doubt the panic she was feeling was evident by her still trembling hands. Hoping to soothe some of her own unease, she added, “Perhaps by the next time my brothers are in Kustanair, I will have learned it well enough to help show them about. But for now I am grateful for your assistance- I should hate tae get myself lost in the city that will soon be my own home.”

“We shall have to see. You’re a very intelligent woman, Lady Eleanor, but Kustanair has confounded the best of us sometimes. It took my wife years to learn its many twists and turns, and even she doesn’t know it fully,” Ian laughed before giving her a mischievous grin. “But in the meantime, I will be glad to help you, or Corrin will. Though speaking of...”

The Lord of Bay paused, seeming to notice the sudden absence by his side. He turned his head around, glancing back at his heir. “Corrin, are you coming? I promise neither Lord Aaron or Lady Eleanor are going to hurt you.”

This was it. Corrin gently nudged his horse forward, keeping his head low. He pulled the mare to a halt and dismounted, coming to stand by the side of his father. No, this was not how an heir acted. He had to try to be calm, present an air of collectedness. Taking a deep breath and straightening out his shoulders, he lifted up his eyes to look up at the Duns.

He did not even notice Aaron. Instead, his focus latched on completely to the woman beside him. Her red hair, her green eyes, her features, all of them drew his attention. It could not be anybody else; this had to be Lady Eleanor. Oh Woo, his father said she was pretty but he never said she was so… so… beautiful.

Red coloured his cheeks as he realised that he had been staring for an uncomfortably long time. Immediately, Corrin turned away, hoping that neither her nor her brother would see. He had to stay focused, stay calm and give off a good impression, even if his heart was beating so quickly it felt like it would explode inside his chest.

Beside him, Ian’s grin grew even wider. He put a hand on Corrin’s shoulder, leaning closer to his son. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“Oh, uh, yes…umm…” Corrin could feel his tongue wanting to tie itself in knots. His eyes dashed back and forth between Aaron and Eleanor, not sure who to look at first. “Umm...hello. I’m...I’m Lord Corrin Bay, of House Bay. Except you…” his cheeks flushed more. “You probably know that.”

Aaron smiled broadly, glancing sideways at his sister with amusement. Corrin was far from the first person to react that way to Eleanor- she’d been propositioned a few times by wealthy merchants who’d become besotted by her good looks. To his surprise, however, Eleanor was clearly not expecting the reaction. Her mouth had formed a slight “o” of surprise, though she quickly smoothed her expression back into a diplomatic smile. Aaron gave his sister a slight nod, indicating she should respond first. Swallowing thickly, she stepped forward and curtseyed.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord,” she said, managing to keep her voice level in spite of the way her breath was quickening like she’d just run a marathon. “It is my most fervent hope that the alliance between our houses proves fruitful, ‘n that I…” here she faltered, a slight tremor entering her voice in spite of her best intentions. “Th-that I might serve you well as Lady ‘n wife.”

Corrin gave a start. The alliance, of course, this was what this was all about. In her presence, he had completely forgotten. He should probably say something similar to what she said but the thoughts in his mind were completely scrambled. This never happened to him before, not like this, so why now?

He cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back, trying to ignore how much his palms were sweating. “Uhh...yes. I...I hope this alliance will be productive too. I’m...I’m sure you’ll be a good...wife…”

No, he had to keep it together. Stay focused on what was important: the alliance. Even if Eleanor was pretty, they were going to be married for politics.

Oh Woo, he was going to marry her. Corrin felt fresh blood rushing into his cheeks. He was going to marry her and yet there he was, stammering and sweating like a fool. She had to think he was so stupid, stumbling over his words and being unable to go a few moments without flushing. Hardly the heir to the great and powerful House Bay she was expecting.

So concerned he was that he barely felt Ian putting a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps we ought to go back to the Manor? I’m sure you all must be tired from the journey. And,” the Lord of Bay cast his glance between Corrin and Eleanor. “I’m sure you’ll both appreciate a chance to get to know one another.”

“Umm...yes. That...that would be…” Corrin swallowed, “Nice.”

“Yes, of course Lord Ian,” Aaron said, giving his compatriot an amused grin. “I should hardly like tae keep us all out here in the sun.” His grin widened as he glanced at Corrin and then back to Ian. “Very warm, it is.”

Eleanor nodded, giving the Bay lord a wan smile, though her nervousness was easing somewhat as it became more and more clear that Corrin’s earlier reluctance to approach was born more out of shyness than malice. To her betrothed she added timidly, “I should like the chance to get tae know you better, my lord. Though this is a political arrangement I would like it very much if you ‘n I could be friends.”

“Uhh, yes, I’d-I’d like that too, Ele-” Corrin bit down on his tongue. He had just barely met her, what would she think if he began to call her by her first name alone. “Lady Eleanor.”

“You’ll get plenty of opportunities to get to know one another in the Manor,” Ian replied, grinning patting his son’s shoulder. “For now, Lord Aaron is right. We best get out of the sun before we all boil.”

The Lord of Bay began to gently lead Corrin away and as he did, the younger man turned back to Eleanor. “I suppose we’ll...see each other later, I-I guess?” he stammered and gave her a bow. “It was nice to meet you, Lady Eleanor.”

He followed after his father, who guided him back to his horse. As he got his hand on to the pommel of the saddle, intending to climb on, Ian shot him a sly wink. “Told you she was pretty.”

Corrin stared at him, his blue eyes going as wide as saucers while his face turned an even brighter shade of raspberry. A laugh escaped from Ian as he clapped the poor, startled boy on the back and went over to his own mount. Their escort of knights lifted their heads up in anticipation of the order to move out.

“If you would like to just follow us, Lord Aaron,” Ian called back to the carriage. “Our Manor is on the other side of the city from the gate but it should not take too long to cross.”

***

It was a good thing Ian had arrived to receive them, because the roads of Kustanair were every bit as winding and difficult to navigate as he’d promised. Though Aaron had been through Kustanair a time or two before during his political training, it was Eleanor’s first time to the city. She felt extremely small and insignificant in a place that was so huge compared to Jennet, but when she voiced these concerns Aaron’s only reply was to joke that “I think in all the vastness of this city, Lord Corrin has eyes only for ye, Nory.”

Eventually, however, they arrived at the manor that was home to the Bays, and the Dun siblings were able to get out of the carriage and stretch their legs properly after their long journey.

“Thank ye for the escort, Lord Ian,” Aaron said once they’d emerged. “I imagine ye were right- our carriage driver likely would’ve gotten turned around a good few times before he found the right way tae go.”

“Your city is quite… eminent, Lords Bay,” Eleanor said to their hosts, her voice emerging as something of a strangled squeak. “I could probably spend years here ‘n never see all of it’s wonders.”

“Kustanair is a port, a trade hub and the second largest city in the region, barring Destrier, of course it would be. But I’m happy you think so highly of what is to be your home, Lady Eleanor,” Ian remarked as he climbed off his horse before flashing her a grin. “Of course, if you ask Corrin, the only wonders in it are the docks and the ships that pass through them.”

The younger Bay’s cheeks flushed again. Woo, why did his father have to say it like that? He did not want to give Eleanor the impression that was all he cared about. He liked ships and was not ashamed of that but now she was going to think he was a single-minded idiot.

Wordlessly, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground in front of him, he dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to one of the grooms that had pulled up. Another was already leading away Ian’s and a few others had clustered around the Dun carriage.

“You can leave your horses here, Lord Aaron, I assure you they will be well looked after. Why don’t we go inside?” Ian gestured at the door leading into the manor house. “You must be tired and thirsty from your journey.”

“That would be most excellent, thank ye,” Aaron replied. With a wink in Corrin’s direction he added, “‘N seeing as Jennet is on the ocean as well, I can assure ye both that Eleanor has plenty of familiarity with the workings of ships ‘n ports.”

Eleanor gave a silent nod, though her eyes kept flitting to Corrin. He was clearly embarrassed, and somewhat unsure of how to contribute to the conversation. In a way his behavior reminded her of her baby brother Seamus, though Seamus was less shy in social situations and more paralytically terrified. Eleanor wanted to say something, anything to ease the tension, but she was at a loss for what to say that wasn’t a pure diplomatic pleasantry.

However, upon hearing that both her and Lord Dun knew something about seafaring, Corrin lifted up his head and glanced at her briefly. In a way, it was a little reassuring that he would not be talking at her without Eleanor knowing anything, but he would still have to be careful not to talk too much just in case he was an irritant. Yet what if she did want to hear and took his refusal to talk a lot as him being cagey or rude? Oh Woo, this was hard!

Ian, however, seemed to be perfectly at ease. With a smile, he gestured after himself and headed inside the manor. Like most buildings in Bern, it was made out of basalt but here and there, decorations of marble stood out starkly from the dark stone. Richly woven tapestries hung on the walls and light streamed in through the windows, coloured by the occasional flourish of stained glass embedded into their frames.

A dark-haired woman clad in the green and blue of Bay was coming down the stairs. As soon as her eyes fell upon the party, she smiled widely.

“Corrin, Ian, hello!” she trilled, her voice tinged with a sing-song accent. that marked her as Lyellian in origin She approached them both and threw her arms around each of the Bay men in turn.

Ian smiled back at her once he had hugged her back. “Hello Fran,” he said before turning to the Duns, still keeping one arm around the woman. “This is my wife, Francesca. I’ve told her all about you both.”

Francesca nodded, bowing her head to them in turn. “Yes indeed. Ian has spoken highly of you and it is a pleasure to meet you both at last, Lord Aaron, Lady Eleanor,” she shot Eleanor a smile in particular. “It’s so hard to believe my baby Corrin is getting married, and especially to a lady like you. Oh, it just warms my heart!”

Eleanor blushed, wondering what Francesca meant by “a lady like you,” though the context of the sentence seemed to imply she was delivering a compliment. Aaron gave the Lady of Bay a polite bow, and Eleanor curtseyed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Francesca,” Aaron said cheerfully. “I understand that it is yer relatives who will soon be getting a choice shipment of Dun furs? It is a pleasure to meet ye as well.”

“Likewise,” Eleanor replied with a timid smile. “I thank ye for opening your home tae me, Lady Bay. I hope that I can be a good wife for Lord Corrin.”

“Oh I’m sure you will be, Eleanor. And please, call me Francesca, or Fran. I am not having my future daughter-in-law be so formal with me,” Fran replied, clasping her hands together before nodding to Aaron. “And yes, Lord Aaron, that is them. I have sent a message to ,my brother, Basilio and he is very excited about it. The branch of the Acquae company here in Kustanair is expecting the shipment any day now.”

“Ah, but that is business, and business is best discussed over a drink and maybe some food,” Ian said jovially and gestured sideways, towards one of the doors. “If you would like to follow me, Lord Aaron?”

Corrin stepped forward too, causing Ian to raise an eyebrow. “And where do you think you’re going?”

“You...you don’t want me to contribute to the meeting?” the younger Bay lord asked.

“Certainly not! You have a more important task to fulfill,” a wry grin spread like a snake across Ian’s face. “Why don’t you show Lady Eleanor around the Manor?”

His cheeks coloured into a fine shade of beetroot. “I...umm..” Corrin glanced sideways at Eleanor. “But...”

“Oh, I can do it, Ian, if he wants to go with you to discuss business,” Francesca remarked, tilting her head slightly at her son’s reaction.

“No, Fran, this is something Corrin needs to do himself. He needs to get better acquainted with his future wife. I’m sure he’ll enjoy that a lot more than boring politics in a meeting room somewhere,” Ian gave her a wink.

Corrin’s bent his head down, examining the flagstones intently as though they were the most interesting thing in the world. Perhaps if he was being honest, he would not have minded being alone with Eleanor. But at that thought, he felt his cheeks colour a fine shade of raspberry. Oh Woo, what would he even do with himself? What would he say to her or how should he even act? He had to be polite, she was a fellow noble, but he did not want to be cold either. Except if he was not, he might act inappropriately and make her uncomfortable. If his father was around he could help him but on his own, he was going to make a mistake. Then Eleanor was going to think him an idiot. He shot her a glance before his eyes darted away, leaving only the image of her stuck on to his retinas. She was so beautiful too, he did not want to mess this up, but he was going to. He always did with girls.

Oblivious to the thoughts running through Corrin’s head, the Lady of Bay blinked a few times, looking at her husband for a few seconds before she turned to examine her son. But upon seeing his red face and how he kept glancing at Eleanor, an understanding smile formed across her face.

“Of course, I understand,” she said, doing her best to disguise her amusement. “Then we should probably go.”

Ian gave Aaron a nod. “If you would like to follow me then, Lord Aaron..?”

“Certainly, Lord Ian,” Aaron replied cheerfully. He glanced sideways at his sister, giving her a broad grin. “Enjoy yer tour, ‘Nory.”

Eleanor gave Corrin what she desperately hoped was a reassuring smile and not a fixed cheshire grin of nerves. “I’m sure I shall. I’ll bet the manor is beautiful.”

Part 2

SPOILER: Click to show

With that the three older nobles left the room, and Eleanor found herself alone with her betrothed. She swallowed thickly, wondering what she ought to say to him. She wanted to reassure him somehow, but she didn’t want to offend or upset him by making it clear she knew he was nervous. Desperately, recalling the joke she’d made to Ian several months ago, she gave a wan smile and remarked, “I’m sorry m’lord- I suppose I was rather bigger a souvenir than ye were expecting Lord Ian tae bring home from Jennet.”

Corrin’s head shot up as she spoke. “Oh, um, yes...yes, you were,” he stammered before wincing at how that came out. “Not that you are unwelcome, or a souvenir. I mean, people can’t be souvenirs, at least, not in this country...House Bay doesn’t sell people, we just trade in...things.”

He bit down on his tongue and looked away again, realising he was rambling. His first words to Eleanor when they were alone and he was already saying stupid things. “Anyway, uhh...I suppose we better start the tour?” the young Bay lord shot her a smile which he hoped looked charming and relaxed. In truth, the corners of his mouth had shakily been pulled aside and fixated by nerves. “Is there...any place in particular you want to see, Lady Eleanor? I know what my favourite places are and I don’t want to drag you around...”

Eleanor wasn’t really sure what to ask for. She didn’t know the layout of the manor, and to her mind it made the most sense just to walk around and look at one thing at a time as they came to it. After a moment of thought she smiled. “We’re meant to be getting better acquainted, right? I’d like tae see the rooms ye like, ‘n hear about yer interests.”

“Are you sure?” Corrin asked, blinking like a small creature emerging out of its burrow. “I don’t want to bore you...but your brother said you know about ports and ships, right?”

His smile became a little bit more relaxed and genuine. “I can show you the library, or even better, the highest room in the Manor? It overlooks the docks and the estuary so you can see all the ships coming to and from Kustanair.”

“I should like tae see the view from high up,” Eleanor replied, pirking up a bit. “One of my favorite places back home was the lookout point up on Sunset Bluff- that’s a cliff near Jennet. Ye could see the ocean and the forest for miles. Because it was the highest point in Jennet there were guards up there who’d watch the incoming ships...”

Eleanor trailed off, remembering how the warning horn call from the guards on Sunset Bluff had come far too late to prevent the pirate attack a few months ago. A slight look of unhappiness passed over her face for a fraction of a second before she smiled again. “Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts.”

Corrin bit his lip, not missing the sadness that had appeared on Eleanor’s face, however briefly. He could have sworn he had not said anything wrong or impolite to offend her in some way. But what if he did without realising? What was he supposed to do? He did not want to make her sad or uncomfortable, or accidentally offend her without realising.

“Umm...I’m sorry too. If I brought up any bad memories or offended you,” he said quietly, lowering his head back down. “I didn’t think I said anything wrong but if I’m mistaken…”

Eleanor shook her head. “I’m sorry, it was nae anything ye said. I was just… remembering what happened a few months ago. Please, dinnae mind me. I don’t want to make ye feel like yer in the wrong, my lord. As yer lady it will be my job tae support ye, so ye needn’t worry about me- I’ll manage.”

Of course. Corrin almost wanted to slap himself. Eleanor was still grieving over her father and the pirate raid on Jennet must still have been fresh in her mind, yet there he was wanting to go ship-watching with her. Ships were probably the last thing she wanted to see right now, let alone hear him ramble about them. Woo, she was probably so offended, no wonder she was being so polite with him.

“...I’m sorry, about what happened,” he murmured, shifting from foot to foot.”I heard about it from my father and it sounded...horrible. I should have realised,” Corrin bit his lip. “We can go somewhere else if you wish, Lady Eleanor. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or stir up bad memories for you.”

He swallowed nervously, glancing at her. “I mean, I’m supposed to be your husband, or at least I will be soon? So...I have to look after you too…”

Eleanor shook her head, starting to panic a little herself now at how her momentary weakness was ruining everything. She hated how pathetic she was, to still be dwelling on things months after the fact when everyone else was moving on, and now it was hurting Corrin as well as her brothers. “Nae, I really did mean it when I said I wanted to see the view. I grew up in the mountains so somewhere that’s high up might be nice tae know about if I ever feel nostalgic. “N I love the ocean- back home my little brother ‘n I used to watch the sunset from the beach almost every day. Please…”

“If you’re sure. I mean, I don’t want to force you to grin and bear anything for my sake,” the young Bay replied, looking up at Eleanor. Maybe he could reach out to her, touch her shoulder or her hand to try to reassure her? Immediately, he felt the blush spreading across the bridge of his nose again. Woo, no, that was a bad idea. He was practically a stranger, touching her now was...absolutely out of the question. Why did he think that was a good idea?

“Uhh...umm…” he turned around, taking a few steps towards the stairs. “It’s this way then. If you want to follow me, Lady Eleanor…”

Eleanor nodded, quickly falling into step beside Corrin. “So… what sorts of things do ye like tae do for fun, my Lord? I enjoy falconry myself, ‘n dancing ‘n riding. I like tae swim sometimes as well.”

Corrin pondered this for a few seconds. “Well, umm...I enjoy riding as well, but I prefer staying home. I enjoy reading and maps, but I also am really, really interested in ships. Whenever there’s a new type of ship docked in the harbour that I’ve never seen before, I always try to go take a look,” his eyes seem to light up and a smile spread across his face before he caught himself. He was starting to ramble. “Umm…I’m sorry. If I bore you, please say so.”

“It’s fine, you’re nae boring me,” Eleanor replied, though internally she was dismayed at the idea of staying inside all day. Even Seamus for all he liked math enjoyed playing outside and was looking forward to learning how to hunt. “Sometimes I’ll stay inside ‘n sew or embroider, but I prefer tae be out in the gardens when I have leisure. I… I dinnae really know how tae read.”

A brilliant scarlet flush spread across her face at this admission. It wasn’t uncommon for nobles not to be able to read- that’s what scribes existed for- but admitting she couldn’t to the educated heir of Bay, her future husband, made her want to crawl into a hole somewhere. Here it was, now he’d judge her. He’d realize she was an uncivilized, uneducated mountain savage. Her eyes stung a little, but she blinked sharply.

“You don’t?” Corrin tried to conceal the surprise in his voice but it was nevertheless apparent all over his face. However, it was hardly a look of judgement or malice, more that of somebody who was trying to comprehend a world view entirely different to his own. “I would be lost if I did not know how to read...but I am the heir to Bay so I have to know. I guess...you never needed to, huh?”

He tried to smile at her. “But it’s okay. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know how to swim,” he reached up to rub the back of his neck, blushing a little too. It was not like it was unusual to not know how to swim either. But he was in front of Eleanor, who could. Woo, how inadequate he had to seem to her.

“Uhh...a lot of sailors don’t either and they work on the sea,” he added awkwardly and winced. So much for reassuring her about her inability to read.

“We dinnae have a lot of money because our lands are so poor in resources,” Eleanor admitted. “So the heir learns how tae read ‘n write, but the other children of the house do nae, because it saves money ‘n it isn’t necessary. We do nae really even own a lot of books because they’re so expensive. There are no libraries in Jennet, just a small collection in my brother’s office.” She gave him a wan smile. “When I was a child it was go outside tae play, or be bored silly. That’s why most of my hobbies are active things. ...I’m sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s...it’s fine,” Corrin shook his head and lowered his eyes. “I know not all Houses are like ours. I did not have any siblings growing up either, and making friends was hard so I learned to entertain myself. And the best way to do that was with books. We...we keep a private library and being a merchant House, we also have a collection of maps, so I spent my time studying them. And that’s why I’m...well...you know.”

He swallowed awkwardly and looked up ahead. “Ah, there is it,” he pointed to a small door ahead of them. Running up to it, the young Bay lord opened it up, revealing a steep spiral staircase. “Uhh...I’m afraid it’s high up and steep. Do you…” he gestured at it, bowing slightly as though inviting her into a carriage. “Want to go first?”

Eleanor smiled, curtseying back. “I shall, thank you. But ye dinnae have tae worry, I grew up in the mountains so high ‘n steep are fairly familiar tae me.”

As she started up the stairs she remarked. “So if ye studied maps ye must be fairly knowledgeable about the geography of a variety of places. It must be interesting for merchants, getting tae travel ‘n see the world and drawing all those maps.” She glanced down at him. “Ye say ye like ships- have ye ever wondered what it might be like tae sail tae a distant land?”

“Sometimes,” Corrin replied, climbing the stairs after Eleanor, though he was careful to maintain a respectable distance. “The merchants and sea captains passing through here always tell these amazing stories. Occasionally, I felt jealous and wanted to go with them. But…”

He bit his lip. “I’m...not one for the dangerous lives that sailors lead. And even if I could manage, I’m the only son of House Bay so I have to stay here. So I’m happy to just listen to the stories and...admire the ships,” an awkward smile spread across his face. “To be honest...it’s the ships I’m more interested in anyway.”

“Ah,” Eleanor replied, somewhat at a loss for how to respond to that. It seemed that Ian was correct- Corrin had a little bit of a one-track mind where ships were concerned. She hoped that wasn’t all he was interested in, or they’d run out of conversation topics very quickly.

“I’m afraid I… dinnae know much about ships,” she admitted. “I am fairly well educated about the mechanics ‘n niceties of ocean travel, ‘n my father gave me an intimate education about trade, but…” She flushed crimson, feeling more and more at a loss. “I’m sorry, Lord Corrin, I must seem terribly ignorant.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Corrin shook his head. “I’m a bit of an...enthusiast. My father teases me about it a lot and even experienced sea captains sometimes get tired of me and my questions,” he blushed a little. He had to be careful not to ramble about ships to her in case she got bored, or worse, annoyed. “If...if you like, I can...try to explain some things to you? I mean, if you want.”

“Certainly, if ye’d be alright with that,” she replied. “I only ask that ye are patient with me, as I may take a while tae fully get the hang of the subject.”

They’d reached the top of the staircase by that point, and Eleanor carefully unbolted the door before pushing it open. She walked into the room, and as she caught sight of the view out a nearby window she breathed in sharply.

“Oh Woo…” she whispered. “It’s… big.”

“Yeah, it is,” Corrin exited behind her and approached the window too. His eyes swept over the city and the river mouth beyond it, taking it is as they had done a thousand times before. “I mean, both Kustanair and the Ursine estuary are. The Ursine is the largest river in Bern, and one of the largest on the continent and Kustanair is...well, dad told you.”

He blushed a little, realising he was rambling again. Taking in several deep breaths to calm himself down, Corrin looked out on to the harbour at the ships coming in. As he did, a smile spread across his face. “See that ship over there? The little one with one mast?” he pointed to a single ship moored by the docks, its single sail fluttering in the breeze like a bird’s wing. “That’s a trade cog. It’s either for local coastal trade or it will be going up the river, since larger vessels cannot navigate the upper channels. You can tell it is one because they only have one mast, a single mainsail and a flat bottom.”

Eleanor blinked in surprise, taking her eyes off the view of the city and the river to follow Corrin’s pointed finger. She’d not expected her education on ships to start immediately, but she nodded readily enough. “I see. ...What’s a mainsail?”

“Oh, it’s...it’s like the name says, it’s the sail on the main mast. The cog only has a mainsail but on larger ships with multiple sails, it is the lowest and largest sail, but only on a square-rigged ship. That’s a ship with square sails which are carried on spars that emanate from the main mast,” the words rolled off Corrin’s tongue as smooth as butter without a trace of his earlier awkwardness.

“I… see,” Eleanor replied, though really she didn’t see. The sudden onslaught of jargon caught her very much off-guard. “So what sorts of goods come intae the city on trade cogs like that this time of year?”

“Oh, umm, well, it’s the height of the trading season, since the ice has fully melted and will stay that way for a few months yet so there’s a variety,” the younger Bay lord said, though his voice had lost most of its earlier enthusiasm. “Those ones are either carrying stone or metals from Rindfell, or they come down the river with Lyellian goods. Those vary depending on which trading company own them.”

He sighed and bit his lip, glancing sideways at Eleanor. “I’m...I’m sorry if I’m boring you. I know this isn’t the most...exciting topic of conversation. I’m not very…” Corrin trailed off at the last word. Exciting.

Eleanor felt another surge of dismay. Was he really going to take it as a personal affront every time she wasn’t completely enthused about something? About ships, from what he’d shown so far?

She tried to smile, but it was getting harder every time he retreated back into himself. “I dinnae mean tae give affront, my lord. I just wanted tae get an idea of the place I’m going to be living from now on. I…”

Eleanor couldn’t think of anything else to add to that. No excuse or justification. She was exhausted after the long ride, her nerves were frazzled, and she felt like nothing she could say would be the right thing. Looking back out over the view, she remembered how she’d always calm Seamus- and herself- when she or he got upset. Softly, her eyes on the distant ships and sea, she started to sing.

“Speed bonnie ship, like a bird on the wing,
Onward, the sailors cry
Carry the lad that's born tae be king
Over the sea tae skye

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunder claps rend the air;
Baffled our foe's stand on the shore
Follow they will nae dare

Speed bonnie ship, like a bird on the wing,
Onward, the sailors cry
Carry the lad that's born tae be king
Over the sea tae skye

Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep
Ocean's a royal bed
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep
Watch by your weary head

Speed bonnie ship, like a bird on the wing,
Onward, the sailors cry
Carry the lad that's born tae be king
Over the sea tae skye”

As the song progressed, Corrin slowly rotated himself to look at her. First his face, then his entire body turned towards Eleanor, his eyes fixing on her as her voice carried through the tower. The song was an old one, sung up and down the coast of Bern by fisherman and noble alike, and yet, hearing her sing it, it sounded, different, and not just because of her accent. Her voice was far from perfect and yet, he could not stop listening to it.

When she had finished, he stood there, his mouth slightly open, searching his brain for words. Something, anything, to acknowledge that he had liked it.

“Uhh...your voice is really, really beautiful,” Corrin stammered out finally and immediately felt himself flushing. Clearing his throat, he glanced back out of the window. “Do you umm...do you sing a lot?”

Eleanor was caught off guard by the compliment- she knew her voice was listenable, but no one had ever described it as pretty before. Blushing now herself, she replied, “Yes- in the mountains in the winter singing and telling stories are about all there is tae keep boredom at bay. I sing- er, sang with my youngest brother all the time. I enjoy it.”

“You’re good at it too,” Corrin murmured, shuffling on his feet and biting his lip. If he was not careful, all he would end up doing is complimenting her singing. While he was sure girls liked compliments, everyone did, if he gave too many, she’d get suspicious.

He racked his brains for a change of topic, eventually settling on something Eleanor had said. “You said youngest brother...that’s not Lord Aaron, right? You have another brother?,” Corrin asked. Immediately, a snippet of conversation earlier. “Actually, you mentioned ‘brothers’ before too…”

Relieved to have a topic she could engage without sounding like an uneducated moron, Eleanor nodded brightly. “I have three brothers. Aaron is the oldest, he’s twenty. Next is Theodore, he’s fifteen. ‘N the youngest is Seamus- he’s eleven. Nae sisters, I’m the only girl in the family.” She smiled fondly. “Our mother died from an infection just after Seamus was born, when I was about six. So I’ve kind of been sister ‘n mother tae him for most of our lives. I think ye’d like him- he’s very sweet, loves math ‘n engineering, but he’s also painfully timid. He has a paranoia disorder that gives him near-crippling anxiety in social situations.” With a sheepish grin she added, “Seamus actually ran away from Lord Ian when he was in Jennet.”

“Really, from my father?” Corrin blinked, surprised. “I always thought dad is the last person you’d run away from, unless he’s teasing you, but I doubt he was doing that to him.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. Though he did not want to tell Eleanor this, he sympathised with her brother. Being heir, he did not exactly have a choice in whether to run away from visiting lords or not, and his training had helped him overcome his shyness to some degree but social situations still did not come naturally to him.

“I would like to meet him sometime though. Maybe we’ll get along, and I...I would like to get to know your family, besides Lord Aaron. And you, of course,” he glanced up at Eleanor timidly.

“I’d like that too,” Eleanor said with a smile. “My brothers are very dear tae me, so I would like it if ye got along with them. ‘N the same goes for me with yer family. Yer father seems like a very kind man, so I hope he and I can continue tae get along well… what about yer mother, what’s she like? If ye do nae mind my asking.”

“My mum is...really nice. Not just to me, to everyone else as well. She’s got a lot of energy, and she’s really outgoing. She’s from Lyell, if you could tell by her accent” Corrin smiled back at Eleanor. “She was really excited about meeting you and you coming to live with us. Mum’s always wanted a daughter,” he gave off a single, awkward laugh. “So...be prepared, I guess?”

The young woman giggled. “I’ll try nae tae disappoint her. I’m glad yer family has been so welcoming. I’m…” she gulped. “I’m a bit nervous. About all of this. But I’ll do my best tae be a good wife for ye ‘n a good addition tae your family.”

“Oh, I’m...I’m sure you’ll be...fine,” Corrin stammered, the red colour creeping back into his cheeks. He gritted his teeth together and turned away, glancing out of the window. “To be honest...I’m nervous too.”

His head shot back around to Eleanor, staring at her with apparent horror. “Not that, there’s anything wrong with you, Lady Eleanor, it’s not that!” he waved his hands frantically in front of himself and sighed. “Just...a wife and all that comes with it...it’s sudden and it’s a lot.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Eleanor bleated, caught off guard. “I was nae offended, I… I understand, Lord Corrin. We’re both new at this ‘n we’ve just met so it’ll take getting used tae.” Tentatively, she held out a hand to him, palm up. “But hopefully we can work it out together?”

“Uhh…” Corrin glanced at her hand, uncertain. On one hand, not taking it could be considered rude and he did not want to insult her. But on the other hand...Woo, he’d be touching her.

How bad could it be? She was inviting him after all and it was just a simple hand-holding. So, slowly and uncertainly, he extended his hand out to her, resting his palm on hers.

Immediately, he felt himself blush slightly. Eleanor was warm, warmer than a ray of sunlight. If his heart was not racing, Corrin might have even slightly enjoyed this slight contact between them. As long as his palm did not begin to sweat again. Oh Woo, that would be embarrassing.

He shook his head, forcing himself to focus less on what could happen and more on Eleanor in front of him. Somehow, he managed to raise his head up to look at her face and smile. “Yes, sure, we can work it out...together. I mean, that’s what a husband and wife do, right? I think.”

Eleanor smiled back. “It is. ‘N we will.”

“Uhh...yeah,” Corrin took his hand away and cleared his throat, turning back to the door. “Anyway, shall we continue, Lady Eleanor? I promised I’d show you the Manor and there’s more to it than just this tower…” he took a few steps back towards the exit. “If you’re not tired?”

Eleanor nodded. “By all means- lead the way.”

Part 3

SPOILER: Click to show

As the day dragged on, Ian quickly realised that he had seen neither hide nor hair of Corrin or Eleanor since that morning. While he dismissed the possibility of anything truly terrible happening as unlikely, the thought still tugged at the back of his mind, refusing to give him any peace. Which is why, once things had been settled with Aaron, the Lord of Bay made his excuses and left his wife to guide their guest to his room as he went to search for either half of the soon-to-be wed couple.

Corrin was not in his usual hiding spaces; both the library and the sitting rooms he favoured were empty. With a deep frown, Ian crossed into the private quarters of the family, stopping outside Corrin’s room and knocking on his door. Immediately, behind it, there was a slightly startled sound, followed by a shuffling before the door opened, revealing the Bay heir.

“Oh, hello, dad,” he murmured, casting his eyes down on to the floor.

“Hello Corrin,” Ian replied, a look of concern spreading over his face as he glanced over his son. Corrin was hardly a picture of confidence this morning but now, with his dull downcast eyes and slumped shoulders, he looked like he had all the life sucked out of him. “Can I come in?”

The young man nodded, moving aside from the door and allowing his father to enter. Ian glanced around, noticing the book that lay out on the bed which Corrin had clearly been reading before he had been interrupted.

“Normally you only steal books when you’re upset,” the Lord of Bay remarked, sitting down on a nearby empty chair. “What happened?”

Corrin sat down on the edge of his bed, looking away from his father in shame. “I messed up, dad,” he suddenly exclaimed. “I messed up the first meeting with Eleanor”

“...how exactly?” Ian asked, tilting his head slightly.

“I just...” Corrin swallowed and brought his head up, suddenly staring at Ian. “Every time I tried to talk to her, my thoughts went blank. I ended up stammering and stumbling over my words, and I’m sure I annoyed her by talking about ships, and- and-” his eyes were wide as his breathing quickened. “She must hate me now. She probably thinks I’m such a self-absorbed weakling who does nothing all day but obsess over ships and books. And she’s so beautiful and kind and smart and her voice is so pretty and-”

“Alright, alright, calm down!” Ian laughed, reaching out and placing his hand on Corrin’s shoulders, giving them both a gentle squeeze. “Deep breaths now. Deep breaths.”

The Bay heir did as he was told, drawing in air and exhaling it until slowly, the tension fell out of his shoulders and he relaxed slightly. However, his blue eyes were still wide with fear. “I...I don’t think I can do this, dad. The marriage, I mean.”

“Corrin...why not? You clearly like her,” Ian chuckled. “By the look of you this morning, you definitely more than just like her.”

A flush of red covered the young man’s face. “Woo, I’m always like this with girls, but at least I can avoid them if I mess up. Eleanor...” he winced at the thought. “She’s going to have to be my wife and I made...that kind of impression on her. She must hate me so much, or resent having to be tied to me for the rest of our lives,” Corrin shook his head. “Eleanor deserves somebody better than I am; somebody confident and strong and heroic who can indulge in her hobbies and make her happy, not me. I’m not good enough for her.”

“That’s not true,” the Lord of Bay shook his head, drawing his son into a hug. “You might be shy and awkward but you’re a good boy with a kind heart and a good head on your shoulders. I’m sure Eleanor realises that.”

“I don’t know,” Corrin shook his head. “Whenever I’m around her, I don’t feel smart. My mind goes blank, I second-guess myself and all I can do is focus on her, every element of her,” he lifted his eyes up to his father. “You always know what to do, dad. How do I deal with this?”

Ian pulled himself away from his son and looked him in the eye. “I wish I could help you, Corrin, but I can’t advice you on what to do. I’ve never felt what you feel right now towards Eleanor.”

“What about mum?” the young man asked, his voice full of sudden optimism. “Even if you don’t feel this way, you seem to be good friends with her and you’re always so comfortable around her, even if you married for politics like me. How did you do that?” he glanced downwards. “I know you don’t talk about it but...I should know now.”

There was a deep sigh from his father as though blowing the dust off some long-forgotten book. A sad smile spread across his face as he turned back to Corrin. “It wasn’t always like this between me and your mum. There were cultural barriers we had to overcome, and if you could believe it, my Lyellian used to be even worse,” he chuckled. “But we go through all that, and even if I don’t love your mum, she’s still my best friend. At least you and Eleanor share a common culture and language.”

“I suppose... but I still don’t know what to do.” Corrin murmured, glancing up at his father. “You said talk to her before, but I realise I don’t know what to say to her, how to tell when she isn’t annoyed at me or...anything.”

Ian patted him on the shoulder. “It will get easier with time. You’re still strangers to each other, you don’t yet know what makes the other work. Of course it’s going to be awkward, and it’s harder when you’re so self-conscious and obviously smitten.”

The young man blushed at the last word, his eyes nervously shifting from side to side as though somebody would overhear his grave secret. Ian could not help but chuckle at that.

“Nobody is going to hear,” he reassured his son, giving him another gentle touch on his shoulder. “But Corrin...you like Eleanor, don’t you?”

“I-I do, I really do,” Corrin nodded furiously. “I really like her and I want to be a worthy husband to her.”

“For the sake of the alliance, or for her?”

“For both, I guess, but especially for her,” he replied, biting his lip. “Somebody like...like Eleanor deserves it.”

“And I believe you can be that person for her,” Ian smiled encouragingly. “You care enough about her; that’s the first step. The second step is reaching out. Don’t rush things, make friends and be more open with her. Listen to what she says, try to keep up a conversation and above all, don’t be afraid to just try things. You’ll find there’s a lot more to Eleanor than just a pretty face.”

“And what if she doesn’t want to do that?” Corrin whispered, almost as if he was afraid of speaking the possibility into existence. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

“That’s impossible. Just you wait, if you open up to her, Eleanor will do the same right back. But you need to do that first before you get anywhere,” Ian stood up and held out his hand. “Can you promise me, Corrin?”

The young man lowered his eyes, pondering this before reluctantly taking his father’s hand and shaking it. “I promise. I’ll do my best.”

***

Later that evening, Eleanor found herself alone in the room that was to be her own for the indefinite future. She wasn’t to be sharing a room with Corrin immediately after they were wed, which was a bit of a relief- things were awkward enough between them already.

Her belongings had been carefully tucked away throughout the room, though most of her goldenrod and brown Dun gowns would no doubt be confiscated and discarded after the wedding was finalized. After all it wouldn’t do for the Bay heir’s wife to be seen in the colors of another house.

As she was going through the the room, opening drawers to see where everything had been placed, she was surprised to notice something in one of them that wasn’t just clothing. There was a little velveteen otter doll, about half as tall as Eleanor’s forearm. She recognized it instantly- it belonged to Seamus. How had his toy ended up in with her things? She would have to give it to Aaron to take home later.

She pulled the doll out, but to her surprise she realized there was something pinned to it. A scrap of paper, with a heart drawn on it.

Seamus knows I can’t read… is he trying to say he put this in with my clothes on purpose? Eleanor thought, biting her lip. A lump formed in her throat and she sat down on the side of the bed, running her thumb over the faux velvet of the doll’s fur. Seamus…

From beyond her door came a soft knocking sound, immediately followed by a trill of a voice that was tinted with that sing-song Lyellian accent. “Eleanor, dear? It’s Francesca. Are you decent, may I come in?”

Eleanor started, quickly stuffing the doll back into the drawer and shutting it before calling, “It’s okay, ye can come in!” She blinked sharply to repress the sting that had started in her eyes. Woo what these people would think if they saw her getting snively over a toy...

The door opened and Francesca popped her head in, assessing the situation. When she saw that all seemed well, she went inside, the latch clicking as she shut the door behind her.

“I hope the room is to your liking. If not, we have plenty of spares,” she said cheerfully, taking a few steps towards Eleanor. “Both Ian and I want you to be comfortable. This is going to be your new home after all.”

Eleanor smiled, employing every scrap of diplomatic discipline she had to keep her expression straight. “Thank ye. It’s very spacious. Everything here seems a lot bigger than back in Jennet.”

She flinched visibly at that. Woo, she hadn’t meant to say that, but it’d been on her mind since they first got to the city and it just slipped...

Francesca laughed. “Yes, I imagine it must be. Kustanair is a large city by anybody’s standards so of course the ruling House would match it. I still remember how shocked I was when I came here.”

A smile formed on her face. “You’ll get used to it, don’t worry. And if there’s anything we can do to help, just ask,” the Bay lady put a hand over her heart. “We are supposed to be family, are we not?”

Remembering how dismal Corrin had become when she’d asked him questions to do with the city that weren’t pertaining to the structure of ships, Eleanor averted her gaze. “Thank ye ma’am. But I dinnae want tae be a bother.”

“Is something wrong, Eleanor?” Francesca tilted her head at her, coming a little closer. “You seem down, dear. Did something happen with Corrin?” she put her hands on her hips. “Because if he’s been rude to you, mark my words, I’ll speak to him. Me and Ian certainly raised him better than that!”

Eleanor’s shoulders hitched up in surprise at the fierceness in Francesca’s tone, and she quickly shook her head. “Nae, nae, he wasn’t rude! He was… very polite.” Painfully polite, she thought ruefully. “Just I… dinnae think there are very many topics he was receptive tae.” She shook her head. “I’m sure it’s my fault. I’m just… nae educated like he is.”

“That boy…” the Bay lady rolled her eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Did he ramble at you about ships? I swear, it’s nice for children to have a hobby but it worries me sometimes how much he loves the subject.”

She smiled at Eleanor and approached her, patting her arm. “It isn’t your fault. Corrin hasn’t really spent much time with people his age, especially not pretty girls like you. My poor sweet boy was probably a bundle of nerves.”

Eleanor looked down at her hands. “I tried tae talk tae him, just… he kept getting upset. Nae matter what we talked about he apologized like he’d offended me. Except for ships, but I dinnae know anything about ships… I tried tae engage the topic by asking him what sorts of things Kustanair sees in its ocean trade but then he got upset ‘n-” the girl winced. “I’m sorry, I’m nae trying tae be rude. He seemed very nice. I just dinnae know what tae do tae not upset him.”

“You’re not being rude, dear. It sounds like you did everything you could, it’s just Corrin was a shy, awkward child,” Francesca slowly curled her arm around Eleanor’s shoulders. “To be honest, I don’t think he knows what to say to you. With you being as pretty and nice as you are, he just doesn’t want to say the wrong thing and come off as being silly.”

She laughed. “Though by the sound of it, he’s done a fine job of that already just by trying to avoid it. Poor thing, he just can’t win.”

Eleanor was surprised when Francesca hugged her, but after a moment her shoulders relaxed and she sighed. “I did try telling him some of the things I’m interested in. But I grew up in the mountains, ‘n our house is fairly poor, so I spent most of my childhood playing outside. I…” the girl flushed a deep crimson. “I c-can nae read. But he’s educated ‘n he has intellectual hobbies, ‘n I…”

I’m not ready for this. Eleanor thought dismally. I’m not right to be the wife of the next lord of House Bay!

“You can’t read? Is that what you’re so worried about?” Francesca smiled warmly, stroking Eleanor’s auburn hair. “Don’t fret so much. I can’t read either, that’s not uncommon and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you really want to, you can learn. I doubt Ian will object, or even Corrin can try to teach you, if he can get his foot out of his mouth for long enough.”

She lowered her hand and gave Eleanor’s shoulder a squeeze. “He had no siblings and most of the servant kids were too rough for him so he spent a lot of his time around books. And sadly he prefers to stick with what he’s comfortable with. Which is why you should try to drag him out, get him to try new things. It will be good for him, and for you.”

Eleanor thought about that. Again, it wasn’t unlike Seamus. He had things and places where he felt “safe” and getting him into situations that were unfamiliar made him very uncomfortable. But this wasn’t her brother, this was her fiance. She couldn’t exactly tease him into doing things he wasn’t comfortable with, especially not when he balked just at talking about subjects besides his favorites.

“I… I can try but I dinnae… want to put undue pressure on him. I’m supposed tae support him, as his wife. Tae be obedient an’ faithful. I dinnae want to seem like I don’t know my place.”

“I know, dear, but that isn’t what Corrin needs,” Fran’s smile acquired a hint of slyness. “And just between you and me, do you want to be that kind of wife?”

Eleanor was caught off guard by the question. “I- n-no but in a noble marriage what I want is nae supposed tae matter. I’m supposed tae do what’s best for my new lord ‘n the alliance between our houses.”

Francesca sighed, shaking her head a little. “You certainly don’t lack manners, Eleanor, dear, but none of us want you to be miserable here either. I don’t, Ian has said he doesn’t and I’m sure Corrin doesn’t either.”

Her eyes and smile grew warm again. “What’s best for him is not a quiet, submissive wife, but a friend. Especially the kind of friend who will pull him out of his shell a little, so don’t try too hard to be something you’re not.”

The younger girl seemed to ponder this, her green eyes thoughtful. Then she gave Francesca a shy smile. “Well I’m going tae need someone willing tae tell me what sorts of fun things there are tae do around the city without taking the question as a personal failure because I’m nae asking about ships.”

“Well, dear, that’s what I’m here for,” Francesca patted her shoulder again. “Just tell me what sorts of things you’d like and I’ll tell you where you can find them. And if somehow I don’t know, I’m sure Ian won’t mind if you ask him. He’s the one who was born here and he’s the the Lord of Bay, if he doesn’t know then it doesn’t exist in Kustanair.”

Eleanor’s expression softened further, and she ticked off points on her fingers as she spoke. “I like dancing a lot. An’ riding. When foreign merchants visit I like tae go down to the markets ‘n’ see what sorts of interesting wares they’ve brought from far away. If anywhere nearby is secure ‘n quiet enough I like to take picnics by the ocean, ‘n sometimes I like tae go somewhere away from the lights of the city ‘n watch the stars.” She blushed a bit. “Most of those are nae very refined habits but… I enjoy them.”

“You like what you like, Eleanor, you can’t help it,” the Bay lady paused, putting a hand to her chin. “We have no lack of foreign merchants, if you want to see each and every one, you’ll have to go there every day. Star-gazing is hard here but we have a beach at the back of the Manor and another one outside the city, which you’ll have to assess to see if it suits your tastes. But as for dancing and riding…”

Her smile turned into a sly grin. “Those are best with company, aren’t they? And dancing and riding lessons are both part of an heir’s education.”

Eleanor laughed softly. “I suppose they are. ‘N when I mentioned riding to Corrin he did say he liked it a bit as well. But he did nae seem all that interested in the dancing. He actually… did nae really acknowledge any of the hobbies I told him I have except the riding, ‘n he caveated that with the admission that he prefers tae stay home.”

“Oh, that boy...” Fran sighed, shaking her head. “As I thought, he got his foot firmly stuck in his mouth. Don’t you mind that. He hasn’t done many of the things you’ve listed and those that he has tried were all as part of his education. It’s very different when you’re doing it for fun, especially with company, and he just needs to realise that.”

She smiled. “So don’t be afraid to get him to try new things, even if he’s reluctant. If he doesn’t like them, fine, but at least get him to try,” a giggle escaped from the Bay lady. “It’s the same principle as getting a small child to try new foods. Something Corrin also had trouble with when he was little.”

Eleanor looked surprised at that, but then she giggled too. “My brother Theodore was like that too. He turned his nose up at new foods because they ‘looked funny.’” With a broad grin she added, “One time he was refusing tae try something, so Father decided to have that same thing served at dinner every night for four days tae force him to try it. My other siblings an’ I got so exasperated having tae eat the same dinner over ‘n over that he eventually caved just so we’d stop giving him stink-eye.”

“Oh that is inventive. I wish we’d thought of that!” Francesca laughed loudly. “With Corrin, Ian got the bright idea to sneak the food he hated into meals he liked. Poor boy never knew what to expect with his food for a while.”

Her eyes lowered and her smile wilted slightly. “He didn’t have any siblings to help pressure him into it, unfortunately, so we had to resort to trickery,” the Bay lady brightened as she turned back to Eleanor. “But now that you’re here, maybe it will be easier to get him to try new things, so don’t be shy about dragging him into your hobbies. Who knows, maybe you’ll find something you both enjoy?”

“Maybe,” Eleanor agreed. She hesitantly reached out towards Francesca and put a hand over the older woman’s. “Thank ye. For being so welcoming. I’ve always known that one day I’d have tae marry for politics but I never dared tae hope I might find a family so kind.”

The Bay lady squeezed her hand back. “Anything we can do to help, dear. I know very well that it’s got to be a hard time for you right now but I want to be here for you. You can count on me, and don’t be afraid of approaching Ian either. I know he’s the Lord but he’s also a good man. He likes you and your brother, and wants you to be comfortable here.”

Eleanor smiled. “I will. I promise.”

Part 4

SPOILER: Click to show

Though it stood a fair distance away from the water, the Cathedral of our Woo of the Sea more than lived up to its name by other means. Stone seagulls swooped on the ceiling, mingling with the gannets and terns flying down the columns that held up the entire building. Between them, scenes from the Book of Woo and from the lives of saints alike were enshrined in stained glass windows that the summer sun illuminated from the outside, casting bright colours on to the dark stone and the carved wooden pews below. Said pews were utterly packed with visiting nobility from all over Bern, and some who had come as far as Albion and Rindfell. All of their eyes were turned on the bride and groom standing in front of the priest reading their vows.

Corrin was trying to listen to the man reading the service to them and desperately keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, keeping his composure. But sometimes, his gaze strayed and turned to Eleanor beside him and every time, he could not help but blush. The wedding dress fit her perfectly, accentuating the colour of her hair and eyes, making her look even more beautiful than usual. Woo, she was going to be his wife! The thought made his heart race and his stomach drop out from under him, though he was not sure if it was in fear or excitement. Most likely, it was both.

“...man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

He almost choked at hearing that. Kiss, Eleanor?! He would be lying if he did not want to but how would he even do that? On the cheek, on the lips? Would she even like kissing him? But if he refused, in front of all these nobles, it would be an insult to both her and her family.

Silently, he glanced at his father sitting on the front pew, begging for help, but Ian only smirked and winked at him. His entire face flushed scarlet and the young Bay lord gritted his teeth as if that would restore it to its normal colours. Awkwardly, Corrin turned around, trying to smile at Eleanor. “...if that’s okay with you?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

The young woman was by now unsurprised that Corrin asked her permission, but it wasn’t as if she could have said “no” if she wanted to. This was an important part of the ceremony after all. Awkward as it was to have to kiss a man she’d only known for a few days, she smiled back and in the barest of breaths said, “It’s okay.” Then, lest his nerves get the better of him and he hesitate for an awkwardly long time in front of all these people, she closed her eyes and leaned up towards him, trying to ignore the heat rising in her face and the squirming in her gut.

Corrin nodded just slightly, acknowledging her permission, even if it did not help soothe his nerves at all. Woo, it was just a kiss, it was part of the ceremony, it did not mean anything either. He had to calm down. His chest rose up and down as he took several deep breaths and leaned forward. Having Eleanor so close and being aware that she was close...he was not sure whether he could go even more red.

Just get it over and done with. Don’t think about how pretty she is or how embarrassed you are or how stupid you must look or-

He planted a small peck on her lips before drawing away as quickly as he could. There. That was it. They were married. Was something supposed to be different now? He still felt his stomach churning and his cheeks burning.

Behind them, the guests stood up in their pews. Corrin turned around to face them, not even looking in his father’s direction. He did not want to see the grin on his face that he knew Ian would be wearing.

“I uhh...I guess we should...go?” he squeaked to Eleanor.

“I guess,” she replied, feeling simultaneously relieved it was over and… a little hurt that it had been such a token gesture. Barely half a second of contact. She knew it was because Corrin was nervous, she was too, but still it was so quick and perfunctory. Give it time, you just met. Francesca warned you he was timid, just give him time to warm up.

She turned towards the center aisle of the cathedral, walking alongside Corrin as the great doors at the entrance swung open to reveal the open carriage waiting to take them back to Bay Manor for the reception.

Corrin kept an even pace with Eleanor as they walked towards the carriage. Was that kiss wrong? Had he messed up somehow? His father said not to worry so much when it came to Eleanor but he could not help but worry. He had no idea what he was doing and did not want to do something wrong. She did not deserve that.

But they were married now. Corrin had to try to do something, to make even more of an effort now that he was her husband. And Woo help him, he wanted to be a good husband to her.

They stopped when they approached the carriage and he held out his hand. “You...you want some help?” he asked quietly, glancing up at her. It was polite, was it not, to help a lady into a carriage? And he had to get used to touching her. Woo, he could not spend the rest of his life blushing every time they touched.

Eleanor was caught by surprise at the offer, but she smiled slightly. “Sure, th-thank ye.” She reached towards Corrin’s outstretched hand and took it in her own. She could feel her own pulse hammering hard against her thumb where it touched his hand, but in spite of her nerves part of her was somewhat relieved he was trying to make an overture.

A shy smile appeared on his face as she accepted the gesture. Nevertheless, Corrin could not bring himself to meet Eleanor’s gaze as he helped her into the carriage. Her hand proved to be very warm and he could feel his palm begin to sweat. As soon as she was inside, he let go and climbed in after her, taking the seat opposite, staring out into the street. Unfortunately for him, the cathedral was too far from the harbour for the latter to serve as a distraction.

It took a while before the carriage jerked into motion, setting off in the direction of the Manor. He continued to watch the city going by, only sometimes glancing at Eleanor opposite him. Trying to think of something, anything to say so they wouldn’t be waiting out the entire carriage ride in awkward silence, Eleanor glanced around desperately. Noticing the horses out in front of them, a slight smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.

“You know, my brother Seamus would be terrified right now,” she remarked softly. “He can ride in closed carriages but open ones like this… it’s the horses. They terrify him.”

“Oh, really?” Corrin glanced over his shoulder at the two white horses behind him. “I wouldn’t have thought horses were scary...except maybe the Noblesses. My grandma brought over a pair as part of her dowry and I remember seeing some of their grown-up foals in the stables when I was little. They were big, muscular and quite aggressive,” he turned back to Eleanor with a shrug. “So I guess I can understand why he’d be scared.”

“Well it helps that he was bitten by one when he was three,” she replied sadly. “We were trying tae get him used tae horses with ponies, but he wandered off an’ got on the bad side of a young stallion nae quite gentled yet. But ye have Noblesses? I’ve never seen them, only heard about them. I bet they’re very impressive. In the mountains we mostly ride ponies because the uneven terrain is too precarious for a horse.”

“I hope he was okay otherwise,” Corrin murmured before looking up and nodding. “They’re, uh, they’re older, the younger ones are crosses with our own horses and aren’t as big, or strong or aggressive…” he trailed off, knowing that was not particularly impressive as a pure-blooded Noblesse. “But...they might not be good in the mountains. Too big and bulky and...I don’t know, maybe not sure-footed enough? We have different horses for mountain-riding anyway. I don’t know what kind they are though...sorry,” he blushed. “Horses are my dad’s strong suit.”

Eleanor shrugged, “I’m nae an expert either. But I do like riding so I have to have some passing knowledge.” With a hopeful smile she added, “Maybe sometime we could go together? Have you ever been beach riding? It’s amazing to canter through the shallows an’ feel the spray on your face without actually having tae get soaked. Or if you’re feeling daring you can take the horse deeper so the water is up tae their necks. It’s a blessing on a hot day.”

“You can do that?” Corrin’s eyes widened in surprise. “I mean umm, I’ve only ever ridden for business, never for fun. I...I probably won’t go in deep though, if we do,” his cheeks grew redder. “Because I...well, I told you…can’t swim. But,” he smiled and rubbed his neck. “We can go, I mean, when all this is done, of course.”

“That makes perfect sense, we dinnae have tae go deep into the water- but that’s great!” Eleanor said with a broad grin. “It’s tremendous fun if ye’ve got good horses an’ good weather. Thank you, Corrin. Just let me know when ye’ve some time.”

“Oh, uhh...okay,” Corrin murmured, smiling shyly back at her. It occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever actually seen her smile so widely. Woo, she had a nice smile too. He coughed and looked out of the carriage and into the city streets, feeling even the tips of his ears going red.

Thankfully, it did not take long before they stopped outside the Manor. Corrin stood up in his seat just as the servants scurrying towards them opened the carriage door. He stepped out before glancing back at Eleanor. Should he help her again? It would be strange if he did not, and she might take it as an offence. The conversation in the carriage went well, at least he thought it did and he wanted to keep that going.

He stretched out his hand to Eleanor, continuing to give her the same shy smile, though he did not dare to meet her eyes, not yet.

Eleanor accepted Corrin’s help emerging from the carriage, giving his hand a slight reassuring squeeze. He reacted to that simple gesture as though he had been electrocuted, twitching and straightening in his place, gazing directly ahead at the entrance. The two of them were guided into the manor, and to a formal ballroom where the wedding reception was to take place.

“Now for the ‘fun’ part,” she remarked to Corrin in a low voice, her mouth quirking sardonically for a few seconds before she fixed her face into a polite mask again. “Schmoozing with the visiting dignitaries.”

“Yes…” the young Bay lord nervously glanced around the hall, taking stock of the nobles who entered the hall. In theory, he knew who everyone in attendance was, he had been told the guest list and he saw them back in the cathedral. But talking to all these people and keeping up a dignified appearance in front of Eleanor, that was a different thing altogether. “Though we don’t have to say a lot right? Just thank you, small talk, things like that? Dad is Lord, he’s the one that they would really want to talk to. So uh...we shouldn’t worry, at least, not much.”

“I hope nae,” she replied. “Or it’s going tae be rather a long night. But at least we’re in this together.” Her mouth quirking slightly again she added, “just imagine it’s a ship an’ we’re sailing through stormy waters. Yer the captain an’ I’m the first mate- or maybe the helmsman? I’m nae sure, what do ye think?”

“You would be the first mate. I mean, sometimes the quartermaster can be the second in command but first mate has similar duties to the captain so it’s more accurate here. Though in stormy weather, it would be all hands on deck and-” Corrin bit his tongue as he realised he caught himself rambling. Even if he was more comfortable talking ships than people, he could not start doing this at his own wedding. “...sorry, I’m overcomplicating things. You’d be the first mate-”

“Planning to abscond off to sea with your new wife already, are we, Lord Corrin? And what would your father say?” came a low voice just in front of them, followed by a soft laugh and a single metal tap against stone. Corrin swallowed and turned his head, forcing himself to look up into the icy eyes of the Grand Duke.

“N-no, your Grace. We were just...discussing something,” he bowed his head immediately, glancing sideways, away from Alain. There was a woman by his side who he recognised from his few visits to Destrier as the Grand Duke’s wife. “It’s nice to...to see you here,” he gave the woman a polite nod of acknowledgement as well. “And you, Lady Margot.”

She smiled and returned the gesture but otherwise stayed silent, glancing at her husband. However, the Grand Duke barely seemed to notice her as he removed one hand from his cane and held it out to Corrin. “Congratulations on your wedding day,” he smirked. “Ian is quite excited about it.”

“Uh, yes, I know. Thank you, your Grace,” Corrin returned the handshake rather weakly than he would have liked, avoiding looking Alain in the eye.

He smiled before sweeping his eyes over to Eleanor and bowing his head. “You too, Lady Eleanor- I suppose you would be Bay now, wouldn’t you?”

The young woman had to fight to keep herself composed, to keep from shuddering at the way the older man’s eyes seemed to pierce her skull and bore into her very thoughts. Alain Stallion, Grand Duke of all Bern and hero of two wars. Eleanor curtseyed to him, her voice carrying the slightest of tremors despite her best intentions as she spoke. “Yes, yer Grace. Thank ye very much for yer kind regards. I hope that by the union of our houses we can endeavor tae make the seas of Bern a little safer for everyone.”

Corrin felt himself flush a little. Woo, she was so composed and he was a stammering wreck. He had training in doing this, surely he could have done better! He swallowed, biting his tongue. Too late to regret things now.

Alain’s eyes only briefly flickered back to Corrin before he turned back to Eleanor. “As I’ve heard; that’s the whole point of this alliance,” a tiny frown crossed his face. “I was sorry to hear about your father. Lord Cohen was a good man. You take after him, in some respects.”

Eleanor felt a lump form in her throat, and she blinked sharply. “Th-thank ye, yer Grace. I…” She struggled to think of what to say. You should have expected this, of course people are going to mention Father.

Corrin glanced sideways at her, noticing the sudden depression that had come over Eleanor. Woo, why did the Grand Duke have to mention her father? Should he say something? No, he could not berate the head of House Stallion, especially if the latter was only expressing sympathy. All he could was hide his eyes and look away but as he did, his hand brushed against Eleanor’s in what he hoped was a supportive gesture.

“I’m sorry, Lady Eleanor,” Margot spoke up, her voice barely a murmur as she stepped out from behind her husband. “I know it isn’t easy, losing someone...someone you care about, especially before their time…I know that too well.”

Alain’s gaze flickered over to her but the Stallion lady swallowed the lump in her throat, giving Eleanor a weak smile. “But this is supposed to be a pleasant occasion, is it not? You’re getting married; it’s meant to be a happy day.”

Eleanor swallowed hard, flushing with shame at how badly she’d botched that. She glanced sideways at Corrin briefly, when his hand touched hers, surprised by grateful for the gesture. In spite of Eleanor’s embarrassment, the Stallion lady’s condolences seemed sincere, and Eleanor gave her a shy smile. “Thank ye, Lady Margot. Yer right, this is nae a day for sadness. Corrin is very kind ‘n I’m honored tae stand by his side as his wife.” Turning to Alain, her face going red again, she added, “I’m terribly sorry, yer Grace, I was indecorous.”

Corrin’s head shot up at her words and he blinked several times, staring at Eleanor. He was kind and she was honoured? Did she mean it? He opened his mouth to ask before remembering who he was facing. Immediately, he lowered his head, trying to mask his own blushing, and the smile that played at the corners of his lips.

If the Grand Duke had noticed, the only indication was a slight change in his icy eyes. He gave Eleanor a courteous nod. “It’s quite alright, you are allowed to grieve. Although,” Alain turned his head to Corrin, a smirk appearing on his face. “I’m sure Lord Corrin wouldn’t want you grieving very long, would you?”

The young Bay lord’s face flushed crimson. “N-no, your Grace. I mean, Eleanor can grieve for as long as she wants but...I don’t want to see her sad. I’m her husband.”

Alain laughed softly and his hands folded over his cane. “No, of course not. Though I’m sure you have...other motives?”

Corrin bit his tongue and shut his eyes tightly. Oh Woo, how was he even supposed to reply to that?

Fortunately, he did not have to. There was a tap on Alain’s shoulder and he turned to meet Ian’s smiling face. “Are you tormenting my son, dear cousin?” he laughed. “I’m afraid that’s my job.”

“Hardly tormenting him, Ian,” Alain replied calmly. “Just having a chat, asking him some questions and congratulating him on his marriage, that’s all.”

The Lord of Bay gave an exaggerated sigh. “I know you well, Alain, and I know Corrin far too well to figure out what you’re doing to him,” he smiled, clapping the Grand Duke on the shoulder. “It’s too late to congratulate me on my marriage but would you rather talk with me and ask me questions instead? I promise I’ll make far more interesting company for you than my son.”

“Those were your words, not mine. However, I would not mind a chance to speak to you, Ian,” Alain turned to him as they began to walk. “I never did thank you for your support in regards to my choice of heir.”

“I’d rather have her than that son of yours, no offence,” Ian replied. “Though, on the subject, how is your youngest doing? Is he better?”

The conversation faded as the two men headed away from the couple, leaving them alone with Margot. She stood still for a second, watching her husband walk away, before looking back to Eleanor, a sad smile playing on her face.

“You’re very, very lucky, Lady Eleanor,” she said before hurrying away after Alain.

Eleanor was caught very much off-guard by Margot’s comment. Clearing her throat to shake off the last of the awkwardness of her own slip-up and Alain’s teasing, she smiled at her new husband. “Thank ye for caring, Corrin. But what do ye suppose Lady Margot meant by that?”

“I’m...not sure? Maybe that you’re lucky to get married? She did say a wedding day is supposed to be happy?” Corrin replied, keeping his gaze firmly down on the floor until he could feel his face begin to cool down. “I’m just thankful my father came to our rescue.”

Eleanor laughed nervously. “As am I. That was getting a little too personal for comfort. Although… are his Grace ‘n your father really cousins?”

“Yes, they are. My grandma was the last Grand Duke’s younger sister so dad and his Grace are first cousins. They’re nothing alike, mostly, but dad gets along with him anyway, and he seems to like dad too,” he rubbed the back his neck. “To be honest though...he scares me a little.”

“He scares me too,” Eleanor admitted, glancing at the Grand Duke’s retreating back again. “The way he snuck up on us alone was unnerving, ‘n then that cold look on his face…” She shivered. “So do we mingle now, or just wait for people tae come tae us, or what?”

“To be honest, I’m not quite sure myself. I’ve...never been at the centre of attention like this,” Corrin murmured, inwardly glad that Eleanor did not judge him for being scared of a fellow nobleman. “I guess we just...mingle and wait for people to greet us? So...uhh…do you want to follo-”

“Ah, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for the happy couple,” a young man, no older than the two of them, called out to them, strolling over with a wide smile on his face.

Corrin blinked in surprise and turned to study this newcomer. His red hair stuck out from his head in messy curls which somebody had clearly tried to tame and only partially succeeded. With his blue eyes and red hair, he perfectly matched the azure and amber of his clothes.

“You’re...Tobiano, correct?” the young Bay lord asked tentatively, causing the young man to nod.

“Yep, you’re right. Graham Tobiano, Lord Campbell’s heir,” he held out his hand, which Corrin shook. “My father expresses his regret that he can’t come, he’s rather busy with other affairs. He didn’t say exactly why but, “ Graham gave a shrug, “You can both probably guess.”

“Ah, yes,” Eleanor said with a nod, her eyes distant and hard. “My brother mentioned it. Please give yer father my thanks, ‘n hopes that his captains can bring the freebooters tae justice soon.”

“Of course I will, and I’m sure they will too,” Graham smiled widely before waving his arm dismissively. “But that’s out of our hands right now, and I don’t want to discuss such grim things on your wedding day, Lady Eleanor. I’m just happy that one good thing came out of this tragedy.”

The young woman flushed a bit, but smiled and glanced sideways at Corrin. “As am I, thank ye.”

He caught her look and glanced away, coughing politely. “Uh, yes, thank you,” Corrin said, giving Graham an awkward smile.

“You’re both quite welcome, and I’ll try not to ruin it by getting drunk on my first official occasion,” Graham gave a hearty laugh and grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t. Wouldn’t want to ruin relations between our houses now.”

Eleanor laughed. “Oh Woo, it’ll probably happen before the end of the night thought- if nae ye, someone else.” She rubbed the back of her neck and shook her head. “I suppose in that sense it’s fortunate my brother Theodore is nae here. He probably would do something like that.”

“Ha, well, there’s always one. I’ll try not to be that one, for your sake but,” Graham smiled at Corrin. “You won’t be either, will you, Lord Corrin?”

“Uh, no, of- of course not!” Corrin exclaimed, going red once again. Woo, with Eleanor around, he wouldn’t be so much as touching a drop of wine. He already felt like an idiot around her, he did not want to act like one as well.

“I’ve heard it helps steady nerves,” Graham said with a smile and a shrug, making the young Bay lord’s eyes go wide. Was everyone determined to embarrass him at his wedding? “But it’s your decision. I don’t know if your ladyship would like your new husband revelling like some common village fool.”

“Far be it for me tae prevent anyone from having fun,” she replied with a crooked smile. “So long as no one is making themselves sick, I shall keep my peace.” Turning to her husband she added, “It’s his wedding too, after all, I want him tae enjoy it.”

“Umm, I’ll...I’ll probably enjoy it best sober,” Corrin laughed awkwardly,glancing down at the floor. “I mean, if you want, Eleanor you can drink but-”

A small boy in a red and black tunic suddenly ran around Graham, staring up at Eleanor and Corrin. “Hello!” he exclaimed in a thick mountain accent, smiling broadly up at them before turning to Eleanor. “Ye’re pretty! Hi pretty lady!”

Eleanor was caught by surprise at this, but laughed, and smiled down at the young boy. “Hello there,” she said, her earlier nervousness with the adult nobles seeming to all but evaporate. Taking in the color of his clothes she winked and said, “Ye would be Lord Sabino? It’s an honor tae be in the presence of such a fine nobleman.” She curtseyed to the boy.

Graham smiled and stepped away, leaving the couple alone with the toddler, who clapped as Eleanor curtseyed to him. “Uh-huh, Ah’m Sayer!” he said, staring up at them both as though they were the most amazing things he had ever seen.

“Is your or mummy or daddy around, Sayer?” Corrin asked, leaning down to him and smiling a little.

“Aye, o’er there,” he pointed with a chubby finger towards a pair of nobles a short distance away, a red-headed man and a delicate-looking, pale-haired woman. However, the boy did not even glance in their direction, instead continuing to stare at Eleanor and Corrin. “Ye’re at tae front of big church. I wanted tae be in front but mama said nay.”

“Aw, that’s too bad,” Eleanor said. “I bet ye had a hard time seeing everything over all the heads in the rows in front of ye, huh? I hope ye weren’t too bored.”

Sayer nodded with all the assurance he could muster. “T’was borin’ and it went on for sooo long! But papa said if I was good, I could get cake!” he blinked and his head dashed around. “Where is cake?”

The young woman giggled. “I’m sure the banquet will start soon, Lord Sayer. The cake will come once everyone has eaten. Ye’ll have to be patient a little bit longer, but I bet it’ll be a fantastic cake tae make up for the wait, won’t it Corrin?”

“Of course. I heard my mother say it will have honey and cream and maybe even chocolate,” Corrin nodded, looking the toddler in the eye. “Have you never had chocolate, Lord Sayer?”

“No?” Sayer tilted his head. “Is it good?”

“It’s delicious,” the young Bay lord smiled. “It’s worth sitting through the boring ceremony, I promise.”

“It’ll be both of our first times trying it,” Eleanor remarked. “So after the banquet maybe we can compare how we liked it. But in the meantime,” she gave the small boy a quick, gentle boop on the tip of his nose, “I’m sure ye can find lots of other fun things tae do.”

Sayer giggled, putting a hand over his nose. “Okay! Ah’ll find pretty lady after cake, promise!”

“Sayer?” an older man’s voice came from above them. Corrin looked up at the newcomer, taking in his appearance. It was the same man who Sayer had pointed to earlier. His hair and the colour of his clothes was identical to the toddler’s, leaving no question who he was. Immediately, the young Bay lord shot up to his, dusting his clothes off and straightening his back.

“Earl Elgin,” he bowed his head. “Hello.”

“Hello, Lord Corrin, Lady Eleanor,” Elgin replied nodding to each of them in turn before reaching out and taking Sayer by the hand. “I hope he was nae bother.”

Eleanor curtseyed to the older man. “Nae at all, Earl Elgin,” she said. “He was just mingling like a proper young nobleman. He’s quite outgoing, I’m sure he’ll do House Sabino proud when he’s a little older.”

“Ah’m sure,” Elgin smiled warmly down at the boy and took him by the hand, bringing him to his side. “Ah’m glad he made a good impression on ye both.”

“I promised pretty lady we’d meet later after cake!” Sayer tugged at his father’s arm as he bounced up and down. “Cake with chocolate, papa!”

“Really, did ye now? Without running off and scaring me and yer mama?” Elgin let go of the boy to pat his head before taking him by the hand once again. “I best be getting back tae Gannet, but thank ye fer looking after him. And congratulations tae ye both,” he glanced back down at Sayer. “I can only wish yer kids are as full of life as him.”

Eleanor turned brilliant scarlet at this comment and quickly ducked her head to hide the flush. “Ah th-thank you, Earl Elgin. That’s… I h-hope so too.”

“Umm...uhh…all in...all in g-good time, Lor- no, Earl Elgin,” Corrin stammered, his face turning the colour of the Earl’s tunic. “He’s a...a nice boy.”

Elgin nodded, too busy gazing down at his son to notice their embarrassment. He only turned back to give a polite nod. “Good day tae ye both then,” he stated and turned around, leading the toddler away by the hand. Sayer turned around once and waved before disappearing into the crowd with his father.

As soon as she was sure the earl was out of earshot, Eleanor rubbed her burning cheeks. “Woo… I… that was…” she cleared her throat. “He really was a sweet kid, though. He’s n-nae the earl’s heir, is he?”

Corrin, however, continued to murmur under his breath. “...can reach a thousand tonnes and usually square-rigged at the foremast and lateen-rigged on the mizzenmast. Carracks are characterised by a high rounded stern and-” he blinked as he realised he was being spoken to. Still bright red, but for a different reason this time, he slowly turned his head to look at Eleanor. “Sorry, what did you say? I didn’t hear.”

Eleanor felt a stab of hurt that he’d reacted that badly to the subject of them having children that he had to slip back into his comfort zone of ships. She felt as awkward about it as he did, or so she’d thought, but now she wasn’t so sure. Was she just unattractive? Was that why he desperately had to distract himself?

“I just…” she glanced at the servants starting to file into the room and added a shade too heartily, “I was just saying that it looks like they’re getting ready tae start the feast.”

“Oh, yeah,” Corrin looked up at the entrance to the great hall of the manor. Thank Woo, at least at the feast he could distract himself better than he could out here. Glancing sideways at Eleanor, he coughed and took a step forward. “Shall we then?”

“Sure, of course,” She replied, nodding with decisiveness she in no way felt. The young woman followed her husband to the table, the easy good cheer she’d felt with Sayer replaced by an expression of neutral diplomatic politeness. As they sat down she caught sight of her brother, as well as Lord Ian and Francesca. She gave them a strained smile, hoping to reassure them, but instead she saw Aaron’s eyebrows furrow slightly with concern.

Corrin, meanwhile, sat down, glancing nervously around the hall, in particular his gaze settling on his father. Ian frowned slightly before giving him a reassuring smile before turning to speak with Alain, though Corrin could not hear what they said to each other. Whatever it was seemed to please the Grand Duke, judging by the smirk that blossomed across his face.

It was probably best not to think about it. Instead, Corrin sat down by Eleanor, fidgeting slightly with his fingers, waiting for the other guests to sit down and for food to be served. Occasionally, he glanced sideways at his new wife, opening his mouth to say something before closing it again. She seemed more distant and withdrawn again, even though he had been trying and seemed to have made some progress. He wanted to keep the promise he made to his father but Woo, why was it so difficult?

Part 5

SPOILER: Click to show

Things did not get any less awkward when the guests were finally seated. Bay and Dun, being the Houses of the bride and groom, were seated at the high table, along with the high nobles of Stallion. Once everyone sat down, the servants wasted no time starting the banquet. The food was good at least, the Bays had spared no expense in preparing a banquet worthy of the wedding of their only son and heir, but it was soured by how deflated Eleanor seemed. Even the smoked fish and cream soup, which Corrin suspected his parents had snuck into the feast just for him, seemed to taste off. He didn’t want to be unhappy and he wished he knew how to make her happy without always somehow managing to mess it up.

The banquet continued to drag with course after course being brought out and wine being poured for anybody who indulged, and this being Bern, that was most of the guests. Corrin, however, had remained true to what he said to Graham Tobiano and stuck to water or fruit juice.

Eventually, dessert was served and the banquet began to wind down. Guests began to get up from their seats and mill around, chatting with friends and relatives as well as anybody else they wished to engage in conversation for one reason or another. This was when the musicians took their cue. A stirring melody rose up over the heads of the assembled nobles, drowning out much of the chatter than had risen up.

All eyes turned to Corrin and Eleanor. He blinked like a rabbit, first glancing at Eleanor and then sideways at his mother and father.

“What?” he murmured to Ian.

The Bay Lord laughed heartily. “Bride and groom open up the dancing,” he winked. “So why don’t you take Eleanor so we can dance too?”

Corrin swallowed, turning bright red again. Woo, things were already awkward between them, if he stumbled during the dance, he would never recover. But...he could dance, it had been part of his education as an heir. And she said she liked dancing, didn’t she?

Not meeting her eye, he turned to Eleanor, holding out his hand. “Lady Eleanor...would you do me the honour?”

This, it seemed, was one area where the young woman was not nervous. Though she seemed a little embarrassed under the weight of everyone’s stares, she wasn’t at all loathe to take Corrin’s hand and walk out to the dance floor.

The Bay heir kept his gaze firmly on the floor as they stepped out. He paused, listening intently for the beat of the music to figure out how to match the steps. All his thoughts were back on the dance lessons he had taken in the past, not even daring to focus on Eleanor being right there or her hand against his. Calm down, just pretend she’s your tutor or your mother as you dance, it will be fine.

Finally, Corrin caught the rhythm and tempo of the music. He lifted his other hand up on to her shoulder and began to lead her in a simple, moderately-paced dance. “Tell me if I go too fast or too slow...or if I do something wrong,” he murmured, turning his head up to look at Eleanor.

“Dinnae worry so much,” she replied, giving him a wink. “I can lead if you like. Outside the context of obligate lessons dancing can actually be a lot of fun. Just let the music carry you.”

“I’ve never danced with anybody outside of lessons, “Corrin admitted bashfully and smiled a little. “But...I’ll try. Just tell me if it’s not good.”

He picked up the pace a little, matching it to the music, which risen slightly in tempo to grow into a energetic melody. Taking note of what Eleanor had said, he focused on it and not the steps that had been drilled into him, letting it lead them around the floor. And despite the fear that lingered in his mind of messing up, the smile on his face grew a little.

Eleanor smiled in reply kicking up her heels a bit so that the hem of her dress swished about beneath her. Almost without thinking about it she pulled away, spun a single circle, and drew closer again, clearly long practiced at this. Her sea green eyes glimmered with mirth, and she even started to hum along with the music softly.

At first, Corrin was startled as she pulled away but as she came back and he noticed the happiness in her eyes, he began to relax. Things were going fine. He would be fine. Which is why he decided to take a risk and lifted his hand holding hers up into the air, spinning Eleanor around as they danced before bringing her back in.

Seeing her husband relaxing and starting to enjoy himself, Eleanor smiled even more widely. “This is fun, isn’t it?” she whispered to him.

“Yes, actually,” he replied, smiling as well and twirling her around a second time. Without even realising, when they took up their positions again, Corrin was closer to Eleanor than before. “I never thought I would have so much fun dancing.”

She giggled. “Neither did I, until I started doing it at parties and festivals instead of just in etiquette lessons. Ye just need the right partner ‘n the right context.”

Seeing the smile on his face, Eleanor felt a slight fluttering in her stomach. Corrin had a nice smile, she realized. When he wasn’t dithering and backtracking over imagined missteps every few minutes he was actually rather cute. She averted her gaze briefly, feeling her cheeks warm, but then looked up again into his very blue eyes.

“Yer very good at it,” she remarked, trying to ignore the fact that her pulse had suddenly sped up in a way that had nothing to do with the exertion of the dancing. “Dancing I mean. We should try this a few more times tonight, if that’s alright with you.”

“Uh, sure,” Corrin nodded, “There should be plenty of time especially if you’re...enjoying dancing with me. I’d...like that too.”

She enjoyed dancing with him! Finally, he had done something right! The realisation made the young Bay lord’s cheeks glow slightly red but it was his smile that grew even wider. With renewed boldness, he let go of Eleanor and pulled away, though still holding her hand before spinning himself and her. When they returned to their positions, he changed direction, going anti-clockwise on the dance floor.

His increasingly courageous overtures were rewarded by like gestures from Eleanor, who seemed to blossom like a flower in the spring as the newlyweds continued their dance. So caught up were the two that they almost didn’t notice the song coming to an end until, with a final flourish, the music stopped. They came to a halt with a rustle of cloth, both of them slightly warm and panting from the exertion- but smiling widely. Despite the fact that the song and consequently the dance had ended, Eleanor lingered in their final position, unable to quite tear her gaze away from her husband’s clear blue eyes. It was Corrin who broke away first, glancing away from her and blushing under her gaze.

Then, around the room, applause broke out. Eleanor started, then blushed, instinctively flinching closer to Corrin and giving a sheepish grin. He looked back at her, feeling his face flush scarlet as well under the heavy sound of clapping and smiled shyly.

“I guess we did it?” he murmured, drifting away from her and letting her go, though a part of him was loathe to do it. “Maybe we should do it again...when there are less people around.”

She grinned sheepishly. “Good idea. Or maybe when there are other people dancing, so we’re not the center of attention.” She glanced in the direction of her brother, who met her gaze with a lifted brow and a smirk. The young woman blushed again- so Aaron noticed, of course he had.

“For now, maybe a drink?” she said, turning her attention back to Corrin. “Some water or juice tae help cool off a little.”

He nodded rapidly. “Yes, that might be a good idea. I am parched,” Corrin stepped back over to the high table, picking up a pitcher of water and poured it into their glasses. As he did, however, he did not notice the shadow sneaking up behind them.

“That was very impressive, Corrin. You’ve clearly grown into a fine young man,” a rather harsh female voice broke into his thoughts.

He turned around suddenly, almost spilling their drinks before relaxing, seeing who it was. “Ah, hello, aunt Fia. I did not notice you,” he smiled. “Thank you. I was just...getting Eleanor a drink,” he handed the filled cup over to his wife.

“How nice,” Fia replied, her voice dripping with exaggerated sweetness. “First day of your wedding and you’re already doting on her.”

“Umm...yes,” Corrin clutched his own goblet tighter. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, not at all, that is a husband’s duty to his wife. Though just between you and me,” his aunt leaned in closer and whispered, though her voice was loud enough for Eleanor to clearly hear. “A Dun wife, for a Bay? What was Ian thinking?”

Eleanor, who’d accepted the cup and was bringing it up to her lips as Corrin spoke with his aunt, jerked a bit and almost dropped it. Though just a moment before she’d been hot from the dancing, now her blood felt like ice. She quickly averted her gaze, clenching her eyes shut against the sting that had suddenly come into them. Woo, I was right…

The younger Bay lord, meanwhile, frowned, his eyes dashing between his aunt and his wife. “Father formed an alliance with the Duns to combat a coastal threat. He had me and Eleanor marry to secure that,” he stated.

“Oh I know,” Fia shot a glance in Eleanor’s direction before smiling at him, though it was a smile as sickly sweet as honey syrup. “But Corrin, sweetie, that implies Bay and Dun are equal, which they aren’t, not by a longshot. The only son and heir to the most powerful minor House in Bern could have done so much better than some mountain wildling.”

“N-no, I couldn’t have,” without even realising, Corrin stepped between his aunt and Eleanor. “So what if she’s a Dun and from the mountains? She...she’s wonderful.”

Eleanor was caught off guard but Corrin’s staunch defence, and his assertion of her as “wonderful” made the young woman open her eyes and smile in his direction. His aunts insults still hurt- Eleanor was shaking a little and felt like she was about to cry- but at least she knew Corrin liked her even if she was from a nobody house in the wilderness.

Fia, however, rolled her eyes at her nephew, her smile acquiring a hint of condescension. “Oh Corrin, sweetheart, I’m sure she is, but the fact remains that you might as well have married a commoner. I know she’s pretty, and young boys like you enjoy pretty things but-”

“Aunt Fia, please, stop!” Corrin exclaimed. There was some truth to her remarks, at least concerning him, but he could see Eleanor was getting upset by what she was saying and above all else, he did not want to see her upset. “It isn’t like that! Eleanor isn’t like that! She’s...she’s polite and smart and nice. She’s not a commoner and even if she was, I’m happy for her to be my wife!”

He winced as soon as he said that, glancing away from them both before looking sideways at his wife. Woo, he hoped that outburst would not colour her impression of him. He did not want to admit how he felt, not yet, but she could read into that statement however she wanted.

Eleanor, however, only gave her husband a very grateful look. She was visibly trembling, and her breathing was uneven as she struggled not to break down crying in the middle of the reception. Fia’s callous dismissiveness hurt, smacking her in all of her weak spots and playing to the exact fears she’d come to Kustanair with. But Corrin’s ready defense was a Woosend, and Eleanor wasn’t about to judge him for it. She let one hand fall from her drink, looking down at the ground and timidly touching her fingers to Corrin’s as if to reach for his support.

The young Bay tensed up a little as he felt her hand against his but nevertheless managed to touch her back and give her hand a squeeze, trying to stop it shaking. He was here for her and he was happy to have her, no matter what his aunt decided to say.

There was a sigh from Fia, followed by a shake of the head. “I know it must be hard to understand right now, you’re newly married and it’s always very exciting for a young man to find a pretty girl, but you have to think, Corrin: there’s no benefit in being married to a House as insignificant as Dun.”

“Fia?” a woman with grey eyes and light brown hair just like Ian’s approached them, a slight frown crossing her face. “What did you say?”

Fia turned around, a smile frozen on her face. “Hello, sister. I was merely commenting on Corrin’s new wife, but that’s not important right now. How have you been, Nessa? You’re looking very healthy, how are your children?”

“Fine. My daughter is with my husband over there if you want to meet her,” Nessa narrowed her eyes. “That is, if you can keep your comments about insignificant Houses behind your teeth.”

Fia’s smile remained in place as she tilted her head, feigning ignorance. “But it’s true, Nessa, don’t deny it: they are insignificant in the grand scheme of things.”

“Insignificant by your ridiculous merits, Fia! Not everyone needs to be in some rich Rindfellian House to be happy or worth something,” Nessa scowled up at her sister, glaring her right in the eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me that I’m wasted in Steller, but I bet you anything I’m happier in my little “insignificant” House than you ever will be with your bigwig noble. It’s not all about power and influence, Fia!”

“Nessa, you’re making a scene,” her sister snorted. “Have the Stellers rubbed off on you so much that you now have the manners of some backwater mountain man?”

“Only by the standards of some rich Rindfellian snob who thinks that it’s fine to insult somebody who is less than her!” Nessa cried, her hands clenching into fists as she stood on her tiptoes, looking her sister directly in the eye.

Corrin had been cringing during the entire conversation but only now did he have the presence of mind to turn to Eleanor. “Uhhh...maybe we should go? This won’t end anytime soon.”

He turned around and headed further along, back to their seats, the argument of his two aunts fading behind them in the distance. Glancing back, he just saw his father speaking to them, his normally jovial face dark. Satisfied that was taken care of, he turned to Eleanor. “I’m sorry about aunt Fia. She’s very...opinionated. Are- are you okay?”

The young woman took a sharp breath, shaking her head as if to clear it. “I… sh-she’s right though, isn’t she? I’ve b-been afraid of that since I left Jennet, that I would just be some uneducated mountain s-savage by the standards of the nobles here ‘n I-” her voice cut off as she had to blink sharply, stemming back tears before they could really get started.

“N-no, that’s not true,” Corrin’s voice shook along with his head. “Aunt Fia’s always been like that, you shouldn’t pay attention to her. Mum and Dad like you, and aunt Nessa’s married into a House similar to yours over in Albion and she likes it there. And I…” he swallowed, his cheeks rising up red again. “I...I did mean what I said to aunt Fia. That you’re...that I’m happy that you’re my wife.”

Eleanor forced herself to take a deep, slow breath- albeit a rather ragged one. “Sorry, I d-did nae mean tae g-get worked up like that. I… I’m glad we’re married too.” She gave Corrin a shaky smile. “I was telling the truth before, when I said you’re very kind.”

Somehow, he found a way to turn even redder. “Uhh...umm...thank you,” the young Bay returned her smile. “And I was telling the truth as well when I said...what I thought about you to aunt Fia.”

There was a loud swishing of skirts and the next moment, Francesca’s hands were on Eleanor’s shoulders. “Eleanor, dear, are you okay? You looked like you’re on the verge of tears there, are you better now?” she glanced up, “Has Corrin been good?”

Eleanor jumped a little in surprise. But she turned to her mother-in-law and rubbed her face with the heel of her hand. “I’m alr-right now, thank ye. Just some… opinions I more than half-expected anyway. D-dinnae worry, Corrin supported me.” She gave her husband another grateful smile.

He smiled back shyly. “It was the least I could do,” Corrin murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re my wife now and I don’t want to see you upset.”

“Oh, you’re a sweetheart. Me and your dad raised you well, didn’t we?” his mother grinned widely, ruffling Corrin’s hair, making him go wide-eyed. In response, Francesca laughed and gave his head a pat before turning to Eleanor. “Was it Fia? Ignore her, she gives everyone who is less than a major noble a hard time. You should hear the sorts of things she says about me,” she snorted, folding her arms. “She’s got her head stuck somewhere, let me tell you that.”

Eleanor choked slightly, covering her mouth to hide a laugh. A second, deeper chuckle sounded from nearby, and she turned to see her brother approaching them.

“Hello Lady Francesca, Lord Corrin,” he said with a smirk. “I was just coming tae check on my baby sister, but I see ye both have things well in hand.”

Eleanor smiled. “I’m alright Aaron.”

“Glad tae hear it,” he replied. Giving Francesca a wink he added, “I think we can tell who the ruler of the roost is around here, hm? Seriously though, dinnae let anyone’s judgments get tae ye, ‘Nory. The only opinions that should matter tae ye are Lord Ian’s, Lady Francesca’s ‘n Lord Corrin’s.”

“Let me assure you, Lord Aaron, that I’m not letting anybody make my new daughter-in-law feel lesser or unwelcome. Eleanor is our family now too,” the Bay lady put her hand around Eleanor’s shoulder and shot her a smile. “And I hope you know by now that we’re not a bunch of Fias, especially not Corrin. Isn’t that right?” she winked at her son

“Uh, yes,” Corrin swallowed, turning to Aaron. “I would never judge Eleanor or make her feel inferior, because she’s not. She’s...she’s really…” he felt himself going red again and bit his tongue, hoping, praying it would go away. “Your sister is a wonderful person, Lord Aaron, and as her husband, I will make her happy and protect her from any harm or upset, as I vowed at the altar this morning.”

Aaron smiled. “I’m glad that I can leave ‘Nory in your capable hands, then. House Dun may nae be the most illustrious of families, but we do look after our own.” His smile widened and he quirked an eyebrow at his sister, “‘N I for one am looking forward tae meeting my nieces ‘n nephews.”

“Aaron!” Eleanor bleated, making her brother laugh heartily.

“Nae rush, nae rush.” Winking at Corrin he added, “Just a tip though- warm milk ‘n honey, ‘n she’ll melt like butter in the sun. Every time.”

“Aaron!”

Corrin’s cheeks flushed the colour of a beetroot. “Umm...uhh...I’ll- I’ll keep that in mind, thank you, Lord Aaron,” he bowed deeply and hurriedly to the Dun lord, hiding his face in the process. This was a wedding, it was to be expected but Woo, that was the second remark about children today.

He cleared his throat and straightened up, giving Eleanor a lopsided smile in the process. “Shall we go sit? I’d...I’d like a rest after the dance, and to finish my drink.”

Nearly as crimson as her husband, Eleanor nodded. “Yeah, s-sure, of course. Thanks for coming tae check on us Francesca, Aaron.” Glaring at her brother she added, “Stop being a jerk.”

Aaron lifted his hands defensively, still smirking.

Francesca stifled a giggle and smiled widely. “You’re welcome, Eleanor, dear. Oh and now that you’re my daughter-in-law, you can call me ‘mother’. Only if you like, of course, but the offer is there if you want it,” she turned her gaze to Aaron. “What say we leave the poor dears alone, Lord Aaron? We seem to be embarrassing them.”

“I suppose we should,” he replied. “Far be it for me tae ruin their big day. I’ve been meaning tae say hello tae Lord Tobiano’s heir while he’s here-”

As her brother and mother-in-law spoke, Eleanor followed Corrin back to their original spot at the table and sat down with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Corrin, my brother is a tease. I’m pretty sure he was just trying tae distract me.”

“Oh, it’s alright. I’m sure if it was my dad, he would have said the exact same thing,” Corrin glanced back up to where Ian had been. The Lord of Bay had broken up the argument between his siblings and had taken a seat back at the table where he was now chatting with Fran. Things seemed more or less back to normal.

He turned to Eleanor, trying to smile again. “It was nice though, dancing. I didn’t think I’d enjoy it as much as I did...so thank you.”

Eleanor grinned, “I had a lot of fun too. ‘N it was… nice to see ye enjoying yourself.” She smiled sheepishly, feeling her throat stick a little. Knowing she was probably going to trigger another round of blushing and stammering, but wanting desperately to thaw some of that ice between herself and her new husband, she said, “Ye… ye have a nice smile.”

“You- you think so?” as expected, Corrin did blush but despite that, the smile that was already on his face grew wider. He fidgeted with his fingers, his eyes dashing between his hands and her. “You...you also do. You’re really pretty in general, Eleanor.”

Caught by surprise, but happy by how well it had gone over, the young woman fought back another burst of fluttering in her gut. There was that smile again- it really lit up his face. And while it was certainly not the first time someone had told Eleanor she was pretty, hearing Corrin say it made her feel warm. “Th-thank ye. That’s very sweet of ye tae say.”

He was not quite sure what to reply to that but did it matter? Eleanor responded positively to his compliment! Even if he still could not bring himself to make eye contact with her, Corrin beamed widely. “I’m glad.”

Before he could try to figure out what to say next to keep the conversation going, a wave of silence swept over the room. The young Bay blinked in surprise, glancing around to find what had drawn everyone’s attention. It did not take long before his gaze alighted on the tall figure of the Grand Duke a short distance away from them. He had stood up, holding his cup in his hand while a sly smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“My most esteemed lords and ladies,” his deep voice rang out across the hall, catching any stray bits of attention unless all eyes were fixed on him. “It’s getting cold, isn’t it?”

The signal was immediately picked up by all the guests and a chant of “Cold!” rose up, echoing throughout the room. Alain’s smirk grew deeper and his icy eyes turned towards the newlywed couple, full of expectations.

Corrin felt his stomach drop out from under him. He stared, wide eyed, first at the Grand Duke and then at his father. Ian shot him a wink before exchanging a glance with Alain. Woo, he should have known, he should have known they would plot something something together. There was no escaping it, however.

“Uhh...umm...errr…” he stammered before biting back his tongue and wordlessly getting up, waiting for Eleanor to follow.

Her face was completely blank for a few seconds as she tried to process what was happening, but remembering all too well when a similar chant had been taking up at her brother’s wedding it hit her. Oh Woo! She glanced in Aaron’s direction, to be met with a smile and an encouraging gesture.

After the… half-hearted effort at the church, Eleanor wasn’t really sure what to expect. But swallowing hard, she stood up beside her husband, turning to face him. In a voice that was almost a squeak she said, “W-well it i-is tradition, I guess.”

Corrin’s head moved up and down rapidly, halfway between a nod and shaking with nerves. He glanced sideways at the guests whose chants were still filling his ears. It was unlikely that a chaste kiss like the one he had given her in the church would satisfy the hungry crowd, and he could not pull away until at least after the cries of “cold!” stopped but Woo, he did not feel like he was ready for this. He was still learning how to talk to her without blushing and stammering so a kiss was out of the question...and yet he would be the greatest liar in Kyth if he said he did not want to kiss Eleanor. Just don’t think about what you’re doing. Don’t think about anything, this is just a show, she’ll understand that, she won’t get annoyed at you…

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Just uhh...ummm...feel free to pull away if it’s...not good,” the young Bay murmured and closed his eyes before leaning closer and planting his lips on hers, but unlike the kiss at the church, he kept them there.

At first, Corrin listened for the chanting to stop but as they drew more and more into the kiss, the more he became aware of Eleanor’s presence, of her warmth, of the feeling of her lips against his. The longer he kept it up, the more he began to forget not only the world around him but also the anxieties fluttering around in his mind. And before he even knew what he was doing, Corrin brought up his other hand and rested it against her cheek.

Eleanor, who had rather been expecting something as perfunctory as what Corrin had given before- especially after the way he’d been blushing and stammering over Aaron’s teasing- was caught by surprise. She could feel her face heating up the longer the two of them held the kiss, and despite the fact that Corrin was clearly enjoying it all Eleanor could think of was the fact that everyone in the room was staring at them and oh Woo, she barely knew this boy!

Eventually, the background noise of the chanting faded to be replaced by silence and only then did Corrin open his eyes, awareness flooding back into him as he realised what he had done. He had just kissed Eleanor! On her mouth! Woo, why had he done that?!

Immediately, he broke the kiss and pulled away. “I-I-I- oh, Woo, I’m-I’m s-s-s-orry!” he spat out, taking several steps away from Eleanor and putting his arms up as though raising an invisible shield. “I- I don’t know-”

No excuses. There was no way he could ever apologise enough for that breach of decorum, for revealing his feelings to her so readily and in such a public way. He could not even remember if he had truly enjoyed that kiss or not but did it really matter? Eleanor probably hated him now for taking such liberties with her.

Corrin collapsed in his chair, hiding his face in his hands, feeling like he was burning up. If the earth opened up and swallowed him now, it would be preferable to the embarrassment he felt over his actions.

Eleanor was flushed similarly scarlet, wanting desperately to run off somewhere and hide. More than anything she wished that the rest of the room would stop staring at them. Her throat felt like something was lodged in it.

“It’s… it’s okay,” she squeaked. “It’s tradition.” She sat down in the chair next to Corrin, trying to think of something to say, but the silence continued to stretch. Finally, timidly, she muttered, “M-maybe after this we could… take things a little slower?” Ruefully she added, “Assuming Lord Ian lets us.”

Corrin nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, we should,” he mumbled, still keeping his head in his hands. Ships, think about ships. He tried to recall the tonnage and construction of a galley but to his distress, his mind was completely blank. It had oars but that was all. Normally he could remember facts like that in a snap but here, all he could think about was the sick feeling in his stomach at what he had done. This had never happened before.

A servant hurried past and the young Bay held out his hand, stopping him. “May I help you, your lordship?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow at Corrin’s flushed appearance.

“Uhh...could I maybe get...something to drink?” he swallowed. “Something alcoholic?”

He said he would not touch a drop during the wedding, but the way he felt now, he needed something to take the edge off the sting of what he had done to Eleanor.

“How alcoholic?” the servant frowned. “Beer, wine...whisky?”

“...I think whisky,” Corrin murmured. Perhaps it would allow him to feel like he could face Eleanor without feeling like a complete idiot.

The servant did his best to hide his surprise and rushed off somewhere, leaving the two alone. Corrin sighed, folding in on himself in his chair, still keeping his face hidden away from Eleanor as he waited for some of the heat in his cheeks to subside.

Eleanor didn’t comment on Corrin’s request for the alcohol, instead glancing upwards so she could skim around the room. Aaron was pointedly not looking in her direction, his expression somewhere between amusement, concern, and very slight edge of annoyance. Ian, however, was looking right at them, his face mixed with uncertainty before he turned back to Francesca, whose body language and shrill tone betrayed her concern. There was no apparent regret that could be observed in the Grand Duke, who had sat back down and was now speaking quietly about some matter with his wife. Nessa and Fia were both talking very pointedly with their husbands, with Fia especially trying not to look as though she was interested in the affairs of the newlywed couple. Most of the guests on the lower tables, however, had torn their attention from the spectacle of the kiss and were now either chatting or taking in the remains of the feast, with some getting up from their seats and inviting a partner to dance. It seemed like most of the room had forgotten about the awkward kiss.

Forcing herself to face her husband again, Eleanor swallowed hard. The servant arrived with Corrin’s drink, and as it was placed on the table Eleanor said softly, “I’m… I’m sorry, Corrin.”

Corrin tore one hand away from his face and took the cup presented to him, absently swirling the amber-coloured liquid inside before taking a sip. The fire of the alcohol in his mouth was almost enough to distract him from the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed and shook his head.

“No, I’m sorry, Eleanor. I should not have taken such liberties with you,” he took another, larger sip. “Please forgive me.”

“Well I… I am your wife now. Ye have the right tae do what you like,” she pointed out, trying to ignore how dismal she felt at those words. But they were true- noble women had an obligation to their husbands, more or less belonged to their husbands, and when you got right down to it had very few real rights.

Corrin sighed. “I know I have that right, but…” he swallowed his drunk in one big gulp, exhaling to ease some of the alcohol’s burn. However, it was not enough to stop him coughing. When he had finally recovered he managed to turn his eyes towards Eleanor. “I don’t want it. I don’t want to hurt you, or to make you miserable, and I did both there.”

Eleanor was surprised by the straightforwardness of this statement, but hearing him speak so plainly was honestly almost a relief. Her eyes softened a bit, and she shook her head. “I’m… I’m glad. That you care about me, my feelings ‘n my comfort. If you father was nae so easygoing we’d be obligated tae… do a lot more than just that later on, but you’ve all been very kind ‘n understanding. So it’s okay. ‘N… ‘n I do like you Corrin. It was just… too much too soon.”

Whether it was the alcohol or her words, Corrin did not know, but somehow, he felt the knot of nerves and fear that had formed inside him at the thought of the kiss begin to untangle. However, he still could not bring himself to look at her. Absently, he fiddled with his cup, watching the last few drops of whisky run around its bottom. “It was stupid and selfish and I won’t do that again, I promise.But thank you for forgiving me, at least. Let’s just forget this happened. I’d like to forget anyway”

The young woman nodded, “Deal. I will nae dwell on it if ye don’t.” After a moment’s hesitation she added, “Are… are we still up for going riding on the beach later in the week?”

“Uh, yeah,” he smiled up at her shyly. “I said I would, I can’t go back on my word now. And hopefully later I’ll be able to forget about...well, that,” Corrin grimaced at the thought of the kiss again. “And I’d still like to be friends with you, Eleanor. I mean, if I’m going to be your husband, we can at least try for that.”

Eleanor smiled shyly in reply. “I’d like that as well. Thank ye, Corrin.”

Part 6

SPOILER: Click to show

Two days later the last of the formalities had been attended to and Aaron finally left to return to Jennet- leaving Eleanor with the Bays. There was something oddly final about her brother leaving. In spite of the fact that she’d thought she was mentally prepared for it, saying goodbye to him for real had left the young woman choked, and that night she’d sobbed into her pillow, desperately grateful that she wasn’t being made to sleep in the same bedchamber as Corrin immediately.

Her unhappiness, however, did not go unnoticed. Attracted by the sobbing like a mother cat to the cries of a kitten, Francesca had swept into her room and began to fuss over her new daughter-in-law, wiping her tears and throwing her arms around her in an attempt to comfort her. When Corrin had poked his head into the room a short while later, his mother had practically commanded him to come in and take care of his wife instead of standing there gawking. Though at first he seemed to be completely clueless, Corrin rushed off and a short while later returned with a cup of warm milk with honey, remembering Aaron’s advice, which he handed to Eleanor with his head firmly down.

In spite of her distress, and the embarrassment of being caught in it, Eleanor was grateful for their concern and efforts to comfort her. A lot of noble families would have been unsympathetic, pointing out that this was only to be expected and she needed to get over it. She accepted Francesca’s comforts and Corrin’s milk both, giving them an appreciative if wobbly smile. The two Bays smiled back, especially Corrin, seeing that his offering had been met with appreciation. Perhaps in an effort to comfort herself in her homesickness, Eleanor lapsed into talking for hours about her home and her brothers, ultimately relaxing enough that she dozed off leaning against her mother-in-law’s shoulder. Satisfied that Eleanor would be fine, Francesca had ended up chasing Corrin away, though he proved surprisingly reluctant to leave his wife’s side until he was sure she was alright too. For a while, the Bay lady had stayed with Eleanor, stroking her hair and making sure she was not going to wake before leaving her be to sleep until morning.

Over the next several weeks, Eleanor slowly settled into her new surroundings. The huge manor with it’s many twists and turns was a challenge, and more than once she found herself getting completely turned around in it. Luckily the Bay family as well as sympathetic servants had often shown her where to go until she got adjusted to her new surroundings. Any questions she had were also promptly answered, and Corrin, for all his shyness, did try to make an effort to check that she was settling in well, either by asking and rarely by taking the initiative to show her where to go in advance. He was also almost always with her when she wanted to explore Kustanair and beyond, thanks to Ian’s insistence that he accompany and protect his wife, even if the knights going with them could do a much better job of the former and certainly of the latter.

As the two of them spent time together on a more casual basis, Eleanor tried timidly to draw Corrin out of his shell more. They went riding on the beach as they’d promised, explored the markets, and the young woman even let her husband draw her down to the docks so he could enthuse about his dearest passion. It was something he did with almost unabashed delight. Corrin’s face lit up whenever they went down to the docks and stayed like that even after they had come back to the Manor. He dashed about like a small child in a sweet shop, admiring the various ships that sailed in and out of the estuary harbour, and always inundating Eleanor with facts until he caught himself and apologised, usually blushing as he did so. Though she could scarcely keep up with all the information he was flinging at her, Eleanor was amused by her husband’s excitement and more than willing to indulge him. Occasionally she even asked questions, and when she did, Corrin’s face lit up all over again as he proceeded to answer with enthusiasm, though he held back some information in order not to drown her in a sea of dry facts.

As June turned into a scorching July, Eleanor found herself warming to Corrin. He was shy and could at times be a doofus, but he was also very sweet and sincere. When he smiled at her, it still did strange things to her stomach, and watching his clear blue eyes light up when he enthused about ships made her pulse speed up. As she became more comfortable with him, Eleanor tentatively tried to give him the same sort of gentle teasing she’d occasionally indulged with her brothers back in Jennet. At first Corrin had withdrawn back into his shell whenever she did that, but after it was explained to him by Ian that she did like him and the teasing was just that, he began to accept it. However, he did not dare tease her back in case he said something by accident to offend her. He did, however, do his best to keep conversations going with her, something which got easier as time went by and he grew less afraid of saying the wrong thing. Nevertheless, he did not dare try to touch her, even casually; the memory of the disastrous wedding kiss still lingered at the back of his mind. Eleanor was privately grateful for this, glad to take things slowly both for her own comfort and to keep Corrin from devolving into a stammering wreck again.

One afternoon towards the end of July, Eleanor was in the gardens working on an embroidery project while she waited for Corrin and Ian to finish their work for the day. She had arranged with Corrin to start learning how to read later in the evening, but until then she would have to occupy herself.

She was just tying off a length of thread and preparing to switch to a different color when she heard a soft rustle in the nearby bushes, followed by a gasp.

“-Ya sure about that?” a voice hissed- she recognized it as being one of the gardeners.

“Certain sure,” came a second voice, much younger- one of the kennel workers. “It’s all over the docks, got the sailors refusing to put to sea.”

“Great Woo,” the gardener breathed. “Can’t say I blame them. Lipizzan is only two days ride north of Kustanair. They’re sayin’ the pirates set fire to the slums to cover their retreat. It’s a mess.”

Eleanor felt as if every drop of blood had drained from her body. The pirates. The pirates. They were close, they’d attacked a city just north of Kustanair. Oh Woo, what if they came here? Abruptly she stood, lurching towards the entrance to the manor. If this was all over the docks, why didn’t any of the Bays know? Until just now Eleanor had heard nothing of it, and if Ian knew she was certain he’d be making arrangements to deal with the problem!

She eventually reached the door to Ian’s office, knocking and calling in a shaky voice, “I-Ian? It’s Eleanor, c-can I come in, it’s important.”

There was a rustle of parchment followed by Ian’s clear voice calling out to her. “Yes, Eleanor, come in.”

Opening the door, she was greeted by Ian and, surprisingly, Corrin, looking up at her with their near-identical blue eyes. Ian was sitting on his desk, clutching a large rolled up sheet of parchment while Corrin was standing over his desk, blinking as he caught sight of his wife.

“Is something wrong?” the older Bay asked her, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Are you alright, Eleanor?”

“I… I just heard something I thought ye ought tae know,” she said, her voice emerging as a tremulous squeak. “There’s a city two days ride north? The servants were saying that they heard down by the docks that… that th-the pirates attacked ‘n burned it. We, we sh-should do something, r-right? I could nae believe we’d nae been told yet, but no one’s said anything so…” She swallowed hard, giving a soft whimper.

Hearing this, Ian stiffened immediately. Though his expression did not change, he immediately looked away from Eleanor and placed the parchment he was holding down on the desk. Corrin, however, bit his lip before taking a few steps closer to her.

“Eleanor...we know,” he said quietly. “We received a pigeon the day after the raid and just now, we’re making the last of the preparations to send them some military support. We’re also sending a message to Lord Tobiano to ask for maritime reinforcements.”

“Woo,” Ian murmured quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose before leaning forward on his desk, clasping his hands together and looking directly at her. “We did not think it was a good idea to tell you, Eleanor. Given your experiences, you did not need to know.”

“Y… Ye… ye knew… ‘n ye didn’t tell me?” she repeated, feeling like she’d not heard correctly. She didn’t sound angry- only dazed, as if coming out of a very deep sleep. “The p-pirates that killed my father are somewhere in the sea very close tae here, ‘n ye, ye didn’t think I needed tae know?”

“Yes, Eleanor, you did not need to know,” Ian sighed deeply. “All it would have done was caused you anxiety and none of us need that or want to see you like that,” he glanced sideways at his son. “Corrin agreed with me.”

The younger Bay glanced down, shuffling his feet like a guilty child. “I did. I just...didn’t want to scare you, that’s all.”

“We’re safe in Kustanair, however, you do not need to fret,” the Bay Lord replied, still keeping his hands on the desk. “The privateers I have stationed in the harbour are fully armed and alert, and all the coastal watchtowers are keeping a round-the-clock lookout for any sign of approaching pirates. You do not have to worry.”

“I… I’m supposed tae believe that?” she squeaked, her green eyes flashing. “Ye’ll h-hide things from me, but I’m supposed tae believe ye when ye say we’re safe? How do I know you’re nae hiding more things, how am I supposed tae… tae-!”

She clenched her eyes and jaw both, a noise that was half snarl and half whine emerging from her throat. The young woman spun on her heel choking, “I’m s-sorry for d-disturbing you.”

“N-no, Eleanor!” Corrin called out after her, reaching out to Eleanor as she exited. He swallowed, his breath catching in his throat, and glanced back at his father, who gave him a curt, small nod. It was all the encouragement Corrin needed to go after his wife. “Eleanor, stop, let me explain!”

She didn’t stop- the young woman covered her face, breaking into a run. She darted down the halls, half-blind with tears of fury as well as the old grief that thinking of the men who’d murdered her father brought on. She didn’t make it far, though, before her foot caught on the hem of her dress and she fell forwards with a yelp. She landed hard on her knees, her hands slapping the ground as she threw them out to brace herself. The young woman made no effort to rise, staying in the position she’d fallen in and shivering with anger and sadness.

Corrin gasped as Eleanor fell and skidded to a halt beside her, practically falling onto his knees on the stone floor by her side. His heart hammered in his chest and his eyes ran over his wife looking for any sign of injury. “Are you alright?” he asked, tentatively stretching his hands out to her. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” she sobbed. “Sh-shouldn’t ye be helping with the preparations? You n-need to stop the p-pirates, ‘n I’m nae important, so, so just go, okay?”

He recoiled away from her and bowed his head, his shoulders slumping. “...Dad can deal with that,” Corrin murmured and lifted his eyes up to her. “And you’re my wife: you’re important to me.”

Eleanor whimpered. “Then why are ye hiding things from me? How am I supposed tae feel safe ‘n trust what ye say if ye won’t tell me something as important as the monsters who murdered my father being somewhere nearby?”

“Would it...really have been better if we told you?” Corrin asked, swallowing. “Dad did not want you to feel anxious knowing that they were so close, he thought that would have only made you panic. I agreed with him. But I promise you, we’ll be safe, they won’t get us. Kustanair is heavily fortified and we’re taking precautions” he blinked rapidly, wincing as his eyes began to sting. “I’m sorry though. Are you angry at me, Eleanor, for hiding this from you?”

“Yes!” she snapped, finally lifting her head from her hands and looking towards him, though it wasn’t anger that clouded her face- it was hurt. “Corrin, do ye know what the worst part of the day of the attack was? My younger brothers ‘n I didn’t even know what was going on until after Father was already dead! We were completely in the dark, locked in a fortified room in the manor four hours listening tae people screaming ‘n just wondering’n panicking! I d-don’t want tae do that again, tae be left n-nae knowing until the people I care about are d-d-dead!”

For a few moments, all he could do was stare at her, frozen in horror at the thought. Corrin opened his mouth and closed it again, trying to figure out what to say before he eventually settled on two simple words: “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We really did think it was better if you didn’t know, but neither of us suspected…”

He drew back from Eleanor, looking around at everything but her before sighing again. “...do you want me to leave?”

She didn’t answer at first, her breath hitching. She was angry, and part of her wanted to say yes. To yell at him to go away again, to wallow in her misery. But the anguish in his face was unfeigned and after a moment she shook her head.

“I j-just… I want you tae t-trust me,” she whimpered. “I dinnae like being left in the dark. Especially nae about things that are s-so important. I’m nae a fragile flower that will wilt or panic because I’m afraid! When I found out I was s-scared, but I didn’t panic, did I? I came ‘n told you, ‘n I was t-trying to figure out what tae do tae deal with it. So please, please dinnae do this tae me again.” Plaintively she added, “Please?”

“I won’t, I promise. I’m sorry for underestimating you like that, I just didn’t want you to worry, that was all,” Corrin replied, his voice still quiet and shy. Slowly, he lifted up his head, seeing that Eleanor was still lying on the floor exactly where she had fallen. “Do you...need some help getting up, Eleanor?”

She sniffed, and after a moment nodded. “Thank ye.” She sighed softly, reaching up for his hand. “Yer father is going tae hate me now, isn’t he? For the way I talked to him.”

He shook his head, smiling a little at her. “Dad’s been Lord for about a decade, he’s heard and forgiven a lot ruder from worse people than you,” Corrin replied and wrapped his fingers around her hand, lifting her up. “Are you going to be alright though? You’re not hurt, are you?”

She wasn’t alright, and she knew it. Anger and fear and helpless frustration were living things in Eleanor’s gut. After a short silence in which she did not release her hold on Corrin’s hand, the young woman suddenly slumped forwards, her face pillowed against Corrin’s shoulder.

“I hate them,” she muttered angrily. “I hate them so much. Why do they do this? What’s so hard about making an honest living? How can money ever be worth killing people?”

Corrin tensed up as Eleanor leaned against him, feeling his heart racing in his chest. For the first time in a while, he could feel his face heating up. He wondered for a moment if the gesture was even intentional on her part or whether it was simply an accident, like her tripping up earlier. If it was, she might not look so favourably on him returning it.

“I don’t know, Eleanor, but money blinds people, makes them do awful things without caring about the consequences or the pain they inflict. And I’m sorry that you had to be caught up in it,” he replied as calmly as he possibly could. His arms by his sides rose just a little before he forced them back down.

“He was nae even forty!” Eleanor whimpered. “He had so much life left ‘n he… I…” She pulled her face away a little, the anger seeming to go out of her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t be doing this, I said I wouldn’t ‘n I did and you’re probably annoyed.”

“N-no. You’re upset and I should try to comfort you...” all hesitation seemed to go out of Corrin and he threw his arms around her, hugging her to him. “I’m sorry though, about your father. I know that if it was my father, I’d be lost without him.”

Eleanor gave a soft gasp of surprise when Corrin hugged her, but then she went limp against his chest. She couldn’t get together any coherent words, instead just crying into her husband’s shirt, her fingers clenched in the fabric.

It was difficult for him to keep his own eyes from stinging as she cried but Corrin had to stay strong for Eleanor’s sake. He gripped her tighter, trying to hold back the worst of her sobs and shudders, letting her know that he was there to be a rock for her without saying a word. If only he could turn off her tears, he would, but this would have to do in place of that power.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement and lifted his head up. A servant scurried past, desperately pretending they had not seen anything and had definitely not stumbled upon such an intimate scene. Corrin’s cheeks flushed red again.

Gently, he lifted his hands up to Eleanor’s shoulders. “Maybe we should go somewhere more private?” he murmured.

She sniffed, nodding, seeming to still be unable to actually say anything. After a few seconds she managed to croak, “Where?”

“Umm…” Corrin glanced back and forth, scanning the corridor as he tried to establish his location and think of any place they could go. “There’s a small sunroom near here that dad likes from which you can see the sea. It’s too cold in winter but since it’s summer, it should be fine to be in,” he looked down at her. “Will you be alright with that?”

“Okay,” she murmured. She let Corrin guide her to the room in question, and once they’d closed the door she sighed softly. “I’m sorry. I just… I miss him so much. I h-had tae be the mum for all my little siblings for most of our lives, ‘n the Lady of the house. Papa was someone that I felt like I could rely on, the strong shoulder that I could lean on when I wanted te be a kid for a change instead of a pseudo-parent.”

Corrin was not sure what to say to that. Being the only child and centre of attention of both his mother and father, his own upbringing was worlds away from what Eleanor had experienced. Anything he said would have felt hollow and meaningless. Instead, he put his hands on her shoulders, letting her know he was there in case she wanted to cry again or desired more comfort.

“I know nothing and nobody could ever replace him, but...if you need somebody to lean on…” he swallowed. “Mum and dad are both more reliable, I know. But I’m supposed to be your strong shoulder, being your husband, and if you want I can try to be that. I certainly don’t want you to be alone, or without support.”

She hugged him, her shoulders quivering. “Th-thank ye. I’m sorry, I w-wanted tae be a good wife, ‘n nae a burden on ye and yer family…”

“You’re not, don’t say you are. Mum and dad both love you and I…” he blushed a little. “Since you came here, I’ve really enjoyed your company, and I’ve discovered things I never thought I’d enjoy, like riding and dancing. You’ve been the best wife anybody could ever ask for, Eleanor.”

Corrin held her shoulder a little tighter, trying to stop her shaking. He glanced up towards the sofa that was pointed towards the windows overlooking the entire Ursine estuary. “Do you want to sit down, maybe? It might help you relax?”

Eleanor gave a soft, slightly wet laugh. “Sure. Maybe ye can try tae teach me the difference between a carrack ‘n a caravel again.” She sniffed, letting him draw her towards the sofa. “I’m… glad ye enjoy my company. The first day we met I was worried, because we seemed so different ‘n I did nae think I’d be able tae give you any good company. You’re so educated ‘n I’m… I’m a backwoods highlander, like yer aunt said.”

He shook his head violently. “You’re not, she was wrong,” Corrin cried and lowered his head. “When we met, I thought I would be such a disappointment to you. You’re strong and active whilst I’m a bookworm who would much rather hide inside and read about carracks and caravels- the difference between which is the size, structure of the rigging and speed, which for a caravel is eight knots-”

That was not what Eleanor wanted right now so Corrin forced himself to bite his tongue and give her an awkward, sheepish smile. “See what I mean? I didn’t think you’d see anything in me, but you gave me a chance and made me take chances. Thank you for that.”

It occurred to him that were it not for her father’s death at the hands of the pirates, it was unlikely that he would have ever ended up married to her. The thought sent a chill down his spine; he had benefitted off her tragedy.

Unaware of the direction of his thoughts, Eleanor smiled. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Corrin. Yer the one who was willing tae take those chances. I just extended the invitation. ‘N… yer going to teach me how tae read, right? So it’s a fair exchange, I think.”

“I was, but maybe it’s best to do that during the winter months? Reading is an activity best suited for indoors. I should know,” Corrin forced out a sheepish smile, pushing his earlier thoughts away. “And I was wondering if maybe...you could teach me to swim?”

“I could sure- though perhaps nae in the ocean, if there is anywhere else nearby.” She chuckled softly. “The currents are a bit much for someone who’s still learning. A river, pond or lake is better. Though I guess if ye’d like to hold off on reading lessons, we’re free this afternoon if ye had anything else in mind.”

Corrin thought about this. It was probably best that they do something to distract Eleanor from her thoughts regarding her father and the pirates. “We could go for a walk? A ride out of the city might not be a good idea and I won’t take you to the docks, considering...everything, but we could visit the market? It’s still high trading season, we could see what they have.”

“Sure,” Eleanor agreed. “Though I should probably clean up my face ‘n I imagine ye still need tae finish up with Ian… I interrupted, ‘n then you left tae come after me.” She hesitantly reached towards him and squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry but… thank ye. For caring.”

“Oh, uh, you’re welcome. That’s what a good husband does, isn’t it, look after his wife?” Corrin squeezed her hand back briefly, averting his face from her so she did not see the temporary flush of red that came over him. Coughing, he got up from his seat. “Shall I meet you in half an hour? That will give me time to tell dad where I’m going and arrange an escort for us.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “I’ll stay here for a few more minutes, then I’ll go get cleaned up. ‘N please give yer father my apologies for being rude.”

“I will, and you shouldn’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be forgiving,” Corrin shot her a bright smile. “See you soon then, Eleanor.”

In spite of her nerves at the thought of the pirates, the young woman couldn’t help but smile back.

Part 7

SPOILER: Click to show

Summer slipped onwards into the earliest days of autumn. As time passed and Corrin and Eleanor got to know each other better, the young woman found herself liking her husband more and more. When he smiled at her, as he did more often than not these days, she felt her spirits lift and found herself returning the expression. Bolstered somewhat by the thawing ice between them, Eleanor tried a few times to nudge things in the direction that her fluttering stomach and racing pulse seemed to want them to go. But here she found herself discouragingly stymied. As he had during the wedding, and after their first argument, Corrin always impulsively jerked away as soon as he decorously could when she tried to put a hand on his shoulder or hold his hand.

It was not like Corrin did not want the physical contact, far from it, but he had no idea how to go about it, nor did he trust himself to not get carried away as he had done during the kiss at their wedding feast. Even when it was her who initiated the contact and expressed interest, he never quite knew how to handle that, so he did what was safe and simply moved away, even if he suspected it was not quite the right thing to do. But with very few exceptions, such as when she was distressed and needed a comforting touch, he kept his distance. He liked Eleanor and he liked their growing friendship; Corrin did not want to risk either by doing something she was uncomfortable with.

Despite her disappointment, Eleanor still spent time with Corrin whenever she could. Winter would fast be closing in on them, so they took advantage of the still relatively balmy weather to visit the city and the docks as often as they could manage. It wasn’t all fun and games though- she was also learning how to be Lady of Bay, and was gradually starting to accompany Corrin on diplomatic business.

He had not expected it but having Eleanor along on such visits made them a lot easier for Corrin. Though he had been trained extensively in diplomacy, something about having her by his side made him speak just a little bit more confidently and bargain with more conviction than he had expected. Whether it was due to him trying to look good in front of her or simply having another person by his side that he knew and trusted, Corrin was not sure but the effect she had on him was obvious. It certainly helped that the merchants and captains he was usually bargaining with gave more respect to a married man instead of a bachelor boy, not to mention Eleanor’s presence reminded him that he should focus on the man they were supposed to be conducting business with, not the ship the man owned.

At first glance, this was a visit much like any other but there were several circumstances that made it exceptional. His uncle’s Lyellian merchant company, the Acquaes, were sending a representative to collect the first batch of furs from House Dun. Though the deal had been sealed and secured much earlier, as the brokers, Bay were responsible in case there were any complaints or defects with the furs. So Corrin had been sent to see that this first deal between their Houses and the Acquae merchants went smoothly, and he had invited Eleanor along.

They rode up to the docks in a carriage but it was still a fair walk to the Acquae ship, amongst the jetties where merchant fleets from all over Avani were docked. The beginning and the end of the trading season were the best for that was when the ships going up and down the Ursine river were docked in Kustanair. And Corrin walked amongst them like a child in a sweet shop, admiring the construction of the trade cogs, or the large trade hulk with a flat bottom designed specifically for river travel, or even the rare hoy that was pulled up from a long voyage at sea, it's Bernian name- Fuath- suggesting it belonged to a native man...he almost forgot why he was there.

Eleanor watched him at it, amused, but kept her eyes open for the Lyellian traders that they were supposed to be meeting. “Do ye know what sort of ship they’ll be arriving in?” she asked. In a teasing tone she added, “Or will yer mother’s family come all this way in a rowboat?”

“No, the Lyellian merchants don’t use rowboats. The only ships that use oars are galleys and they are not maneuverable enough for rivers,” Corrin remarked, completely missing the teasing. He coughed, catching himself and forcing his eyes away from a nearby carrack. “Dad said it was called the Cigno but for my sake, he added it would be a barge. They are long ships, usually have a flat bottom and depending on the size, one or two masts rigged with square sails.”

“I’ll keep my eye out then,” She promised. As they kept going along the docks she tilted her head. “The representative we were supposed tae meet… It was a Master Caiazzo, if I recall correctly?” Her tongue tripped somewhat over the foreign surname. Her head made a sharp movement and she pointed, “Ah, I think that’s our ship now.”

Corrin’s head shot up. Sure enough, there was a one-masted flat ship, its square sails tied securely to the spars of the main-mast and the name Cigno written on its port bow. “That’s it,” he smiled and nodded to her before quickening his pace, heading towards the ship.

The gangplank had been lowered and the two walked up it to be greeted by a lightly tanned, round faced man who flashed them a grin as he ran up to them. “Hello, Lord...Corrin, was it? I am Enrico Caiazzo, here on behalf of your uncle,” he held out his hand to Corrin, which the latter shook, before flashing Eleanor a smile. “And this is?”

She gave a polite smile in reply, curtseying. “I am Lady Eleanor Bay nee Dun. Lord Corrin is my husband. My birth house are providing the furs you’ve come tae collect. It’s a pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Master Caiazzo.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Eleanor,” Enrico’s smile turned into a wide grin. He pulled his hand away from Corrin’s before taking hers and putting it to his lips. “I should not be surprised that the furs come from the same House as you, considering how fine both you and they are.”

The young woman gave a neutrally polite smile in reply to that comment. Corrin coughed loudly, forcing the Lyellian man to look up and let go of Eleanor, though he did not stop smiling. Satisfied that Enrico’s attention was on him, he young Bay lord put his hands behind his back. “There’s no problems with the furs then, Master Caiazzo?”

“None whatsoever. The amount is low but it is in the margin of what we had been promised, and they certainly make up for it in quality and variety. The lynx furs in particular are among the best,” Enrico replied, turning to Corrin. “They should sell well in Lyell, especially come winter.”

“Good,” Corrin nodded. “And the payment?”

“As I discussed with your father: the first installment now and then a split of the profits once the furs have been sold,” he pulled a large red felt pouch out of his pocket and placed it into Corrin’s hand. “That should be it, if you wish to count it, Lord Corrin.”

“I’ll trust you, Master Caiazzo. I doubt my own mother’s company would see fit to rob us,” Corrin replied, putting the purse into his own pocket.

“Good, good,” Enrico went up to Corrin, clapping his shoulder. “Do you wish to see the furs? They are being loaded on as we speak.”

“No thank you. If you say there is nothing wrong with them, I see no reason to,” the young Bay replied, still keeping his voice neutral and diplomatic. “Though I wish to stay on the ship until they are on board, in case any complaints do arise.”

“That suits me just fine, I would love your company upon my boat. You and your charming wife both,” the Lyellian shot a glance at Eleanor and smiled again, flashing his teeth.

“Yes…” Corrin ground his jaw together and looked up at the mainsail of the Cigno, studying it carefully. “Since I’m here, Master Caiazzo...your ship is a river barge of Lyellian design, is she not? She is smaller than usual.”

“Oh yes, as standard for trade along the Ursine River from Lyell and she is small because we were not expecting a large cargo so we decided to send a ship to match,” Enrico tilted his head at Corrin. “You know a thing or two about ships, Lord Corrin?”

“I do,” the neutral tone of his voice was unmatched by the excited glow in his eyes. “Would you mind if I...looked around?”

“Why certainly, it would be a pleasure,” the Lyellian clapped his hands. “My ship is your ship, Lord Corrin.”

The young Bay nodded in gratitude before he turned to Eleanor. “Would you be alright with that? I just...it’s been awhile since i’ve been on board one of these. I don’t know when I’ll next get the chance.”

Eleanor chuckled softly. “Sure, that would be fine with me. Far be it for me tae deny ye yer fun, Corrin.” She winked. “Just dinnae get too enraptured ‘n forget tae disembark before dinner time.”

“I won’t, don’t worry!” Corrin called back, already rushing off towards the mainsail to examine it. He walked around it several times, staring up at the top point of the mast with an enormous, bright grin stretching out from ear to ear.

A laugh came from beside Eleanor. “He’s like an excited puppy or a small child, isn’t he?” Enrico remarked, coming to stand just a short distance away. “It’s hard to believe that somebody like him is married, let alone has a wife such as yourself.”

Eleanor gave an amused smile. “He’s just passionate about ships is all. Everyone has their hobbies. He’s a good man ‘n a fine husband, even if I cannae always follow him when he waxes on the tonnage of various vessels.”

“Still, it is highly indecorous of him to just leave you while he indulges his hobbies,” the Lyellian man took a step closer to her, flashing his teeth. He was just a foot away from her. “You must get bored sometimes, Lady Eleanor.”

The young woman glanced sideways at the merchant, clasping her hands together and edging very slightly away. “I appreciate yer concern, but I am born of the mountains, Master Caiazzo. We highlanders are very adept at keeping ourselves entertained thanks tae the long winters. Besides what sort of wife would I be if I told my husband he may nae do what he enjoys? It is harmless enough.”

“Of course, of course, I do not mean to imply it isn’t,” Enrico moved forward, negating the distance that she had tried to put between them. “I bet he doesn’t know how lucky he is though. Were you my wife, Lady Eleanor, I wouldn’t leave your side for anything.”

The young woman forced a smile in his direction, though she was beginning to wish she and Corrin had brought some sort of retinue along with them. Even one knight might’ve been nice to have.

“I should think it would get very tiresome, having a husband who never left my side,” she said evasively, turning to face the man and taking a subtle step back and away from him as she did so. “That sounds rather unhealthy. Besides both he ‘n ye would have duties tae see tae that would require time away, or so it seems to me.”

He laughed, either oblivious to the discomfort she felt or simply not caring, and continued to walk towards her as though tied to Eleanor by some invisible string. “I have no duties for now, and since your husband has so gracelessly run away, I would be glad to keep you company. It is the least I can do for a beautiful lady such as yourself,” in one smooth motion, Enrico reached out and took her hand. “And it would be my pleasure too.”

Eleanor jerked her hand away, her expression still a neutral smile but a light of panic starting to show in her eyes. “I appreciate yer concern, but I shall have to decline, Master Caiazzo. Perhaps I should check on my brother’s furs.”

“They haven’t been loaded on fully yet, and besides, below deck is a miserable place, it is not for a lady like yourself,” he tilted his head, flashing her another wide smile, though this one was more than just merely pleasant. The Lyellian now stood in front of her, not giving her much of a way around him. “What’s wrong with staying out here and enjoying the view while you can? I know Kustanair is hardly the most picturesque city but I find it quite beautiful in its own way.”

Eleanor glanced up towards the deck of the trader’s ship frantically. Corrin had torn his eyes away from the mast and was looking directly at them, a frown spreading rapidly over his face. Enrico, however, noticed neither that nor Eleanor’s discomfort. Instead, he took the opportunity and made a dive for her hand again, wrapping his fingers around it.

“Master Caiazzo, please!” Eleanor bleated, trying to pull her hand away again but unable to prise it loose. “With all due respect I’m nae interested!”

“Oh but I promise I won’t do anything to hurt you, Lady Eleanor,” the Lyellian stroked her hand softly. “Quite the oppo-”

There was a very loud, impossible to ignore cough behind him and Enrico turned his head to find that Corrin had materialised beside him and Eleanor, his eyes narrowed and seeming darker in colour than they normally would have been. “What’s going on here?”

“Lord Corrin, I was merely-”

“I’m not asking you, Master Caiazzo,” the young Bay lord turned his gaze to his wife where it softened considerably. “Eleanor, what happened?”

“I think,” she growled, finally succeeding in snatching her hand away and holding it close to her chest to shield it from being grabbed again, “that your uncle’s employee was just leaving.”

The anger in Corrin’s eyes returned sharply as he turned around to Enrico, positioning himself by Eleanor’s side between her and the Lyellian. “I certainly hope so. And I would appreciate it if you did not make my wife uncomfortable.”

“She should have said she was in the first place. I was merely being gracious and keeping her company while you were busy,” Enrico said with a shrug. His smile, however, was far shakier and more falsely polite than it had been before.

“She said so very clearly and you ignored her. That is not company she needs,” Corrin barely kept his voice from devolving into a snarl. “Regardless, I’m here now, Master Caiazzo, so you don’t need to look after my wife for me, as though she can’t do that herself.”

Enrico snorted. “With all due respect, Lord Corrin, you shouldn’t let a lady like your wife out of your sight. A woman that beautiful, well, you can’t blame me for not being able to help myself.”

“Then that says more about you than about my wife, Master Caiazzo,” he was openly scowling now, his hands clenching into fists. “She did not want your hands on her, that’s all that matters to me, so don’t try to excuse yourself by saying you’re too much of an animal to control yourself!”

Corrin caught himself in the yell and cleared his throat again, putting his hands behind his back and assuming a more diplomatic air, though the scowl on his face still remained. “Now I strongly recommend you go check that we delivered the correct amount of furs. I wouldn’t want to take your money and not deliver the cargo.”

The Lyellian opened his mouth to reply but he could see by the expression on the nobleman’s face that this was not a request. Giving them a deep bow, he hurried off into the depths of the ship. Corrin breathed a sigh of relief and slowly unclenched his fists, calming himself down.

Eleanor shuddered her eyes drilling warily into the Lyellian’s back until he was out of sight. Then she turned to Corrin, the relief in her voice and demeanor palpable. “Thank ye. Another minute or so ‘n I might have been so indecorous as tae bolt from the ship. I’m sorry ye had tae cut off yer exploration on my account, though.”

“It’s alright, I couldn’t just ignore what he was doing. I’m only sorry I didn’t come over sooner,” Corrin replied, giving her a weak smile. “Are you alright? He didn’t try to do anything else besides hold your hand, did he?”

She shook her head. “Nae, he was just… flirting.” The young woman made a face. “‘N invading my personal space, but he did nae actually hurt me. Or do anything vulgar. Though that was the second time he grabbed my hand- I’d already taken it back from him once.”

Hearing this, Corrin’s eyes darkened again and he felt his fists beginning to clench again before he forced himself to relax. “I’m...glad he did not do anything worse, but he still should not have done anything at all. I can’t believe my uncle employs people like that…” he sighed. “I’m sorry though. I should not have left you alone to indulge my own hobbies.”

“It’s alright,” Eleanor insisted. “I wouldn’t want tae chain you tae my side at all times, Corrin. That wouldn’t be fair of me. I’m glad for the time ye give me, it’d be selfish tae demand even more of ye.”

She started to reach a comforting hand towards his, but remembering how he always flinched away from her she immediately dropped it to her side again. It would hardly do for her to be thanking Corrin for rescuing her from unwanted affections by subjecting him to them.

The gesture, however, did not escape Corrin’s notice. He blinked, looking down at her hand before turning his gaze up to Eleanor. She had not enjoyed Caiazzo’s touch and yet, she was actively reaching for him now. If she had not wanted it, she would not be making the overture so eagerly. Did she actually…want him to touch her?

That idea was a little more electrifying that he had expected but as soon as he thought it, he remembered what he had said to the Lyellian man about being able to control himself. Corrin, however was better than that; he could exercise self-restraint. He had learned his lessons from the wedding kiss after all. But if she wanted this, and he wanted to as well...was there any point in holding back?

It was a risk worth taking. Slowly and carefully, giving Eleanor plenty of time and space to move away if she so desired, Corrin’s fingers brushed against her hand and he slid it into hers, gripping as gently as one would the page of an old book. He could only pray he was not making the same mistake as Caiazzo.

Eleanor was surprised when Corrin reached for her hand, especially after the way he’d always pulled away from the contact before now. But the surprise was followed almost immediately by nervous excitement, and the young woman felt her heartbeat speed up as her husband’s warm hand close around hers. Smiling shyly in his direction, she closed her fingers as well, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

At first Corrin gave off a tiny gasp as he felt the pressure around his hand but immediately, a huge grin spread across his face. Eleanor did not mind! In fact, she was returning his gesture! He did not even care that his cheeks were beginning to burn up at the fact that he was touching her in a way that could not be read as anything but flirty.

“You...you don’t mind this, do you?” he asked. “I’m basically doing the same thing as he was.”

She shook her head. “No you’re nae,” she said softly. “He was grabbing me without my permission ‘n didn’t care how I felt about it. We’ve been getting tae know each other for months ‘n…” She looked into those deep, clear blue eyes, her heart hammering. “I want this.”

“You do!?” Corrin’s face lit up like a beacon and his stomach flipped inside him as though the ship he was on was out in a storm instead of sitting comfortably by the docks. He could feel himself blushing but somehow, that did not seem to matter: he finally did something right in regards to acting on his feelings. Encouraged, he squeezed her hand, savouring the warmth and soft texture of her skin.

“I want this too, just..” he looked away from her and down at the deck. “I remember during the wedding, when we kissed, I hated making you uncomfortable like that. So been afraid to do anything, in case I did it again.”

“I thought that might be it, but I worried…” Eleanor sighed softly. “I’m glad though, that yer trying nae tae make me uncomfortable like that again. But I think, as long as we are careful of each other ‘n stop if one of us seems uncomfortable it should be okay? I do like ye a lot Corrin. Yer kind, considerate, ‘n I enjoy spending time with ye. ‘N…” Eleanor flushed. “Seeing ye happy, it makes me happy.”

As if on cue, the smile returned to Corrin’s face. “I like seeing you happy too, Eleanor,” he murmured, glancing shyly back towards her. “Thank you. You’re really nice, and really patient. I’m sorry I worried you, I didn’t mean to,” he gave her hand another squeeze. “And I promise I’ll try not to do it again.”

His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Caiazzo coming up on deck again and he took a single step closer to Eleanor, holding her hand tightly and watching the Lyellian man like a hawk. However, the latter did not even glance their way before going into his cabin, clearly not wanting anything more to do with the Bay couple. But only when he was gone did Corrin’s face soften and he loosened his grip, though he did not let go completely, instead letting his fingers hang on hers.

“Umm...do you mind if we...look around the ship together?” he asked, his eyes darting between Eleanor and the corners of the barge. “I don’t want to leave you alone, in case he bothers you again, but I...really want to examine it. Please?”

Eleanor giggled. “Sure. I dinnae want that man to have robbed ye of the chance tae look at a rare sort of ship.” She grinned mischievously. “Someone ought to appreciate it, seeing as he can’t see fit nae tae respect it enough tae not call it a boat.”

“Exactly, because it is a ship. Look, it’s got a mast and sails and everything!” Corrin cried incredulously, pointing up at the mast that he had been enraptured with a few moments ago before it dawned on him that Eleanor was just teasing. He swallowed, ducking his head down and growing far more subdued before tugging at her hand. “Let’s go then. And please stop me if I ramble too much.”

“I will. But I was only joking Corrin, please dinnae be upset,” she said, her elated mood deflating significantly at Corrin’s reaction to what she’d intended as gentle teasing. His father prodded at him all the time…

“Oh, umm...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Corrin shuffled nervously, looking away from her. “I’m not upset at you, I was just agreeing...I didn’t realise you were teasing me at first. I can’t always tell.”

“Should I nae?” she asked tentatively. “Yer father seems tae do it all the time but if you dinnae like it… I mean this is your relationship too.”

“Oh, no, I can cope. I just…” he swallowed, still keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. “With dad, I know he doesn’t mean it and he just does it to get a reaction out of me. With you, I can’t tell. I just...haven’t known you as long as I’ve known him, obviously.”

“Ah. That does make sense. I’ll try tae keep it in mind.” She swallowed, squeezing his hand briefly. “But dinnae be afraid tae tell me if something bothers ye, okay?”

“I will,” Corrin nodded, squeezing her hand back. “And the same goes to you: if I do something stupid, please...tell me,” he sighed. “I’ll feel stupid, but at least I’ll know what not to do, right? For next time?”

“Seems fair,” she agreed. “So- ye had a ship ye wanted to explore?”

Part 8- Warning for hunting

SPOILER: Click to show

September wore on and eventually turned into a chilly October. The wind blowing in from the sea began to have an increasing bite to it and while the rain had not given way to the first snows, it would only be a matter of time before they began to fall, though it would still be a while until it got cold enough for them to lay. At least for now, the river and the sea remained free of ice, though with the shifting seasons, the docks were far less busy as merchants and ships scrambled to get away before the frost settled into the earth.

Ever since the incident aboard the Cigno, Corrin had started to grow less timid around Eleanor. He was still fairly reserved with his affection but no longer shied away if she reached out to him, and on a few rare occasions, even initiated it himself. Sometimes he held her hand, other times he even put his arm around her, always a fraction more sure every time he dared to take the risk. It certainly came in useful as Bay Manor began to get colder and the fireplaces that were situated in the rooms were not always enough to fully drive the chill away.

Eleanor found her own nervousness melting away as Corrin’s eased. Given the training she’d received all her life for her eventual political marriage, she’d never expected to find this sort of gentle affection from her husband. Maybe Corrin was awkward and reserved, but when he did offer his own shy advances, she made sure to reward the efforts by making her own enthusiasm plain.

Their growing affection did not escape the attention of the other Bays. Francesca rarely said anything but her knowing looks and wide grin whenever she saw either of them were enough to spell out what she was thinking. Ian was slightly more subtle with his thoughts, though not by much, preferring to express his support for their relationship with carefully worded, wheedling questions. “Has Eleanor settled in fully yet, are you doing everything you can for her?” “Is Corrin treating you like he’s supposed to?” “You’re spending a lot of time in each other’s company, I hope it’s pleasant?” “Would you like some time alone?” Much to his embarrassment, Corrin was subjected to the brunt of his father’s questioning but the Lord of Bay was a fair man, he made sure his daughter-in-law was not spared either.

Eleanor, despite her slight embarrassment, didn’t mind the teasing too much. If anything, it provided firm evidence that she was accepted here. She was one of the Bays, with all the support and gentle teasing that came along with that package. Given how judgemental parents tended to be of their children’s suitors, it was gratifying to see Ian and Francesca so enthusiastically in favor of the way things were going between their son and their daughter-in-law.

But of course, just because tentative romance was in the wings, that didn’t mean that Corrin and Eleanor had completely abandoned their pre-marital pursuits. Corrin was as enthusiastic in his passion for ships as ever, if a bit quieter about it around Eleanor. As for the young woman, when she wasn’t sewing or going for rides through the snowy city, she often drifted down to House Bay’s mews.

Her birth house, the Duns, were well known for being prolific hunters thanks to their fur-trapping industry. Eleanor was no exception to this, being herself a keen falconer. But she’d not really gone on a proper hunt since coming to Kustanair, instead contenting herself with admiring House Bay’s collection of raptors and joining in excitedly when the topic of the birds came up.

Neither Corrin nor Francesca had much interest in falconry so it had always been Ian who rose up to the challenge of such a conversation. Though his enthusiasm was no match for the one Corrin held for ships, the Lord of Bay nevertheless demonstrated a wide range of knowledge on hunting, both with hawk and hound, and on occasion when Eleanor went down to the mews to admire the birds, he could sometimes be seen there, taking care of or exercising some of the falcons, and had allowed her to hold them on the glove if she wished.

Nevertheless, it was still a surprise when, in the early days of October, Ian had come to find her. After knocking and letting himself in, he greeted his daughter-in-law with a wide smile on his face.

“A question for you, Eleanor, one I felt would be rude to not ask of you considering, well, everything,” he chuckled and a hint of slyness slipped into his smile. “Would you like to come on a hunt with me?”

Eleanor, who had been looking at a book in her lap- still unable to read it but admiring the illustrations- turned a giddy smile towards her father-in-law at the question.

“Really?” She asked. “I had nae heard about any visiting dignitaries so this would be a recreational trip, right? I’d love tae come, if ye dinnae mind my borrowing one of yer birds. I had a saker falcon back in Jennet but obviously I didn’t bring him here with me. After living in Jennet for years a city like Kustanair would have stressed him out, ‘n besides I had no wish tae impinge upon the hospitality of yer mews when my brothers can look after him just fine-” She cut herself off, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, I got a little excited.”

Ian laughed at the sudden burst of enthusiasm and grinned back at her. “It’s quite alright, I thought you would be,” he remarked. “You are correct though, this is just a recreational trip.It’s something of a yearly tradition of mine to go on a hunt before the winter sets in, otherwise there’s risk of going insane from cabin fever during the winter. It’s only for a few days but it’s a good break from routine. As for birds…”

He turned back around to the door, though the Lord of Bay still kept his eyes on Eleanor. “We set off tomorrow so you have until then to pick your bird. Any raptor in the mews whose anklets have a red border is available for hunting, though you may wish to keep in mind our quarry will most likely be grouse or partridge, ducks and geese if we’re lucky. Oh and,” Ian smirked and raised up one finger, wagging it. “I’ve already picked out the white gyrfalcon for myself so don’t pin your hopes on her. Otherwise, you are free to borrow any one you set your heart on.”

“I’ll have a look then,” she replied. “Thank you again for thinking of me!”

Eleanor ended up choose a handsome male peregrine, his feathers almost blue in color. According to the Bay’s falconers he was older, had been with the family for some years and was relatively easy to handle. And being male, he was smaller and lighter than a female raptor would be- easier to carry. For her first trip out with her new family Eleanor would much rather play things safe than make some misguided attempt to impress by using a temperamental bird and getting slashed.

The party set off early next morning towards the hunting lodge further to the north, around a day’s ride from Kustanair. Besides Eleanor and Ian, several of the high-ranking Bay knights had come along, as well as Corrin, though he explained he would not be taking part in the hunt itself but was simply getting out for fresh air. The fact that his saddlebags contained several oilskin-wrapped books that he has surreptitiously taken from the Manor library went uncommented on by Ian, who was clearly used to such things.

It was early evening by the time they arrived at the lodge, a relatively small, wooden building situated on rolling hills, a reminder that from here, it was barely a stone’s throw to the Bernian mountains. Not rich in deer- the Bays owned another lodge in the opposite direction to this one for coursing hunts- but an excellent environment for birds of prey. The place had been prepared for their arrival by a crew of servants that Ian had sent up ahead in advance for that exact task. Once there, the hunters settled in, resting from the road behind them and preparing for the day ahead.

As the day before, they arose early and breakfasted quickly in order to take full advantage of the daylight hours. Luckily, the weather was cloudy but did not promise any rain, perfect for falconry. Once they mounted their horses and took their birds, they followed the road for a short while before Ian indicated they turn off, into the hills. Rivers gurgled in the distance around them, feeding land that had begun to acquire more than a hint of the wetness of a marsh.

“Follow me. My father used to take me hunting here so I know this place well. This moor is a haven for birds, especially as they fly south for the winter,” Ian explained to Eleanor before glancing at the white raptor sitting patiently on his glove. “Though not with us here.”

Eleanor smiled, the peregrine hooded and waiting for it’s chance to fly on her glove. “I should think nae. I used tae go hunting with Aaron ‘n Theo all the time, ‘n we’d joke it was going tae be a very bad day for the birds ‘n rabbits. Though Seamus is a little young for hunting yet. We usually dinnae start a child learning until they’re at least thirteen, since it’s nae exactly the safest pastime.”

“It’s safer than coursing or fox-hunting but if you don’t know what you’re doing or are not confident with the bird, it will know. I got started when I was twelve, and even then, my father limited me to the small merlins,” the Bay Lord chuckled softly. “You can imagine the disappointment it was for a young boy to only be able to catch things such as mice and sparrows. But, as you can see, good things come to those who wait.”

He smiled fondly at the gyrfalcon on his glove, still hooded like Eleanor’s was, though this would not be the case for long. “I imagine this is slightly different from the hunts you went on in Jennet. The setting is pleasant, or at least I think so, but” Ian grinned, “Instead of your brothers, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me and my knights for company. I’ll do my best to live up to such high standards.”

Eleanor giggled. “Well we also usually had a retinue with us as well. ‘N Father of course. Father flew a very showy red-shouldered hawk that he called his ‘feathered son’ as a joke because the red breast ‘n shoulders were a similar color tae his ‘n all of our hair.”

“I think I remember that one, though it would be difficult not to remember a hawk that could take down birds twice its size without so much as flinching,” the Bay Lord said before laughing. “I joked that he should not entertain the thought of making it its heir since the other Houses would not appreciate a hawk in their midst.”

He suddenly went quiet, growing far more subdued as his eyes gazed out into the distance. However, that only lasted a few moments before his easy smile returned and he undid the hood on his falcon. She blinked as the light hit her eyes and looked around, scanning the landscape eagerly for any sign of prey.

“I’m afraid me and my birds do not share any features so I cannot claim them as my children. But they have plenty of other qualities I can name them after,” Ian tucked the hood into his pocket and gripped the gyrfalcon’s jesses tightly to stop her flying off before her time. “She’s called Hail. No doubt you can guess why.”

“Hmmm,” Eleanor mused. “The white feathers? Or is it because she hits hard ‘n fast like a hail stone?”

This earned her a jovial smile from the Bay Lord. “Yes,” he nodded, giving the falcon another affectionate smile as she continued to scan around them for prey. He urged his horse into a light trot. “Though on misty days or when it snows, I want to rename her “‘Pit, where are you?” sometimes. She practically disappears.”

Eleanor covered her mouth with her free hand to hide a grin. “The falconers told me this fellow I have is called Flash, because that’s all ye see of him when he makes a dive. It’ll be interesting tae see them both in action.” She looked up towards the cloudy sky, squinting a bit. “Should be okay weather today, so hopefully ye won’t lose track of Hail. Even with his spectacles I know Aaron sometimes loses sight of birds in misty or snowy conditions. He’s painfully nearsighted, poor man, ‘n poor weather conditions dinnae help.”

The Bay Lord nodded in agreement and smiled. “No, I didn’t think he wear those because of some misguided sense of fashion. Your brother struck me as far too practical for that,” Ian chuckled, keeping a firm hold of the gyr’s jesses as the party proceeded, trying to flush out game for her. “But good eyes are for falcons, they’re not necessary for lords. My late father, Lord Edmund, began to develop cataracts for the last few years of his life and that never stopped him from keeping on top of all his work governing the House. And since meeting Lord Aaron, I have no doubts your brother won’t let his nearsightedness get in his way, especially since it is easy corrected with glass.”

“Oh of course,” she replied. “He hasn’t let it slow him down once yet, except on the occasions when we were all younger that Theodore decided tae be a prat ‘n swipe the lenses while Aaron was nae paying attention. ‘N even then the slowing down only amounted tae him chasing Theo around ‘n demanding he give them back.” She giggled suddenly. “I remember when he first got those spectacles- it was when he was about nine or ten. He put them on, stared through them in total silence for several minutes, then blurted ‘I can count the leaves! All of them!’ I think Father was hard put nae tae laugh in his face.”

Ian grinned widely. “You’re going to have to restrain me from mentioning that story to your brother next time I see him, since I am sure it is bad form to imagine a fellow House Lord as an excited child,” he cast his eyes around the moor as the horses carried them further. “I always figured you and your siblings were close, but until hearing you speak so fondly of them, it strikes me just how close you really are,” his grin shifted into a warmer smile. “That’s quite a precious thing you all have.”

Eleanor smiled. “Thank ye. Growing up in the mountains we had tae rely on each other for company a lot, especially in winter. Dun is a small house, ‘n nae very rich or important, but we try tae compensate for that by making the most of what we do have.” She looked at the falcon on her arm pensively. “I met your sisters at the wedding, right? Lady Fia ‘n um… Lady Nessa I think?”

“Encountered them is probably a better word, especially with Fia,” Ian remarked. “I never did apologise to you for that, did I? Well, better late than never,” the smile on his face acquired a hint of sheepishness and for a split second, the resemblance between him and his son was uncanny. “I am sorry you had to get involved in that; Fia’s the sort to find something to critique wherever she goes but you can’t snub her because she’ll make a scene. And when my two sisters are together, well…”

He chuckled. “Let’s just say I’d rather be a mediator between Jade and Stallion than Fia and Nessa.”

The young woman’s mouth quirked slightly. “I got that impression, yes. I wasn’t entirely sure at the time if Lady Nessa was defending me specifically or just needling her sister on principle. But ye dinnae have tae apologize, I know it wasn’t your fault. ‘N Corrin did defend me, thank Woo. I think even he was caught off guard by the ah… bluntness.”

“Knowing my sisters, it was probably a combination of both,” Ian said with a shrug before his smile shifted again, this time into a warmer expression. “But I did see that Corrin had the situation with you well under control, as I would hope he’d have done. It was nice to be reassured that he was not completely lost in regards with what to do with you. Although,” it was hard to miss the mischievous glint in the Bay Lord’s eye. “I should thank you, Eleanor. It’s been hard to miss the positive effects you’ve had on him.”

Eleanor blushed. “Francesca mentioned on the first day I arrived in the city that she hoped I could draw him out of his shell a little. I admit I was a bit nervous, since his interests ‘n pursuits all seemed so opposite tae mine, but he’s been very kind tae me ‘n it’s hard nae tae want tae spend time with him…”

The look of gentle affection on her face as she spoke was fairly blatant, enough so that one of the knights riding with them smirked at his fellows. Ian also could not help but smile, though unlike the knights, he tried to be more subtle about it.

“I’m glad,” the Bay Lord nodded to her, “And I had a chat with him on that day too, telling him to reach out to you, so it’s nice to see he’s doing as he promised. Corrin’s my son, and I want him to be happy, so to see and hear that you’re getting along pleases me,” he stopped hiding all pretense and broke out into a grin. “Though you should hear the way he talks about you, it’s so sweet how excited-”

There was a panicked cry a short distance as a bird of some kind was flushed from its hiding place by the approaching party, taking off horizontally across the moor. Immediately, the bird spotted it, her eyes fixating on the movement and her wings spreading in preparation for takeoff. Ian needed no further encouragement to let her go and Hail lifted herself off his glove, racing after her quarry. It tried to evade her with several wild turns but she was much faster and more agile, and it was not long before she struck it, bringing it down.

“Got it!” Ian cheered and nudged his horse into a light canter. “Let’s go see what she’s caught for us.”

Eleanor, thoroughly distracted, nudged her horse after Ian’s, keeping a firm grip on the peregrine’s jesses. “She is fast. I can see why ye put her on reserve for yourself. I wonder what the catch is- it wouldn’t be the first time I’d gone out after patridge ‘n found my bird mantling over a quail!”

“Raptors aren’t picky over their prey, but that’s what makes this fun, wouldn’t you say?” the Bay Lord could not mask the giddiness of his voice, making him sound like an excited child awaiting his Woomas presents. They forded a small stream, heading to the spot where the gyrfalcon had dropped down to, and it was not long before her white form could be spotted against the dark moor, struggling to hold something beneath her talons.

Ian dismounted off his horse, walking over the last few feet of marshy ground to where Hail was mantled over her prey. Seeing what it was, he grinned broadly. “A black grouse, and a male too. He’s a big one,” he called back to Eleanor and the party. Crouching beside the two birds, he first took a fairly large piece of meat out of a pouch on his belt, handing it to the gyrfalcon. Then, while it was distracted, he removed a dagger from his belt and dealt with the grouse before picking both birds up, Hail by the jesses and the grouse by its wings. Handing it over to the knights, Ian climbed back on to his horse and gave Eleanor a nod.

“I’ve let her hunt for now, now I should let you have your fun,” he remarked and glanced at the peregrine that had been waiting patiently on Eleanor’s glove. Taking the hood from where he tucked it into his pocket, he put it on Hail again. “Let’s see if Flash can do better.”

“I’m definitely interested tae see him in action,” Eleanor agreed. As their retinue fanned out to look for more birds to flush, she unhooded the peregrine, who shook his feathers and looked around expectantly. “He definitely seems eager.” She tilted her head. “Have ye ever tried hunting duck with falcons? We dinnae get many up near Jennet but I’ve heard peregrines are good for that.”

“Have I..?” Ian slapped his thigh. “Plenty of times. Since they stop while migrating to feed in the Ursine Estuary and the marshes around here, we frequently go during the season. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are any here now,” he held up one of his fingers, assuming the pose of a tutor trying to explain a difficult problem. “Though you have to be very careful with ducks and falcons because otherwise, if the former lands on water, the latter will usually go after it. That results in a very confused falcon bobbing around on its kill, and guess who has to retrieve it?”

The Bay Lord chuckled. “When I was younger, me and my cousin went out hunting and I got caught in a predicament like that. The water only went up to my chest, thankfully, so I was able to retrieve both my falcon and the quarry but that was not the worst part,” he flashed her a grin. “No, it was having to go back in wet clothes with the Grand Duke of Bern giving you a knowing smile all the way home. Now that’s how you dent your pride.”

“Oh, Woo, I can imagine,” Eleanor laughed. “Apparently his Grace likes tae tease people? He was certainly doing that tae Corrin ‘n I at the wedding, ‘n Father always used tae tell us how the Grand Duke liked tae try ‘n get him tae crack ‘n show an emotion. Though Father seemed tae find refusing tae do so despite all the Grand Duke’s needling as entertaining as his Grace found trying tae get Father tae crack.”

“Oh yes. Even if I had not been witness to that a few times, I can definitely believe Alain would indulge in that. He enjoys a good challenge even if he does not achieve his result, and Cohen was definitely one to him,” Ian’s smile disappeared and his eyes flickered downward. He sighed before turning his head to face Eleanor. “Cohen was also a very good friend of mine. I never told you this, but that was one of the reasons I was so keen to ally with and help your House, after his death.”

Eleanor looked surprised, but then she smiled sadly. “I see. I’m sorry. I miss him too. I mentioned tae ye once before that after Mother’s passing, I more or less took it upon myself tae raise Seamus ‘n become House Lady. Father was my rock in a lot of ways. He encouraged me tae be a kid from time tae time, ‘n gave me a shoulder tae cry on when I needed a parent instead of needing tae be one.” She looked thoughtful, “I remember Aaron mentioning something about being embarrassed because he almost lost his composure on the docks, that first day he met you. He said he could tell somehow that the condolences ye were offering him were sincere, ‘n nae just diplomatic niceties.”

Ian blinked, raising an eyebrow before a sad smile appeared on his face. “I noticed that, though at the time I mistook it for simple grief. After all, he had just lost his father and having just lost a friend, I was feeling very much the same way, hence my sincerity,” he sighed. “We can be as lordly as we wish but we’re still human and we cannot escape that.”

He shook his head, raising a gloved hand to his temples. “I apologise, this is quite a morose topic I brought up. Such things should not be discussed during a hunt lest we get lost in them and miss out on quarry. Although…” a grin flashed across his face. “Funny how fate is; since you were both the right age, Cohen and I did sometimes joke about marrying you and Corrin together.”

The young woman blinked, glancing towards the peregrine on her arm with a flush. “Funny how these things work out. Life carries us in strange ‘n unexpected directions, ‘n that which we’d never have thought seriously possible becomes a reality.” She smiled at Ian, the warmth in her voice unmistakable. “Even if the notion was just a jest in its infancy, I’m glad that ye let me marry Corrin. He’s shy, but sweet ‘n sincere when he opens up, ‘n I enjoy his company.”

“So I’ve noticed. You both have a hard time keeping the...happiness you derive from each other out of your faces. And it makes both me and Fran very happy too, to see you both like that. She certainly has been enlivened by your growing affection,” the grin was joined by a noticeable glint in Ian’s eye. “Not to mention the gossip spices up an otherwise very dry political letter to House Dun about coastal defences and pirate activity.”

Eleanor’s mouth quirked. “I was wondering how Aaron seemed tae know about things in his letters that I had made no mention to him of. ‘N here I thought it was only servants who gossiped.” She chortled. “I was worried for a while, I admit. Corrin was extremely reserved at first, ‘n I sometimes wondered if I had done something wrong. But he’s been opening up a lot more recently.”

“As I said, Eleanor, even we lords are only human,” the Bay Lord replied. His grin suddenly gained a warmth to it that softened its previously sly edges. “Poor Corrin though...I had expected him to be nervous when you met but not so much. After he met you, I found him in his room in such a state I was worried something awful had happened. Still, I’m glad, and I’m thankful for all the positive impact you’ve had on him. He’s never really had many friends or had much courage for girls, but you’ve turned that around in just a few months.”

Ian went quiet as they forded a small stream, focusing on keeping his horse steady on its feet before turning back to her. “One of these days, I hope you sneak in while me and him are talking about you just so you can catch the smile on his face. It’s quite a sight,” the grin on his face returned with a vengeance as he caught Eleanor’s eye. “More than usually anyway.”

Eleanor laughed, blushing hard. “I’m glad he thinks so well of me. I… I like it when he smiles. It’s a very… soft expression.”

“Does he now? Then you make sure to tell him that if you want to see that smile,” the Bay Lord chuckled and gave her a wink. “Or I’ll say something by accident and embarrass both of you.”

Eleanor laughed sheepishly, but she was spared having to answer when in the distance there was an explosion of noise and a flash of white. Flash’s head snapped towards it, and Eleanor pushed her gloved hand upwards to give the falcon a springboard into the air. Flash shot upwards, pumping his wings, and then pulled them in to launch into a steep dive. A blur of blue-black feathers more than a bird now, he sailed behind his quarry with astonishing agility. Finally, when he was close enough, he fanned out his wings and struck, talons hitting the smaller bird with the speed and force of a runaway carriage.

“Ha, ha, he’s got it!” Eleanor crowed.

“So he has!” Ian exclaimed, peering at the bird in the distance as he settled over his prey. “We’re going to have no shortage of meat for the pot tonight.”

He dug his heels into the side of his horse, nudging it into a trot. “Let’s go see then, and finally relieve Flash of his burden before it gets away!”

The two of them rode towards where Flash came down to earth, to find the peregrine mantling over the red and white body of a willow ptarmigan. “Not bad,” Eleanor remarked. She reached into a pouch at her side, offering the falcon a morsel to sate him before gently coaxing him back up onto her glove. As she fastened the hood back on his head and collected the ptarmigan, she found herself smiling. “Woo, I’ve missed this. Thank ye for bringing me along, Ian.”

“No problem!” the Lord of Bay smiled down at her from his horse. “And thank you, Eleanor, for being such good company.”

Part 9

SPOILER: Click to show

Winter eventually closed over Kustanair, freezing the sea and blanketing the city in snow. The traders stopped coming, and all the city settled in to wait out the long, cold nights until the thaw.

It wasn’t nearly as cold as in the mountains where Eleanor had grown up, but it was a good deal more crowded in the city than in Jennet. It was just past the turn of the year when a bout of flu shot through Kustanair, taking advantage of the cramped quarters of the city and the fact that people were lingering close to one another to spread like a wildfire. Several of the servants had to call in sick, and a few came, but ended up having to leave when fever overtook them.

Inevitably, the newest resident of the manor with the least resistance caught the foul sickness. Eleanor had been in the library, working on her embroidery while Corrin read, when seemingly out of nowhere her head began to ache and her body to heat up. The young woman put a hand to her forehead with a wince. Seeing her distress out of the corner of his eye, her husband glanced up from the sweeping descriptions of Dormorian triremes, his heart leaping up into his throat.

“Eleanor, are you alright?” he asked, staring at her with wide eyes. “You look flushed. Are you feeling well?”

“I… I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice emerging as a thin rasp. “Until just a moment ago I felt fine, but my head aches all of a sudden.” She shivered, scooting closer to Corrin. “C-cold…”

All colour seemed to drain out of his face. He snapped the book shut with a distinct thunk, only then realising that perhaps he should have marked his place. Not that it mattered if Eleanor was sick. Corrin stretched out his arm to put it around her and cuddle her to him but immediately recoiled. If he got sick too, that would make things a thousand times worse.

“Maybe we should go the physician?” Corrin asked, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. “If you’re cold and your head hurts...oh Woo,” he held out his hand to her. “I’ll take you there. You really should go.”

She seemed to realize what he was getting at, and moaned softly. “Oh, no, ye don’t think... R-right, let’s… let’s go.” She winced as her throat felt abraded by the words, and coughed instinctively. Though she started to reach for Corrin’s hand, she pulled back again and shook her head. “I.. I don’t want te make ye sick too, if this is the same thing the servants have b-” she was cut off by an even more violent fit of coughing, wincing as a fresh lance of pain went through her head.

He wanted to wrap her in a hug and hold her close, anything to ease the horrible convulsions of coughing that had taken ahold of her, but the rational part of Corrin knew how bad it would be. If they were both sick, he could not look after her, and Woo knew, his mother always worried herself to the point of insomnia whenever he fell ill. He did not want to subject her to that either.

“Let’s...let’s just go, quickly,” he spoke as Eleanor finished her round of coughing, his voice hitching. “The sooner you get attended to by a physician, the better, especially if it’s the flu that’s going around.”

Eleanor nodded, letting Corrin lead her to the manor’s physician. It didn’t take long at all to confirm their worst fears- she did indeed have the flu, and it was hitting her hard. By the time the physician had given her a posset for it and directed her to return to her bedroom for some rest, Eleanor could scarcely tell up from down she was so dizzy. It took all of Eleanor’s concentration to make it up the stairs and into bed- she didn’t even bother changing into a more comfortable dress for lying down in, she was so weary.

She did not know how much time had passed before she heard a knock on her door. “Eleanor, dearest?” Francesca’s accented voice trilled out in the hallway but it was far more subdued than usual. “I heard from Corrin you were sick. May I come in?”

The young woman coughed weakly, then croaked, “Yes, come in, ma’am.”

In spite of the invitation at the wedding, Eleanor still wasn’t entirely certain about calling Francesca “mother.” Though she quite liked Corrin’s mother, it was still a little odd and felt… somewhat presumptuous.

The door to her room swung open, revealing the Lady of Bay, but instead of her usual cheery look her face was now graced by a deep frown of concern. In her hands she carried a ceramic cup, the steam from which carried a rich, herbal scent.

“I asked the servants to make you some tea to help with your illness,” Francesca said, placing it on the small table beside her bed before looking down at Eleanor, taking in the sight of her sick daughter-in-law. “You really do look sick. Shall I ask to get you more blankets, or pillows or furs, or...well, anything you wish, dear.”

Eleanor started to answer, but she was cut off by a fierce fit of sneezing that jerked her so hard it set her head pounding again. She moaned, putting her hands up to her eyes. “Can ye cleave out my skull so maybe it’ll hurt less?” she asked rhetorically, though she couldn’t quite get the humorous tone to her voice she was going for.

Judging by Francesca’s sigh and the sad look her eyes acquired, she had clearly not caught the humour. “I can’t do that, I’m sorry, dear. You’re just going to have to put up with it until it stops hurting,” she gestured to the cup that she had brought with her. “If you drink that though, the fumes and the warm liquid might relieve some of the pain, or I can get a hot cloth to place over your head to help with that headache.”

She clasped her hands together in front of her chest, giving off another sigh. “You poor thing,” leaning down, Francesca tugged at the blankets around Eleanor, teasing them out from under her. “Just you hang in there though, you’re going to be fine. We’re going to look after you.”

Eleanor reached for the cup weakly. “Thank ye. But should ye be in here, ma’am? What if ye get sick too? I wouldn’t-” she coughed again, so hard that it jarred the cup in her hand and made the contents slosh dangerously.

At the sound, the Lady of Bay dropped what she was doing and grabbed Eleanor’s hands, steadying the cup in her grip. “‘Pit if I’m abandoning you when you’re ill, dear, whether I get sick or not,” she hissed and loosened her hold on the younger woman so that instead of gripping, she was only supporting her when she wanted to take a drink. “And I did ask you to call me mother” didn’t I? Ma’am is far too formal.”

“I… I’m sorry,” Eleanor replied meekly, her voice like sandpaper. “I don’t…” she swallowed hard. “I don’t really remember my own mother. She died when I was six, maybe seven. It’s just strange for me tae think that way. For as long as I can remember I’ve sort of been mother ‘n sister for my brothers.” The young woman blew on the liquid in the cup, then took a slow sip of the contents.

Satisfied that she was not going to drop the tea, Francesca removed her hands from the cup and raised her left to brush a lock of Eleanor’s auburn hair away from her face. “You poor dear, you’ve never had anybody to look after you like you were a child, have you?” she asked, a warm smile appearing on her face before standing up again and fiddling with the blankets she had dropped, pulling them out from under Eleanor. “I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous of me to ask you to call me that. It’s just..well…”

She sighed. “I’ve always wanted a daughter, but I never got one, not really anyway.”

“Father did his best by us,” Eleanor explained. “But he was busy running Jennet a lot of the time.” She coughed again, making a soft noise of frustration. “I’m sorry ye never had a daughter of yer own. I dinnae think it was presumptuous, just… I dunno. I’d only known ye for a week when ye first asked, ‘n it felt a bit strange. It’s nae that I don’t want that kind of relationship, just… in time, maybe?”

Upon hearing this, Francesca seemed to deflate a little. She wrapped the blanket around Eleanor, making sure it was tucked in around her before sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Of course and I know it must be strange, having some old woman you barely know trying to be your mother,” her finger traced the seams on the fabric of her dress. “I admit, I got far too excited at the prospect of you coming here and marrying Corrin, and not just because of the potential for grandchildren, though there’s that too.”

She giggled and shook her head, waving her hand to dismiss the notion before turning to Eleanor. “I saw my chance to finally live out a dream I had, of being a mother to a girl, and I got excited about finally not being the only lady in the household,” Francesca sighed. “I’m very selfish, dear, and I’m sorry about that.”

The younger woman looked down, guilt evident in her expression. “No, I… I should be sorry. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a daughter of yer own. I’m just so,” she set the cup down, rubbing her eyes. “S-so used to having tae be strong, ‘n l-l-look after everyone, ‘n be patient ‘n… ‘n…” Eleanor whimpered softly.

“Oh, Eleanor, sweetie…” the Lady of Bay leaned forward, hugging her daughter-in-law. “If you’ve been doing that since you were six, it’s no wonder you feel odd when somebody does it for you,” she lifted her head up, smiling at her. Gripping the edge of her sleeve, she brought it up and wiped a stray tear off Eleanor’s cheek. “But will you let me anyway?”

The young woman coughed raggedly. Once she’d gotten her wind back she said, “I’ll try. I just dinnae like tae b-be a burden…”

“Don’t be silly, you’re not going to be a burden. You’re a woman now, there’s no question of that, but even adults cannot be strong all the time,” Francesca pulled the blanket up around Eleanor some more, fidgeting with it until she was satisfied it was properly in its place. “At least let me take care of you when you’re sick,” she lowered her eyes. “Most of my...my other babies died of winter illnesses so I feel like I need to do this.”

Eleanor sniffled, trying and failing to fight back a sneeze. “I dinnae think I could say no if I wanted tae. I feel wretched.” She gave a weak smile. “Just promise me you won’t let Corrin fret too much? If I know him, he’s going tae worry himself tae death over this.”

“Oh, you bet that silly boy will do his best,” Francesca laughed and smiled at Eleanor, stroking her hair. “You leave everything to me, dear, I’m not willing to go so far as to neglect my real baby for you. Now…”

She picked up the cup that Eleanor had put down, almost pushing it back into her hands. “You finish your tea and get some rest while I get you a hot cloth for your head and a handkerchief for your nose. If you stay warm, drink plenty and take the medicine the physician gave you, you’ll feel better in no time at all,” she put a finger up to the side of her face, acquiring the look of a fox that had just figured out the best way to the chicken coop. “Maybe even we can get warm milk with honey prescribed to you as a remedy, how about that?”

Eleanor chuckled softly, accepting the cup without complaint. “My secret vice seems tae have made the rounds. I hope I get well again soon, so neither ye nor Corrin need tae worry too much.” She hesitated, then added, “Thank you, M-mother.”

Francesca did not even bother to hide the wide grin on her face at this. She stood up and patted Eleanor’s shoulder, giving her a nod of acknowledgement. “You’re welcome, dear. And thank you too,” with those words, she turned around and headed back for the door. “I’ll get you what you need. Back in a moment.”

The younger woman nodded, settling her head into the soft pillow as she finished the tea that her mother-in-law had brought for her.

[Celestial]

(Continuation of "A New Wind in the Sails")

Part 10

SPOILER: Click to show

Eleanor did eventually recover from her illness, and the harsh Bernian winter gradually gave way to spring. Part way through April- a year after the pirate raid that had changed her life forever- Eleanor got a surprise letter from Jennet. The hand it was written in belonged to the house scribe, but the words could not possibly have been mistaken for anyone but her younger brother Theodore. As she skimmed the words, excitement surged through her, and she soon found herself striding towards Ian’s office. Once there, she gave a few polite knocks.

“Aye, come in,” the Bay Lord’s voice resounded behind the door.

Eleanor pushed the door open, coming in with a tentative, hopeful smile on her face. “Ian, I was wondering, do we have anything urgent planned for the next few weeks? I hadn’t heard of such from Corrin but just tae be safe…”

Ian put down the report he had been reading and put a hand up to his beard, stroking it thoughtfully. “The trading season is starting, with all that it implies, but that’s business as usual. So unless something else comes up then no, there’s nothing,” he trained his eyes back on her, raising an eyebrow. “Why, are you wanting to plan something urgent, Eleanor?”

“Nae… urgent no,” she replied. “But I just got a letter from Jennet, from my younger brother Theodore. Ye met him, the boy who could be my father’s double? He says that our youngest brother Seamus has been feeling rather melancholy lately, with the anniversary of Father’s death. He… he wanted tae know if it were possible for me tae visit them, but I thought maybe, if you were alright with it, we could run things in reverse? I’d like it very much if Corrin ‘n Francesca could meet my family.”

Ian smiled to himself when she mentioned Theodore before leaning forward, clasping his hands on top of his desk. “I don’t see why I should object to this. I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing your brothers again, and I know Fran would love to meet your family,” he said and tilted his head. “But would your youngest brother be alright in an unfamiliar place like this?”

Eleanor gave a soft sigh. “He’ll be nervous, I dinnae doubt that. But… he ‘n Corrin have very much in common. I think, if I can get the two of them past their respective skittishness, they will get along quite well. Besides, if it is memories of Father that are upsetting him, getting out of Jennet a while might do Seamus some good.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it, every time I tried to get to know your youngest brother, he just ran away from me. Not that I’m angry about that or blame him for it, don’t misunderstand me, I just hope Corrin can do better in winning him over,” Ian shrugged and smiled at her. “But your brothers have my permission to come here. Just say when and how long they will be staying so we can arrange rooms to be set aside for them.”

Eleanor beamed at her father-in-law, the excitement in her blue-green eyes impossible to miss. “I’ll get that sorted with them ‘n let ye know as soon as I do. Thank ye so much!”

And so it was, two weeks later, a carriage from Dun Manor rattled up to the gates of the Bay residence, escorted by a few Bay knights Ian had sent so they would not get lost in the maze that was Kustanair. Though sea travel was faster, it was still too dangerous with the pirates at large for anyone to travel by ferry between Jennet and Kustanair. Eleanor waited at the entrance to the manor, Corrin standing by her side and glancing around. Ian stood off a little to the left beside his wife, who by the wide open smile on her face and the rapid tone in which she chattered with her husband, was clearly excited by the prospect of meeting the rest of the Duns.

The carriage opened, and from within emerged a tall, muscular teenage boy who from the resemblance could only be Eleanor’s brother. Where Aaron looked like a scribe, Theodore was every bit the nobleman, muscular and roguishly handsome. His hair and eyes were darker in shade than his sister’s, much like his father’s had been when Cohen was alive.

He turned back towards the carriage, beckoning gently, and after several moments a second person came out into the light. This newcomer was clearly quite young, and from the way his eyes bulged and he clung to Theodore’s leg like a tick, he was obviously terrified. However, the minute he caught sight of Eleanor, the child bleated, “Nory!” and pelted towards her, throwing his arms around his sister’s waist. Eleanor laughed breathlessly, hugging Seamus back as Theo approached at a more sedate pace.

“I’m sorry for Seamus’ eagerness,” the older of the Duns said to Ian, Corrin, and Francesca. “He’s been missing Eleanor terribly, ‘n visiting her is all he’s been able tae talk about since we arranged for this.”

Ian gave off a laugh. “It’s quite alright. She is his sister, after all.”

Beside him, Francesca also giggled. “Corrin was just like that with Ian when he was little: whenever Ian would come back from a trip, he’d always run out and cling to him. Wouldn’t let go until we had to send him to bed.”

“Mum!” the younger Bay exclaimed, feeling his cheeks flushing a little. He coughed, clearing his throat before smiling at Theo as best as he could. “You’re...Lord Theodore, right? Eleanor’s told me about you. How was your journey, was it uneventful?”

“It was very quiet, no fear,” Theodore replied with a smile that was a shade too cheerful. He reached out a hand to the young man. “Ye must be Lord Corrin, then? ‘Nory’s husband. A pleasure tae meet ye at long last.”

“Yes, I am, and it is a pleasure to meet you as well. Eleanor has spoken about you, you and Lord Seamus both,” Corrin returned in his best diplomatic voice, stretching his hand out likewise to Theodore and clasping it.

Theo returned the grip, his smile broadening. “I hope that ye’ve been getting on well with her. Eleanor means the world tae us, so we want her tae be happy ‘n well looked after.”

As he spoke, Theo’s grip on Corrin’s hand tightened a trifle. Not enough to be painful or even uncomfortable, but definitely enough to notice.

The young Bay certainly noticed it, glancing down at their handshake briefly to assure himself that he was indeed feeling that. However, that only lasted for amoment before he once again forced himself to face Theo. “You don’t have to worry, Lord Theodore, I have been doing my best to be a good husband to Eleanor and make sure she is happy here. She- she also means a lot to me,” Corrin said, swallowing as he sensed his cheeks redden just a little.

“Glad tae hear it,” Theo said, but he was prevented saying anything else by a small, palm sized floral patterned pillow hitting the side of his head, making him start. It Eleanor’s pin cushion, fished out of her sash. He turned to find his older sister glowering at him, having apparently just pitched the cushion at him.

“‘N Corrin means a lot tae me too, so spare us all the theatrics, little brother,” she put in tartly. From his place clinging to her skirts, Seamus giggled.

Corrin, however, stared at her as though seeing her for the very first time. While Theo was distracted, he withdrew his hand from his, lowering it slowly to his side. He opened his mouth and immediately closed it again, resembling a stranded fish more than a man.

Fortunately, Ian strode over, suppressing a mischievous glint in his eye. “You can rest assured, Eleanor is doing well here, Lord Theodore,. I’m sure you can see for yourself she is in excellent health and has lost none of her spirit,” he shot a grin at Eleanor as he said this before turning back to the Dun. “If you’re still unconvinced, you can assure yourself of it in the coming days. For now, would you and your younger brother wish to come inside? I’m sure you want a rest from your journey, and we have prepared refreshments for you in anticipation.”

“Ah, yes of course,” Theodore replied, kneeling down to pick up the pin cushion and offering it back to his sister. “I see yer aim has nae suffered at all either.”

The young woman only smiled, taking back the projectile and tucking it into her sash. As they followed Ian inside, she gently nudged Seamus on the shoulder. “Seamus, would ye like tae say hello tae Corrin as well? He’s been looking forward tae meeting ye.”

The child glanced up towards his brother-in-law, quivering visibly. “H-h-h-hello.” As an afterthought he blurted, “My l-l-lord.”

Corrin responded with an encouraging smile, hoping to put the boy at ease. “Hello,” he dipped his head down slightly for a moment. “You can call me Corrin if you want...do you mind if I call you Seamus?”

“‘S okay,” Seamus replied, his hazel eyes flicking nervously. “I, uh… um…” The boy seemed to be grasping for something to say, and panic suffused his features the longer the silence dragged. Eleanor, fortunately, was already prepared for such a thing.

“Why don’t ye tell Corrin about our favorite nickname for ye, hm? I think he’d find it interesting.”

Seamus frowned slightly, glancing up at his sister. “Everyone says it’s boring ‘n dumb.”

Eleanor winked. “Try him.”

The young boy clenched his sister’s skirts tighter. “Mathematician,” he said softly. “They call me Mathematician. ‘Cause I like studying math. Geometry is my favorite.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, both maths and geometry are useful skills,” Corrin nodded. “I like studying them, though I like maths more because it’s used for map-making, in judging distance and scale, and…” he glanced sideways at Eleanor, suddenly feeling very predictable. “...ships. Mathematics is essential for calculating height, length and tonnage of ships, and it’s as important for scale of ships as with maps,” he grinned. “And geometry is used in ship-building itself to obtain the form of the ship before it is built. It’s a process called ‘laying off’, where you draw the sections and parts of a ship down onto a special floor in the shipyard called the ‘mould floor’ and-”

He bit his tongue, realising he had caught himself rambling. “Ah, most people usually tune out when I talk about this stuff,” Corrin glanced sideways at Seamus. “But if you’re interested...I could tell you?”

Seamus, contrary to Corrin’s expectation, had been listening with rapt attention, his eyes on the Bay heir and no longer furtively darting around as if for an escape route. “Um, n-no it’s okay,” he said. “Do ye have any of these in Kustanair? The… the mould floors?”

Corrin nodded. “The larger shipyards have them, since it takes a lot of time and skilled master workmen to do it properly. However, proper measurement results in the best sorts of ships, obviously,” his eyes lit up like beacons as he spoke. “First they do what is called the sheer drawing to scale on a blueprint and then they enlarge it on the floor, in chalk, to get the form of the ship. Each measurement is different for each class of ship, since a cog and a carrack would not have the same dimensions and varying structures. It’s really complicated and I admire anyone who can do it properly!”

Seamus head bobbed in an enthusiastic nod, the nervousness ebbing from his demeanour to be replaced by clear interest and excitement. Theodore chuckled, remarking, “Looks like ‘Nory was right when she said that Lord Corrin ‘n our little scamp would get along. A boat connoisseur then, my lord?”

Corrin broke off, his teeth clicking together as his head turned slowly with narrowed eyes to practically glare at Theo. “With all due respect, Lord Theodore, while I hold boats in fine esteem, it is ships that I am most interested in. The latter has sails, the former does not, and I insist on that distinction.”

Theo blinked, clearly taken off guard. “I, uh…” He glanced around as if looking for someone to call off the sudden aggression. Fortunately, he was spared further ire when Seamus gave a small yip of fright and shoved his face back into Eleanor’s skirts.

There was a sigh from behind them and Francesca stepped up to Corrin’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve made your point, Corrin, dearest, now relax,” she murmured, reaching up to stroke his head. “You’ll scare your new friend.”

“Oh, uh,” Corrin blinked as though suddenly snapping out of a trance. He bit his lip, lowering his head. “Sorry...it’s a...a pet peeve, I guess,” the young Bay shifted nervously from foot to foot. “I’m not angry at you though, I promise.”

Woo, that had been stupid of him. Silently, he glanced up at Eleanor, mouthing ‘sorry’ as he tried to catch her eye. She met his gaze with a slightly sad but understanding smile, stroking her brother’s back.

“It’s alright Seamus,” She soothed. A sudden brightness came into her expression and she said, “Hey, Corrin, ye have those books with the shipbuilding blueprints ‘n diagrams right? Why don’t ye show Seamus some of what ye were talking about?”

At this the small boy glanced up, ever so slightly, so that a single hazel eye became visible around the fabric of his sister’s clothes.

“I do, up in the library,” Corrin met Seamus’s shy gaze, shooting him a smile. “If you like, I can show you what I mean, Seamus? And I haven’t even told you about how different shapes of sails affect the speed and maneuverability of a ship either,” he looked sideways at his father. “Um, if that’s alright. dad?”

Ian chuckled softly. “This is hardly a diplomatic visit by another lord, Corrin. You entertain young Seamus and me and Fran’ll look after Eleanor and Lord Theodore,” he shot his son a grin. “It’s not every day you can so freely discuss your favourite subject with someone.”

“No, it isn't ” Corrin beamed brightly, turning back to Seamus. “So, are you coming?”

Seamus still looked a little nervous, but he nodded with a timid smile, pulling away from Eleanor and trailing behind Corrin like a puppy. “Papa used tae tell me how sailors use geometry with the stars too,” he said. “Tae calculate distance ‘n direction so they know where tae go in the open sea.”

“You can use the sun for that too,” the Bay heir said, slowing down slightly so Seamus could keep up with them as they headed for the library. “I only know the theory of it because I never had a chance to test it- our ships always have their own navigator who does the job much better- but you need to know which way to go relative to where north is, and geometry is used to calculate that.”

He lifted up a finger, looking more like a tutor than a noble lord. “But to actually move, the sails need to be tilted at a certain angle so that they catch the wind and it propels you in the right direction. Different types of sails also catch the wind differently depending on their shape.”

Seamus’ head bobbed enthusiastically. “I know most of them are square or rectangular, but then there’s the special one that caravels have, the triangle one. La… Laaaaa…”

“The lateen sail,” Corrin nodded. “It’s also used for small river and fishing boats but on caravels, it serves as a supplementary sail on the mizzen mast to let them go against the wind. They usually have square sails too as lateen sails are more difficult to operate in a storm.”

The Bay heir suddenly stopped beside an unassuming door but the glint in his blue eyes suggested that it might as well have been a treasury. Pushing it open revealed several enormous shelves stacked against the walls, each packed to the brim with books and charts of all shapes and sizes. At the centre was a small table surrounded by comfortable plush chairs, which Corrin indicated to Seamus.

“Please sit down,” he told the boy, dashing past him and heading for the depths of the shelves. “I’ll get us something to look at!”

“Woaaaah!” Seamus cried, followingly slowly and looking around in awe. “There’s… there’s so many books! Jennet does nae have nearly so many! Where d’ye get ‘em all?”

“My family either bought them or commissioned them from the craftsmen and monks we are patrons of. Some were given as gifts too,” Corrin called back to him, grabbing something from a nearby shelf and rushing over to place it on the table before going off into the forest of books again. “Some of them are chained up because they’re valuable but if you really want to take it to be table, I’ll get the keys from the head steward. He’s used to me asking anyway.”

Seamus slid into a seat at the table in question, his eye dancing around the room. “Are they all about ships?”

“I wish!” Corrin exclaimed, depositing another book in front of Seamus. “But no, most aren’t,” he went back over to the shelves, his eyes skimming over their spines. “Some are on theology, others are on law, yet others are on mathematics,” here, he turned back and gave the boy a grin. “Then there’s some philosophy texts, which are over there. A few are on astronomy, got a couple here about other countries on Avani besides the corresponding maps…”

He swept a few of the charts off the shelves, bringing them over and dumping them across the table. “Basically, it’s everything a Lord of Bay needs to know, plus the things various Lords before have been interested in. A lot of the books on ships are pretty recent, since dad knows I like them,” Corrin remarked before making another run towards the shelves, this time grabbing a set of books and stacking them up under his chin.

Seamus watched Corrin scurry around grabbing books, and gently reached for the closest of those he’d already placed on the table. Pulling it open to a random page, he found himself looking at a blueprint of the interior dimensions of a trade vessel’s cargo hold. He grinned hugely, fingers delicately tracing the minute spacial reckonings.

“I wish we had anything this grand,” he remarked. “Papa…” he broke off, his expression wavering, then soldiered on, “P-Papa always said that books were too expensive, ‘n we didn’t have enough money tae spend on them.”

The Bay heir visibly winced as Seamus mentioned his father, his stomach sinking with fear. Did Eleanor not say the whole point of the visit was to get his mind off it? Woo, it would look awful if Seamus got upset while under his care. What would Eleanor think?

“Well...we’re a rich House, we can afford luxuries like this, but not everyone can,” Corrin remarked nervously depositing the books he was carrying on to the table with a loud thump. Sitting down beside Seamus, he offered the young Dun a smile. “And since I’m married to your sister, you could say we’re sort of family, right? So you can share all of our books.”

The little boy gave a shy smile, still absently tracing the lines of the ship in the book before him. “Aaron said that he got letters from Lord Bay that you ‘n ‘Nory were getting along real well.” Tilting his head quizzically the child asked. “Are ye two going tae have babies? Before she left Jennet she promised I’d get tae be their uncle when she had ‘em.”

Corrin’s back stiffened and he slowly turned to stare at Seamus, his wide blue eyes contrasting with the crimson that quickly dyed his cheeks. “Umm...errr...umm...”he swallowed. “I guess we, uhh...we will...someday. I mean we, err...we have to, since I’m heir and…”

His gaze dashed around back and forth until it settled on the pile that of books he had brought to the table. “Oh, this one has a diagram of a Valzaik longship in it! I’ll show you!” the Bay heir exclaimed, eager to change the topic, and grabbed a tome from the top of the stack, placing it in between them and flicking through the familiar pages until he found the right one. As promised, the sleek cross-section of the longship was spread out across two pages, its length and breadth marked clearly below the fine lines of the drawing as well as notes on its construction. Studying it closely, getting lost in the numbers and the fine details of its construction that helped it be faster while retaining its heavy armour, Corrin slowly began to feel the colour drain out of his cheeks.

Seamus proved easy enough to distract, his passing interest in the topic of impending uncle status nowhere near as strong as his interest in mathematics and engineering. Unlike other folks who Corrin rambled at about ships, who would invariably listen silently or ask gloss questions to feign interest, Seamus frequently double-checked concepts that Corrin was explaining to him and asked in-depth questions to be certain of his understanding. As his nervousness eased, it became apparent that Seamus was a very sweet, patient child, and all but vibrated with excitement to have someone to speak to about a topic that interested him.

Corrin was more than happy to provide. With the wide smile on his face and the glimmer in his eyes, he practically radiated joy as he spoke about his beloved ships. Whether explaining the differences in construction between a longship and a galley in Valzaim and Mzia, or showing how exactly a small trade cog used for river trade would be initially constructed, the Bay heir was more than happy to explain and answer any questions that Seamus would have had. Used to having a less interested audience, however, he stuck to the aspects of ships that would interest them both, such as construction, design and mathematics, choosing to leave trivia by the side unless it was relevant. Nevertheless, between the books and his own seemingly unlimited well of knowledge, there was more than enough material to keep the two occupied. In fact, they barely noticed the time going by until the door creaked and a servant entered the room.

“I am terribly sorry to interrupt, my lords,” she exclaimed. “But I have been asked to summon you. Dinner is ready.”

Seamus blinked, then gave a startled laugh. “Come tae think I am hungry,” he said. He grinned up at Corrin sheepishly, “I guess we should go down so ‘Nory does nae wonder where we are. Or, uh, yer dad ‘n mum.” He gave a hard swallow at this, looking nervous.

“Don’t worry about mum and dad, they’ll be fine,” Corrin replied, giving Seamus a reassuring smile. “I just hope Eleanor won’t mind. She was probably looking forward to seeing you, but I ended up stealing you away.”

No, that was a silly thought. She was the one who encouraged them to talk to each other, probably knowing full well what would happen. Surely she would be happy that he had managed to get on so well with Seamus?

With that in mind, Corrin headed towards the door, stopping at the entrance and waiting for Seamus to follow him. Beside him, the servant waited impatiently, folding her arms and glancing between the two. Her foot twitched slightly as if wanting to be tapped, only the presence of the Bay heir stopping her.

Seamus scuttled after Corrin quickly, flinching at the servant’s expression and huddling close to the Bay heir. He looked quite as if he would have hidden in Corrin’s cloak if permitted, though he didn’t quite dare try. “I dinnae think ‘Nory will be mad,” he said softly. Glancing up at the servant he muttered, “‘M sorry?” in a very timid voice. Even if his sister wasn’t angry, evidently someone here was.

His discomfort, however, did not go unnoticed by Corrin. Stepping closer to Seamus, the Bay put one arm around his shoulder and looked up at the servant. “If we were an inconvenience to either my parents, my wife or anyone, do not take it out on him,” he narrowed his eyes. “And if we’re keeping you from something important, you may go. I know the way to the dining hall, we don’t need an escort.”

“Yes, Lord Corrin,” the woman replied neutrally, bowing her head and dashing off into the depths of the Manor. Once she had gone the Bay Heir exhaled, relaxing a bit before he glanced down at Seamus. “Sorry about that. I don’t know what got into her,” he shot him a smile. “It’s alright. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Seamus gave a sad smile as he and Corrin began to head through the halls. “It’s okay. I just… it’s my fault. It’s ‘cause I’m sick, that’s what the physician says. There’s somethin’ wrong with my head that makes me scared all the time. It’s like…” he visibly groped for an explanation. “I guess it’s like a voice in my head. That’s always telling me I’m going to say or do the wrong thing. Mess up. Make people mad. It’s hard tae ignore it, like everyone tells me tae. ‘N it never really goes away, sometimes it’s just quieter.”

Sympathy crossed Corrin’s face and his hand on Seamus shifted to bring him closer. “I know. I mean, I’m not sick, at least not that I’m aware of. Just I’ve always been quite shy, always afraid of making a mistake and people judging me for it, so I avoided them when I could and hid in my books. Which, you can imagine, isn’t good for the heir of Bay,” he gave off a soft, sheepish laugh. “I had to practice a lot to get over it, and dad helped me a lot, but I still get nervous sometimes.”

He gave Seamus’s shoulder a squeeze. “If I can manage, you can too, Seamus. It takes practice, and I don’t fully know if it will really help but…” the Bay heir’s smile grew wider. “You have your brothers, and Eleanor? And me, I suppose? We’re friends, right?”

The young boy smiled, nodding and hugging the Bay heir. “Yeah! Yer super smart ‘n fun!” He gave a suddenly sheepish smile. “Only, dinnae be too mad at Theo? He’s kinda dumb sometimes but he doesn’t meant it, ‘n he’s really nice.”

Corrin gasped at the sudden hug but soon settled into it, carefully returning the gesture. “I won’t, as long as he doesn’t get mad at me,” he replied before pulling himself away. “Now come on, or else we’ll be really late.”

Having made the journey many times before and knowing the route well, it did not take long for Corrin to lead Seamus to the dining hall. His parents both smiled as they looked up at them, just as the servants had finished laying the first course: pea soup, spiced up with bits of ham. They always called him to eat before the food was actually ready when he was in the library so he should not have been surprised they did that today too.

“Finally. We thought you both had disappeared among the books,” Ian exclaimed, standing up and gesturing to two seats, one between him and Eleanor and another between her and Theo. “Sit down. I hope you’ve both read up an appetite.”

Eleanor cast her husband an amused glance. “Ye two got along well, I take it?”

“Mm-hm!” Seamus said, beaming. “Lord Corrin’s real smart, ‘n did ye know they’ve got books about everything here? It’s amazing!”

“Oh, not everything,” Corrin said with a shake of his head. “But I showed him our books on geometry and its use in ship-building, along with a lot of technical charts, since Seamus seemed interested. And, well…”

He grinned widely. “I had no idea he’d be so into it, and have so much to say. Woo, I can’t remember the last time I had a discussion like that with someone. It was really fun, at least, I had fun,” the Bay paused, glancing over at Seamus. “But you did too, right? You seemed to.”

Seamus nodded emphatically. “I had lots of fun! I dinnae get tae talk about maths tae people much either. Everyone says it’s boring.”

“Everyone’s just nae smart enough to keep up with ye, little Mathematician,” Theo put in, looking towards his brother fondly. Eleanor giggled, casting a glance at Ian.

“Told ye,” she said cheerfully.

The Lord of Bay chuckled softly. “I stand corrected,” he shot Corrin a grin. “Good job, son.”

Corrin blinked, confused. “Oh, thank you, dad,” his blue eyes met his father’s, displaying his confusion. “What for?”

“For doing what I could not,” Ian shrugged and returned to his food, indicating he had no more to say on this topic.

It took a few moments for Corrin to realise what he was talking about, but as soon as he did, he smiled, glancing over at Seamus. “I’m glad you enjoyed that though. Most people get bored when I talk about ships as much as I did, or they don’t understand what I’m talking about,” the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “You...you want to do that again sometime?”

Just as he said that, a thought hit him and his head shot up to Eleanor. “That is, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to steal your brothers away from you, since I know you must miss them.”

Eleanor laughed. “I’m sure I’ll get tae spend time with Seamus, do nae fret. You two can have as much fun as you like.”

“It’s interesting,” Seamus remarked with a smile. “I’d like tae do it again, if you dinnae mind. Ye explain it more fun than my tutors. J-just maybe we should ask someone tae come get us after a while? So the servants do nae get mad again.”

“The servants?” Theodore asked, looking baffled. “Why would the servants get mad at ye?”

“I would also be interested in knowing that,” Ian leaned closer as he spoke, folding his hands in front of himself.

Corrin shook his head. “It was nothing, really,” he replied. “Just the servant who was sent to fetch us seemed very impatient. I spoke to her about it, don’t worry, so there’s no need to take the matter further.”

“I noticed that girl was in a bad mood all day,” Francesca said with a note of stern disapproval in her voice, folding her arms. “Are you absolutely sure she doesn’t need disciplining?”

“I’m sure. That said...,” the Bay heir looked back at Seamus, his expression softening to something more sheepish. “It might be a good idea to get somebody to tell us how much time has passed if we do this again, just so we’re not holed up in the library all day. I’m sure you’d like to see Eleanor too, and if this is your first time in Kustanair as our guests, you might want to look around the city, or beyond?”

The young boy brightened, nodding. “The city is big. I bet Eleanor has nae even seen everything ‘n she’s been here for like, a year!”

“Ye would win that bet,” Eleanor remarked with a grin. “Maybe tomorrow or the day after some of us can go out together for a ride in the city.” She glanced at Ian and Francesca, adding, “However many can find time for it, of course.”

Ian shook his head, smiling sadly in their direction. “I’m afraid I can’t; the beginning of the trading season is always a busy time for me and I cannot spare the time. But I can deal with it alone,” however, his eyes brightened as he glanced over at his son. “Corrin is free to show you around, if he wants.”

“Oh, uh…” the Bay heir pondered this for a moment before nodding once. “Of course I will, if we can get an escort of knights,” his eyes dashed between the two Dun brothers. “Kustanair...is best ridden around with supervision.”

“But don’t let that discourage you,” Francesca remarked, smiling at them all and clapping her hands together. “You young people should enjoy yourselves, and the city has plenty of things for you all.”

Theodore smiled, “I look forward to it. Maybe we can get a souvenir for Seamus tae bring home with him. I imagine yer market has a lot of things we’d never see in Jennet.”

The little boy brightened. “Can we get candy?”

Eleanor covered her mouth with a giggle. “Well candy is something we do nae have much of in Jennet but I dinnae think that quite counts as a souvenir.”

“We can get both, why not?” Corrin remarked with a shrug before his eyes lit up. “But if you like,Seamus, we can also try stopping by the bookbinders? They might have something interesting you could get?”

The boy’s eyes bulged. “B-b-b-but aren’t, aren’t books really expensive?” he bleated. “I, I dinnae wanna be trouble, or, or… I mean if yer sure it’s okay, b-but..”

“You said you didn’t have many in Jennet, right?” the Bay heir told him, smiling. “And I said we are family, so I don’t see why not, if you like them. I want to do something nice for you.”

“But the boy has a point, Corrin; books are expensive,” Ian looked up ahead at his son, though his expression was not a displeased one. On the contrary, it seemed as though he had just set the boy a puzzle.

“Surely we can afford one book, dad? It isn’t like it’s for some stranger, Seamus is Eleanor’s family, we can do it for them,” Corrin meet his father’s gaze, the smile still on his face. “Especially because we’re supposed to be allies.”

The Lord of Bay lifted up a hand to his beard, stroking it. “All perfectly good points,” he nodded. “But just the one. Two if you really cannot decide, but any books you buy go to Seamus, not to you.”

This prompted a tiny laugh out of Corrin. “I’ve got the library here, dad, I don’t need more.”

Eleanor smiled at her husband, “Nae that you would reject a book on ships ye didn’t already own if one was offered to ye.” Her expression more gentle, and with no small amount of affection, she added, “Thank ye, Corrin.”

“Oh, uh, you’re welcome,” he smiled back, though he did not look her in the eye. “I mean, I like Seamus, and I…” his cheeks flushed red and he shifted in his seat. “I like you, so why not do something nice for your family? I feel like it’s the least I can do.”

Seamus, noticing the flush of Corrin’s cheeks, looked at Eleanor triumphantly. “I told ye that he’d fall in love with ye instantly!” The boy crowed. Theodore, who had been taking a sip of wine, almost gagged on it as he tried to stifle a laugh. Eleanor, for her part, flushed a brilliant crimson.

Corrin gasped as though the air had been punched out of him, his entire face going from a bright rosy shade into a vivid hue closer resembling a beetroot. His head spun between Eleanor and Seamus as his eyes bulged out his sockets. “I...I...ummm...uh…” Woo, he had never even told Eleanor that he loved her, only ever using the more neutral word ‘like’, so to hear her little brother of all people spit that out…

“Seamus, dear, don’t tease them like that,” Francesca remarked from the other side of the table, carefully hiding her broad smile with her hand. “Otherwise Corrin might reconsider buying you that book.”

Seamus blinked, looking surprised. “I was nae teasin’. I just…” He looked at Corrin and twiddled his thumbs. “I’m sorry. When ‘Nory was leavin’ I was sad, so I wanted her husband to be someone nice. Who’d like her as much as me ‘n Theo ‘n Aaron do. Y-ye do like her, right?”

The Bay heir blushed even more, not helped by the tiny, almost imperceptible touch he felt in his side which felt suspiciously like his father nudging him with his elbow. “Uhh…yes,” Corrin lowered his head into his shoulders as though he was a turtle hiding into its shell. “I...I do.”

“You can rest assured, Seamus, we’re all looking after Eleanor and making sure she’s happy here, including Corrin,” Ian spoke up, his expression a perfect mask of noble neutralness but his eyes glimmering with barely suppressed amusement. “Now I highly advise you finish your first course. We asked Eleanor what your favourite foods were, and as a result, I think you both will find the main course and dessert quite to your likings.”

Seamus brightened at this, nodding enthusiastically and applying himself to his food. Eleanor gave a soft sigh of relief as her brother was successfully distracted, casting Corrin an apologetic, bemused smile. The Bay heir slowly uncurled himself from his huddle and briefly shot her a similar expression, the colour of his cheeks slowly draining away as he relaxed again. However, he could not find it in him to look at her for a long time and quickly turned back to his soup.

“So,” Eleanor said, “reassurances of my welfare aside, how have things been for ye both in Jennet? Well I hope?”

“They’ve been going decently well,” Theodore replied. “I’ve been training with the Hunt Master tae take over when he retires in a few years.” He glanced in Ian’s direction with a smile. “Speaking of, I understand my sister got tae stretch her Dun muscles last autumn- an’ that she got rather a surprise the Woomas following.”

“With a name like that, how could I not?” Ian replied, returning Theo’s smile with a broad grin of his own. “A good hunter deserves her own bird, and when I saw an Eleanora’s falcon for sale, how could I resist? The keepers down at the mews say she is an excellent flier, and very patient too,” he turned his head towards Eleanor. “Now that the weather had changed for the better, it would be nice to fly her properly sometime soon, don’t you think?”

The young woman grinned. “That would be nice. I’ve been looking forward tae seeing her in action. Who knows, maybe this time we’ll go out for partridge an’ actually bring back some partridge.”

Theo laughed. “As long as ye get some meat for the pot back at camp, that’s the important thing. Maybe if Lord Bay does nae mind I can be nosey an’ gawk at the pretty birds in your mews while I’m here. May as well indulge my passions while Seamus is indulging his.”

Ian waved his hand as though scattering seeds to the wind. “Aye, feel free to. The kennels are all yours too if you wish to visit them, though I cannot boast such a fine selection of hounds as you have in Jennet,” he picked up his cup, taking a sip and looking at Theo over the rim. “And since you are going to be here a while, perhaps I can even treat you as a true visiting noble and take you and your sister out for a hunt sometime, Lord Theodore? I’d like to see the skills of a Dun Hunt-Master in training.”

Theo grinned broadly. “Oh, I could never say no tae an offer like that. I’m better at hound coursing than falconry, but of course I dabble in a little of everything, have tae if I’m going to take over from Sir Bree. ‘Nory said you’ve a beautiful gyr, I would nae mind seeing how she performs.”

“Will ye go hunting too?” Seamus asked Corrin. “Aaron says I’m too little for it yet.”

Corrin shook his head. “I don’t like hunting; I hate blood. So what I usually do is steal a few books from the library to read at the lodge,” he smiled. “If we both do it, we can carry twice as many.”

“Ask the librarian first, you two,” Fran told them, shaking her head in mock disapproval.

“Aye, I don’t want to hear about you two getting cocky and taking more than you can carry,” Ian chided before turning back to Theo, stroking his beard. “I’m sure between Eleanor’s new bird and your display of skills, Lord Theodore, I can arrange a demonstration of Hail’s abilities for you. And perhaps next time you visit, you can also show off your coursing to me.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Theo replied with good cheer. Lifting his wineglass he added, “I look forward tae it. An’ I’m glad to see ‘Nory’s found such a good family tae be a part of.”

Ian laughed, also lifting up his glass. “We do try our hardest, Lord Theodore,” his eyes flickered over to Corrin, one of them folding closed as he winked to his son. “Don’t we?”

“Uh, yes,” the Bay Heir nodded. “We do.”

Part 11

SPOILER: Click to show

With all the excitement embroiled in it, the visit of the Dun brothers passed very quickly for all members of the Bay family, until sadly, the time came for them to return home. Seamus bid both Eleanor and Corrin a somewhat tearful farewell, promising to see them again as soon as he could, while Theo was more composed but equally wistful about saying goodbye to his sister. Corrin too, had been sad to see them go, especially Seamus. He liked having somebody around who was similar to him and had loved having a person who would talk with him about ships and engineering as intently as the boy did.

However, even after he had left, the things Seamus had said about him and Eleanor still lingered on Corrin’s mind. The question about children he tried not to think about (it was still far too early) but the remark about falling in love with her at first sight rolled and roiled in his mind as though tossed by waves. Perhaps what he felt when he first saw her was infatuation but now, almost a year after their wedding, Corrin had no questions about how he felt about Eleanor: he loved her, completely and totally.

He just needed to find the words and work up the courage to tell her that.

That early summer morning, he met her just outside the library, as usual. A smile formed on the Bay heir’s face as soon as he saw his wife. “Good morning, Eleanor,” he called out, clutching the materials for their lesson tightly to his chest. “How are you feeling today?”

The young woman smiled in reply. “I’m well, thanks. Just went down an’ gave my falcon a bit of exercise with a lure, an’ the fresh air was excellent. How are ye faring? Ye’ve that meeting with the traders from Dormor tomorrow, correct?”

“Oh, yes, the meeting…” Corrin glanced to the side. His mind had been so occupied with other things that he had almost forgotten about the Dormorians. “It will be fine. Dad and I will be seeing each other after dinner to prepare but there’s not much to go over that we haven’t already discussed.”

He held up the book and the few papers he was holding his arms. “So until then, shall we go inside and continue with your reading? You wanted to practice more, right?”

“Yes, please,” Eleanor replied with a smile. “Thank ye for being so patient in teaching me. I’m sorry if my progress has been a little slow, but Ian suggested that it was perhaps because I come intae the education so late in life.”

“That’s alright,” Corrin told her with a smile as he pushed open the door, entering the library. “I think your progress has been just fine, and I am having fun doing this. Maybe in another life I should have been a tutor?”

He laughed slightly at this and took a seat, placing the materials down on the table beside him. As he did, the corner of a piece of parchment poked out from under the book he had broughtand he carefully tucked it under, hoping Eleanor would not notice. Once it was out of sight, Corrin turned to his wife. “Anyway, I found some writings which I think would be good practice for you. As usual, I’ll help, but...it’s better if you read them yourself.”

Eleanor nodded, sitting down beside her husband. “Right. A student learns best by doing, eh Master Bay?” she chortled, leaning over a bit so that her shoulder touched his briefly, before sitting straight again and turning her attention to the materials on the desk.

“I’m hoping that once I get better at writing, perhaps I can pattern some words intae my embroidery,” she went on cheerfully. “I doubt I will ever have a scribe’s hand but for little personal things it should suffice.”

The book Corrin had set down was a relatively small one, since Eleanor still could not grasp long or complex words. She leaned over a little, slowly sounding out the title.

“Hiis-tor-y of Bern, Vol. 1,” she read. “Ah, so if this is chronological it’ll probably talk about the old clans then? As much as is remembered about them anyway, since they didnae keep written records. My family actually still maintains some oral histories that we believe date from the clan days, but likely they’ve lost a lot in translation over time.”

“Ah, yeah. My family had ours written down after they became established as a House, so those records are relatively new. The oldest records, according to the book, are the chronicles of Roan Abbey and the writings of the first Abbot of Roan but those date back to the 8th century, so a lot of Bernian history is lost, save for the oral histories the ancient Houses keep,” Corrin explained, his eyes dashing between the book and Eleanor. “Because of that, there is not much on the clans, but it’s still a good read.”

Realising he was rambling, he broke himself off and gave Eleanor a slightly lopsided smile. “You want to start? Take as much time as you want. It’s got simple language but it goes into quite a bit of detail.”

“I imagine it’ll be quite enlightening,” Eleanor replied cheerfully. She reached for the book, picking it up to pull it closer. As she did so, a small sheaf of paper rustled from under the book, and she looked down at it with surprise.

“What’s-” she reached for the scrap of parchment, wondering if perhaps someone had left their notes with the book the last time it was pulled from the shelves, but an instant later recognizing the handwriting as Corrin’s.

As soon as his eyes settled on the note, the Bay heir blushed as though he had suddenly caught a fever. “Oh, that’s, uhh…” he swallowed, staring at the note, his racing thoughts tracked by the twitches of his face.

Eventually, he slumped in his chair, hiding his red cheeks with his hands. “I was going to give that to you...once we were done with the reading,” he murmured. “But since you found it, you can read it now, if you want.”

“Wh-wha… Corrin, what’s-?” Eleanor stammered, caught off guard by her husband’s reaction. She looked down at the note again, then up at Corrin, wondering what she’d done wrong. Then, feeling rather thoroughly abashed but not entirely knowing why, she smoothed the paper against the table and began, slowly, to read it.

Eleanor,

I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that I am not as good with the spoken word as the written, but I wanted to express how I felt about you properly, hence this note.

I still remember how, when I first saw you, I thought I had never seen anybody as beautiful as you. For a moment, I felt like I had forgotten my own name, and I was so scared of you thinking me a fool, which no doubt made me look exactly as stupid as I feared. Nevertheless, despite that, I’m so happy that I met you and that over the past year, I had the honour of getting to know you better. Even if we married out of necessity, there is nobody else I would rather have as my wife. You are so kind, very gentle and have the patience of a saint, especially when it comes to my ramblings. Even if you’re self-conscious about your lack of education, I still think you’re incredibly intelligent and wise, probably even more si than I am. On top of that, since we’ve met, over the past year you’ve somehow become even more beautiful in my eyes, as though you’ve blossomed while here in Bay. I could keep complimenting you over and over but either you’ll get sick of it or I’ll run out of paper, so I’ll spare you.

Seamus was right: I fell in love with you at first sight but I did not dare tell you. No doubt you would have laughed, or thought me strange, or found the whole situation uncomfortable. Now, however, almost a year later, when we are getting on so well and you have taught me so much and made me so happy, it feels wrong to keep this a secret. So here goes:

I love you, Eleanor. With all my heart, mind and soul, I love you.

Yours, forever,
Corrin.

Though Eleanor had a far easier time reading if she sounded things out aloud, she read through Corrin’s letter silently, her eyes going wide and her cheeks blooming like roses as she went further along. Occasionally she cast a bashful glance at her husband as she read through the compliments, feeling warmed by his positive sentiments.

However, as she reached the second paragraph, her heart skipped a beat. She felt as if her throat had constricted so much she could barely breathe.

Her hands shaking, she slowly set down the paper, and turned timidly towards her husband. But despite the nervousness, there was a smile on her face. A warm, gentle smile that lit her green eyes from within, even as those eyes began to glisten wetly.

“C-Corrin, I…” she faltered, and then impulsively, she leaned towards her husband and kissed him.

As soon as their lips touched, Corrin froze in place, startled by the sudden kiss. Even as Eleanor pulled away, he remained frozen, his hands still in mid-fidget and his eyes staring at her as though he did not fully comprehend what happened.

“So, uhh...umm…” he gasped, still trying to work through his breathing, which had quickened to the pace of a horse’s gallop while he had waited for Eleanor to read the letter. “Do you...do you…?”

Corrin reached out and took her hand, clasping it in his. “Doyoulovemetoo?”

Eleanor giggled, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. “Yes. I… I love ye too, Corrin.” She pulled her husband into a hug, saying more softly, “I love ye too.”

An enormous grin appeared on Corrin’s face. It almost did not feel real, but there was no mishearing what his wife had said, or thinking that her presence and warmth were some kind of illusion. Without even hesitating, he wrapped his arms around Eleanor to return the hug, nuzzling into her shoulder and simply enjoying her being there, with him.

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” he whispered, feeling his eyes stinging slightly. “I’m so lucky. I can’t believe how lucky I am. Or how happy I am.”

Eleanor’s heart was thumping hard in her chest, but despite that she felt she had never felt so relaxed, so safe.

“I was so scared tae come here,” she admitted. “I did nae know what tae expect. ‘N I was terrified tae leave the only home I’d ever known. But… ye are home, Corrin. Wherever ye are, that’s where I want to be tae.”

“Well...we are married, which means we’re tied to each other. We don’t have much choice in that,” Corrin murmured before shaking his head and hugging her tighter. “But I want you to be happy here, Eleanor. I want to make you happy with me; it’s my duty as your husband, and my pleasure as someone who loves you,” he paused. “Woo, I can’t believe I can finally say that word.”

Eleanor laughed softly, leaning the side of her head against Corrin’s. “If you want to make me happy, that’s one way to do it- by saying it more often.” Teasingly she added, “And I’ll try to remember to do the same.”

“A-alright. I’d like that,” Corrin smiled and lifted up his hand, carefully touching the strands of her red hair. “I love you, Eleanor. I love you so much. I-”

There was movement in the corner of his eye, forcing him to break off and direct his attention to the door. Francesca had poked her head in but as soon as her gaze had landed on the couple, her expression shifted into unabashed joy before she retreated, closing the door with a soft thump behind her.

Eleanor felt her face heating up again, but she only laughed and buried her face in Corrin’s shoulder. “Well I imagine very soon now yer father is going tae be giving us knowing looks ‘n smiles, hm?”

“Yes but...I don’t care,” Corrin gave a contented sigh, still running his fingers over her locks. “I don’t have to be afraid of you finding out how I feel anymore. Dad can tease me all he wants, I’m happy to admit it,” he was grinning before he could stop himself. “I’ll happily admit that I love you.”

Eleanor’s face wasn’t the only thing that was warm now- her chest felt it too, like the comfort of a pleasant fire on a chilly autumn day. She lifted her head from her husband’s shoulder, and found her face so close to his that their noses almost touched. “I love ye too, Corrin,” she whispered gently.

His heart and stomach both fluttered at those words and for a moment, all Corrin could do was gaze into her green eyes. It was not even the colour that drew him in, beautiful as it was, but the look in them: Eleanor meant what she said. Somehow, that thought made the fluttering even more intense.

Woo, she was so close...a thought pushed itself into his head, one he found difficult to remove. “Eleanor...could I....maybe…would it be alright if I...”

Corrin’s face flushed but that did not mask the broad smile that still lingered on his face. “...kissed you?”

The young woman smiled. “I was hoping ye’d ask.”

That was all the encouragement that he needed. Without further hesitation, Corrin leaned forward, closing his eyes and pressing his lips against Eleanor’s. Wrapped in her arms and swept up in the kiss, for him in that moment, the world became just the two of them, alone with each other.

Unlike the previous time the two of them had attempted this, this time Eleanor wanted it as much as Corrin. She let her eyes slide closed as well, and savored the comforting warm of her husband’s nearness. Finally the two of them pulled apart, and Eleanor pressed her forehead against Corrin’s with a smile.

“I love ye,” she whispered.

He smiled, savouring the sound of her voice and the meaning of her words. “Me too,” Corrin murmured, running his fingers over her hair again. “That was much nicer than before. I didn’t think I’d ever pluck up the courage to kiss you again.”

“I’m glad ye did,” Eleanor replied. “I am sorry about before I was just… scared. ‘NI didn’t know ye very well yet. I didn’t mean tae make ye feel guilty.”

Corrin shook his head. “I should not have gotten carried away like I did. I…” he glanced away from her. “I did enjoy that, when I was in the moment, but when I realised what I did...it was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

He turned back, his eyes suddenly acquiring a serious edge. “I never wanted to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, which is why I felt so horrible for what I did,” he stated. “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy, and to make you feel comfortable with me.”

The smile returned to his face with full force. “I...I think I succeeded, right?”

Eleanor hugged him, blinking hard against the stinging of her eyes. “Ye did. I… I’m so glad that ye care about me. About who I am as a person, ‘n about my comfort, ‘n happiness, ‘n… ‘n everything. Thank ye. Thank ye so much.”

Corrin hugged her back, still smiling so much that the corners of his mouth were starting to hurt. “No, thank you, Eleanor,” he told her. “I know I’m not...an ideal lord’s son. I’m not outdoorsy, or strong, and I lose my head when I see a ship or anything to do with ships but...somehow you still managed to tolerate me and love me and make me the happiest man in the world.”

He leaned his head down on her shoulder. “You’re the best wife and friend I could have ever asked for.”

Eleanor said nothing. She just leaned her head sideways so that her cheek was resting gently against Corrin’s Though she had not asked for this marriage, she couldn’t have been happier that it had come to pass. Feeling the warmth of Corrin’s arms around her, feeling the rise and fall of his back under her arms as he breathed, and knowing that the two of them had their entire lives left to live, together…

She couldn’t wait.

Epilogue

SPOILER: Click to show

For the next year, life proceeded as ever at Bay Manor, save for one notable difference- Eleanor and Corrin positively glowed.

Both of them being young, and passionately in love, they no longer made any effort to hide their affection for each other. Frequently could they be seen holding hands, leaning their heads together, or -as the winter months closed in- huddled together side-by-side under a warm blanket. Sometimes they spoke, other times they just silently enjoyed one another’s company.

Such developments, however, could not escape the watchful eyes of the Lord and Lady of Bay. Neither Ian nor his wife could suppress the enormous smiles they wore at the sight of their son and daughter-in-law’s affection for each other, nor did they seem to even bother. Whenever they caught the young couple stealing a quiet moment together to cuddle or kiss, they made sure to give them a wide berth, though that hardly meant they did not bring the subject up at mealtimes or whenever the family spent time together. It was innocuous at first, simply asking whether they had fun together or remarking on how the two seemed to radiate happiness, but as time wore on and Corrin and Eleanor settled into their affections, the hints began coming in from both the older Bays that perhaps they could enjoy the company of a few grandchildren sometime.

Eleanor met these hints with no small amount of flushing. Though not long after they’d professed their feelings husband and wife had ceased to keep separate bedrooms, so far there was little sign of such things on the immediate horizon. That was something Corrin explained to his parents with no small amount of blushing and stammering, much to their amusement. Aside from their hints, however, neither Ian nor Francesca expressed any more impatience or displayed increased pressure on the two young people: things would happen when they happened, they assured.

Eventually, almost exactly a year after Corrin had slipped the love letter in with Eleanor’s reading materials, the two of them went out for an arranged day trip on a small vessel going out into the harbor. Eleanor loved to stand on the prow and let the wind hit her face, while Corrin explored every public inch of whatever ship they had commandeered to sate his unquenchable thirst.

He was below decks, examining the beams and the structure of the keel, when there was the faint sound of someone clearing their throat, and behind him one of the sailors bowed.

“M’lord Bay,” the sailor said politely. “The helmsman is wishful of your presence on deck- says her ladyship has taken sick.”

“W-what?” Corrin blinked, turning from his observations to the sailor. “But she’s never sick. Is she alright?”

“We aren’t sure, m’lord,” the sailor replied. “She was at the bow, as she usually is, but started looking a little green, and just now she threw up over the side. We have her sitting, but she says she still feels queasy, and she don’t look any less green.”

“I...I see,” Corrin forced himself to take a deep breath before he even got the chance to panic. “Thank you for informing me.”

He dashed up the steps to the deck as quickly as he could, immediately turning his gaze towards the bow where the sailor said Eleanor had been placed. Sure enough, she was sitting leaning against the gunwale, her face seemingly trying to match the pale green shade of her dress.

“Eleanor!” Corrin was by her side in a minute, placing a hand on her back and stroking it. “I was told you were sick. You’re not usually like this. Did you eat something bad?”

“I… I dinnae think so,” she muttered blearily, sounding no better than she looked. “Ugh, my mouth tastes vile, is th-there any water?”

“Water!” he glanced around the ship. “Does anybody have water?”

“We didn’t stock any at the harbour, m’lord,” the helmsman said with a shake of his head before looking up at the crew. “Does anyone have a waterskin for her ladyship?”

There was a mumbling from the crew before one of the sailors unhooked a waterskin from his belt, handing it to Corrin, who promptly opened it and pushed it into Eleanor’s hands. The young woman accepted it gratefully, taking two pulls before handing it back. “Th-thank ye, good sir,” she said to the sailor who’d offered the skin, before twining her hand in Corrin’s and pressing her face into his shirt. “My head feels like it’s lurching… So d-dizzy…”

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to his chest and planted a kiss on top of her head. “Do you want to go back? I think we should go back,” Corrin bit his lip. “You should see a physician. Neither of us will be able to enjoy this trip if you’re like this anyway.”

“O-okay,” she agreed, nodding. Eleanor gave a soft whimper. “I’ve never been seasick before, I dinnae understand…”

Corrin ordered the captain to turn the ship back to the harbour, orders which the man quickly relayed to the helmsman. As it shifted direction, he kept one arm around his wife, providing her with comfort but ready to let her go if another spell of sickness should hit her.

“I’m not sure…” he murmured. “Maybe you just caught something. It will go away, it should...I hope it does.”

Eleanor said nothing, simply leaning against her husband and trying to keep her nausea down. Eventually the ship pulled back into the harbor, and Eleanor allowed her husband the guide her onto the dock.

“That… feels a little better,” she said, once they were no longer on the rocking, bobbing vessel. “D’ye still want tae see a physician, maybe it was a fluke?”

Corrin shook his head. “No. If it’s started suddenly, I want to make sure you’re alright, in case it’s...something serious,” he whimpered, shaking his head in order to get that thought out. “It won’t be though, it will be fine.”

He took her hand, starting to guide her down the dock. “We best get to our carriage,” the Bay heir gave his wife the most earnest, pleading look he could muster. “I hope you won’t also feel sick there.”

Eleanor nodded wearily, allowing her husband to gently tow her down the dock towards their carriage. There was no more evidence that her nausea was in danger of rearing back up again, and gradually the young woman’s pallor receded. However, at Corrin’s insistence they still headed to the office joined to the apartment of Bay Manor’s personal physician.

The physician, a man in his late thirties with dark brown hair, looked up on reflex as Corrin and Eleanor entered, putting his quill into the inkwell on his desk.

“My lord, my lady,” he bowed his head to them in turn. “What happened?”

“We were on a ship and Eleanor got sick,” Corrin blurted, clearing his throat when he saw the skeptical look across the physician’s face. “Except she never, ever gets seasickness. We’ve done this many times and this is the first time that has happened.”

“I see…” the physician turned his attention to Eleanor. “My lady, you’ve not had any food that you did not share with your husband or Lord and Lady Bay, have you?”

Eleanor shook her head. “Nae that I can recall. Save a little tea last night while I was embroidering, but that should all come from a common stock in the manor, shouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would. I had some a few days ago, in fact, and I have felt right as rain,” the man nodded. “Besides the nausea, do you have a headache? Or fever? Any kind of unexplained pains?”

“Hm…” the woman’s first impulse was to say that no, she felt fine, but after a moment she shrugged and admitted, “My chest has hurt some in the past week or two when I lie on my stomach at night, ‘n earlier when I pulled my knees tae it while on the ship, but I doubt that has any relation.”

The physician quirked an eyebrow at this. “You would be surprised, your ladyship,” his eyes darted briefly between Corrin and Eleanor before settling on her again. “And has there been any change in your monthly cycle?”

“Change in my-” Eleanor started to repeat, looking thoroughly taken off guard by the question. “Well I… Oh!”

Her eyes darted down towards her navel, and she swallowed hard. “I… Now that ye mention I’ve nae had a cycle in… some time.”

Corrin frowned. “What does...that have to do with Eleanor throwing up?”

Though his expression remained flat, there was a tiny glint in the physician’s eye. “Quite a lot, in fact, Lord Corrin,” he folded his hands in front of him. “Can you tell me how long, Lady Eleanor? It won’t affect your diagnosis, I already know what it is, but it will make things easier later.”

The young woman’s eyes darted towards Corrin, her cheeks going red as roses. “Uh… late February maybe? I remember it was still snowing. I’ve n-nae cycled since spring thaw.”

Her husband blinked, his face a mixture of confusion and embarrassment. “I still don’t understand…” he lifted up a hand to rub his cheek. “Should I leave?”

“Certainly not, Lord Corrin, you of all people should know about this,” the physician replied, his tone chiding for a moment before immediately softening. “I suppose I should congratulate you both; the only way to explain your symptoms, Lady Eleanor, is that you are pregnant. And if the timing is correct, you should expect your child…” his eyes darted left as he calculated. “December or January thereabouts.”

Eleanor, who unlike her husband had guessed what the physician was gearing at already, nonetheless felt a swoop in her stomach as he confirmed it. Pregnant. Woo she was pregnant! By any noble metric it was long overdue, considering tradition would have demanded a child be sired as soon after the marriage as possible to validate things, but still, she did not feel ready for this!

“A child… our child,” she whispered, her eyes dancing up towards Corrin’s face again.

“In December or January…” Corrin mumbled, his jaw falling open as the realisation hit him. “We’re going to be parents?”

“Yes,” the physician confirmed and stood up, picking up his inkwell. “I best let it sink in for you. I need to replace my ink supply anyway.” Without hesitating, he left his office, closing the door behind him.

Corrin just barely nodded to the man, hearing what he said but not fully comprehending. Slowly, he turned his head to Eleanor, looking at her as though she had turned into some other being before his very eyes. He reached out to her, taking her hand in his. “I don’t feel ready for that.”

She bit her lip. “I dinnae either. B-but… I guess our being ready or nae doesn’t matter much.” She looked down at her middle again, an expression somewhere between confusion and awe on her face. “There’s… there’s a person inside of me? Another human being. Your child, ‘n m-mine.” She gave a burble of a laugh, pushing her face into Corrin’s shirt. “Woo, I’m pregnant, Corrin. I can’t believe it…”

“Neither can I...” Corrin murmured. The hand that was not holding Eleanor’s slowly drifted to her waist, rotating until it rested comfortably across her belly. Woo, somewhere in there was their child, a new person who was completely unknown to either of them and yet was still made of one part her and one part him. Corrin swallowed, trying to suppress the rapid beating of his heart. He did not even know whether it would be a son or a daughter.

Yet, somehow, that did not seem to matter. Slowly, a contented smile spread across his face and he lifted up his arms, wrapping his wife in a hug. “It’s going to be fine. I should probably feel scared but...I’m not. You’re here, sharing this with me, and somehow, that makes everything alright.

Eleanor was startled, but she laughed, hugging her husband in return. Tears poured over from her eyes, and she trembled slightly, but in spite of this she smiled as she replied, “If how well ye ‘n Seamus get along is any indication, I think ye’ll be a wonderful father, Corrin. ‘N ye can make sure tae teach our little ones from a young age that ships are nae boats.”

This earned a grin from her husband. “That’s an important distinction to make, and you can be sure I’ll teach him or her everything, if you don’t mind, of course,” Corrin bent his head forward, planting a kiss on Eleanor’s lips. “Woo, I hope you’re right...but I have no doubt you’re going to be an amazing mother, Eleanor. You can make up for any flaws that I have, as you always do.”

Eleanor chortled at this. “I think we’ll both be learning as we go along, but at least we dinnae have tae work it all out on our own. We can ask your parents if we’re ever… Oh Woo, your parents, we have tae tell them, don’t we?” She laughed, nuzzling her husband’s neck. “I cannae believe that for once, we have the chance to blindside them.”

“You’re right. Woo, can you imagine how overjoyed they’ll be?” Corrin smiled slyly, for a moment resembling his father. “We shouldn’t tell them why we’re back so early. We’ll tell them at dinner.”

His wife grinned back, nodding emphatically. “We can get both of them at once that way- nae risk of one running immediately tae the other ‘n spoiling the surprise. I can’t wait tae see the look on their faces!”

Keeping the secret turned out to be simpler than they’d guessed. When Fran asked them why they were back so soon, they just told her part of the truth- that Eleanor had become dizzy and felt a bit faint, and they’d decided not to push it, but that the physician didn’t think it as anything to be concerned about.

That night, as the older Bays were coming in for dinner, Eleanor and Corrin were hard pressed to fight back outright grins. It took all of the political training both of them had gotten since childhood to school their faces to neutrality.

“Hello, Mother, Ian,” Eleanor said pleasantly.

“Hello dear,” Francesca piped up, taking her usual seat at the table. “Are you feeling better now that you’ve rested up?”

“It is a shame you had to cancel your trip. Hopefully Corrin was not too disappointed at having to abandon ship so early,” Ian remarked, shooting his son a glance.

“No, it was...it was fine,” the younger Bay shook his head, biting the corners of his cheeks to hide his smile. “It was my idea to turn the ship around. I wanted to make sure Eleanor was alright,” he glanced sideways at his wife. “And she is.”

“Mm,” Eleanor agreed. “I’ve never felt better.”

At this, Ian raised an eyebrow. “Alright, I’ve not been lord for over a decade now without learning to recognise when people aren’t telling the whole story. On top of that, Doctor Erskine refused to tell me anything when I caught him wandering near his apartments with a nearly full inkwell,” he leaned forward on the table, clasping his hands together. “What are you two hiding?”

Corrin could not contain his smile anymore, instead letting it erupt across his face. “Do you-” he barely restrained a giggle. “Do you want to tell them, Eleanor?”

“Tell us what?” Fran also leaned forward, her eyes almost glittering with anticipation. “What is it?”

The young woman grinned as well. “That ye’ll need tae set aside an allotment of the staff budget for a very important new hire, clean the dust out of some rooms that have nae been used in a very long time, ‘n that I’ll be dragging Mother out intae the market with me tae see a tailor about some new dresses in the next few months.” Her voice entirely casual, she glanced sidelong at Ian and added, “So tell me, do ye prefer Grandpa, Grandpapa, Grandad, or some other variation? I personally think ye look like a ‘Grandpa’ tae me, but of course ye should get some say in the matter as well.”

The Lord of Bay blinked at first, his confusion apparent on his face, but as her words sank in, it was replaced by an enormous grin. He brought up a hand to stroke his beard. “I always fancied myself a ‘Grandpa’, but it’s up to the little one how they decide to call me.”

There was a loud squeal from beside him as Fran practically jumped out of her seat, grabbing Eleanor’s hand. “Of course! We can make arrangements almost immediately!” she cried, almost shaking the young woman. “Oh, I’m so happy for you. Both of you!” she turned to Ian, beaming widely. “Finally! I told you it would be this year!”

“Fran, that was about when the child would be born,” Ian said in a tone of exaggerated chastising before glancing over at Corrin. “When did Doctor Erskine say?”

“December, or January,” Corrin’s smile had found a way to grow even bigger at the sight of his parents’ excitement.

The Lord of Bay shot a sly glance at his wife. “I might still win our bet,” he remarked.

“But I might be right when I said it was a girl,” she told him with equal slyness.

Eleanor giggled. “I’m glad that yer both excited. Though I’m afraid ye may become exasperated with me before too very long. I’ll do my best, ‘n I do have some experience since I helped raise my brother, but… he was an older child by the time I stepped in tae do that, nae a tiny baby.” She gave a rueful smile. “I may need some help ‘n advice, if that’s alright.”

“Of course, dear. My memories of how to take care of tiny babies might be a little rusty but I’ll do everything I can to help you,” Fran squeezed Eleanor’s hand. “That’s what a loving mother does, and what a doting grandmother should do, isn’t it?”

“I’ll help you too, Eleanor,” Corrin piped up. “I mean, I know even less, but it’s my baby too and I want to be there for you, and for them.”

“In that case, Corrin, perhaps you and I should have a chat about what to expect?” Ian asked, resting his head in a cradle formed by his hands. “This is going to make an interesting letter to Lord Dun. Or would you rather write to him yourself to announce this, Eleanor?”

“Oh Woo,” Eleanor laughed. “I imagine ye’ll bring it up tae him in your next letter any case, but I would like tae tell him myself. Seamus is going tae be over the moon, he keeps pestering me about the promise I made him tae be the uncle of the next Lord Bay.”

She looked down at her stomach, then back up at her in-laws. “It… still does nae feel quite real yet. I mean I dinnae look it, ‘n if it hadn’t been for my getting seasick out of nowhere this morning I still probably wouldn’t know.”

“Mark my words, dear, it will start feeling real when you begin to swell up,” the Lady of Bay remarked, laughing. “You are in for an interesting time, you and Corrin both.”

“Don’t scare the poor children, Fran, let them find out for themselves,” Ian said with a shake of his head before nodding to Eleanor. “I’ll let you inform your brothers in your own time then. For once, this gossip will keep his mouth shut until you’re ready.”

The young woman looked slightly alarmed by Fran’s remark, but smiled at Ian. “Thank ye. I promise I will nae keep ye waiting too long, Woo knows ye both love tae spice up those dry political letters with talebearing tae put the fishwives at the docks tae shame.”

She reached for Corrin’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Things are going tae be very different from now, on, huh?”

“Y-yes,” Corrin squeezed her hand back. “To be honest, I’m both very excited and very scared.”

“That’s normal, Corrin,” the Lord of Bay reached over, giving his shoulder a pat. “It’s just another thing you’re going to have to figure out. Me and your mother will help you both, of course, but in the end, it will be up to you.”

“I...I guess,” he turned to Eleanor, planting a kiss on her cheek. “We’ll be alright. We’ll do this together.”

She smiled nodding. “Always.

[Celestial]

And now, a bonus fic to the above collab, featuring Alain and Margot. It's...weirdly not heartbreaking. It's actually the opposite. Takes place during Part 5 (AKA: the wedding feast) so will contain some minor spoilers, but if you don't care about those, go right ahead.

WARNING: Contains shocking scenes of Alain being a decent husband.

Ease the Pain

SPOILER: Click to show

Watching the newlywed couple’s kiss, a satisfied smirk crossed the Grand Duke’s face. Just as Ian had predicted, Lord Corrin was clearly enjoying kissing his new bride. Except, of course he would. When they had spoken before the feast, the young Bay’s attraction to her had been written all over him as though in ink, a fact that had not escaped Alain’s attention. Given that, Ian deciding to orchestrate their kiss was unsurprising. From what he knew and had gathered of Corrin, the young man was far too shy to ever make the first move himself, at least not without considerable pressure; pressure which Alain was more than happy to provide. After all, it was far harder for young Lord Corrin to refuse the Grand Duke than his own father.

He remained standing even as the echoes of the guests repeated chants of the word “Cold!” faded into nothing. Glancing off to the side, away from the bride and groom, Alain caught Ian’s eye. The Bay Lord gave him a nod and a smile, to which the Grand Duke responded in kind before turning to look back at the couple. He was just in time to see Corrin pull away from Eleanor.

The young Bay looked and acted as though he had been submerged into cold water. Though Alain did not hear the words he was apparently saying, but he did not have to: his collapse and the burial of his head in his hands was enough to inform him of the contents of his speech. His new wife too, seemed just as discomforted by what they had just done. Perhaps his and Ian’s “harmless prank” had not been such a good idea.

A glance in the Lord of Bay’s direction confirmed his thoughts. Whereas before Ian had been grinning broadly, clearly happy with the prank, his face now had fallen and his eyes dashed between his son and his cousin.

“I don’t think that went quite as planned, Alain,” he said with an awkward laugh before casting another look in Corrin’s direction. “Woo, I thought he’d either get embarrassed or enjoy it, not both. And Eleanor...poor Eleanor.”

“I only did as you asked of me, Ian,” Alain remarked, taking a sip from his cup.

“I know, and I do not blame you,” Ian continued to study his son and his daughter-in-law, trying to gauge if they were truly alright. “I should have known though.”

“You were right, in a way: he did seem to enjoy it before,” the Grand Duke shot his cousin a smirk as he removed his cup from his lips. “I doubt kissing a woman like Lady Eleanor is the worst thing that could have happened to Corrin.”

“Eleanor...” a frown crossed Ian’s face. “I just hope she will be alright with it too. She certainly does not seem to be.”

“She will recover in time.” Alain turned away, looking directly ahead. “They are going to spend the rest of their lives together, that’s more than enough time to forgive this. Besides,” he shot his cousin a grin. “Everyone has to go through this little tradition and it’s never hurt anybody. They will be fine.”

The Bay Lord’s expression refused to change but nevertheless, he turned and gave his cousin a nod. “Aye. I hope you’re right, Alain.”

Ian opened his mouth to say more but was immediately cut off by the sound of his own name being called out. Ian turned his head to find himself facing his wife. She had remained seated but her eyes, narrowed into a glare, were fixed directly on him, boring into his skull. At the sight, the Bay Lord shot his cousin a sheepish smile and made a small gesture with his head towards Francesca. The Grand Duke answered with a nod of acknowledgement, indicating Ian was free to go, along with a sly smirk to wish him luck. Without returning the expression, Ian sat down beside his wife as she began speaking to him, continuing to glace back and forth between her and Corrin.

Deprived of his cousin’s company, Alain took the opportunity to sit back down in his chair. Taking a sip of the wine remaining in his cup, he scanned the great hall over its rim, his eyes hovering over each cluster of people briefly before moving on to the next. Most seemed to have gone back to whatever they were doing, forgetting the incident that had occurred only moments ago at the high table. As he has said, no matter how awkward Corrin and Eleanor felt about it, a couple warming a room up with their kiss was a common tradition: nobody gave it a second thought.

That was until his icy gaze settled on Margot on his left. Unlike rest of the room, she was deathly silent, her hands folded together in her lap and her head bowed, obscuring her face from him. A few stray locks of her silver and dark gold hair had slipped out from beneath her head-dress, falling in wavy strands down her face.

Alain placed the wine down in front of him and turned to her, tilting his head slightly. “Is something wrong, Margot?”

She squeaked and her back stiffened as she shot up, woken roughly from her daydream by his voice. Margot turned slowly to her husband, giving him a shaky smile and brushing her hair out of her face. “No. It’s...it’s fine, Alain.” As she met his gaze, it was impossible to miss the tears that were threatening to spill from her eyes.

“There’s no need to lie to me. I can see something is wrong, especially with you,” he uttered, his voice utterly even and calm before a smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps you could tell your husband what it is.”

Margot bit her lip and looked down at her hands again, remaining silent for a few moments before giving off a sigh. “It’s...Lord Corrin and Lady Eleanor’s kiss.”

“What about it?” Alain asked impassively, steeling his hands in front of him while staring directly at his wife.

“It’s...well...” she sighed, swallowing a sob and lifting up a hand to wipe a stray tear that had escaped down her cheek. “What you did...at our wedding, it was Llyr. He arranged it for me.”

Oh, of course. He should have known, but that incident was always a faint spectre in his mind, just another scene in one eventful day, overshadowed by what had happened to Ambrose next. To Margot, however, kissing him must have been one of the highlights of their wedding. Perhaps that memory was tainted by what had followed afterwards, when they were alone, he could only speculate on that, but he suspected that was not what was gnawing at her heart right now.

“Are you thinking of your brother now?” he continued inquiring, his voice remaining as emotionless as before.

Margot nodded. “I just...I can’t believe he is dead. It’s been two months since I got that letter and it still hasn’t registered with me,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hand and sucking in air. “I always worried that he would die like this, but he always assured me it would not be case. And now...now...”

Sobs racked her body and she collapsed into her chair, unable to contain the tears that began to trail down her cheeks. Alain’s icy eyes remained on her, his face frozen into a neutral mask, expressionless except for the tiniest twitch of his jaw tightening. His and Ian’s “harmless prank” had definitely not been a good idea.

“I’m sorry,” his wife murmured, drying her face as quickly as she could and smiling at him, artificial and doll-like. “I lost control of myself for a moment. You probably don’t want me sobbing my eyes out in public...making you look bad.”

“It’s alright,” he replied, a warm look flickering across his eyes while the same warmth also infused into his voice. “You’re not doing anything of the sort.”

At his words, the edges of Margot’s smile softened but her eyes remained damp puddles that refused to drain. She turned away from him, gazing out into space as more tears threatened to pour out of them at any moment.

Alain also looked away. Weddings were the one official function which he always made a point of taking Margot to, despite her dislike of travelling: it would be strange for him to attend such an occasion without his wife. This time, however, he had an ulterior motive for bringing her here: providing her with a distraction from the news of her brother’s death. Given that, whether he meant to or not, it was quite counterproductive of him to remind her of it now. Something had to be done.

Steepling his hands in front of himself, Alain directed his attention back out across the room. After he had roused them so, the other guests had settled down as though nothing had happened. Some were still picking at the remains of the feast that covered the tables but most had gotten up and were now milling around, schmoozing with the other nobles who had attended the wedding. Just skimming over, he spotted Graham Tobiano sitting lopsidedly beside Elgin Sabino and grinning widely, something which seemed to cause the Earl a lot of discomfort; most likely, young Lord Graham had indulged too much in the alcohol that was flowing.

A small smile appeared on his face in amusement at the Sabino Earl’s misfortune, but he did not linger on it for long. Looking away, the Grand Duke continued to gaze out across the Great Hall. Other guests were also on their feet, for reasons other than socialising. Earlier, the bride and groom had opened up the dancing and now several couples were twirling around to the music. Among the fast-moving crowd, the black head of the Earl of Perlino spinning his wife around rapidly with the energy of a whirlpool at high tide. She certainly seemed to be enjoying herself at least.

A smile spread itself across Alain’s face, mirroring the path of the thoughts going through his mind. He stood up from his chair, pushing it away, but his hand did not reach for the cane that was leaning against the table. Instead, Alain turned to his wife, bowing slightly and holding his palm out to her.

“Would you join me for a dance, Lady Margot?”

At the sound of his voice, her spine straightened and she turned to stare at Alain, wide-eyed.

“R-really?” she gasped out.

His smile grew a fraction wider as he met her gaze, keeping his hand still in front of him. “I would not make the offer unless I meant it.”

It only took her a few moments before Margot made up her mind and nodded. She pushed her chair away and got up to her feet, turning to face Alain and placing her hand on his as though she was afraid of triggering some sort of trap. Still smiling and keeping his gaze fixed upon her, he curled his fingers around her hand. His wife stiffened at this gesture but did not pull away, instead looking up and meeting his eyes, staring deeply into them to admire their icy colour.

He indulged her admiring stare for a moment before breaking the trance and turning on his heel, leading her towards the open space that served to provide anybody who wished with room to dance. With merely a metre of their journey left, Alain suddenly stepped in front of her and in one smooth motion took Margot’s other hand. She could only let out a small squeak of surprise before he swept her into motion, leading her into a warm-up dance.

Alain went slowly for a few moments, letting his wife catch the steps. After the initial shock however, her etiquette training took over and she settled easily into the rhythm of their movement. Satisfied that Margot had caught the beat, he sped up, matching the musician’s melody note for note with his footsteps. Two of their fellow dancers swirled towards them but Alain easily shifted direction, sweeping past the couple with a swish of air.

Just like Margot, he too had been trained in etiquette, but his dance lessons had been complimented with training of the speed and agility needed to fight with a sword. With that, combination of skills, the movements that needed were the dance barely took any of his attention. Instead of focusing on them, therefore, Alain fixed his gaze on his wife, watching her to see the effect that his presence was having.

Her eyes dashed back and forth across the room, only fluttering back occasionally to look at his face before immediately turning away again, afraid to be caught staring for too long. Even without eye contact, the slight drunken blush across her cheeks and the shivering of her shoulders as she drew in sharp, small breaths betrayed her self-consciousness. Yet the way Margot held on to his hand, as though on to a cloak in the wind, and the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips, there was no doubt she was also enjoying this, as Alain had thought she would: his wife had always lapped up what affection he had given her. Except now, this was affection she needed.

They reached the edge of the open space and Alain turned sharply on his heel, throwing out his left arm before suddenly pulling Margot back to him. She squeaked, the redness of her cheeks swelling to match the colour of her dress.

A smirk crossed his face as he met her gaze. It would be a lie if he said he did not gain some satisfaction from how flustered always she got at his attention.

Slowly, she lifted her head up to him, daring to meet his gaze. “Alain,” she murmured, her eyes dashing away again. “Are you...are you drunk?”

A single, barely audible chuckle escaped from his lips. He threw out his left arm again and twirled her around, easily avoiding her skirts as they flared out. Then, in one smooth motion, he caught her waist with his right hand, arresting her momentum. This caused her to lean back but Alain easily stopped her fall, holding her with one arm and leaning forward to match the angle of her body exactly. All this without stumbling in his tracks or even missing a beat of the music.

“No,” he finally replied, his eyes twinkling with an amused light as he spoke.

Margot still remained in his arms, her entire face flushed crimson and her breathing as rapid as a running deer. Alain could almost hear her heart hammering in her chest, and he strongly suspected it was not just from the exercise. At first she stared at him, her dark blue eyes growing to the size of saucers before a warm, satisfied smile slowly blossomed on her face.

He pulled her back up, and as he did his wife pressed herself just marginally closer to him. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around his hands with more confidence than before and even though she had her head bowed, Alain could still see her cheeks distorted from the smile still lingering on her face. Good. It was better than the tears that had rolled down it only a short while ago.

There was still, however, some music left: no point stopping now. Keeping his hand on her waist, no doubt to her great enjoyment, Alain continued to sweep Margot around, allowing her to indulge in his company as long as possible to drown out her grief.

***

The rest of the festivities progressed as expected, lasting well into the night. Eventually, however, with their bellies full of food, their thoughts dulled by drink and their bodies drained of energy by the late hour, the guests began to leave. Those who had reserved places in the various inns left first, the Bay grooms preparing their horses to be harnessed into their carriages, but those who had been given rooms in the Manor stayed a little while longer before they too, succumbed to the forces that were pressing down on them and retreated to prepare for sleep.

Alain and Margot were among those people. Being Ian’s first cousin, he was entitled to a room within the Bay residence, but it turned out, so were a lot of people. Lord Dun, as the brother of the bride and reigning Lord of Dun had, of course, been extended the invitation. Ian’s sisters and their families had also taken some of the guest suites, as had the Lyellian merchants from his wife’s side of the family. On top of that, the Bay Lord was a popular man, well-liked and quite generous to his friends, who he too had offered space in his home. All of this was well and good, but when it came to the night, even the large Bay Manor was straining to accommodate its many visitors.

Which was how, in an unusual turn for them, the Grand Duke and his wife were now sharing a room. In Destrier, their quarters were kept separate, a habit neither of them saw any reason to break. They could have taken rooms at an inn, of course, but it was hardly like this was such an inconvenience to Alain that he would reject Ian’s more than acceptable hospitality. It was no loss to him, and more than likely a gain for Margot, something which he suspected Ian knew.

She had brightened considerably up after their dance but as the evening wore on, her mood had grown more subdued and a downcast expression had taken over her face. It had not escaped Alain’s attention; few things did, especially in regards to her. At first he had thought she had been reminded of Llyr again but her body language closer resembled thoughtfulness than any kind of real distress, as it had done in the immediate aftermath of the forced kiss between Corrin and Eleanor. For the remainder of the feast, he had chosen to ignore it. If it was important, it would come up in due course, one way or another. If it was not, he did not want to bother himself with it.

However it had followed them to their room, making a sliver of concern worm its way into his mind. It would be understandable if she was mourning her brother but he suspected that was not it. Having put on his nightclothes, he leaned his cane against the side of the bed and sat down, directing his gaze towards her. She had also changed into her nightdress and was now mechanically brushing her hair, her eyes still focused on something in the distance as her thoughts continued to occupy her.

Well, it was not like he did not have methods of weaselling what she was thinking out of her. Alain lifted up his head just as Margot put down her brush. He opened his mouth to speak but he did not get a word out before her body suddenly tensed and she turned on her chair.

“Alain...” she murmured. “There’s...something I want to ask of you.”

This was a surprise. It was rare for her to be so frank with him.

Nevertheless, it was to no great loss; it seemed like he would get his answer.

“You may,” Alain said with a nod.

Taking a deep breath, Margot lifted her blue eyes up to him. “I...” she swallowed. “I would like to have another child.”

His eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. “Now?” Alain asked with an amused chuckle.

Even in the flickering candlelight, it was impossible to miss the red flush that came across her cheeks. Margot flinched and looked away, pressing her hands into her lap. “Well, no but...in general...” her eyes dashed back to him. “Would you...consider it?”

“Perhaps,” Alain steepled his fingers in front of himself, still keeping his gaze firmly on her. “But we do already have three children, not to mention our granddaughter,” the corners of his mouth twisted up slightly. “The girls are fine, but our boys, in their own ways, are already...a handful, to say the least.”

“I know but...we’ve dealt with Garrick, and Mayes’ health is improving, according to the physicians. They say it’s likely he’ll always be sickly but he’s in no danger anymore?” Margot smiled at him weakly, her eyes silently pleading.

He shook his head. “I simply want to make sure you can handle it. That is all.”

“I can,” his wife nodded firmly, her voice unwavering. “And if I cannot, we can hire on help. And...you need a male heir, don’t you?”

Alain chuckled softly, resting his head in his hand. “Is there still something wrong with Isabelle?”

“Well, no, but...” Margot sighed, her shoulders drooping. “A male heir would make things easier, wouldn’t it?”

“That it would,” he nodded. Isabelle was responding to her training far better than expected, and he had gotten all of the minor Houses to accept her, even if some still betrayed grumbles of their discontent, but the fact remained that her marriage, when she came of age, was going to be a thorny problem. Not one he was not prepared to handle, of course, but Alain would readily admit that it was an issue a male heir would not have had to face.

However, the deeper meaning of Margot’s words now intrigued him. She was not just after a child but another son.

“What makes you so sure it will be a boy?” Alain asked, a slyness creeping into his smile.

His wife averted her eyes from him, her gaze falling down to her hands. “I...I hope it will be. I really want it to be.”

He raised his eyebrow a fraction. The suspicion presenting itself in his mind was certainly the most plausible explanation, given the facts and especially considering what had happened today. But he had already miscalculated in regards to Margot and this subject. Alain had to be careful probing further.

“Not just because you want to finally present me with a suitable male heir, Margot?” Alain asked, the slyness transitioning from his smile and into his voice.

She stiffened and bit her lip, a child caught on a lie by their parent.

“Am I wrong?” Alain lifted up his head, although her reaction had already answered that question for him.

“No,” she murmured, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Tears began to gather at the corners of her eyes and she dabbed them with the corner of her nightgown’s sleeve. “I want to do this in memory of...of my brother.”

Margot took a deep breath to steady herself and sighed. “I just thought...if I have a boy, and name him after Llyr, maybe...maybe I’ll feel like he’s not totally gone. That I can keep his memory alive.”

“How sentimental of you,” Alain remarked before feeling a tug at his mind, forcing him to snap to attention. At the same time, however, a sensation arose deep in his heart, whispering in a voice that he recognised far too well: it will never happen.

Given their respective ages, this was to be expected; even Mayes had been a surprise, and he had been born over two years ago. However, Mayes had only caused his mother grief; he was never expected to be a solution.

His jaw tightened, as did his fingers, though without his cane, that gesture was much less noticeable. False hope would hurt her a lot more than a flat-out rejection now, at least in the long term. Nor could he supply her with lies, knowing what he had been told now. Yet, at the same time, there was no getting around the fact: whatever he was going to do would hurt her in some way, if not now than later.

Alain turned to Margot, affixing his icy eyes on her. “What if nothing comes of this, Margot?” he asked, his voice steady and neutral. “Neither of us is young, especially not you. It’s possible that no matter how much we try, no child, male or female, will manifest itself.”

He had expected her to deny it; to shake her head and insist in the way that she always did when she preferred to live under a delusion that was more comforting for her than reality. Instead, however, she remained still in her chair, her head bowed, contemplating her hands and fidgeting slightly with her wedding ring.

“Then...I’ll know Llyr’s really gone for good, and that nothing will bring him back. I’ll take it as a sign from the Woo and move on,” she murmured before slowly lifting her head up, peeking at him through the locks of her hair. “Isn’t that what you said I should do?”

“Yes, it was,” Alain nodded, smiling warmly at her. Llyr’s death had been a devastating blow, but it seemed as though Margot had found her own way to cope, something he was glad for.

In light of that, there was no reason for him to refuse her request. “We can discuss this more when we return to Destrier, but I’ll say this now: I will honour your wish,” he got up from where he sat and pulled the blanket off the bed. “Right now, however, we best sleep.”

She gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth before she realised what she was doing and lowered it. Nevertheless, the smile that blossomed across Margot’s face was far harder to hide. Nodding, she stood up off the chair and blew out the candle nearest to her before walking over to the other side of the bed. Alain, meanwhile, dampened his fingers, using them to extinguish the light that stood on the small table beside him Once that was done, he laid down his head on the pillows and closed his eyes, only sensing the shifting of the blanket and the weight on the mattress as his wife also got into bed. No doubt her involuntary movements as she slept would wake him during the night- Alain was a light sleeper- but he did not let himself be concerned by that. He could fall asleep just as easily as he could wake.

Ignoring the sound of his wife’s breath, the prickling of his neck as her eyes bored into him or the awareness he had of her hand hovering on the border between their pillows, Alain allowed himself to succumb to sleep.

[Celestial]

What the heck do I even say about this? I've talked about it and hyped it to everyone who will listen, to the point where anything I could write here will be redundant. So I guess I'll just be plain.

This is the story about the patron saint of Bern, Absolon. It takes place between the years of 733 and 735, with the prologue occuring in 727 and an epilogue...later. I owe Tiger a massive debt of thanks for looking over this monster and checking that the archmagery in it is sound.

So...let's begin.

The Bringer of Spring

Prologue

SPOILER: Click to show

Corvus, 727

The abbot quirked an eyebrow and turned from the nun to the ten year old boy who she had brought with her. “Are you really sure you want to do this? Do you understand what this entails?

Absolon swallowed. The abbot’s voice was a pale shade of chestnut, which was not wholly unpleasant, but the rain tapping against his window kept sending flashes of dark grey through his vision. This clashing of colours, both vying for his attention, made it hard to focus on other things. He could feel a slight ache behind his eyes at this display. Worse still was the pain in his chest. Under ideal circumstances, it was a dull ache, but now, with the judging eyes upon him deciding his fate and the flashes in his vision from the sounds, it was beginning to rise to a painful throb, as though his heart was threatening to burst.

He took several deep breaths and tried to blink the colours away while at the same time curling his arms around himself, letting the warmth from them filter into his body to try to ease the pain.

“Answer the abbot,” the nun with him, Seraphina, told him gently but firmly, her blue voice acquiring a hint of red.

“Yes,” Absolon murmured, his words adding a pale shade of orange to the mix already in his eyes, making him wince. “I understand.”

The abbot’s frown deepened. “Do you really?” he sighed. “You’re still young, boy. When you’re young, you cannot appreciate time like an older man does.”

“I...I want to do this, Reverend Abbot,” the boy closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

“Why?” the abbot asked firmly.

Absolon swallowed nervously, looking away. He had rehearsed this answer. “I want to serve the Lord Woo as best as I can, even if it means dedicating my life to him.”

“Is that all?”

He shivered, pressing his hands down against his sternum, feeling the ache writhing inside. “Yes,” Absolon murmured, glancing upwards. At any moment, he expected to be called out on that lie.

But no call out, mortal or divine came. Instead, the man in front of him smiled a little. “Your dedication is commendable, if nothing else,” the abbot turned to Seraphina. “I assume he is well educated in our Feathered Lord’s ways?”

“The boy has been with us since he was orphaned a young age and even before, his parents instilled in him a great deal of respect for the Lord Woo. We’ve taught him the Book and his prayers, and everything he needs to know to serve the Lord Woo,” the nun replied.

“Is that so?” he turned back to Absolon. “Then, boy, if the Sister here says you know the Book of the Woo, if I ask for a passage, will you name it?”

Absolon swallowed but nodded in the affirmative. The Woo’s words were one thing he was sure he could manage.

“The Book of Wisdom, chapter seven, verse nineteen,” the abbot stated, leaning forward to watch the boy.

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the attention on him and breathed in deeply as he tried to filter out any sound to distract him. Mercifully, aside from the rain, the room had gone virtually silent as both the abbot and Seraphina waited for him. One colour would not overload him, even if it kept flickering in and out like a candle.

“To spill the blood of another for any cause, even in the appeasement of your God, is a grave sin in my eyes. The only offerings you shalt deliver to me are those of your love and devotion. Lift up unto me your voices and your hearts and my rewards shall be tenfold the rewards of gods who feast on the offerings of their followers,” Absolon recited, listening to his own voice drowning out the tapping of rain. It was all-consuming and familiar, and the only sound he could really, truly control. If he wanted it to stop or if it was hurting him, he could stop. Keeping his eyes closed, he took another breath and continued to speak. “A murder is not worth as much as a living soul who can give unto me their praye-”

“Enough, thank you,” the abbot’s voice interjected, piercing through the orange with its brown blade. Absolon bit his lip and lowered his head. Though it lacked the sharpness of reproach, he felt as though had overstepped some boundary.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, not daring to open his eyes, let alone look up.

“It’s quite alright,” the brown grew a little bluer. It was enough to get the boy to lift up his head and open his eyes only to meet the twinkling gaze and slight smile of the man in front of him. “Most boys wouldn’t be able to recite their scripture as well as that.”

“It’s because...I...” he glanced nervously as Seraphina.

She sighed. “He didn’t like the recitations of the Book and used to sneak into the scriptorium when nobody was there to try to read it even before he knew how to. We figured it was best to teach him and ever since then, he’s read the Book of Woo several times.”

As she recited his sin, Absolon pressed his arms tightly against his sides, not daring to look up. He still remembered the vivid explosion of red that had come along with the scolding from the nun who caught him, how he had ran instead of enduring any more of that aggression. Silently, he offered up a prayer to the Lord Woo that the senior monk would focus more on his devotion and not on the fact that he snuck into a room without permission.

“Really? Impressive,” the abbot tilted his head at Seraphina. “I am surprised you deemed this boy worthy of being taught to read, however, instead of punishing him.”

The nun’s shoulders slumped a little. “He...has issues with his senses, in particular his sight and hearing, as well as touch: noise hurts him. Reading the Book is better for him to memorise its message than being read it,” however, soon, she seemed to brighten a little, “And he is also a mage. A good mage should be able to read and write.”

The abbot’s voice acquired a hint of gold: surprise. “A mage?” he smiled down at Absolon. “Are you really?”

“Yes, Reverend Abbot, I am,” he, bowing his head.

“Would you like to show me a spell then?” the man asked him, once again fixing his eyes on the child in front of him.

The boy nodded and took out his pale wand from where he kept it in its frayed holster, a tiny smile playing on his face at the chance to get to demonstrate his magic. He held out his wand, peering through the increasing flashes of grey as the rain outside grew stronger and focusing squarely on its tip. In his mind, the chain of runes flashed through his memory as he recalled the spell that he wanted to use.

“Woomos,” Absolon murmured and the birch-wood wand began to glow with a light spring green hue. He smiled slightly as the light filled the room. It was such a simple spell, by now he had learned more complicated ones, including spells for healing and creating water, but this was by far the most common spell he knew, and certainly one of the most soothing. Though he hated the colour green in people’s voices, it was different in magic. The sounds of people and of the world around them were intrusive and painful but magic was silent and otherworldly. It came from the Lord Woo himself and looking at the colour, Absolon felt soothed instead of stimulated. Perhaps it was just an illusion caused by this but the ache in his chest always seemed to diminish by a fraction whenever he cast a spell.

“Not bad,” the abbot nodded in approval. “Are there any other spells you can do?”

“Y-yes...” the boy nodded. “I know my basics and some more advanced spells too. I am good at healing spells in particular, I-I can demonstrate.”

He held his wand up but the abbot raised a hand and shook his head. “No need, I believe you.”

Absolon nodded and put his wand back into its holster while the man turned his eyes to Seraphina. “A mage would be a good addition, and he could learn from the mages we already have in our midst.”

“That was the idea, Reverend Abbot,” she nodded, bowing her head. “So, will you take the boy on?”

“As an oblate, for now,” he gazed at Absolon, who took a step backwards away from him, wincing under his sharp eyes. “Do you understand what that means, boy?”

He barely heard the abbot’s voice. The rain was getting heavier and the grey flashes were beginning to fill his vision, only exacerbated by the dark red, almost black, howling of the wind. Both weather elements combined were straining his eyes and making the aching in his chest rise up. The air too, was growing damper, sending sweat prickling down his spine, sweat which he could feel trickling as hot as blood on his skin. The child wanted desperately to go hide somewhere until the sound went away but he dared not bolt in front of a man as important as the abbot so he forced himself glued in place, sucking in breaths as silently as he could in order not to make his vision worse. Please, Lord Woo, please don’t let there be thunder. The rain is bad enough.

“Did you understand me?” the abbot repeated.

He barely heard the question but just to be safe, Absolon shook his head, indicating a negative answer.

“You will be taken on as a novice until you are of age. When you are eighteen, you will take the vows to become a proper monk. Until then, you can leave if you so desire,” the other man stated. “Now do you understand?”

“Y-yes...” Absolon murmured. In truth, he had only caught snatches of the sound, too distracted by the flaring brown mixing in with the colours created by the elements outside. But the word novice stuck in his head. Good. As long as he could be a novice, that would be enough. He could learn later what the abbot had told him right now, when the wind did not howl and the rain did not drum down like stones being rolled down the stairs.

“Alright then,” the abbot nodded. “Then, Sister, you may leave the boy with us.”

The rain hammered down on the stained glass. Absolon took several deep breaths, locking his arms in place so as to not throw them around his hands over his ears. He dared not make a bad impression on the abbot, not now when he had just been accepted and especially not by betraying his condition. It would raise too many questions that the boy was not even sure he knew the answer to. But he could leave soon. Retreat deeper into the monastery; find a place where there was peace and quiet. It was why he had come here.

“If I may, Reverend Abbot, there is something I must warn you about,” Seraphina said. Absolon’s heart fell. If she wanted to stay, then perhaps he would have to stay too,”

“Sister Seraphina,” he whispered, looking up at her with pleading eyes. “I don’t feel so good. Please...can I go outside?”

“What’s wrong?” the abbot frowned. Seraphina winced.

“It’s...as I mentioned, the sensory issues Absolon has. He must be getting overwhelmed. This was what I wanted to speak to you about, in fact,” the nun replied, lowering her eyes. “If it pleases you, Reverend Abbot, may he wait outside?”

“I do not see why he should be present. He’s proven himself and I have accepted him as a novice,” the abbot waved his hand. “You may go, boy.”

Absolon hardly needed to be told twice. His eyes lit up and he bowed deeply to both the abbot and Seraphina in turn before practically bolting out of the door. It slammed shut behind him, making him squeak in pain at the dark maroon slam of the door or the soft dusty grey click of the lock as it slid into place. Without even waiting, he ran down the corridor, away from that room, away from the abbot and his gaze that seemed to stare into the depths of his sins.

A peal of thunder rang out like a church bell above. Loud blackness filled his eyes and ears, blocking out everything else. Involuntarily, Absolon screamed, scarlet stabbing at his eyes as he did so as the roar of thunder spreading its oily, all-consuming darkness over him like a shroud.

He slid down against the wall, his hands clenched around his ears and his eyes so firmly closed they might as well have been sealed shut. But this measure did nothing. He could see the colour inside his eyelids, its blankness deep and overwhelming, squeezing him like a wine press, threatening to overload his senses.

“And the Lord Woo said unto his people that their lands shall be graced with bountiful harvests but they must give the birds their fair share,” he recited to himself, letting the distorted hum of his own voice fill his senses, trying to filter out the void that was consuming him. “Do not deny them the seeds at harvest time, for what falls to the earth is to be lifted by the birds up into the-”

The black was interrupted by a rhythmic dull green, almost grey, slapping against the stones that got more and more intense as it got closer. Footsteps.

“Boy?”

He did not dare answer. To answer would be to expose himself to the thunder, to the overload. Instead, he kept his ears shut tight.

“-Sky, as the souls of the faithful are carried up to be delivered unto the Lord Woo’s bosom-”

Somebody touched him lightly on the shoulder. Beneath the unexpected touch, however, orange blossomed and the ache inside him rose up, pushing against this new intrusive sensation to get it away from it. He was caught between the two forces, unable to escape, torn between the internal and external.

“Don’t touch me!” Absolon flinched away, curling up even further into a ball, anything in order to contain the pressure that felt like it was building up inside him.

The hand on his was immediately torn away, giving him a tiny bit of relief. Whoever it had been, that person had stopped walking and the disappearance of their footsteps had eliminated the intruding colour. The blackness too, he realised, was gone, as the thunder had rolled over briefly.

“Ah, I’m sorry. Are you in pain?” asked somebody above him. As he spoke, a beautiful colour, purple softened with blue, spread across Absolon’s eyelids. The man’s voice had a soft lilting accent which was what gave it the purplish tint, unlike anything he had ever seen. Had it been louder, it might have been on the verge of overwhelming but he was quiet, just barely above a whisper. After the thunder, it was almost like a balm across his wounds.

Absolon cracked open his eyelids and blinked, looking up at the person with the beautiful voice. Immediately he was struck by the rust in his hair and beard, barely tinted with grey. Even though he loomed above the boy, it was clear even from here that he was not of any great height. His angular face was notched and worn, though it was not clear if it was with age or worry or a mixture of both. He was simply dressed in the grey robes of a monk of the order, an iron woocifix hanging on a rough cord from his neck.

“Your voice is pretty,” he murmured, looking up at the man.

His companion quirked an eyebrow. “Thank you?” he sighed, the sound a puff of silvery grey, though it still carried a hint of the bluebell voice. “Most people remark on my accent but I’ve never had it described as pretty.”

Absolon closed his eyes and carefully, as though moving a hand towards a skittish animal, he lifted his hands away from his ears to better listen. “No, it’s your voice. It’s blue, with bits of purple like...like bluebells?”

The man swallowed and lowered his eyes, putting a hand to his throat. “What a thing for it to be,” he frowned slightly at the boy. “You can tell the colour of a person’s voice?”

Absolon hesitated before giving a tiny nod. As far as he knew, nobody else had that ability. But he wanted this person with the beautiful voice to know. If it meant he could stay around him for as long as possible to drown out the other, more unpleasant sounds, he would tell him anything.

“I see. That’s quite extraordinary,” his companion sighed. “Do you know where it comes from?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s always been like this. I don’t know why.”

“I see...what is your name, boy?”

“Absolon.”

“I am Elijah,” came the reply. It rippled over the boy’s ears, that song-like lilt giving the perfectly ordinary Corvid name the faint echo purple that he savoured again.

“Why do you speak wi-”

Blackness spread over his eyes, blotting out the image of Elijah briefly as thunder roared in his ears, sending pain shooting through them. Each wave of sound produced its own unique shade of black that clamoured for his attention. As if responding to some siren call, the aching in his chest spread its tendrils from the usual confinement in his ribcage, combining with the agony of the thunder and trying to push against the boy, to break out.

Absolon cried out and slammed his hands over his ears, curling his legs in around his chest in order to keep some pressure on it, to prevent the ache from spreading. He shut his eyes tightly, pressing the tops of his kneecaps into the sockets.

“-where they shall receive the eternal rewards for their goodness, and punishments for the sins they have committed-” he murmured, trying to push the darkness of the thunder out with the orange of his voice. It hummed within his head, coming from within instead of outside it, which gave him some advantage. Yet his voice was quiet, tempered by a lifetime of having to keep it down low so that he would not overwhelm himself.

Thunder rolled again. The oily tendrils spread from above, pushing at the orange of his voice. The two colours fought violently with each other like armies. Absolon whimpered and the darkness pressed its advantage, filling his vision completely. He could feel himself shaking and the pain in his chest grew more intense.

Why had he not told the abbot the truth? No doubt he was a man of the Woo, used to having people come to the monastery to cleanse their sins, he would not have cared about one more boy coming to do the same. Now the Feathered Lord was punishing him with this thunderstorm, triggering the pain that always nestled inside him, pain that was already a manifestation of some unknown evil he had committed. Going to the monastery to cleanse himself of it was pointless if he got in it by lying.

The faint colour of bluebells edged into his vision, pushing out the blackness even a little. Elijah was talking again, though Absolon barely heard what he said. The colour was beautiful, however. He wanted to absorb it instead of the rolling blackness of the thunderclap. Yet, soon, the thunder faded, whilst the bluebells remained. Yet it was purpler, more beautiful than his voice had been before. A richer shade, still pale and quiet but more natural, as though some stain had been removed from it.

Carefully and slowly, Absolon removed his hands from his ears and listened. Elijah was singing, which in part accounted for the change in hue. But there was more to it: the monk was singing in a language he did not know.

He tried to focus on Elijah’s words but they were not any kind of words that he knew. The sounds were sometimes familiar but at other times, they were like the notes of a song, mimicking the lilt in his accent. But without the meaning to distract him, he could focus on the colour. The purple tint had become stronger but not any more overwhelming, dyeing Elijah’s voice to something even more beautiful. It was a voice he could get lost in.

Absolon took several deep breaths, focusing only on the purple colour. Not the ache in his chest, not the threat of thunder that could fill his vision with blackness at any time, just the bluebell hue of the man’s voice and his strange, lilting tongue.

The song, however, came to a close, but it had been enough. The pain inside him had been chased away, back into a dull ache, as though by magic. Except no healing magic had ever managed that, only distracting himself helped when he was being overloaded like this. Normally, he recited the words of the Woo but this...this had been better.

“T-thank you,” Absolon lifted his head up to the monk and dared to crack open his eyes. Elijah was smiling back at him and though he seemed relieved that he was calm that assumption clashed with the melancholy look in his eyes.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, returning to a language the boy could understand. “I thought the thunder would be unpleasant. So I tried to drown it out.”

“It...it worked,” the boy began to uncurl from himself and looked up at the older man. “Was that a spell?”

“No. Just a lullaby. From...from where I used to live,” Elijah shook his head sadly. “I’m no mage.”

“Where did you live?” Absolon asked. Elijah’s gaze grew distant, as though he was focusing on something far away.

“The north,” he murmured.

The boy’s eyes widened. “Do they speak like that in the north?”

“Yes,” Elijah nodded. “This is the language of my people.”

“It’s so beautiful,” Absolon replied in awe and tilted his head. “What did it mean? The words?”

“There is nothing in this world but mist,” the monk murmured, his voice low and mournful. He stared off into space again. “And we will only be alive for a short while.”

Absolon bowed his head. “That’s sad. But it’s still beautiful.”

“Yes,” Elijah sighed again, his eyes glazing over again.

The boy bowed his head, feeling the monk’s sudden change in mood. For a while, things were quiet and still. The rain had lessened in intensity and there were only tiny flashes of grey where the sound permeated through the stone walls. His pain too, without the sound to overwhelm his eyes, had reduced itself to a mere aching.

Absolon, emboldened by this, slightly shifted a little closer. “C-could you...teach it to me?”

The monk blinked, tilting his head slightly. “The song? Why would you want to learn it?” he sighed. “Better I teach you Wooist hymns instead.”

“I know those. The Sisters taught me,” Absolon looked up at him honestly, his brown eyes wide and pleading. “But your language is beautiful. I want to learn its songs.”

Elijah looked into his eyes before turning away suddenly as though flinching. “And what use will you have for them, boy? The north is far from here, and I can only pray you never see it.”

“But...please?” the boy murmured, clenching his hands together in prayer. “It calmed me. It can do that.”

The monk shook his head. “No. There’s better things for you than the language of some accursed people.”

“But I’m....”Absolon swallowed. “...I’m already cursed. And this helps me.”

Elijah opened his mouth to speak but just then, the edge of the boy’s vision flared with the grey of footsteps, growing brighter as they grew closer. Two sets, not in synch with each other, one of which her recognised.

“Absolon?” Seraphina’s voice called out to him.

“Where have you gone, boy?” the abbot asked, his gaze moving across the corridor before alighting on the two. “Brother Elijah?”

Elijah scrambled to his feet, bowing deeply to the abbot while averting his eyes from the nun. “Reverend Abbot. I found this boy curled up and scared of the thunder. I tried to comfort him.”

“I see,” the abbot replied and glanced briefly between the two. “You did a good thing. He is our new oblate, by the name of Absolon.”

“Ah,” Elijah looked back over to the boy. “So we shall be seeing a lot of each other then.”

Absolon nodded and turned his eyes hopefully up at the monk but the latter said nothing regarding their earlier subject of discussion.

“We intend to keep him busy. You shall see him at prayer and learning the scriptures, but he also has an extra duty,” the abbot said calmly. “He is a mage, Brother Elijah. You know what that is?”

“A mage?” Elijah’s eyes widened and he turned to look at Absolon, gasping a little as he saw the wand-holster by his belt. “So young...”

“That is when mages typically learn their magic,” the abbot remarked. “And they manifest it even earlier.”

There was a deep sigh as the monk bowed his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “I know, Reverend Abbot.”

Absolon could not help but stare in reaction to the man’s tone. Its usual bluebell colour had suddenly washed out and acquired such a miserable tint of grey. He wondered what had happened.

“Absolon?” the abbot’s brown-hued voice broke through his thoughts, forcing him to pay attention.

“Yes, Reverend Abbot?” the boy asked, turning back to the older man.

“Come. We must see to your room, and arrange a mage for you to study under,” he replied. “Sister Seraphina has explained to me about your...condition, so we shall try to accommodate that.”

“Thank you, Reverend Abbot. And...thank you for accepting me,” Absolon bowed his head and took a few hesitant steps towards the abbot before looking back at the monk, swallowing. Living in Corvus, he had dealt with thunder many times before, but now that he knew about Elijah, he did not want to leave him and his soothing voice, especially because he seemed so sad. Not to mention Absolon still retained

“Fairy child...,” Elijah murmured. He reached out a hand to him but stopped at the last minute, remembering. “Absolon?”

Absolon turned around at the words but immediately frowned. “What’s a fairy child?”

The monk bit his lip, seeming to regret that Absolon heard what he said earlier. “It’s...something from the north; a name for children who...have strange abilities, like you. And for mages, sometimes,” the monk shook his head, blinking back something that looked like tears. “Nevermind that. Do you still wish to learn? My language and the songs, I mean.”

“Yes,” he gasped, a smile appearing on his face. “Please.”

“Then find me after evening prayers. I shall be in the courtyard. I’ll...I’ll teach you,” Elijah sighed. “If you so badly want that.”

He did not know why the monk had suddenly changed his mind but it did not matter to him. The boy’s smile turned into a huge grin. He could learn, and he could be around Elijah.

“Thank you!” he exclaimed. “I promise I’ll be a good student. I promise.”

“Learn your magic, it’s more important,” Elijah replied and turned away, walking down the hallway. “Woo knows, you’re lucky to have the chance.”

Absolon frowned, unsure of what he meant. But it did not matter: he could be around Elijah, listen to him speak and sing in that beautiful, bluebell voice of his.

He closed his eyes painfully as a rash of rain sent grey patches across his vision. With some effort, he turned back around to the expectant abbot and slowly began to follow him. If nothing else, Elijah’s company would be soothing, until the Lord Woo forgave whatever sin it was that he committed that put that pain into his chest and turned sound into colour.

Part 1

SPOILER: Click to show

The world was utterly silent and the ground beneath his feet was white as the Woo’s wing. Geometric flakes fell from the dark void of the sky above and Absolon lifted up his hand to try to catch one of them.

Snow. He had seen it a rare few times during the coldest snaps of winter and whenever it came, he prayed it would go as quickly as possible. It muted the world, yes, but only as long as he stood still. Even the smallest movement had sent a painful dark crimson crunch through the air and into his ears with each footstep until it had filled his vision entirely. The cold too, had bitten at him, blood red, making the ache in his chest try to bite back through his bones and his skin. Snowy days for him were an agonising mix of reds.

But right now, he felt nothing. He did not move, which explained the lack of sound, but the cold he should have felt was simply not there. No colour passed across his eyes and no pain pushed outwards from within him.

Absolon dared to look around but all he could see was white meeting a black horizon. He turned his head upward and as he did, the darkness parted to reveal a bright, golden light streaming down, like a ray of sunshine after a thunderstorm.

“Go north,” a voice whispered. He gasped and spun around but there was nobody there. Yet that voice...it had been beautiful. In his short sixteen years of life, he had seen heard such a sound. Pure, creamy white, tinted with a hint of gold around the edges. Absolon found himself closing his eyes in pleasure to better savour every note.

“To the northern mountains,” it said again. He felt like he could almost fly away with it and be happy never returning. It took all of his concentration to actually listen to the actual words instead of only see the colour of the voice.

“In the north lies the cure for your pain,” it spoke again. Absolon blinked in surprise. How did it know about him? He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. Perhaps that was for the best. The afterimage of the voice still played in front of his retinas, more soothing than any he had heard before in his life.

It remained in his mind even as his eyelids snapped open and focused on the stone ceiling of his dormitory in the monastery, the pale grey breaths of his sleeping roommates rolling over his ears. A dream...it had been just a dream.

Absolon put his right arm over his eyes, trying to recapture the wonderful colour of that voice. White and gold...no person he had ever met had a voice like that, and no sound that he had ever encountered had ever come close to matching that colour. Those were the colours belonging to Lord Woo himself.

Lord Woo...the trainee monk’s eyes widened in his skull and he shot up in his bed, barely even noticing the orange creak of the wooden frame at his sudden motion. At last! He could feel the slight sting of tears, which Absolon responded to by rubbing them away with his hand. At long, long last, he had some kind of answer to his prayers.

He threw away his blanket and leapt out of bed, his hands shaking as he opened the chest at the foot of his bed and pulled out his grey robes. For a few seconds, as the fabric settled on to his skin, he was forced to close his eyes against the dark green texture of the cloth as his body adjusted to the clothing that had been applied to it. The same process he repeated with his shoes and his belt containing his wand holster before he glanced out of the window. The sky was lit up weakly by the promise of sunrise.

“Absolon? Why are you awake?” came a pale, lime green murmur from nearby. He flinched at the ugly colour and turned his eyes towards the source: one of his roommates in the dormitory, a trainee just like him.

“It’s...I...” he swallowed, closing his eyes momentarily before grinning widely. “I had a dream. The Lord Woo had spoken to me.”

“To you?” the other trainee frowned, blinking some sleep from his eyes and sitting up. “Maybe tell the abbot then? If you’re sure it wasn’t just a dream, that is.”

“Does the Lord Woo not speak in dreams?” Absolon asked. One of the other trainees moaned quietly in his sleep. Lemon-yellow invaded his vision, making him wince.

“He speaks to prophets and saints...” his roommate trailed off, looking down at the floor. “How do you know it was the Lord Woo anyway?”

Absolon paused, keeping his eyes closed until the horrible colours drained away and he could focus on his own words. “The voice that spoke to me...it was white and gold.”

“Oh,” the other trainee back lay back down on his bed. “Of course, your...condition, whatever it is.”

“I know what I heard,” Absolon cried and immediately flinched as his own voice invaded his vision, lingering here for a few seconds before fading away again. He bit down on his lip, silently cursing himself. If he was not careful, the colour would overload him. “It sounds crazy but...I know what it was.”

“If that’s your only proof...” there was a sigh from the other young man. “You best speak to the abbot. He will know better than me if you had a real vision or were simply dreaming.”

The creaking of his roommate’s bed and the soft sighing of the other teenagers in the room rolled over him in shades of orange and grey. Absolon covered his ears and closed his eyes as the colours competed for his sight, fighting against them and the pain they were triggering inside to try to keep his thoughts together. It...it could not have been anything else. That voice was like nothing he had ever heard. And after all of his prayers and devotion, now it presented him with some kind of option.

Still keeping his eyes closed, he sat back down on his own bed. The monks would just be waking up now, before morning prayers and then...hymns. A wince spread across his face at the thought. All those voices, trying and failing to mix their colours into one, yet he could pick out every single individual timbre, making each session an overwhelming, agonising kaleidoscope of colours...

There was a sharper pang from his chest, making Absolon grip the wooden feather hanging off his neck tightly as he silently prayed for it to go away. Its edges dug into his palm and pain blossomed from them, forcing him to loosen his grip. Taking several deep breaths, he lifted up his head and dared to open his eyes.

The north...Elijah. He had to speak with Elijah if he was to go north.

Leaping off the bed, Absolon headed for the door, his footsteps light and creeping to reduce the amount of noise he made on the flagstones, as much for himself as for his still sleeping roommates. Closing the door softly behind him, he crept down the corridor towards the main quarters of the fully ordained monks, tracing the familiar route in his mind. There was a slight chill in the air that prickled at his neck and at his vision with red, making him wince and pull up the collar of his robe. Autumn was coming. At least it heralded an end to the summer storms and their pitch-black thunder that were the bane of living in Corvus.

Soon, he came to the door, the second door after the storeroom at the end of the monks’ private quarters that he knew so well. Instead of knocking, however, Absolon came as close to it as possible, so close his mouth was almost touching the wood.

“Elijah? It’s me,” he murmured softly in the northern tongue, briefly enjoying the slight mauve shade his voice acquired. It took a moment before it occurred to him that the monk might not even be awake to recognise his voice.

Much to his relief, in a few moments, the door opened, and the familiar russet-bearded face and blue eyes gazed up at him.

“Absolon?” a frown appeared on Elijah’s face. “What are you doing so early up? Did you get woken by some noise, again?”

“In a way,” Absolon nodded. “The Woo spoke to me. Elijah, he told me how I can cure myself.”

The older monk blinked in surprise before a smile broke out across his face. He swung the door open fully, stepping aside. “Come in then, hurry.”

Absolon did not need to be told twice. Returning the smile, he walked into the room belonging to Elijah. There was a fire going in the grate, as usual, and it cast deep shadows across the stone walls, highlighting every crack in them. Only at the very height of summer, when it was far too hot for it, did the older monk not have the fire going. Aside from it, it was plain, containing only the basic of furnishings as well as an icon of the Lord Woo and a few saints hanging in a corner.

He liked this room. It was peaceful and quiet, with the only opening into the outside world being the hole that let he smoke out. Sometimes the fire irritated his eyes when it had just been freshly stoked but all Absolon had to was close them, something he did frequently anyway. It let him enjoy the colour of Elijah’s voice a lot more.

He sat down in his usual place, beside the fire with his back to it, and looked up at his friend, waiting for him to sit down. Elijah did not wait, kneeling down beside Absolon and looking at him imploringly.

“Tell me everything, Absolon,” he murmured, his voice washing over the young man’s eyes in a wave of bluebell.

The trainee monk continued to smile. “I heard a voice in my dream. It was white and gold, like nothing I had ever heard. It had to be the Lord Woo,” he swallowed. “But my roommates did not believe me.”

Elijah shook his head. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the Woo speaks in odd ways. What did he say to you?”

“He said...”Absolon took a deep breath, remembering the exact words. “To go to the northern mountains and that in the north lies the cure for my pain,” he turned to look up at Elijah. “You’re from the north. Do you have any idea what he meant?”

The older monk stared at him, his eyes going wide as unrestrained horror. Slowly, as though moving through treacle, he shook his head. “It...it could not have been the Lord Woo. It’s impossible!”

Absolon flinched as he raised his voice, curling his knees in towards his chest. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Absolon,” Elijah put a hand over his mouth before lowering it. “The Woo is a good God. He would never send you up there. You must be mistaken.”

“But...” the younger man frowned. “I know what I heard and He told me to go north. What other creature could sound like that?” his voice hitched, becoming a sharper, brighter shade than it normally was. “It had to be the Lord Woo. And He told me that the way to cure myself is to go north.”

“No, it cannot be. Listen to me,” he met the trainee monk’s gaze and Absolon gasped at the raw, powerful fear in them. “There is nothing in the north. Especially not anything that could possibly cure you.”

Absolon blinked, tilting his head slightly at Elijah. “You’ve never spoke to me about the north before.”

“I don’t want to talk about that place!” Elijah’s voice suddenly turned dark, making Absolon flinch and cover his ears. Realising what he had done, the older man looked away, lowering his head. “If you go there, you will die. They...”

He swallowed and a shudder seemed to run through him. “They are savages up there. Their lives are nothing like ours.”

The trainee monk lowered his hands and frowned, the confusion apparent all over his face. “But...isn’t that where you came from? And you’re not a savage.”

“I...I left that life behind. I became a servant of the Woo, here, and I never looked back,” Elijah closed his eyes, sighing. “If you have any sense, Absolon, you will do the same. Stay here, practice your magic and worship the Woo, like you have always done.”

Absolon whimpered slightly, bringing his knees in closer to his chest. The fire behind him suddenly crackled and the sharp sound flashed scarlet across his eyes, mixing with the colours of his and Elijah’s voices. In the past, it would have gone away instantly, but lately, the colours lingered, far longer than they should have.

Another crackle and more of the colour flared across his eyes, building on the scarlet that had been left behind. Pain flared up in his chest and spread up his throat like a vine wrapping around it in order to reach higher, into his head. He drew in a sharp breath and took out his wand from his holster, pointing it at the burning logs

“Silencio”he whispered. A flash of green spread out from his wand and encircled the fire, permeating the wood. One of them shifted as the fire burned through it but to Absolon’s relief, it made no sound, as intended. He breathed out, thanking the Woo for creating the silencing charm. To date, it had been the most useful spell he had ever learned.

Absolon turned back to find Elijah frowning at him. He winced and glanced down at the floor, wondering if he had done something wrong by using magic to quieten the fire. Most people minded if he used the spell on them to quieten their voices, or eliminated noises they were making without knowing about his condition so he rarely did that in case he offended them, but he did not think Elijah, who knew and was sympathetic, would mind him doing something like this.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” he whispered as he slid his wand back into its shabby holster. “The noise was painful.”

“Never so painful as for you to use a silencing spell on it before,” the older monk remarked, his voice hinting at an unasked question.

Absolon clenched his eyes closed tightly, moving his hands towards his ribs. He gripped his robes, feeling his breastbone beneath the fabric, and beneath it, the ache slowly beginning to fade, creeping back into his chest and settling on to a more normal, less painful level, or at least as much as it got these days.

He swallowed and his shoulders drooped, defeated. “It’s...it’s getting worse.”

Elijah’s eyes widened before he bowed his head in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, keeping his voice quiet for Absolon’s sake. “It’s why you got so excited about the promise of a cure, isn’t it?”

The trainee monk nodded. “Yes. I’ve been praying for so long, but the pain has only grown. The colours linger in my eyes now too, far longer than they should, and it takes less to overload me,” he let go of his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees again. “But now the Woo has apparently answered my prayers. Except you’re telling me that it’s wrong.”

“I am,” Elijah’s voice was heavy with guilt. “If you go north, it will just make everything worse.”

“But what if it doesn’t? What if I can really find a cure there?” Absolon whimpered. “I want to believe it. I would rather go there and try than stay here and suffer for the rest of my life.”

“What’s so bad about staying here?” the monk narrowed his eyes. “Here you have food and warmth and protection aplenty. It is also relatively quiet. I am here.”

“I know. And I’m grateful, but...” the younger man’s voice hitched slightly and he covered his ears with his hands, trying to dull the colours that were building up in his eyes from their voices. They had been speaking too long and the layers of colour had accumulated. Bronze and bluebell were stacked on top of each other, mixing, bright and intense. Their voices rarely made him feel like they were too much, not in the middle of a conversation. He tried to recall the Book of Woo, reciting a passage from the Book of Heart in his mind to distract himself, or at least, the words the colours did not blot out from his memory.

When he had calmed down, he looked back up at the monk. “I can’t stay here, Elijah.”

“Why not?”

Absolon swallowed. The older man was sympathetic but he could not convey to him all the subtle ways in which life in the monastery had slowly become unbearable as he had gotten older. How he could no longer stand hymns because instead of hearing one sound, he could make out every single individual voice rising up in praise, their colours mixing into a maddening kaleidoscope which made his head ache and his chest almost explode with agony. He had been avoiding them but once his constant absence was noticed, questions would be asked.

And then there were the other issues of communal living. The boys he shared a dormitory with were nice, he was sure of it, but he hated their voices and how their grey breathing or the occasional dull brown or lime green murmur in their sleep woke up him. Every small sound which he could cope with was magnified when it was being made by a hundred people. The chewing of food, the tapping of feet, the clicking of teeth, sighing, whispering...the older he got, the more Absolon realised that monks, despite their vows and dedication to the Lord Woo, were anything but quiet.

He clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth together, creating a brief flash of worn brown. “I just...can’t. Please, trust me on this,” the younger man whimpered. “You say I’ll die if I go north. But I know I’ll die if I stay here.”

Elijah shook his head vigorously and reached out to the boy, stopping short of actually touching him. “You’re not going to die, Absolon. I won’t let you die,” his voice wavered. “Don’t say such things!”

Absolon winced as the bluebell colour of his friend’s voice grew more intense and acquired the slightest hint of yellow normally associated with fear. He wished he could believe Elijah in saying he would not let him. But Elijah was just a man. Whereas this...

He gripped his chest again as through trying to hold the pressure in. “Elijah...I never told you why I joined the monastery, right?”

The older monk shook his head. “No.”

“I...I’d hoped that the Woo would grant me salvation,” his voice hitched slightly. “For whatever sins I committed to punish me with this pain.”

“That’s...ridiculous,” Elijah shook his head. “The Woo is a kind God, very kind, he would not do that.”

“Then where is this pain coming from?” Absolon tucked his arms in around himself. He could feel the pain begin to grow again, feeding on his feelings.

“I...” the monk frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Nobody ever knows,” the young man murmured, biting his lip. “And now I’ve been given a solution: going north. If that is what I have to do to atone for my sins-”

“NO!” Elijah cried out suddenly, looming over. Absolon flinched and gasped as the sudden intensity of his bluebell voice assaulted his eyes and ears. He threw his hands over his ears, rocking slightly before the bright colour slowly dissipated.

The older monk winced as he realised what he had done. He slumped down, his shoulders drooping, defeated. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But I stand by what I said: the north is no place for you. It is no place for anybody like you. It’s no place for anybody sane.”

Absolon slowly drew his hands away from his ears. “But it’s the only place I know to go. That’s where my dream said I should go. It’s the only clue I have and I want to follow it,” he looked up at his friend with pleading eyes. “Please, Elijah, let me go.”

“Woo, you’re set on this,” Elijah brought a hand up to his forehead. “You’re really wanting to follow the words of some dream in a faint hope of finding a cure?”

The trainee monk bowed his head. When he said it like that, it sounded like such a stupid thing to do. But he knew the language thanks to Elijah. He was a mage too, and his studies had been progressing well, so he could always use his magic if he encountered any hardship. If he was truly a sinner, then going away from the holy ground of the monastery would give him some relief.

“I do,” he nodded. “If the Woo says so.”

“And if you’re wrong and it turns out to just be... a dream?” the older man’s voice quivered, making the colour’s intensity rise and fall.

“I still want to do this. I have to try,” Absolon whispered. “I don’t mind dying if it means I don’t have to live like this.”

Elijah bowed his head, turning away from him. His shoulders shook and he doubled over, leaning against the bed. A sob escaped him, making Absolon wince at both the sudden colour and the misery that he could both see and hear all over his friend.

“Elijah?” he uncurled from himself and shuffled closer.

The older monk looked up and rubbed his eyes. He took several deep breaths, steadying himself.

“I never told you about the north, Absolon, because you did not need to know,” Elijah murmured. His hand crept up to the Woocifix hanging around his neck. “Elijah...was not the name I was born with.”

The trainee monk tilted his head. “What was it?”

“Up in the north, the people are divided into a system of clans. I belonged to the clan of Rabicano. My name then,” Elijah closed his eyes as though he was about to pull out a painful splinter from his hand. “Was Eelis. I changed it when I took the faith and joined the brothers.”

Absolon’s eyes widened. To him, Elijah had always been exactly the man he had put himself forward to be. The revelation that he had had a different name and a different faith was like suddenly discovering that the sky had once been green.

“What...were you before?” he whispered, leaning on his hands to be closer to the older monk. “Before you became part of the order?”

Elijah cracked his eyes open slightly but they had acquired a distant, vacant look. “When I lived in the north, I was a trader, taking goods down south and exchanging them for things we did not have. I was well-acquainted with lords, monks and laypeople. It was how I found out about the Lord Woo.”

“It was nice, travelling. I enjoyed it. It was there I met and fell in love with my wife. Though she always loved me more when I was at home, with her and eventually, with my son,” A smile twitched across his face. “I had to provide for them, however. So I kept trading, but I always tried to bring them things from the south that they would enjoy.”

Absolon stared at his friend. He had a son once? Elijah had always treated him like his own child but he never guessed that he had been a father. “I...I had no idea. That you had a family.”

“Yes...” the older monk’s eyes focused on the younger man in front of him. “Braden was a lot like you. Quiet, shy...and...”

Elijah swallowed. “He too, had magic, thanks to my wife. I had seen magic before, on my travels, but the others in my village had not,” he closed his eyes, sighing. “They thought he was a fairy child. And in the north, that is not something you want to be called.”

“Isn’t that just somebody who is a mage?” Absolon asked, tilting his head.

The older monk shook his head. “No. It’s a term laden with connotations. To be a fairy is to be something other than human.”

He brought his fingers up to his eyes, wiping them, and turned his gaze down to the floor before continuing. “A golden rule of trading with the southern kingdom was to always get back before the snows set in. But one year, I was delayed. I had been trying to find a mage tutor for Braden but I did not make it back before the snows blocked the roads. So I waited for the seasons to turn. But as spring began to blossom in the south, the north remained locked up in ice.”

A slight shudder ran through the older monk, even though the room was perfectly warm. “You cannot know the horror a long winter means to a northerner, and I pray to the Lord Woo you never will,” he murmured and far deeper sigh escaped him. “Eventually, the snows melted. I hurried home...but my wife had died of hunger. And my son, well...he was an orphaned fairy child. He had no chances of survival either.”

The older monk continued to stare out into space. “I had nothing left, and I did not want to stay in the north, so I ran here, where I could be safe. Because I knew the monks from my days trading, I got a job here. Eventually, I found solace in the Lord Woo too and joined the order. And I tried to forget.”

Absolon paused, letting the echo of Elijah’s voice and its pale, strained colour drain out of his vision as he reflected on the story.

“I had no idea,” he whispered, bowing his head. In his mind, he offered a quick prayer to the Lord Woo for Elijah’s family. “I’m sorry.”

Elijah blinked and with agonising slowness, looked up at Absolon. “It isn’t your fault,” he shook his head. “But now I hope you know now where it is you want to go. Even after all I told you, even though I tell you the north is no place for you...are you still so set on it?”

The trainee looked away and brought his knees up to his chest again. Thoughts of Elijah’s- or even Eelis’s- wife and son lurked in the forefront of his mind and how much agony his friend must have gone through losing them. No wonder that he feared the north so much or that he had so badly wanted to escape from it.

He wondered for a moment if it really was the right thing to do. Of course, he would miss Elijah, miss this room, the time he had spent in it learning the northern songs and eventually the language, or the older monk’s beautiful bluebell voice. Nor did he want to leave him alone here, not after what he had learned.

The colour of the voice in his dream drifted back to the forefront of his mind. White and gold...he had no doubt in his heart that it was the Lord Woo who had spoken to him. Elijah was right, the Woo was a good, kind God...but he had already proven willing to curse Absolon for whatever sin he had committed that had planted this pain in his chest. Now the Lord was presenting him with the promise of a cure and if he was arrogant enough to ignore a direct command...

Fear fluttered through his stomach and as if on cue, he felt the ache push against his ribs, like a ripple wave triggered by a pebble thrown into the stream. It faded after a few seconds but it was enough. Absolon knew it was still there.

“I cannot disobey the Woo. I must do this,” he murmured, putting his hand over his breastbone to contain the pressure inside it. Hints of grey hovered around the edges of his vision as the skin of his palm and his chest registered the fabric between them. “Surely, if he is giving me this guidance, he will protect me.”

“In the north?” Elijah shook his head. “Lord Woo is a great god but he has no power there.”

“Then who does?” Absolon’s eyes widened. To think that the Woo did not have power somewhere...it was blasphemy.

Elijah gritted his teeth. “No-one,” he stated, his voice flat. “With luck, you won’t have to find out either.”

The younger man frowned, taken aback by this, but Elijah had made it clear he did not want to talk about it. “I’ll...I’ll be fine,” he murmured as though to convince himself. His hand moved from his chest and gripped his wand holster. “I have my magic.”

“Don’t use it,” Elijah whipped his head around and stared at him in abject terror. “If you know what is good for you, keep your magic hidden.”

Absolon’s hand snapped away from his holster and he shrunk back from him. “Why?”

“In the north, magic is the realm of the fairies, not of men,” the older monk said, his voice weary. “You are a good mage, but don’t let them see. Not if you value your life.”

He shivered. Doubt crept into his mind, gnawing at the corners of his thoughts. His magic was one of the few things that made the ache in his chest subside, even by a small fraction. Here in Corvus, it was everything, a symbol of power and of of divine favour. Hiding it was almost blasphemy, not training it even more so, but if Elijah was right, he had to conceal it in the north. Maybe he really was mistaken in thinking the Lord Woo was sending him north.

“You seem doubtful, Absolon,” Elijah said quietly, trying to keep his voice neutral, but the trainee monk heard the note of hope in it. “Do you still want to go?”

Maybe nothing would happen if he stayed here, with Elijah and the others. Absolon’s arms moved to wrap around his body, not daring to meet the older monk’s gaze and as he did, he could feel the pain like a parasite inside his body squirming inside him, eating him alive, and just waiting to flare up at the slightest provocation.

It had gotten worse, he knew that. The hues had gotten more intense and lingered longer in his vision, and even the touch of fabric now made him wince, even worse when it caused colours to creep into the edge of his vision, even when there was no sound. That was an omen he could not ignore.

“What if this is a test of faith?” he murmured. “I know the ways of the north better than most. So I have to go there, without my magic, without his protection, and retain my belief in him. Maybe then he will heal me?”

Elijah sighed deeply. “If that is what you believe, Absolon, then it must be. I clearly cannot convince you otherwise,” he took several deep breaths. “I pray you are right, and that you will return healed.”

“Me too,” Absolon smiled widely but despite it, he could not help but feel bad for his mentor. “I’ll come back. As soon as I know what the Woo wants of me there and I find the cure, I’ll come back.”

“I will pray for that day to come soon,” Elijah smiled weakly at him but Absolon could still see the tears in them.

“I’m sorry I have to leave you,” he swallowed, his own eyes beginning to prickle a bit beyond the ache of the flashes of colour in their voices. “I’ll miss you. But...thank you, for everything.”

“It has been a pleasure,” the older monk murmured and pulled his hand away, getting up. He leaned on the bed and as he did, it creaked. The sudden flash of rusted orange made Absolon flinch and reflexively, his hands shot up to his ears and he closed his eyes to defend against further intrusions of colour.

“I’m sorry,” Elijah murmured.

“It isn’t your fault,” the younger man replied, shaking his head and tentatively removing his hands from his head, opening his eyes just a crack. “You’ve...you’ve done all you can to make me comfortable. And I’m thankful for that. But I must go. I must.”

“Then go. But...a word to you,” Elijah said quietly, still watching the flames intently. “Ask the traders to take you north. You are unlikely to find one going there directly. The closer you get to the borders of the kingdom, however, the more chance you have of finding a northern trader. With your knowledge of the language, they will be more likely to trust you. Get new clothes when you can too; the north is far colder than even the worst Corvid winter.”

“T-thank you,” Absolon blinked, surprised at the sudden bit of advice that Elijah had imparted on him, especially after the latter had been so reluctant to let him go. “I...I better go tell the abbot? That I’m going?”

“Go,” came the reply. The older monk looked away from him and stared deep into the fire. “Woo be with you, even if he has forsaken the north.”

Absolon nodded in acknowledgement and bowed deeply to him. He took several deep breaths and stepped towards the door on tip-toes, opening it with a soft grey click and exiting the room, closing it behind him as quietly as he could. It still made a dull brown thump behind him.

As soon as he was out of the room, the younger man sank down to his knees. He drew in air, trying to steady himself, not focusing on memories of the conversation or fearing it would trigger a greater pain in his chest too. Slowly, he covered his ears again, blotting out any stray noise as he waited for their voices and the sounds around him to fade away. It took him a minute to recover he waited for the last of the colours to subside, leaving only pure, silent, comforting darkness behind his eyelids. No, with the pain being like this, there was no way he could stay here.

Lord Woo, guide me to my salvation. I shall do whatever you ask of me, just please...take this curse away.

Part 2

SPOILER: Click to show

Absolon did not tell the abbot the whole story, nor did the abbot ask too many questions as to why he was leaving; clearly, his discomfort with monastery life had not gone unnoticed. It did not take long before they had come to an arrangement: he had not wanted to leave the monastery completely. Though he could return and become a monk once again if he wished, it would be as a complete stranger to the brothers. His term as an oblate was- for all intents and purposes- complete. He was free to do as he wanted.

He did not have many possessions: all he really truly owned were his clothes and his wand, all of which were easy to sling together into a makeshift bag. A travelling man of the Woo rarely needed much, a mage doubly so.

On the day he was to leave, Absolon got up at the crack of dawn, listening to the grey breath of his dorm mates as they continued to sleep. He had said whatever goodbyes to them that he was required by social custom to the day before. Tip-toeing out of the room, he headed to the enormous front gates of the monastery. The sharp red needles of cold prickled at him and he huddled his cloak tighter around himself. Autumn was well on its way. Hopefully he could get to the north before the snows apparently cut it off, as Elijah had said happened to him that fateful year.

Elijah...Absolon stopped by the wooden gates and looked around. The silvery chorus of birdsong was ringing out from the trees and shrubs that grew inside the walls, and the young man reflexively closed his eyes to try and block it out. However, he immediately forced himself to open them. After all, he could not miss his friend.

It did not take him long to spot the monk walking across the courtyard. Elijah’s hands were in his sleeves, something which gave Absolon pause; being from the north, Elijah had always seemed more resilient against cold. However, it was a trivial detail, one he decided not to bother himself with. This was going to be their last meeting for a long time and they needed to make the most of it.

Absolon smiled weakly at his friend as the latter approached closer but Elijah did not return the smile. Instead, he sighed deeply and looked up meet Absolon’s gaze.

“I had kept hoping you would change your mind. But,” he looked over the younger man’s pack. “You’re really set on this, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Absolon nodded. “But thank you, for everything you’ve done. For the comfort, for teaching me...I’m sorry it has to be like this.”

“The Woo is calling you, for good or for ill. Even if it’s somewhere you should not be going,” Elijah’s bluebell voice hitched. “What will you do when you get north?”

“I...I’ll see. Whatever the Woo instructs me,” Absolon replied, swallowing. Quietly, he prayed that it would be the case; that the Woo would not abandon him once he went north.

Elijah’s expression betrayed his scepticism but despite it, he nodded slowly. “Of course,” the older monk looked down at his sleeves. “Absolon...”

“Yes?” the younger man asked.

“I know I said the Woo had forsaken the north, and I meant it. But if He is sending you there...it is best you do not forget Him. So I want you to have this.”

The older monk withdrew his hands from his sleeves and held out the object he had been protecting in them, holding it out. Absolon gasped as he beheld the Book of Woo in Elijah’s grip.

“For me?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Yes,” Elijah nodded. “I took it for you.”

“You stole it?”

“...You can say that,” the older monk pushed the book closer to Absolon. “But you’re a man of the Woo, whether you’re a Brother or not. You have a right to it.”

“Elijah...books are...priceless,” he breathed out in shock, holding out a hand and hovering it over the thick vellum skin of the book. “I can’t.”

“Nobody will miss it,” the older monk replied, practically shoving it into his hands. “Even if they do, you need it more.”

“It’s theft,” the young man shook his head. “No.”

“It’s not. If the Woo has ordered you to go to the forsaken north, as you say, the least you can do is have some of his words guiding you,” Elijah’s eyes hardened. “Take it and don’t feel guilty. Any sin for its theft is mine to shoulder, and it is worth it for you.”

Absolon carefully took the precious object from his friend’s hands, feeling the pressure of its weight settle in his hands and the sea-green hue of its cover flicker at the edge of his vision. Though rationally, he knew he could not feel the words inside it, he could sense their presence inside the covers, as sacred as when they were handed down from the Woo’s beak to early man.

His own personal Book. The young man clutched it to his chest like a shield, continuing to stare at his friend.

“Thank you. I...I can’t tell you how much this means to me,” he murmured, feeling his eyes stinging a little.

“I knew you would like it. I wanted you to have it, since the Lord Woo is stealing you away,” Elijah brought up a hand to his face, wiping a tear. “I’m glad I could meet you, one last time, Absolon,” he said quietly. “And I hope we’ll meet again somebody.”

“Me too,” Absolon bowed his head. “And if we don’t, I won’t forget you.”

The older monk turned away, his breathing and voice strained. “Go now. Before you make this harder for both of us.”

Absolon nodded and, after wrapping the Book tightly within the bundle of his clothes, walked towards the gate, where he exited via a small side entrance. Elijah watched him go until the young man disappeared from view. He turned around and headed back to the monastery and then through its winding corridors until he reached the chapel. There, he lit the candles and kneeled down in front of the altar, clasping his hands together in prayer for the second child he had lost to the north.

“Watch over him, Lord,” Elijah murmured. “And grant his spirit eternal rest in your glory when my homeland eventually murders him.”

***

Keeping Elijah’s advice in mind, Absolon headed into the nearby town. It was rare for the monks to come down here but even men who had dedicated themselves to the Woo sometimes had errands to run, which is why trainees like him were sent. He had hated it. The town was often noisy, with cartwheels knocking against stones, doors slamming, animals screaming, children crying out, men talking, women laughing, all the sounds which accompanied a group of people living together in close quarters. Not to mention the crowds which on busy market days often squeezed him in, drowning him with their bodies and their voices, pushing against him, turning the pain in his chest into raw agony that threatened to burst out of him. On days like that, he had often found a quiet corner and stayed there, his eyes and ears closed out to try and reign in the ache and the colours back to normal, an act which took a while depending on how severe the overload was.

But the Woo’s mercy was upon him that day. With the sun only recently having risen, the town was quiet as people were only now stirring from their beds. The young man walked through mostly empty streets which gave him plenty of room to flinch away from anybody he saw coming in order to avoid any contact, and though noises of every colour seeped into his vision, they were distant and quiet enough to be faint, save for the occasional piercing fuchsia crowing of a cockerel. Even that was enough to elicit a small moan of pain at the sudden assault on his eyes.

Traders...he needed to find a trader to take him up north. Trying to keep his breath steady and narrowing his eyes in order to see through at least some of the mist of colours, Absolon tried to think of where they could be. The market square seemed like the most obvious choice and the best place to start. Early as it was, perhaps he could find somebody there at this time beginning to set up and hopefully, it would not be busy enough to be noisy.

Turning a corner, he headed into the market square. As expected, there were already a few men there with their carts beginning to set up. The dark greenish-brown of the rattle of wood that accompanied it permeated his ears now that he was close, adding to the ambient sound of the town and irritating the pain as though the pressure inside him was a beehive being poked. Absolon closed his eyes and drew in several deep breaths, bracing himself against the noise. This was the Woo’s first challenge. If he could not even get north, how could he expect to find a cure? He had to be strong.

Bracing himself for the man’s voice, even if it was a disgusting shade of sickly yellow, Absolon approached the nearest trader. His stall was built completely and he was just setting out his wares on the bench; clay pots.

“Excuse me?” he murmured. “I need to go north. Could you take me?”

The man turned away from the task he was engrossed in, taking in the robed figure with the wooden single feather hanging down on a cord from his neck. He bowed his head slightly, which Absolon recognised as mark of respect, but the man’s quizzical raised eyebrow betrayed his confusion.

“North?” the merchant asked. “Why would you want to go there?”

The rough mossy green of his loud voice battered at Absolon’s ears, making him wince and forcing him to close his eyes briefly, looking away from the man.“It is...important. I must go there,” he gasped. “Please, can you take me?”

“Well, no. I’m not going anywhere. I only arrived here yesterday,” the merchant rubbed the back of his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Ah, it’s...it’s fine,” Absolon bowed to him, shuddering slightly. The man’s voice combining with the sounds of the market waking up were beginning to take its toll already. He could feel the ache rising up inside him. “T-thank you.”

“If you want to wait a few days until after market day....”

“No!” the young man suddenly exclaimed and winced as his own voice added to palette that was already in his eyes. “I want to go...as soon as I can.”

Even the idea of staying in town, on market day, without the safety of the monastery to run away to, with all the sounds exploding around him and people who would shove him, sent a throb of pain through him. Absolon gripped his Woocifix, gritting his teeth as he felt the pressure push against the wooden feather. He tried to focus only on it, on what it represented, recalling the words from the Book of the Soul: the feather was a blessing and a reminder of the Woo’s presence within.

He would have to find somebody else to ask. Inside him, the pain writhed at the thought. Another stranger to approach whose voice might be just as rough against his ears while the town around got nosier. But he could not return to the monks. He would have to stay here, amongst the crowds, swallowed up by the sounds, smells and sensations of people overloading him.

Tears began to prickle at his eyes as another stab of pain flashed in his chest. This was all part of the test but it did not make this more painful.

If the pottery merchant noticed his odd behaviour, he did not comment on it. “I am sorry, Brother, that I was unable to help.”

“It’s alright,” Absolon murmured. “Would you...know anybody else who would be?”

The man smiled a little. “I could ask,” he glanced down at the Woocifix on Absolon’s chest and then at the wand hanging off his belt. “For a favour?”

The young man bowed and nodded hurriedly. “Anything,” he whispered. Anything so I can go quickly.

“You’re a monk, right? A man of the Woo?” the merchant asked.

“Sort of,” he nodded. He had left the monastery so he no longer was. Woo, it was so hard to believe he really had gone...

But there was something he still was. Absolon gripped his wand in its holster.“I am a mage too.”

The merchant grinned. “Even better...” he glanced over to the crates of pottery in his cart. “I was going to ask for a mere blessing for me and my goods. But if you believe you can manage to set up for me, Brother...”

“If...if you find somebody to take me north, I will do anything,” Absolon nodded vigorously.

“I’ll get somebody to look after this place but if you set up, that’s my price paid,” the merchant patted his shoulder. Pain flashed beneath his hand, along with the faint shade of deep orange in his eyes. Absolon bit down on his tongue in order not to cry out from the pain and leapt out of the man’s touch.

“I’ll...I’ll do anything. Just...please...” he begged, clasping his hands together down on his chest and praying that the man was not startled by his odd behaviour. “Find somebody.”

No doubt he noticed but he did not dare comment. Turning around, the merchant walked a few steps down the market, leaving Absolon alone. Sucking in desperate breaths to get rid of the pain, the young man stumbled around to the back of the stall towards the waiting stacks of pottery. He threw down his pack and took out his wand, pointing it at the nearest of the clay wares.

After a few moments spent recovering from the touch, and murmuring prayers to the Woo to block out the noise as well as speed the merchant along on his quest, Absolon began to mentally recite the chain of runes in his head.

“Wooguardium Leviosa” he whispered, levitating the first few items of pottery and placing them on the stall.

He continued to do this until there were no more pots that he could fit on to the stall. Taking advantage of the time, he also fixed a few of broken ones he had noticed lying around with a quick Repairwoo. By the time he was finished, a young boy had come by the stall and Absolon stepped away from him, letting him take over.

By now the market was well and truly awake and the buzz of noise caused by voices and footsteps was boring into his skull with a dull green slap, occasionally punctuated by the voice of a salesman shouting above the din. Freed of his responsibilities, he collapsed amongst the empty crates and curled his knees to his chest, holding in the pressure that was building up inside him. He clamped his hands over his ears, replacing the noise with the burgundy, almost black sound of his blood racing around his body. Patience was a virtue, it would be over soon, and in the meantime, he had to cope.
“-and in my name, you shall experience glory. I do not come as the conquering god but as one of light, the one who spreads hope amongst my followers...”

Reciting passages from the book of the Woo, he stayed in the foetal position for hours. At times he wanted to check the copy that Elijah had given him but he did not want to take his hands away, lest the noise of the market overwhelm him so he simply repeated it as he saw fit. Until, at last, he saw brown as he felt somebody tap his shoulder.

Crying out and flinching away from the touch, deeper into the crates as though he was a tortoise shrinking into its shell, Absolon dared to crack open his eyes to see who would touch him. Above him stood the merchant from before, his head tilted with concern.

“You alright, Brother?” he asked.

Absolon nodded weakly and the merchant smiled again. “I found somebody. He’s going to the northern reaches of the kingdom.”

“Not...not the northern mountains?” the young man frowned. “I need to go the mountains.”

The merchant stared at him quizzically. “The mountains?” he sighed. “It is not my business what a man of the Woo wants to do there. But by the border, you could probably find another man to take you up. This is as best as I can find.”

“T-thank you,” he murmured. “May the Woo bless you in your endeavours.”

The merchant smiled and turned around. “Your ride is waiting for you in the Phoenixfire Inn. I’ll take you there.”

“T-the inn?” Absolon swallowed. “I will not go to the inn, sir...it’s not a proper place for a man of the Woo.”

Though that was true; inns were prone to being dens of sin, with the gambling and drinking that went on there, even in a land as religious as Corvus, but that was not Absolon’s only reason. Inns, and especially taverns, were noisy and cramped, filled with sounds of every colour and people with no understanding how much touch hurt. To go into one was to risk overload.

However, the merchant nodded, accepting his earlier explanation. “Of course, Brother, I understand. I would not dare tempt you into sin,” he paused for a moment, thinking. “You would be fine waiting outside, however?”

“I should be?” Absolon murmured, clenching his eyelids tightly in order to blind himself to the colours that were assaulting his vision now that his ears were uncovered. “Just...please take me. Hurry.”

“Follow me then,” the merchant said, striding away from the young man. Absolon was forced to crack open his eyes. He leapt up as quickly as he could and briskly trotted on after him. The sounds of the market drifted on around him, filling his vision with colour, sometimes making it almost impossible to see ahead of him. Following in the wake of the pottery merchant, he was able to keep most people at a distance but occasionally, a brush on his shoulder made the pain beneath it explode and the faint wisps of colour, like smoke trails, brush against the corner of his vision. The pressure in his chest too, was beginning to flare up at all the stress that was being placed upon him, making him clutch at his chest.

Absolon stopped and took out his wand. “Protegwoo,” he murmured and the faint green light of a shield surrounding him. There was nothing he could do about the sounds but at least he could prevent people touching him by accident and making it worse. A careless passer-by tried to bump into him but with a small green flash, he was deflected away. The younger man breathed a sigh of relief, thankful for this small mercy, placed his wand back into its holster and hurried after his benefactor. Just to be safe, however, he covered his ears, praying that the ache inside him would not find another thing to latch on to.

The merchant turned around and said something in his mossy green voice but all he could do in response was shake his head and keep his ears covered. Absolon wished he could close his eyes too but to do that would blind him to where he was going completely. But even so, his gesture was enough to get the merchant to turn away with a deep frown on his face. Internally, he prayed he had not offended the man but he knew it was not true. Most people were offended when others refused to listen to them, even if listening caused the other person as much pain as it did him.

Soon, they walked away from the market, and its noises, to his relief, grew fainter but Absolon did not dare remove the protection from his ears. Eventually, they arrived at the entrance of the Phoenixfire inn, a plain stone and wood building with the sounds of laughter and chatter emanating from within. Beside it stood a much plainer wooden shed; a stable, towards which the merchant pointed.

“He’s in there,” he told Absolon, loudly enough for the sound to pierce through his hands. “Follow me.”

The younger man nodded, wincing at the sudden sound, and rushed on after his benefactor. Inside, the stable was warm and isolated from the noise of the outside world, with only the liver chestnut snorts of horses occasionally permeating the air. Absolon dared to remove his hands from his ears. As the colours of the outside journey faded away, his shoulders relaxed and the pain inside him began to simmer to its usual ache.

In one of the stalls, a man kneeled on a horse-drawn cart, strapping a sailcloth cover on top of it. He glanced up at the two as soon as they entered.

“Is this him?” he asked in a washed out navy voice, his eyes fixing directly on Absolon. “The monk and mage who wants to go north?”

“Yes, it is,” the merchant nodded. He tried to reach out and touch Absolon again, only to be deflected by the shield. A scowl appeared on his face.

Desperate to ignore it, the young man stepped out and bowed deeply to the man on the cart. “I’m...I’m pleased to meet you, sir. Thank you for taking me with you.”

“A man of the Woo is good luck, a mage is useful. As long as you aren’t a nuisance,” his face tightened as he noticed his fellow trader’s face. “You won’t be, I assume?”

“No,” Absolon’s voice wavered.

“Why does my friend look so irritated with you then?”

“I...” Absolon took out his wand, whispering the incantation to drop the shield. Once it had fallen away, he glanced around at the two men, swallowing nervously. “I put a shield up to protect myself from the crowds. Touch...hurts me.”

The man on the cart finished tying his knot and stood up, glaring down at Absolon. “And you want to go to the northern mountains?” he tilted his head. “Do you know what they do up there?”

“I...” the young man swallowed, remembering Elijah’s words. “Yes. I knew a monk from the north. He...he told me everything.”

“You’re a fool if you want to go then. I trade with the northern clans sometimes. I feel blessed I am not one of them, and I have no fear of touch,” his voice acquired a dark edge, making Absolon wince.

“I...I must go. Please, believe me. I know the dangers, but I have to,” he turned his eyes up to the man, silently pleading with him. “I speak the language too. I’ll be alright.”

They stared at each other for a few moments before the merchant sighed and headed over to the driver’s seat, picking up the reins. “It is your funeral then. I’m only taking you as far north as the borders of the kingdom.”

“Will you help me find a trader to take me further?” Absolon asked.

“By the borders, this far into autumn, you won’t have a problem finding one. The trick is whether they take you,” the man “What is your name?”

“Absolon,” he replied.

“I am Nicholas,” the man extended out his hand. Absolon turned away from it, glancing down at his feet, making the merchant sigh and retract it. “Climb onboard. We’re leaving.”

Absolon nodded and bowed deeply to the merchant who led him over. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I pray to the Woo to keep you safe.”

“...Thank you,” the pottery merchant bowed. “Go then. Don’t keep him waiting.”

The young man nodded and climbed on to the back of the cart, squeezing himself in between the crates that had been loaded on. However, he was careful to give himself ample room so that they did not touch him. Curling his knees up to his chest, he settled in for the journey.

Nicholas snapped the reins and with a light brown clatter of hooves and wheels, the cart began to move out of the stable. Absolon’s eyes became awash with this single hue of colour and when they went outside, the noises of the town slammed into him again like a wall. He clamped his hands over his ears and pressed his legs into his chest, gasping to try and keep the pain from building up. But the constant noise and colour was too much. Pain coursed rapidly through his body like blood.

The cart bumped up against a stone beneath it and the cargo shifted along with him, shaking his entire body. Absolon bit his tongue in order not to scream and took out his wand again.

“Sonitum expungwoo,”he whispered. A pale green shield formed around him and immediately, the noise of the outside world stopped. He gave a small, pale copper moan of relief and closed his eyes, waiting for the colours to fade away.

The cart hit another bump, sending another bolt of pain through him and agitating the pressure inside his chest. The young man sucked in a breath and huddled in on himself, trying to keep whatever was trying to break out from within him inside his body. It was going to be a long ride north.

Part 3

SPOILER: Click to show

As Nicholas had promised, once they got to the border, there had been no shortage of northern merchants scrambling to get home before winter. Recalling Elijah’s story, Absolon knew exactly why. Even though he remembered his words about the Woo having no power to them, he sent thoughts of prayer their way.

Being a man of the Woo, former or not, did not help him in securing passage, and remembering his friend’s warning, he did not advertise the fact that he was a mage. Most of the traders, however, were surprised that a southerner would so much as speak the language of the clans, let alone with as much practice as Absolon. It was only thanks to that that he managed to secure himself passage beyond the borders, into the land of the clans, as far as the hometown of the man who was going to carry him.

Crossing the border, the contrast between this land and his native Corvus was as clear as the divide between water and oil. The roads up had not been the best but as Absolon continued to ride north, it had narrowed considerably until it was nothing more than a deer track. Stones and holes littered it indiscriminately, causing him to cry out in pain when the cart struck one. But the road was not the most extraordinary thing about the journey up.

It was the forests. Corvus had forests, certainly, but not like these. The tall trees that closed in on him from all sides were ancient monsters which stretched up to the sky with bony branches which were barely covered by the last few golden leaves of autumn that had stubbornly clung on. Frost clung to the ground beneath them, which along with the early morning mist gave the landscape an eerie, otherworldly feel. A few shrubs clung on against the cold but it was clear that the trees now dominated the land. They grew thick and wild around the paths, seeming to glare down at any travellers who violated their sacred place, as Absolon and his companion did. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed flickers of what might have been birds or animals but in the deep woods, he was never too sure.

What he was surer of was their cries. Sometimes he heard silvery birdsong, albeit arranged in a different melody to what he knew, but usually the sounds were far more sinister. Absolon only heard the deep golden howl of a wolf for the first time at night huddled around a fire in those deep woods and it immediately sent shivers down his spine. By the panicked, lemon-coloured whinnies of the horse and by the way the trader he was with gripped the spear he carried with him closer, he knew he was not the only one who was afraid. But above all, the noise that struck him the most, the one that made him curl up around himself in fear was the blacked green rattle of the trees as the unrelenting wind battered them.

Elijah was right: it was a Woo-forsaken land if even the woods themselves were evil.

His companion had watched him take in all these new sights with a mixture of pity and suspicion. This was the second northerner Absolon had met, and though most of the time he was far too concerned with dealing with the strange new noises and the cold to pay much attention to him, the young man did notice a few odd things. Around his neck, where one wear his Woocifix, he instead carried an iron token, which he held with as much reverence as Absolon had for the holy symbol of the Woo. Instead of a wand holster, at his belt was a pouch of what looked like salt and yet, when there was a stir in the forest that did not seem to belong to a wolf or another animal, he reached for it like one would for a wand.

Absolon did not ask about either of these things. In between the sounds of the forest and the cart’s motions bruising him, both of which caused the pressure inside his chest to heighten to almost unbearable levels, he did not dare start a conversation. The trader too, only glanced at the younger man and when he did, he had a deep frown on his face. So they journeyed on, silent even as the world around them howled, towards their destination.

One late afternoon, when the clouds thick and heavy above them, blocking out the slowly sinking sun, Absolon began to notice the gaps between the all-pervasive trees widening and far off into the distance on the path, he could glimpse a clearing. At the sight, his companion grew more animated and urged his horse into a faster pace. Soon enough, the trees rolled by them only to be replaced by bare earth tidied neatly into squares and rows.

Absolon could not help but stare. These were fields! Harvested and barren in preparation for the coming winter, but they were fields nonetheless. He was beginning to doubt that people even lived here. Directing his gaze up ahead, he tried to spot the village or town to which these belonged to but all he could see were the tops of haystacks or hillocks. Only as the cart approached closer did he realise that these were the buildings which comprised the northern settlement.

Unlike the structures found down in Corvus, which were made out of stone or wood combined with plaster, these appeared to be all wooden, comprising of logs that were roughly slotted together and plastered into place with something that appeared to be a combination of mud and resin. What he thought was haystacks were the rough thatch that thickly blanketed the sloping roofs. None of the stocky buildings exceeded a single storey.

The road led them right through the centre of town, and as they passed, the inhabitants of the town often paused to look up from whatever they were doing. Some people went back inside their houses while others reluctantly came out with goods and followed the cart while trying to give off the impression they were only heading in the same direction, nothing more. The murmur of conversation as they passed swirled around Absolon’s ears, their language giving their voices a slightly different hue but the colours were not otherwise different. Browns, greys, greens, oranges, a few blues...all of those shades struck at his eyes, faint and overlapping but distinct enough to be seen as individual colours. There were far fewer people in this tiny village than in the town in Corvus but Absolon still had to close his eyes and cover his ears to guard against the myriad of voices that poured into his skull, threatening to overload him and provoking the agony in his chest.

When they reached the centre of town, or at least an empty patch of ground around which homes were clustered, the merchant pulled his horse to a halt. He turned to Absolon and when the young man finally noticed his gaze upon him, he spoke.

“This is as far as I will take you,” the trader said, his tone harsh and barking.

Absolon blinked, carefully looking aroud. “Is this...your hometown?”

“No, but this is where I will leave you,” the trader stated, glowering. “I changed my mind.”

“Why?” the young man gasped, his puzzlement spreading across his face.

“I am not taking a stranger to my hometown,” came the reply. The merchant’s eyes narrowed. “You are lucky I did not leave you in the forest to die.”

Absolon winced at the angry red that tinted the man’s voice, closing his eyes again. He wanted to argue against it but the trader’s eyes, harsh and unyielding, told him that such an action would not change his mind. It would only result in shouting and perhaps even violence.

But he had done as he had been told: he was, after all, in the northern lands of the clans, that much was clear. The trader had taken him to a town, why did it matter which town he was in?

Quickly, Absolon bowed his head and picked up the bundle that contained his things. He kept his gaze low as he stepped off the cart, trying to ignore the prying eyes that landed on him. Swallowing nervously and hugging his cloak around him to protect against the chill, the young man took several deep breaths. Even the air here was cold and his breath came out in dim clouds of steam, along with small stabs of pain inside him. Several people whisked past him towards the merchant, not daring to make contact with the stranger who had alighted from the cart. Absolon was more than glad for that. However, he did not dare risk any change in attitude. Already, murmurs were beginning to rise up, circling around him and filtering into his ears. Some words he could distinctly make out but others were lost to him in the rapidness of the conversation. But the buzz nevertheless irritated his eyes, and worse, the pain inside him.

Wincing, the young man put his hands around his ears and walked as quickly as he could away from the crowd that was beginning to gather, heading further away towards the edge of the town. Ducking behind what looked like an animal shed, Absolon was soon safely out of sight. Only the dull beige colour of the clucking of chickens and the occasional umber lowing of a cow flashed in his eyes, along with the ever-persistent rustle of the trees. The colours kept tugging at his concentration, distracting him from his thoughts and prodding at the pressure inside him. The red cold too, prickled at the edges of his vision. All the warmth clothes he had bought barely kept the agony at bay. Biting his tongue to not cry out, Absolon closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself. He could not be overwhelmed. He was here, at last, in the north.

Lord Woo. What do you want me to do now?

But there was no white and gold voice. No birds alighted beside him to show him the way. Absolon was all alone in this strange village in the north.

Slowly, the reality of his situation began to dawn on him. He had relied on the trader to help him, even a little, once they got to his hometown but being left out here, there was nobody for him. Even Lord Woo had gone silent.

But of course He would. To earn His pardon, Absolon would have to work for this. This was another test.

First, he had to bring himself back from the edge of overload. Closing his eyes and focusing on the dull burgundy colour of his heart beating to distract, he sank down against the rough wall of the nearest hut. Immediately, he gasped in pain. Pinpricks of dark scarlet flashed faintly across his eyes as stray points sticking out from it brushed against his back through the fabric of his clothing, irritating the already painful ache that had spread across his body.

Absolon sucked in several deep, desperate breaths. He had to remain calm. The last thing he could afford to do was collapse on the ground in this unfamiliar place, screaming as the agony in his chest fed on his cries and stress. To do that, he needed to think this through, without focusing on the colours or the pain.

It suddenly occurred to him that Elijah had talked very little about his homeland, which was no surprise given how it had treated him. Absolon would not have wanted to force such painful memories out of his friend, but perhaps he should have asked more. That way, he would not be stuck as he was on.

What did he know about the north? It was ruled by several clans, each of which was like a small kingdom unto itself. Rabicano, Elijah’s former clan, was the only one he knew.. Was this Rabicano land? Or somewhere else? And what of the people? Were they all as suspicious of strangers as the trader was?

Orange blossomed painfully across his vision as somebody touched him on the shoulder. Absolon cried out as the pain spread from his chest and up his arm, pushing against the contact. He scrambled in the dirt he was sitting in, pulling himself away from the intruder.

“Don’t touch me,” he cried, keeping his eyes and ears closed. A dark brown mumble permeated through the barrier he had made for himself but he paid it no attention.

“I said, who are you?” the person shouted louder, his voice tinted slightly with red. Absolon moaned as the colour invaded the darkness behind his eyelid. Realising he had no choice; he opened his eyes and peered through the fading brown at the person who had disturbed him. A man, his hair and beard a bright coppery colour while his brown eyes glared down at Absolon. His hands were on his hips but the way he stood, with his legs spread and braced against the ground, indicated he was ready to fight should it be needed.

The younger man removed his hands from his ears and bowed his head. “I’m sorry, I-” he bit down on his tongue as he remembered: he was no longer in Corvus. “I’m sorry, I...do not like to be touched.”

“That didn’t answer my question. I don’t recognise you, stranger. So who are you and what are you doing here?” a growl entered into the man’s voice, making it darker and more unbearable.

“I-I came with the merchant cart. F-from the s-south,” Absolon stared up at the man, his eyes wide. “My name is A-Absolon. I came here...because I was told to.”

“Told to by whom?” the man’s eyes narrowed.

“By...by...my God,” Absolon murmured, bowing his head.

“You’re a Priest then?” venom dripped off every word.

Absolon curled his arms around himself. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest, the pain rising up inside him again.

“Speak up!” the man barked, making the young man choke with pain as the colour penetrated his ears.

“Something like that,” he stammered out on impulse.

“Then get out!” the man shouted, making Absolon wince as the colour of his voice flared violently across his eyes. “We have two priests already, we do not need another!”

“I’m sorry,” the younger man whimpered, not even sure why he offended him. Nor did he care, he just wanted to be away from the noise, the shouting, the stress before it got too much. He bowed deeply to him, grabbed the bundle of things and ran clutching it against his chest. Already he could feel the pain pushing against his ribs, wrapping around his rapidly-beating heart and squeezing it like the neck of a terrified prey animal. Without even thinking, he closed his eyes, trying to block out any more stressors that could make it worse, running blindly in whatever direction his feet carried him.

Why had he said that? He was hardly a monk now! And what did the man mean by priests? What kind of priests did they have here? Elijah had said this land was outside the Woo’s influence. If there were two of those people in that village, what chance did he, a foreign holy man of a different faith, have?

He had barely noticed where he was going until the snap of a twig forced him to look upward but he was blinded by the bright, piercing yellow of the sound. Only once the colour had faded did Absolon find himself looking into the depths of the forest. Behind him, through the gaps in the trees, he just barely glimpsed the wood and thatch huts that made up the village.

Absolon was about to turn back before he stopped, thinking. He clearly was not welcome in the village. If people were going to talk to him as aggressively as that man even without knowing he was a mage, their voices would cause him more pain and pressure than he could cope with. Best he took his chances out here than dealing with the anger of the villagers there.

Above him, the trees rustled with their deep, dark green that he had grown used to filling his vision thanks to the days of travelling through the woods. This place might have been noisy too but at least he could guard himself against it if there was nobody to see his magic. For all of its noise and the wild animals that inhabited it, that was one advantage that the forest had over the village.

He stopped and leaned against a tree, taking in a few deep breaths. Every problem was a challenge from the Lord Woo that he had to solve. He was still a mage and he doubted that the Woo had abandoned him completely. Right now, he had to focus on one problem at a time if only just to make sure he was distracted from the ache in his chest. Taking out his wand, he cast a sonic shield around him. Immediately, the noise ceased and he gave a sigh of relief, just as his stomach rumbled queasily.

He had barely eaten anything since that morning and even then, the trader did not have a lot to spare, or much that he was willing to give him. For a moment, the younger man considered going back to the village to get something to eat. However, he had no money, whether it was from the south or whatever they used up here and it was unlikely anybody would ever give him anything for free. Stealing was against the Woo’s law and the thought of it made Absolon’s stomach turn even more. That left only one option: the forest. He could find something edible in there, perhaps, even this late in the year...even if he had no idea what to look for.

His stomach quivered again and Absolon swallowed, trying to drown out its complaints. He had no other choice. Shifting his pack up on to his back, he braced himself for the noise and dispelled the shield: it would do him no good on the move. Immediately, the small sounds of the woods hit him. The occasional silver sound of birds, the rustling of trees and his dull green footsteps tramping through the dying undergrowth, all were there, flooding into his ears. He had to stop and close his eyes, adjusting to the level of noise. When it had settled, Absolon cleared his mind, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as he headed deeper into the trees.

Part 4

SPOILER: Click to show

He had only walked a short distance when up ahead when another sound joined the ambient sounds of a forest: a carmine hiss. It sounded like a cat but what would a cat be doing here?

It was not long before he got his answer: not far from him, he spotted two figures. One was of a small girl, and she was walking next to somebody far taller than her. Dashing around by their feet was a thick-furred white cat with a scar slashed across its face, its fur standing on end. It hissed and screamed at the taller of the two people, causing reddish flickers to pass across his vision.

Absolon frowned at the scene. It could have been a parent walking with their child, except the girl was simply walking along, not looking at the person, nor were they looking at her. Where were they even going now?

Something did not feel right. Absolon narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look at the scene through the colours in his eyes. On closer examination, the figure with her was female but the silhouette was wrong. It seemed to shimmer in and out of focus as though the air around it was bending. He had seen the effect in Corvus on a particularly hot day but his breath that hung in the air for a few seconds and the cold that sent further red prickles across his vision suggested it was not the heat that was responsible.

Suddenly, the cat lunged at the girl’s companion and sunk its claws into her leg. She threw her head back in a scream and Absolon threw his hands over his ears, though he could not completely block out that mixture of black and red. Only when the colour had faded slightly did he dare look up. The girl had remained motionless, unaware of the distress of her companion. But the air around the woman shimmered even more violently, as though rattled by the noise until suddenly it disappeared completely.

It was like a curtain had been pulled away. Whilst it had looked human before, now it was just over the size of the girl. Its skin was coloured a sickly shade of grey but it made the golden feline eyes stand out even more. Its ears too, were pointed at the top, though it made Absolon think more of the ears of a hound than anything else. Thin white hair hung down from its head in ratty locks, barely veiling a body that upon closer inspection was in fact covered in fine down. It snarled at the cat, revealing multiple rows of needle-sharp teeth and, quick as a striking hawk, grabbed the feline with long fingers by its fur, trying to pull it off of its leg, a leg that was graced by a lizard-like foot from which grew several wicked claws to match the ones on its hands.

Absolon stared in horror at the creature that was left behind. Whatever it was, it was not human. Some kind of demon, perhaps, that lived in the north? Fear gripped his heart and he doubled over as the ache in his chest began to flare, feeding on the anxiety that was flowing through him. He pressed his elbows against his chest, keeping his hands over his ears but he could not tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him.

Whatever that thing was, it was dangerous. He had to run before it got him too. The young man shifted his feet and as he did, his gaze fell on to the girl. She was still motionless, staring at something unseen far ahead of her. Even though the cat and the creature were locked in combat, there was no stirring from her, no reaction to indicate any kind of fear or any inclination to run away. There was nothing in her look and stance except blankness.

A pained yowl pierced the air, dulled by the cover of his ears but still enough to make him flinch. The creature finally tore the cat off itself and threw it against the nearby tree with more force than its relatively petite body looked like it could hold. The white bundle of fur tried to struggle to its feet, still hissing at the creature, but it had not come away unscathed from the blow. Satisfied that the cat was no longer going to be an issue, the beast turned back to the girl. Its mouth curled into an ugly, hungry line that was half-way between a snarl and a smile.

Absolon’s spine ran cold as he realised the girl was going to die.

His breath grew rapid and the ache in his chest began to spasm painfully. Maybe he should run but he could not just leave her, knowing her fate. If he went back to get help, it might be too late. He had to help.

Absolon scooped his wand off the ground and wrapped his fingers tightly around it. Lord Woo, protect me, he prayed quietly before pointing it at the creature. “Everte Stratum.”

Green light streamed out of the wand and slammed into the demon like a whirlwind, sending it flying into a nearby tree. It screeched and hissed at being interrupted, its head flicking towards the mage. He gritted his teeth, closing his eyes briefly against the colour that had invaded his mind and agitated the ache in his chest. Absolon pressed his hand against the Woocifix, trying hard not to think about it. All he had to do now was grab the girl and run.

Taking advantage of the beast’s momentary distraction, he rushed towards her. She has remained motionless throughout, still with the same blank stare. Having no choice, Absolon took ahold of her hand, gritting his teeth at the sudden fallow texture of another person’s skin and body heat against his.

“Come on, let’s go!” he cried but she did not respond. She barely even budged. Panic began to rise up in his chest and the pain flared down his arm as though trying to push her away from him. Having no choice, he let go.

Magic. No doubt the creature had enchanted her to make her more pliable.

Absolon pointed his wand at the girl’s head. “Reparifors,” he whispered.

The girl blinked and her stiff body loosened up. “Who are you? What happened?” she murmured. Absolon blinked for a second at the pure sky blue colour of her voice but she took no notice of his surprise. Her green eyes dashed around. “Where is-”

The child screamed as her eyes landed on the cat. “Snowflake!” she cried. Absolon tried to grab her again and his left hand lashed out towards her but it was too slow. She slipped out of his grasp and rushed over to the white feline. It was beginning to get up to its feet and gave off a pitiful pink mew as it saw her. Wrapping her arms around it, the girl picked the cat up, pressing her face into its fur.

“We have to go, come on,” Absolon gasped. “We have to run before-.”

“Human, look at me,” a red and black voice penetrated into his awareness, which made Absolon gasp as seemed to tear at his eyes. However, he could not resist the command. Despite the agony, he turned his head up to stare at its source. The creature in turn, bounded over roots and dying shrubs, looking closer and fixing its golden eyes on him.

The girl gasped as she saw it. She leapt up, the cat still in her arms and rushed behind Absolon, her eyes wide with fear. “An unseelie! It’s an unseelie!”

The word meant nothing to the young man but he did not need to know its name; he had seen enough proof that it was dangerous. With shaking hands, he held his wand up in front of him. “L-leave her!” he gasped, his voice weak as watered down wine. “Or I’ll-”

“Don’t fight,” the creature said calmly, staring at him. However, instead of black, the colour of its voice acquired a blue tint, mirroring how sweet it suddenly sounded. “Give yourself to me.”

As it did, its image blurred in front of Absolon and in front of him stood the shaky vision of the woman the creature had worn as a disguise.

“Let me go. I mean you no harm,” it whispered, its voice becoming bluer as the image became more solid.

He moaned and covered his ears. It was such a beautiful voice but it was so rich and so different. The blue colour was wrong! Voices did not just change.

The pain exploded as it seemed to push against the influence of the sound, sending agony shooting through him. Absolon cried out, barely able to keep his thoughts together against the influence of the pressure and the illusions.

The girl’s voice was blue. The creature’s was reddish-black. That was an absolute fact. This was an illusion. This was what it had done to her to hypnotise her.

“Listen to me,” the blue colour pierced through his hands, entered his ears and swept over his eyes so that for a moment it seemed like he was staring at a clear sky. “Let me go.”

He could not go on like this. Absolon snapped his eyelids closed but in a moment, reopened them. The pain flared up as the blue colour blinded him but he forced himself to look where he thought the creature was. Removing his right hand from his ear, he raised up his wand, pointing it directly at it.

“Put it do-”

“Silencio.”

Immediately, the voice disappeared. Absolon gasped and closed his eyes, waiting for the intense blue colour fade away to something slightly more bearable. But for that one second, he was alone with just the colour and the agony. He gripped his chest with his left hand, pressing down in order to try to force the ache back into the containment of his insides.

“Are you alri-” the girl’s voice was interrupted by a bright yowl from her cat. It wriggled out of her arms and leapt through the air. Something flashed in Absolon’s peripheral vision and the feline collided with it with a dull thud, its ears flattened as more carmine hisses escaped from its mouth. He whipped his head around to see what was happening and through the kaleidoscope of colours that was now exploding in his eyes, the situation soon became apparent.

The creature had tried to leap at him but the cat, Snowflake, had deflected it. It now writhed as the feline’s claws kept tearing through its grey skin. However, the cat’s movements remained sluggish from its earlier injury. The creature tore its sharp nails into the cat’s fur, making it scream in pain. Blood stained its white fur.

Absolon leaned against a nearby tree, taking in several deep breaths. Cold air scratched against his throat, adding an unpleasant red to the edges of all the other colours in his eyes. At least the blue had faded by now to allow him to see. The cat had bought him a bit more time but judging by how faint its cries were, and the notes of yellow creeping into its scarlet yowls, it was growing weaker, more pained.

“Snowflake!” the girl cried. “We have to help him! Help him!”

He had no choice. He had to fight.

Give me strength, Woo. Please. Absolon clung to the wooden feather on his chest. He swallowed and gripped his wand tighter, raising it up and pointing it shakily at the creature. The beast, meanwhile, had torn the cat off itself, throwing it down on to the ground. He had to act now.

“Dwoofindo,” he murmured and the beast recoiled as the magical slash tore across its left arm. It screamed silently, only for him to repeat the spell, causing another wound to appear in its side. He gasped, holding the feather in front of him to protect against the demon.

Gripping the deep gash, it turned to Absolon again but as its eyes fell on the Woocifix, it hissed and stopped in its tracks sensing the power protecting him. He smiled widely; so Lord Woo had not forsaken this land completely. Pulling it off around his neck, he held it out along with his wand, like a sword and shield.

“By the Woo, leave us,” Absolon said as loudly as he could. The beast snarled silently at him, it’s golden eyes flashing, but did not dare come closer. When he flicked up his wand as though to cast a spell, it flinched away, pressing its hand against its injury. He could almost hear its thoughts in its head wondering if it was worth it to continue chasing its prey despite it.

For a few seconds, they held in a stalemate, the creature staring at him and Absolon not daring to move despite every muscle in his body screaming at him to run. At last, however, the beast spat and turned away, slinking off into the shadows of the trees.

The young man watched it go. As soon as it disappeared from sight, he dropped his wand and collapsed on to the ground, throwing his head back against a nearby tree. A pang of agony came from inside his chest and spread on the routes that the pain had worn down his arms during the confrontation. Absolon pressed his knees against his chest, attempting to contain the pain, covered his ears and closed his eyes as he waited for the intrusive colours that lingered after the battle to fade away.

He remained like that for some time before he became aware of a faint shade of sky blue fluttering on the edges of his vision like a wisp of mist. Absolon dared to open his eyes and much to his relief, the only colours he saw came from the ambient sounds of the forest breathing around them and the girl who was speaking in front of him. She was leaning forward towards him, holding the cat on her lap and stroking it occasionally.

With the care one takes when dipping their toes into a cold lake, Absolon slowly uncurled his knees from his chest. The pain had retreated back to its normal level and taken its usual spot in his chest. It would have to do. He uncovered his ears.

“Are you alright?” the girl asked, her green eyes wide open as they stared at Absolon.

“I think so?” he replied. For the first time, he could focus clearly on her voice. It was quiet, nowhere near loud enough to drown out his vision or overwhelm him but what struck him most about it was its colour. Blue had flashed in his vision when she had first spoken during the battle with the creature but now, he could see the hue properly: sky-blue. Not like Elijah’s bluebell voice but still just as soothing.

Absolon smiled weakly at her. “Your voice is beautiful.”

The girl blinked and smiled, bowing her head. “...Thank you,” she murmured. “And thank you...for saving me.”

A reddish, pained yowl emerged from the cat on her lap. The child bit her lip and whimpered, running a hand through the feline’s fur, careful not to touch the injuries.

“It will be okay, Snowflake,” she murmured, her voice quivering. “Daddy will fix you. It will be okay.”

Absolon leaned closer, looking over the cat’s injuries. Several nasty gashes covered his sides, leaving its white fur coated with blood. Given the way he has been thrown, it would have been no surprise to him if the feline had other injuries besides the external wounds, but there was no way to be sure without examining him, something Absolon was never confident doing: examinations always required touch.

He swallowed. Elijah had said these people did not like magic, but she had already seen him cast spells already and she did not seem to mind. Besides, that cat had saved him, and it was very important to the girl...

“Maybe...maybe I could help?” he said.

The girl stared at him, mouth open. “Are you a healer?”

“In a way. I did learn some healing, where I’m from,” Absolon nodded and looked around on the ground beside him. “I just need my wand.”

“This?” the girl picked up the wand from where it lay next to her legs and held it out to Absolon. “You dropped it. I...I thought it was important.”

“It is. Thank you,” he gingerly picked up the birchwood wand from her palms, careful not to touch her. “Let me see your cat.”

“His name is Snowflake,” the girl replied, carefully shifting the cat and laying him out on the ground for Absolon to see. “He’s my friend. Please, help him.”

“I’ll try,” Absolon kneeled over the animal, examining him. He did not seem to have any broken bones or internal injuries. That left the gashes in his side to heal before they knotted together to form more scars like the one across his muzzle. “Vulnera Sanwootur.”

Green light swirled out of his wand and towards Snowflake’s injuries, knitting them shut. The girl’s eyes widened to the size of saucers but Absolon was not done yet. ”Terwoogeo.”

The cat’s tail flicked and he lifted up his head, turning to eye the former site of his injuries. He prodded his side with his nose, giving off a tiny confused mew when he found nothing, not even the dried blood that had coated his soft white fur before. Satisfied that he was not injured, he stretched himself out over the girl’s lap, looking like he had not a care in the world

She grinned widely and ran her fingers over the skin where the wounds were. When she was satisfied, she looked back up at Absolon, her eyes sparkling with delight. “You healed him!”

He grimaced as the spells drained him further, making the pull rise up, but forced himself to smile weakly for the sake of the girl. “It was nothing, really.”

“It’s amazing,” she gasped. “That’s how you fought off the unseelie fairy too?”

“The unseelie fairy?” Absolon frowned at the unfamiliar words. “The creature from before?”

She nodded. “Only salt, silver or iron can harm the fair folk, but you just used light, except it did things. And you used it to heal Snowflake too.”

“It’s magic,” Absolon replied, holding his wand up. “I cast a spell on it, and Snowflake.”

She frowned deeply. “Magic...magic is what the fair folk do. But...that was not fairy magic.”

He shook his head. “Magic is the gift of the Lord Woo to people. It’s different to that creature’s magic.”

“I didn’t know people could do magic,” the girl absently ran her hand through her cat’s fur before turning back to Absolon. “Could you teach me?”

“No,” he sighed, shaking his head again and holstering his wand. “It’s something you have to be born with.”

“Oh,” she bit her lip. “But...but you are human, right?” tentatively, she reached out to touch him.

“I am,” Absolon gasped, recoiling slightly from her grasp. “But don’t touch me. I don’t like being touched.”

The girl withdrew her hand. “I don’t like it either,” she murmured, shaking her head before lifting it back up to look into his eyes. “What is your name? I’m Greta.”

“My name is Absolon,” he smiled down at her. “Do you live in the village then, Greta?”

She nodded and the younger man stood up, first glancing the way he had come and then up at the sky. Even despite the gathered clouds, he could tell that it was getting dark. “Maybe...maybe I should take you back?”

“But I haven’t gotten the plants for mama,” Greta murmured, cuddling Snowflake closer to herself. “She’ll be mad.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to just have you back safe. And nightfall is coming,” Absolon replied and shot her a small smile. “I’ll take you back...in case something else attacks you.”

Greta paused, obviously giving it some thought. While the girl made her decision, Absolon wandered over to where he had left his bundle of things, digging into it with his hand to check whether the Book of Woo was still safe. Its pages stroked his fingers with their soft sea green, obviously undamaged, and he hoisted all his worldly possessions on to his shoulder. Once he had gotten used to their eight again, he turned back to the child.

She gave a small nod. “Let’s go,” she pushed Snowflake off her knees and walked a few steps ahead, with both Absolon and the cat following on her heels.

It did not take them long before the village came into view. Absolon stopped at the edge of the forest. He wondered for a moment whether he should actually go back to the village, given how unwelcome he had been there. He did not really want to speak with Greta’s mother either.

She glanced back when she saw him hesitating. “Absolon?”

He sighed. “...you’re safe now. I should go back.”

“Back where?” Greta frowned. “To the forest?”

“I don’t think...I’ll be welcome here,” Absolon shook his head. “You should go home.”

“But what if mama gets mad? That I didn’t find her herbs,” the girl turned her gaze up at him, her eyes pleading. “Please, come with me, Absolon.”

He bowed his head, still hesitating. “I don’t think I’ll be welcome.”

“Please? It will be fine. Everyone here is nice,” Greta’s voice wavered and she approached Absolon. “You’ll get caught by evil things out in the forest. Please, come back.”

Absolon swallowed and gave her a tiny nod, stepping out behind her. She smiled at him and quickened her pace, heading towards the village with wide, confident steps now that she knew he was with her.

Part 5

SPOILER: Click to show

As they walked into the village, once again, soft grey whispers trickled into his ears, tugging at his concentration. Glancing around, Absolon saw the eyes of passers-by fix themselves upon him and the girl he was with. He swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, taking several deep breaths as the ache in his chest rose up, provoked by the sound and the staring.

His discomfort did not go unnoticed. “Are you alright?” Greta beside him asked, her sky blue voice tinged pale with concern. “What’s wrong, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Absolon replied, giving the girl a weak smile. “Don’t worry.”

“If you’re hurt, my mummy knows plants and daddy is a healer. They can-”

“Greta?!” an olive-green voice echoed through the air, starling Absolon. The girl’s head shot up and she stiffened in place, looking up at a small, slender woman with dirty blonde hair similar to Greta’s ahead of them. Her blue eyes flashing, she strode over to where they were, her arms folded in front of her chest, resting on her round, swollen belly.

“Hello, mama,” Greta’s words were barely above a whisper as the woman approached.

“Did you get what I sent you for? And who is this?” she glared at Absolon, making the young man wince again. “Why is he with you?”

Greta flinched, moving an inch closer to him. “I didn’t, I’m sorry, mama,” she glanced up. “This is Absolon. He saved me...from an unseelie fairy.”

“Is that so?” the woman’s eyes narrowed. “And why you did not bring the herb I asked for?”

“He...he thought it was best that I go home, mama,” Greta swallowed. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the herbs for you. There is so little greenery left in the woods, I couldn’t find it.”

“I see. I should not be surprised you failed,” a muscle in her jaw twitched before she gave off a deep sigh. “You can try again tomorrow, Greta.”

“Y-yes, mama,” the girl nodded.

Absolon watched his exchange, a slight frown appearing on his face. Was she really more concerned with the herb than with her own daughter’s safety?

“Your name is Absolon, correct?” the woman asked, directing her harsh gaze on to him.

He nodded hurriedly. “Yes.”

“I suppose I should thank you, shouldn’t I?” her voice was quiet, lingering on the word. “For saving her.”

“I...I was just doing what I had to,” Absolon swallowed, bowing his head to her.

“You shouldn’t have,” the words had a distant melancholy in them for a moment before her eyes flickered over to the girl. “Greta, we’re going home. Bring your cat with you.”

Greta swallowed and picked up Snowflake from where he was rubbing himself around her feet, cuddling him closer. She turned her head up towards Absolon, her gaze lingering on him.

“I...I’ll see you later?” she said quietly. “I hope I do.”

Absolon tried to smile but it fell flatter than the plains to the west of Corvus. “Mayb-”

“Ulrika?”

All three of them turned towards the source of the brown voice, similar to that of the abbot but greyer with age and weariness. Absolon turned to find himself looking at a much older man, his face lined by age but his grey eyes bearing the unmistakable sharpness of authority. His hair and beard hung down like the thinnest metal wires, rusted in parts with what must have been his natural tawny colour. Behind him were two men, each clutching at the dagger than hung on their belts, their glare fixated on Absolon. Reflexively, he held his pack of clothes up to his chest and took a nervous step back, trying to get out of reach of them in case they decided he was worth using their weaponry on.

Greta’s mother, however, fixed her eyes on the oldest man. She bowed deeply to him, making her daughter bow too.

“Elder,” she replied. “How may I help you?”

“Do you know this stranger?” he asked, glancing sideways at Absolon.

“No,” Ulrika’s eyes also turned to the young man, who lowered his head in the face of all this attention. “But according to Greta, he saved her from an unseelie.”

Immediately, a look of scepticism passed across the elder’s face. He turned back to Greta, leaning down towards the girl. “Is this true?”

“Yes, elder. Absolon drove it away,” she nodded vigorously and hefted her cat up in her arms. “And then healed Snowflake too.”

“Is that so?” a slight frown crossed across the old man’s face. He straightened out and turned back to Ulrika. “Did she have no iron or salt on her to protect her?”

“I don’t know,” the woman glared down at Greta, who shrunk away. “Why did you not have any iron?”

The girl glanced up at her mother before looking down to study her feet as though they were the most interesting things in the world. “I didn’t get...I must have lost it, elder. I’m sorry.”

Her mother sighed and turned back to the elder. “She always loses it. That’s how it is.”

The older man’s frown grew deeper but nevertheless, he turned back to Ulrika, looking her in the eye. “You know how she is. If you want your daughter alive, make sure she had iron next time she has to go out into the forest, and that she doesn’t lose it either,” he ordered before turning around to look Absolon again. “So your name is Absolon, stranger?”

“It is, elder,” the younger man bowed deeply to him, dropping his things down from his chest and holding them to his side.

“A pleasure to meet you. I am Eifion of the Roan Clan and elder of the village of Eo. And what clan are you of?”

Absolon frowned. “Clan?”

“Everyone has a clan, stranger. We are the people of the Roan clan. And you are..?”

He hesitated. “I have no clan. I am from the south, from the region of Corvus. We do not have clans there like you.”

“Then who rules you? Whose lands did you live on?” the elder asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I...I belonged to a...” Absolon paused, trying to find a word for monastery but there was none, not that Elijah told him anyway. “I lived on land belonging to...the Jade family.”

“So you are of the Jade clan?”

The young man’s eyes widened and he shook his head vigorously. “No, no! It’s...it’s different in the south. But I am no Jade. I am...nobody,” he sighed deeply. “I was orphaned young, so I don’t have a family.”

“I see. I’m sorry,” came the reply, tinted with grey sympathy. “I have been looking for you ever since I heard you came off a trader’s cart. First I hear you went off into the forest, only to find out you saved a child and fought off an unseelie being,” Eifion folded his arms, “That is not a normal occurrence here, stranger, I hope you realise that..”

Absolon remained bowed, in part to keep his eyes off the man. The colour of his voice had layered on thickly across his eyes, tearing his concentration between it and the elder’s words. Pain was flaring up inside him and he dropped his bag by his side and pressed his hands against his chest, trying to keep it in. He couldn’t reveal his condition to these men, not when they still glared at him with such suspicion. Who knew what they would think of it? “I understand, and I am sorry for causing you trouble.”

An amused chuckle escaped from the elder’s mouth. “Apologise to me when you actually do,” he said, smiling a little. “However, stranger, I am curious: you barely seem like much of a fighter nor do I see any weapon on you. Yet you fought off an unseelie being.”

“He did, he really did!” Greta cried, the sudden intrusion of blue making Absolon flinch.

“Quiet,” Ulrika gave off a sharp hiss and tugged the girl back by her hand. “Don’t interrupt the elder.”

Absolon brought his hands over his ears, trying to let the colours filter away as his chest gave another pang. His breathing was wheezy now, both from the sound and the stress of the questioning. Greta had showed no concern over his magic but Elijah’s warning still held true in his mind. This man was the elder, and both Greta and her mother clearly respected him which meant he had power. If he figured out Absolon was a mage, Woo only knew what would be done to him. To make matters worse, he could hear grey whispers around him as well as dull brown footsteps against the dirt. A crowd was gathering, and in response, the ache inside him flared, spreading into his arms.

“Don’t ignore me, answer me,” Eifion’s tone was darker and harsher. “How did you fight off the unseelie being?”

He removed his hands from his ears and forced himself to look up at the elder but he could barely contain the pain. His limbs shook with the strain, forcing Absolon to hug his arms around himself in order to try to keep himself from exploding.

“Absolon, tell them,” Greta murmured. “About the magic.”

“Don’t make up stories, girl. The fairy have magic, not people,” Ulrika snapped, making Greta flinch again. Absolon too, flinched, his eyes snapping shut but not just at the colour of her voice. It was the tone.

“Do you have magic, stranger?” the elder asked, every word pointed and harsh. “Look at me and answer the question.”

“...I do,” the young man’s voice was barely above a whisper.

A whirl of voices and exclamations rose up. He could feel the gaze of every single person present shift on to him. Accusing tones of red, orange and black swirled around in the air, floating into his ears and flaring in front of his eyes, making the ache swirling inside him more sharp and pointed like water dripping on to an icicle. Unable to contain himself, Absolon fell down on to his knees and covered his ears, shutting his eyes in order to try to hold back the agony that had possessed his body, desperately trying to keep his thoughts together. Woo, help me, please help me.

Eifion lifted up his hand and the people chattering around him went quiet, their words fading to pale grey murmurs. Only when the danger of overload had passed did the young man dare to look up, right into the piercing eyes of the elder.

“Then do you have proof of your magic?” he asked. The darker tone of voice suggested this was not a request.

The younger man swallowed and took out his wand, thinking what spell to perform. Nothing too complex, especially not with the pain breaking his concentration, and something obvious but definitely not one that could be interpreted as aggression.

Getting an idea, he turned back to the Eifion. “Elder, do you...or your men have a scratch or a bruise that needs healing? Because...” Absolon unholstered his wand. “I can do it? With my magic?”

A ripple of murmurs swept over the crowd, forcing Absolon to close his eyes and grit his teeth to restrain any cries of pain: despite gaining time to recover, the ache was still burning inside him. Eifion, however, did not seem to notice this, or if he did, he ignored it. He remained silent for a few moments as he pondered the offer before signalling to one of the men with him. He nodded and together, they walked over to Absolon. Only when they were near did the man lift up his right sleeve, revealing an angry blackened bruise.

“What can you do with that, magic maker?” he asked, his burned orange voice carrying the hint of a red snarl. Absolon shivered but forced himself to look at the injury anyway. Bruises always seemed much worse than they were anyway. He swallowed and through the pain, gathered up his concentration to recite the chain of runes in his mind.

“Contusa Sanwootur,” he whispered. Green light poured out of the wand and into the injury, clearing it up like a sponge would clear a puddle of water. The spell, however, took a long time, longer than normal. A twinge in his fingers alerted him to a new ache inside him: the pull had manifested.. Absolon winced, giving off a moan of pain, but forced himself to concentrate on the spell, lest he ruin it and his chances of ever winning over these people.

Finally, the spell finished and nothing remained of the bruise. The man who had given himself up as a test subject snatched his arm away and pressed down on the former site of his injury, his eyes widening as he felt nothing. His eyes shot up as he stared at Absolon. The young man swallowed as he could feel the eyes of all gathered shift on to him. The whispers that had buzzed at the edge of his vision and hearing suddenly exploded into a vast kaleidoscope of colours, blinding him. Red, blue, green, orange, grey, black, brown, his eyes dashed between every single one, trying to take them in all at once and the sounds that were triggering them. He screamed as his chest seemed to explode with pain and ducked down on to the ground, his eyes shut and his hands over his ears, pressing his knees into his ribs in order to contain the pressure inside.

The voices chattered furiously above him for a short while before they were once again silenced, but Absolon did not dare stand up until the overload had passed. When he eventually looked up, he found himself staring right into the grey eyes of the elder. Though he tried to hide the emotion in his face, the old man’s eyes betrayed his disbelief.

“Stand up,” he said. Absolon swallowed and took several deep breaths, keeping his eyes narrowed so the lingering colours were not too irritating, before getting back up to his feet.

“I have never seen a man perform magic. I thought it was the realm of the fairy,” Eifion’s voice was steady as he removed something from a string around his neck: an iron token, similar to the one the trader carried, into which was etched a crude swirling pattern. Taking it by the cord and leaving only the iron exposed, he held it out to Absolon. “I need proof you are human, so take this.”

“But I...didn’t I save Greta?” Absolon glanced over to the girl and her mother, who he saw had now been joined by a tall, dark-haired man. Her father?

“You did, but the girl is known for attracting fairy creatures. Even if you saved her, who knows what the motivations of the fair folk are? And you being a stranger from the south, who wields magic like them...I want to be sure,” the elder’s voice darkened. “Take it or else.”

The young man bowed his head and grasped his fingers around the iron. It was slightly warm, making a faint shade of bright orange appear in his eyes. The pain from the pull pressed against it, mingling with the push of the pain as it rebelled against the touch of the token. Absolon clenched his jaw and placed it on his palm, slowly letting himself get used to the iron against his skin.

He was not a fairy creature. He was human. He had to be human. It was only a coincidence that the pain had flared up as he touched the iron. These people were pagans, with lives and beliefs disconnected to his, and there were no fairy in Corvus. They called mages ‘fairy children’ only because they did not know better. His pain was because of his sin, nothing more and nothing less.

Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, he looked back up at the elder. Eifion met his gaze, observing him for a few seconds before narrowing his eyes.

“Hold out your hand,” he ordered darkly. Absolon gritted his teeth at his voice but did as he was told, bracing himself for any new pain. But instead of touching him again, the elder stared at his palm before nodding, seeming satisfied.

“Was that it?” Absolon murmured, rubbing his fingers over the place in his hand where the iron had lain.

“Yes. Iron burns fairy creatures and there is no burn on you,” the old man shoved the token back into his clothes and smoothed down the folds over it. “I think I can safely say you are human.”

Absolon blinked in surprise before bowing deeply to the elder. “Thank you.”

“The question is now what to do with you, stranger,” Eifion asked, putting a hand on his hip. “I was told you were ordered to come here by your God. I assume you mean a southern God, and if so, why did he send you here?”

“I...I am not quite sure,” Absolon replied, his shoulders drooping. “I’m not even sure I was supposed to be here. The trader promised to take me to his hometown but he changed his mind and left me here.”

“And what will you do now that you are here?” the elder continued to look him in the eye.

The young man flinched away from his gaze and thought about this for a moment before he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “Perhaps I can be of some use?”

“With winter coming, you have no choice if you want to survive,” the older man replied, his voice leaden. “I doubt you southerners are used to the northern cold.”

Absolon bowed his head, nodding slowly. He could already feel the chill in the air prickling at his skin and the faint spikes of red flaring uncomfortably at the edge of his vision. And this was only autumn...he shuddered, wrapping his cloak tightly around himself.

The elder continued. “Since you have proven yourself to be a healer...” he looked up. “Seisyll? Would you come here for a moment?”

Heavy green footsteps sounded from his left and Absolon turned to see who this man the elder called up was. He was immediately met by dark blue eyes staring right into him, eyes that belonged to the same man who had been standing beside Greta and Ulrika. The younger man flinched away from that piercing gaze and Seisyll soon turned back to Eifion, bowing to him.

“Yes, elder?” he asked, his voice resonating deep navy blue and calm as a clear day.

“Will you take this boy in as an assistant?” the older man said, indicating Absolon with his index finger. “With your wife’s condition, I imagine you will need one.”

“Given his powers, he could be useful, and Greta seems to like him. But,” Seisyll narrowed his eyes at Absolon, his face betraying the motion of his thoughts. “I need to know he can be trusted, elder. Especially given my wife’s condition, as you put it.”

“I swear upon the Lord Woo that I would ever do anything to hurt your wife or your daughter,” Absolon chimed in, clasping his hands together and bowing.

Seisyll snorted. “What use is that to me?”

The words were like a slap in the face. Of course, Lord Woo did not carry any weight up here, he knew that rationally, but in his heart, the idea of somebody hearing the Woo’s name and feeling nothing was as terrifying as an empty, gaping void staring right at him.

“Then...” Absolon swallowed, closing his eyes and thinking, a task easier said than done through the barrage of colours. “If I do anything you think is wrong, you can throw me out of your home.”

“In other words, then your life is forfeit,” Seisyll nodded, seemingly satisfied with this. “I shall take him in then, elder. Though I hope you can do more than just heal bruises.”

“I can,” the young man bowed deeply to him. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”

Seisyll blinked impassively. “Remember: your life is forfeit should you step out of line,” he turned around and began walking back in the direction of his family. “Follow me.”

Absolon nodded and hurriedly picked up his bundle where he had dropped it, hurrying on after Seisyll. The healer ahead of him stopped and spoke quietly with his wife for a few moments, with only the colours of their voices carrying over to Absolon. Deciding to leave them to their conversation, he respectfully turned away before his eavesdropping earned him more pain for his trouble. The last thing he caught was Ulrika glaring at him as though her gaze could somehow turn into a spear and pierce through his body.

Greta, however, smiled widely as she approached him. “Are you coming to live with us?”

He nodded, closing his eyes briefly to enjoy her sky-blue voice passing over him. “I am. Your father is taking me on to help him.”

Her smile grew wider and her green eyes sparkled. “That’s good; it will be less lonely with you,” she leaned down and stroked the cat rubbing against her. “Snowflake is nice but I can’t talk to him, and he has to go off to hunt sometimes so I don’t have anybody,” he glanced back up at Absolon. “Do you want to pet him?”

The young man shook his head. “No. I...I don’t like touch.”

“It will be fine. He’s soft and warm, and he’s nice,” Greta ran her hand down the cat’s spine. “Try it. You helped him so he won’t hurt you.”

“N-no. I won’t, sorry,” he shook his head and cuddled his arm closer to himself, still feeling the pull in his muscles and the ache in his chest, only now coming down from the stress of his interrogation. At least the crowd had dispersed, leaving him only with Greta’s voice, which by itself was even soothing.

The girl stroked her cat again. “But h-”

“Greta?” Ulrika said sharply, making both Greta and Absolon look up. The woman took her husband’s hand, resting her other one upon her stomach. “Come. We’re going home.”

The little girl nodded and scuttled over to her mother’s side, wordlessly following her. Once he was satisfied she was with his mother, Seisyll fixed his gaze on Absolon. “You too.”

Absolon stood up, picking up his things where he had left them and following on after the family. Ulrika kept glancing back while Seisyll kept his eyes firmly on the younger man, making a prickling sensation rise up in the back of his head.

“You will stay in the storehouse,” Seisyll suddenly spoke up. “And you will not go into our home without explicit permission. Those are the rules.”

“Yes, of course,” Absolon nodded. Confident that he had been understood, Seisyll turned back around and joined his wife by her side.

He bowed his head and curled his cloak around him to guard himself against the cold, trying to keep up while keeping a respectful distance. As they walked, however, something fluttered by the edge of his vision. A flash of sound? No. None of the sounds he was seeing could ever make white.

It flew by again, this time on a different side of his vision. That was odd. Absolon stopped and lifted his head up, seeing more white flakes steadily falling down on to the ground. Lifting his head up to the heavy leaden clouds, he could see more of them drift down to cover the earth in a sheet of white.

Snow. Just like in his vision. He felt a brief sting of cold when a snowflake landed on his skin and brushed it off. More snowflakes that he could not feel landed in his hair, dotting it with white.

It was a sign.

Despite the cold, the colours in his eyes, the ache in his chest and the slight pull in his fingers, Absolon could not be happier. His smile grew wider as he stared up at the sky, rejoicing in the falling snow. Only when he tore his eyes away did he notice both Seisyll and Ulrika frowning at him.

“Let’s go,” Seisyll finally muttered. “You will get sick of snow very soon, stranger.”

Part 6

SPOILER: Click to show

As soon as they had arrived, Greta had been sent inside the house while Seisyll and Ulrika directed Absolon to where he was going to be living. The storehouse where the healer and his wife had decided to house their new lodger was a small, cramped building connected to the side of the house. Opening the door revealed a large variety of sacks and skins as well as a cornucopia of dried meats and plants hanging off the ceiling. Wooden pots of various shapes and sizes stood around in the corners, guarding their contents from prying eyes and fingers. Two sacks and several fillets of smoked fish, stood off to the side, away from everything else, as though waiting for something. Absolon had tried for a second to figure out why that was there instead of with the other foods but he drew a blank, eventually giving up. It was none of his business anyway.

Stepping inside, he noticed his breath hanging in the air in clumps as it had done outside. Shivering, Absolon had to wrap his clothes tightly around himself in order to stave off the painful blood-red bites of the cold. Unlike the much more solidly built main home, it was not meant to preserve a large amount of warmth, no doubt to preserve the foods contained within better. His hosts had graciously provided him with blankets and straw for a bed but it would not enough to keep him warm. Pondering, he waved his wand, casting a warmth charm around himself, careful to put into place the rune to keep the temperature stable and only extend it as far as his own bed, leaving the foods in the cool grip of the storehouse’s atmosphere. Through this, the pull bored painful channels through his hands, but to Absolon, it was better than the agony of the red cold biting on his skin. At least he could not see the pain of the pull.

When his stomach grumbled in the middle of all this, he had been ordered not to touch the foods in the storehouse but instead wait for either a meal to be brought to him or to be invited inside to eat. Despite his hunger, it was a command Absolon obeyed. His life, he realised, depended on it.

After his hosts had gone, he had unpacked the few belongings he had brought with him to the north. His clothes he had hung close to where he was to keep them within the warming spell’s reach but the illicit Book of Woo that he had been given was placed on a shelf as close to his makeshift bed as possible, where he could see it. He had wanted to keep it safe.

Wrapping the rough woollen blankets around himself, he had found that they prickled at his skin, causing his vision to be tinted at the edges with an unpleasant dark yellowish-green. Nevertheless, Absolon refused to remove it, knowing that the cold would be worse. Instead, he closed his eyes, curling in on himself so that the blankets touched not his skin but his much smoother clothes that he was already used to.

Greta had come by later carrying a bowl of some thick vegetable broth with oats, and herbal tea. She did not stay long, however, only remaining for a moment to hand him the meal before leaving again. To his surprise, Absolon found himself missing the girl’s company but the scent of food immediately distracted him. Nevertheless, he took the time to say a short grace before eating. No matter how hungry he was, he could not neglect the Woo.

The food itself was not particularly filling but it was warm and after almost an entire day hungry, it provided some relief. As much as he wished for some sugar to ease the ache of the pull, it would have been ungrateful to ask them when they had already done so much for him. Afterwards, with only the fire to provide light, Absolon had prayed again to the Lord Woo, thanking him for delivering him here, to the north, and asking for guidance on what to do next. Only when he was satisfied did he spread a blanket across the straw to protect himself from its rough itching, covered himself with another along with his cloak and closed his eyes, hoping for another vision from the Woo telling him where to go. His sleep, however, was dreamless.

When Absolon woke, a pale stream of light through the tiny window indicated it was just coming close to dawn. He gasped as crimson bit on his cheeks, telling him all he needed to know about the temperature: the warmth spell had worn off. Painfully stretching his hand out into the cold out of the warm safety of the blanket and, wincing from the red cold that invaded his eyes, Absolon dragged his clothing underneath it. Only when his body heat had warmed the fabric did he slowly put it on, giving his body time to adjust to adjust to the weight and texture He dressed warmly, pulling on his monk’s robes on top of the warm clothes that he had bought on the journey up. Just as he was about to wrap his cloak around his shoulders, there was a soft knock on the storehouse door.

“Absolon?” Greta’s blue voice called out behind the door. “Mama and papa want you in the house.”

He sighed and stood up, tying his wand holster around the cord that served as his belt and opened the door, stepping into the world outside.

A thin, pale layer covered the ground around them, making a faint rusty crackle as it sank under Absolon’s feet. He flinched at the sound and looked down. Yesterday’s snow. It had not lasted long, nor was it particularly deep, but he found himself staring at it nevertheless. Corvus, even northern Corvus, had so rarely gotten snow, and yet here, it had already fallen even though it was so early in the year. But of course it would, he was in the north after all. Seisyll’s words from last night echoed in his mind: he would get sick of snow very soon.

Pushing that thought away, Absolon hurried after Greta towards the house of her parents. She opened the door and quickly beckoned him inside, an invitation which he did not hesitate to take up. Ducking under the doorframe, he stepped into the dwelling of his hosts.

There were no walls inside, with only partitions providing any kind of privacy for the people behind them. Just like the storehouse, the main house was mainly lit by lamps and a fire pit, with the only natural light streaming in from a covered hole in the roof to let the smoke out. Aside from a few benches and a roughly made table, the house was almost completely unfurnished, with only hay and rushes covering the ground beneath. The benches had been covered in blankets and furs to make them more comfortable. As for the table, it groaned with a wide variety of plants and herbs as well as implements such as wooden pots and a mortar and pestle, at which Ulrika sat working. Above, the roof was supported by wooden beams, the lowest of which were adorned with hooks from which crockery and more herb bunches hung. It was them that, along with the smoke, gave the house its smell.

Absolon closed his eyes, feeling them begin to sting slightly. His own fire he had enchanted but this one had no such spells on it to keep the smoke from going everywhere. For a moment, he wondered if he should cast the spell here too but he needed to conserve his magic, and did he wish to somehow offend his hosts by overstepping his boundaries. Instead, the young man rubbed his eyes and carefully opened them, though just in case, he kept them narrowed and faced away from the direction of the fire.

“If you want food,” his hostess’s green voice pierced through the smoke-induced discomfort. “I left some for you. Otherwise, there is work for you.”

She pointed him to a bowl sitting on the opposite side of the table before returning to the herbs in front of her. Removing his cloak and keeping his head down, Absolon walked over and picked the bowl up, along with the spoon that lay beside it. It was porridge, though to his disappointment, without anything added make it more palatable. He suppressed the thought as soon as it entered into his mind. The Woo and his hosts had both given him this food; he should not be ungrateful.

Taking it aside, Absolon held the bowl in front of him and quietly murmured a grace before wolfing it down. Only when he had finished did he notice Seisyll standing over him.

“If you are done, I require your assistance,” the healer said, glaring down at Absolon, his navy voice darkening the young man’s vision. “Greta? Take his bowl and go scrub it.”

The girl scurried up, keeping her head low and took his dishes, running off outside to go clean them, all without saying a word to either him or her father. It was odd but he tried not to think about it. There would be plenty of time to talk with Greta later. For now, he had to repay his hosts’ generosity.

Absolon stood up and followed Seisyll behind one of the screens. Behind it, a man lay unmoving on straw under heavy blankets, his skin waxy and pallid. Bloody moss and bandages lay off to the side around him along with various poultices and herbs.

A crackle from the fire caused him a flinch and close his eyes as the scarlet spread across them. Seisyll frowned.

“First time seeing an injured man?” he snorted. “Not much of a healer, are you?”

The younger man swallowed, shaking his head. “It’s...it’s not that,” he carefully approached the patient, kneeling down by his side, next to the healer. “What...what happened to him?”

“He was gored by a deer a few days ago while hunting it for the harvest sacrifice. The wounds are deep and he has lost a lot of blood,” Seisyll replied coldly and calmly, lifting up the man’s blankets, exposing several barely covered gashes. “Since you apparently have magical healing powers...what can you do about this?” He removed the bandages, exposing the ragged wounds to the air.

Despite himself, Absolon recoiled as he stared at the injuries. He had seen hurt people during his healing mage training in the monastery but never like this. They had been roughly stitched up and moss still clung to where the blood had dried but it hardly looked like enough to heal them. Their sickly smell was enough to make the porridge churn in his stomach. The ache in his chest too, made itself known, pulsing beneath his ribs as his heart rate increased.

A weak gasp escaped from the man and the colour flashed in his eyes, a disgusting mix of yellow, green and grey. He winced, closing his eyelids tightly against it.

Seisyll cast him a disgusted glare. “If you want to stay here, you have to earn your keep. We cannot spare food for a layabout.”

“I know,” Absolon bowed his head and took out his wand, holding it tightly in his right hand. “Has...has he broken any bones?”

“Several ribs, but we have set them. The wounds and the blood loss is a bigger concern,” the healer turned to him. “So what can you do with your apparent magic, stranger?”

“I...” the young man swallowed again, forcing the bile in his stomach down, and forced himself to focus through the pain flaring inside him. He knew how to heal gashes and broken bones at least.

“Vulnera Sanwootur,” he whispered and green light swirled out of his wand, working its way towards the wounds. They began to close up, their depth reduced to something less life-threatening. This was good enough. Then... “Ossis emendo.”

A faint tingle of the pull stroked at the tips of his fingers, forcing Absolon to cut the spell short. Clearly he had not recovered fully. If only he had something sweet to help him with it but it was unlikely- given his thin meals- that his hosts had much to spare.

“Impressive,” Ulrika’s voice rang out above him. “That would have taken us weeks.”

Absolon sighed, clenching his eyes tightly shut. “I did what I could,” he said quietly. “His blood is still low. There’s a potion for that but-”

“We can manage any healing tonics,” Seisyll cut in sharply, his voice making Absolon wince. “We’ve done it before.”

“This...this is magic though,” he murmured. “You brew it and cast a spell over the mixture.”

“Why?” Ulrika asked above him. “Herbs work just as well without magic”

“This...this enhances them. Makes them stronger...I think,” Absolon replied. He had been taught some potion-brewing as part of his training in the monastery but it had never interested him as much as pure magic, nor was he as good at it.

“You think,” the woman narrowed her eyes, her voice acquiring a darker tint. “But you don’t know.”

There came a sigh from Seisyll. “Ulrika, if it has any chance of helping...I’m willing to try it.”

Absolon smiled and bowed to him, pausing for a few seconds to take several deep breaths. There was an expectant silence as both healers waited for him to speak and he gratefully took advantage of it to allow the colours to fade out of his vision.

“I need...nettle, beetroot, and...and...” he hesitated, trying to think of the word in their language. However, his mind was empty. He had never asked Elijah the names of any of these things. The first two he had only picked up by luck, as food ingredients.

“Speak up, what do you need?” Ulrika growled, making the young man wince at the sharpness and suddenness of her voice.

“They...they are used as..to make it thick. And for strength,” he swallowed nervously. “But I don’t know what they are called in your tongue.”

Seisyll cast him a glance. “So do you or do not know how to make this tonic?”

“I do. I swear to the Lord Woo, I do.”

“As I said yesterday, that name means nothing,” the healer continued to glare at him.

“Regardless, if we don’t know what we need, we’re stuck. If you don’t know the word, your southern knowledge is useless,” Ulrika sat back down on the bench. “We will have to rely on our methods.”

There was a scurrying from the door as Greta returned, her footsteps so quiet that they barely registered in Absolon’s vision.

“Oh, Greta,” her mother called to her. “Since you failed to get what I needed yesterday, you should go find that today. If the frost gets bad and you still haven’t found it...” she narrowed her eyes.

“...Yes, mama. I understand,” the words were barely audible to Absolon, only producing a slight blue tint in his eyes. She sounded so scared, but that was understandable. If he was being forced to go into the forest again and confront something as awful as that creature, he would too. His heart clenched tightly with sympathy.

“Wait,” he got up to his feet. “I’ll go with you.”

“You will do no such thing,” Ulrika’s voice was coloured with a hint of red. “You are required to stay here and help us.”

Absolon closed his eyes, wincing slightly as her voice spilled over his eyes. “Please? I can protect her. And-“ he smiled slightly. “I can try to find the ingredient? I’ll know it by sight.”

Ulrika pondered this. “You can go later. For now,” she pointed to the man, “Try to help him.”

“I’ve done all I can,” he swallowed. “If we...if we go together, we can search together. And I can protect her.”

“That’s why she has her cat,” the woman replied. “She can manage fine out there.”

He opened his eyes, staring up at Ulrika. “You say that...even though she got attacked yesterday, and almost killed?”

She gritted her teeth together, looking away from him. “I know that. But she’ll...she’ll be fine. She’s always come back before, no matter what.”

“At least give her some iron like the elder says?”

The woman shook her head. “Iron is wasted on a changeling who attracts fairy like flies.”

Absolon winced, closing his eyes and letting the harsh colour of her voice dissipate. “Then why won’t you let me go with her? I can protect her.”

She lowered her eyes, pausing just long enough to provide him with some relief. “You just don’t understand-”

“Ulrika,” Seisyll had gotten up and put a hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, savouring his touch.

The man smiled down at her briefly before turning back to Absolon. “If you go out into the forest, can you find the ingredient and bring it back?”

Absolon nodded vigorously. “Yes, I can. I’ll know it by sight.”

Seisyll nodded before turning back to his wife. “I want to give this a chance. Torcull’s wounds have been healed and he is stable for now, enough for us to wait for this. But he also needs regular medicine,” he leaned down to his wife and kissed her cheek. “And for that I need you. We can do without the stranger’s company for a few hours.”

Ulrika’s shoulders drooped and she sighed. “You’re right,” her eyes locked on to Absolon once again. “Go then.”

Absolon grinned widely and bowed deeply to both his hosts. “Thank you,” he turned around and smiled at Greta. “...if you want my company, that is.”

The girl nodded eagerly and even through the smoky interior, he did not miss her green eyes lighting up for the first time since he saw her that morning. Without further hesitation, he walked back over and grabbed his cloak. Greta too, picked up Snowflake and dashed out of the door, waiting for her companion.

Part 7

SPOILER: Click to show

He did not realise how dark it had been inside the house until the bright light of the outside assaulted his eyes. Absolon winced at the soundless white flash that hit his eyes and ducked down, covering his ears reflexively and pressing his knees against his chest. Despite the lack of crackling fire and the only voices calling were distant and faint, the ambient sounds of outside also struck his ears, flooding his vision with a variety of colours. He gasped, trying to block them out before they could overwhelm his vision. It took him a few seconds before he dared to crack open his eyes and another few before he could look up.

Greta waited for him up ahead silently, with only her eyes betraying her concern. Not wanting to keep her waiting, Absolon stood up shakily and followed her out of the village and towards the forest. As they walked, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed people talking amongst themselves and saw the grey-tinted murmurs of their voices. They irritated the edge of his vision like flies and he hurried on after Greta, eager to get away from the village.

The forest they entered into, however, was almost totally silent save for the slight crunch of thin snow beneath their feet, barely enough to make even the sensitive young man wince. Snowflake had leapt out of Greta’s arms and padded ahead of the two. They finally reached a deer track and began to walk along it.

“Absolon,” the girl spoke up, turning to him. “Why do you do that?”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“You squat and cover your ears,” she hopped back along to his side. “Why?”

He lowered his eyes. “It’s...” he sighed. “Whenever somebody talks or there is any sound, I...I see a colour. And sometimes, it gets too much and it hurts.”

“You can see sounds?” Greta stared at him. “Is that also part of being magic?”

“No, it’s...it’s different. It’s only me,” Absolon sighed. “I’m strange.”

“I’m sorry,” she leapt on to a high root, holding out her arms and walking along it briefly. “Is that also why you don’t like to be touched?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure,” the young man watched her as she walked. “The pain for when I’m touched is connected, however. I see the same thing when I am touched as when I hear a sound, and both can overpower me just as easily.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t like being touched either,” Greta hopped off the root and bowed her head. “I won’t talk then, if it hurts you.”

“No,” Absolon shook his head and smiled at her. “Your voice is pretty. I...I like it. I’d rather hear it than a lot of others.”

“Really?” she grinned back and tilted her head. “What does my voice look like?”

Absolon stopped and closed his eyes briefly, focusing on the echoes of her voice as they faded away. “It’s blue, like the sky. Faint but I like it like that. It stops it being too much.”

“I’m glad. I don’t want to be overwhelming,” she lowered her gaze away from him. “I don’t want to annoy you either, like I annoy mummy and daddy.”

A frown spread across his face. “Your parents...they don’t seem to...” he swallowed, wondering how to put this. “They are harsh.”

Greta seemed to deflate. She grabbed the edges of her shawl, fiddling with it. “Daddy prefers to ignore me. But mummy doesn’t like me. She says I am bad luck, and she sends me away whenever she can,” the girl bit her lip. “I try to be quiet, to not annoy them, but I know I do. I see the way they look at me.”

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Absolon gave the girl a sympathetic glance. “I can’t imagine you annoying anybody.”

“I do,” Greta whimpered and shook her head. “It’s bad to talk about it. Mummy doesn’t like me talking about it, not even with the other villagers.”

He stopped and closed his eyes, letting the colours of their voices fade away. Though the forest was quiet, with even the trees only stirring slightly and Greta’s voice was beautiful, the extended conversation was beginning to form thick layers over his vision, blinding him and dividing his concentration.

Absolon waited until he finally recovered before turning to her. “Do you have any other friends?”

She shook her head again. “Only Snowflake.”

“And what about other children?”

“Other children don’t want to play with me. They’re scared.”

“Why would they possibly be scared of you?”

Greta hesitated and weakly kicked at a branch lying in their path. “Because...I attract evil things.”

Absolon frowned. “Like the unseelie fairy from yesterday?”

Greta nodded.

“How?”

“I don’t know. Mummy says it’s because I’m one of them, that they’re trying to take me back,” she reached up to fiddle with a lock of her hair again. “But the elder tested me and iron doesn’t hurt me, and I can’t do magic like fairies can either.”

“Iron...” Absolon paused, remembering the iron that had been placed on his palm as well. “Does that hurt the fairy?”

“Iron, salt and silver,” Greta hurried up ahead and picked up Snowflake. “Cats can also sense unseelie beings. It’s why Snowflake protects me.”

The cat gave off an annoyed mew and wriggled out of her arms, running ahead and then crouching down to stalk something in the dying undergrowth. Greta sighed, watching him.

Absolon pondered this. Salt and silver were also considered pure in Corvus due to their connection with the Lord Woo. and the unseelie being had also been scared of the feather on his neck. So the Woo’s power had some effect on them, even if this was not His domain.

The young man’s face broke out into a smile. Despite how forsaken this land was, the Woo had not abandoned him completely.

Still smiling, he turned to the girl. “You have me to protect you now too. Me and the Lord Woo both.”

Greta blinked in confusion but immediately nodded. “You do protect me. You saved me, and you’ll save me again, right?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

“And you don’t think I’m evil or bad luck, do you?” she murmured.

“No,” Absolon shook his head and smiled. “Nobody with a voice like yours and as nice as you could ever be like that. And...” he lowered his eyes. “I once knew somebody whose son was a fairy child. That did not mean he was evil, just he was different,” his shoulders drooped. “I’m...different too.”

A part of him felt like a liar for saying that. The ache in his chest and the colours in his eyes were, after all, proof of some sort of sin. But this girl did not need to know that, even if she could understand the idea of sin.

“Absolon...”

He turned to her suddenly, tilting his head at her. The girl looked away, seeming nervous.

“Can...can we be friends?” she murmured.

Absolon stopped and smiled widely. “Of course,” he nodded. “You’re the only person in Eo I know well, and the only one who is not suspicious of me.”

The grin on her face and the light in her eyes could have turned night into day. “Really?!”

“Of course,” the young man nodded. “I’ll be your protector and your friend.”

Greta stepped towards him and for a moment, Absolon braced himself against her touch but she only walked behind him, towards a small shrub that was still green. As she crouched down and busied herself with it, Absolon closed his eyes and sat down. As pleasant as her sky blue voice was, and as much as he did not mind his own, when it built up over long conversations, it was as unpleasant as one blast of loud noise.

But this was nice. The forest was quiet and there was only Greta. Without thinking, he put his hand down and immediately tore it away as the blood-red cold bit into it.

The snow, of course. It was not going to stay this pleasant for long. The winter could be upon them very soon. Involuntarily, he shivered. This was not even so late in the autumn. He had no idea what would happen in its depths.

“Absolon?” Greta spoke above him and he opened his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I had to...when the colours build up, I have to have some quiet,” he explained.

“Oh,” she bowed her head. “I thought you liked my voice.”

“I do,” he nodded. “But sometimes I need quiet, even if your voice is nice. But I like listening to it, don’t get me wrong, and I like being around you.”

The smile on her face returned and she held up a few branches of the shrub she had picked. Even from here, he could detect a pine-like smell.

“I found the herb for mummy,” Greta remarked proudly and wrapped them up in her shawl, “Now we need to find...what did you need?”

“I’m not sure,” Absolon pondered. “They are...round, brown things that grow on large trees.”

“What does the tree look like?” Greta asked, tilting her head. “What are its leaves like?”

“Wait, I’ll show you,” Absolon took out his wand. “Flagrate,” he murmured. The tip of his wand glittered with green light and he began to move it in a wave pattern. As it trailed through the air, it left a thin line of green fire. Focusing, he first drew the leaf stem and then a wavy border around it.

The girl’s eyes widened with recognition. “Oh, it’s an oak!”

“You know where one is?” Absolon flicked his wand to end the incantation before turning back to her.

“Yes. There’s the huge one but...” she swallowed nervously. “It’s by the lake. And the lake has Fuath.”

“What are they?”

“Other unseelie beings. If they catch you, they’ll drown you,” Greta whispered, her eyes darting around as though the very mention of those creatures would summon them.

Absolon shuddered at the word ‘drown’ and reflexively, the pain in his chest convulsed, making him moan. He brought his hands up to press against his breastbone and Greta stiffened, gasping and staring at him. Noticing the girl’s fear, Absolon forced a weak smile on to his face. He removed his hands and reached for his wand, slowly wrapping his fingers around it to get used to the texture without having the pain push back. “They won’t get us. I have my magic, and I promised I’d protect you.”

Greta grinned widely and nodded, running ahead a few steps. “This way then. I’ll take you there.”

He nodded and followed after Greta, though the young man was slower than her, lacking the girl’s sure-footedness and knowledge of the forest. Her cat followed on after them, hanging back as though to give the impression that he was only going in the same direction. Occasionally, Greta stopped to wait for them both, either reaching to pet Snowflake or watch Absolon in case he began to struggle. She was hard to lose though: her blonde hair stood out sharply against the dark bark of the trees, the last of the red and gold leaves that still clung to the branches, the viridian needles of evergreens and the white of the snow.

The cathedral of trees soon began to thin out as a silvery band appeared in the distance between them. Greta headed straight for it, pausing at the edge of the forest as she looked over the water. Absolon stopped behind her, peering out across the lake. It was still, covered in places by a thin layer of ice but small waves still lapped the muddy shore.

He stared at it, frozen in place. Before, the biggest body of water he had seen was the pond, first at the convent and the monastery where they had kept fish. But this place, surrounded by forest and covered in ice, with creatures inside which could potentially come out and drown them...and there was so much water there too. It was enough to spill over and drown a person, even without the creatures who lived inside who could drown him.
His breathing grew shallow and rapid and as much as he wanted to, he could not tear his eyes away from the lake or break his thoughts out of the idea of drowning. In the end, it was the ache in his chest that distracted him. It flared through Absolon’s body, clawing its way through the tendons in his arms and up his windpipe, forcing a cry out of his chest. Instinctively, he ducked down and covered his ears, breaking the lake’s hold on him.

“Greta...let’s get away from here and find the oak tree,” he whispered, not daring to look up. “Please.”

The girl frowned. “It isn’t that noisy,” he put a hand to her ear. “Is it?”

Absolon risked getting up on to his feet. He turned back around, not opening his eyes until he was sure he was not looking at the lake, though he could swear he still felt its presence. “It’s...not the noise. I don’t like water, at least, not when there is so much.”

“Why not?” Greta tilted her head. “You can protect us against the Fuath.”

Absolon’s shoulders drooped. “I can...” he carefully touched the wand in its holster again. “But I am still scared of drowning.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she came closer to him and looked up at him. “We’re far from the lake, we won’t drown. And if the Fuath come, you’ll fight them off, I know you will.”

He turned back to her, meeting her green eyes. It would be a lie to say he was still not scared, not while he was near the lake, and he hardly felt like the protector he claimed to be. But looking into Greta’s eyes, there was nothing but faith.

Nobody had ever shown so much faith in him before. Derision, sympathy and pity, yes, but nobody had ever believed in him. And yet...if she had been targeted by fairy creatures all her life and he was one of the few who decided to protect her, and indeed could protect her, despite his own pain and sin, of course she would have this faith. Perhaps...that was what he had been sent here to do.

Absolon smiled widely. “Of course I will. But...” he closed his eyes, swallowing his nerves. “Can we go to the...” he remembered the word he only just learned “Oak tree?”

Greta nodded and skipped over the roots that stuck out of the earth from a ridge, beckoning him on after her. Absolon followed, doing his best to keep his eyes off the lake as he searched for the oak that was their target.

It did not take long to find. The enormous oak tree stood tall and proud above all the other trees, its wide branches reaching out to grasp its surroundings, supported by a trunk thicker than the columns supporting the roof of a church. It loomed over Greta and Absolon, dwarfing them, almost seeming to glare down at them for intruding upon its domain.

There were many ancient things in Corvus, and yet this tree could easily have been older than all of them, maybe perhaps even older than House Jade itself. Even Absolon could not help but feel some awe while looking at it. He stared for a brief moment before turning his attention to the ground beneath it. Scattered around it in a thick layer amidst the fallen leaves were a great number of tiny acorns: just what they were looking for.

“Greta, those. I need handfuls of those,” Absolon pointed to the acorns. He walked forward to pick them but he quickly realised he was the only one doing so. Glancing back at Greta, he found that the girl was bowing deeply to the tree, her blonde hair draped like a curtain around her head.

“Spirits of the great oak, thank you. I’m sorry I don’t have a proper offering but I hope this is okay,” she murmured before pulling out a few thick strands of her hair and walking forward to place them amongst the roots. Once that was done, she reached out her hands to gather up acorns, using her tatty skirt as a makeshift basket. Absolon tilted his head.

“What was that?” he asked, crouching down beside her. Greta blinked.

“We thank the spirit of the tree and give something back in exchange,” she explained, looking up from the small pile of acorns she had gathered, lifting up her dress to show it to him. “Is this enough?”

“Yes,” Absolon nodded but he continued to watch her, intrigued by what she was saying. “What spirits? Are they like the unseelie fairy?”

“No, they are different from the fairies,” Greta stood up, clutching her skirt close so as to not scatter her freshly acquired acorns. “The spirits live inside old trees. If they are happy, they are kind. If they are unhappy...” she shook her head. “Bad things happen.”

“And the lock of your hair?” Absolon frowned. “Why did you tear that out? Didn’t that hurt?”

“It did. But you have to give the spirits something, otherwise that will make them unhappy,” she nodded. “Come on, let’s go back and give these to mummy.”

Absolon started walking back with her but his mind buzzed with thoughts. Was this what they worshipped in the north instead of the Lord Woo? Compared to the great churches, prayers and hymns that had been created in the Woo’s honour, this felt...bare, not to mention barbaric. A shiver ran down him and he tugged his cloak tighter around himself, closing his eyes against the red sting in his eyes from the cold. Standing still for too long had let the chill seep in.

“Greta, tell me more,” he asked, a feeling of morbid fascination overcoming him. “How many spirits are there? What do they do?”

“There’s lots of them, living in old trees all around us. They rule their individual trees, and most of the time, they’re nice. But there’s one...” the girl seemed to shiver and looked around. Absolon frowned, glancing in the same direction, but he saw nothing.

There was a soft tug on his sleeve as Greta gripped it. “She’s their ruler, and our ruler. She is responsible for the seasons, for life and death,” the girl whispered. “And to please her, you have to give her lots of things.”

Absolon frowned and blinked as he remembered something. “Your mother mentioned a harvest sacrifice? Is that to her?”

“Yes,” the girl nodded. “That’s one of them. But if that one isn’t enough, people say bad things will happen. She’ll make the winter last longer or she’ll ruin the harvest. And then...you have to give more. Lots more.”

The girl exhaled, watching her breath cloud in front of her, and removed her hand from Absolon to wrap her shawl tightly around herself. “We shouldn’t talk about her, especially in the forest where she can hear us,” she murmured and picked up her pace. “Let’s go home and give these to mummy so you can make your potion.”

Absolon hurried on after her, grateful for the increased movement to stave off the cold. A part of him was curious about this supposed spirit. Greta seemed frightened of it but the words she spoke were beyond her age, sounding almost like repetitions of something somebody told her. She had not been scared of the oak and yet, this spirit she spoke of in clipped, terrified tones, as though she was going to find her around the next corner. The words of a sacrifice too, gave him pause. It was forbidden by the Book of Woo but this spirit they worshipped seemed to have no such qualms. And the Priests that he heard mentioned...

Absolon remembered what that man had said to him with such anger when he first arrived in Eo: they had enough priests here. Wooist priests were welcome everywhere wherever people knew the word of the Woo but here, they did not seem to be looked upon as kindly.

He put his hand over the wooden token hanging down from his neck, running his thumb down the central shaft of the feather and closing his eyes as the jade-green texture of the feather washed over his vision. Whatever these people worshipped, he had the Lord Woo. This spirit might have had dominion here but the Woo’s power had not abandoned him either.

As long as he obeyed Him, everything would be alright. He would atone for whatever sins had placed his pain inside him. After all, no matter what they believed in here, Absolon believed in the Woo. And by the Woo’s will, finding a cure for his curse was what he had been sent here to do.

Part 8- Warning for blood, ritual sacrifice

SPOILER: Click to show

After they got back, he did his best to remember his potion-brewing lessons, but that turned out to not be the only obstacle in his path. While the acorns had been easy to get, the same could not have been said of some of the other ingredients. At first he had thought it was just his flawed command of the language that had elicited blank stares from Ulrika but even drawing out the plant in question did not help: she simply did not recognise it. She knew every single plant that could be found in the surrounding area; if she did not know what it was, it did not exist.

It was there that it had occurred to him how much he had taken for granted in Corvus, whilst up here in the north, even the plants were different.

In the end, he had been forced to compromise a few of the ingredients. Describing their properties to Ulrika, they had managed to find several close substitutes amongst the dried bunches in their stores. One plant, however, there was no close counterpart of, and reluctantly, he had left it out. Upon brewing the potion and tasting it, he had expected the worst, but to his relief, it had tasted fine: it weaker, and far less fast-acting, but hopefully serviceable. Without further hesitation, he had administered the potion to their patient. From there, all they could do was wait.

After a lot of intensive care and in no small part thanks to Absolon’s magic, the hunter, Torcull, eventually made a full recovery. Shortly thereafter, his entire family showered the household with gifts. Dried meat and preserved forest fruit were all given, with cheese specifically handed to Ulrika on account of her condition. Absolon had stayed away from this exchange of goods, not wanting to be overwhelmed by the many voices and colours that they brought with them. He would much rather be overlooked than having to deal with strangers. So it had come as a surprise when Seisyll had reluctantly given him a small wooden pot of berries preserved in honey, which he had explained Torcull’s wife wanted Absolon to have for healing her husband so quickly. Given how scarce any sweet things seemed to be in this land, the gift was received as the highest of blessings. They were not peaches, which he had missed dearly since coming here, but not apples either, which he could not eat because of their strong crunch, so he could hardly complain. The fruits had been stored in the most sacred place, beside the Book of Woo, for use later.

What time he did not spend helping Seisyll and Ulrika Absolon spent with Greta. Late in the evenings, sometimes, she visited him in the storehouse and whenever he could, he accompanied her to the forest to pick the last of the few plants that still remained before the frost killed them off. However, he could not help but notice her and her family’s franticness, especially as the days grew shorter and shorter. When he asked why, Absolon was told the time of the harvest sacrifice was upon them.

Those words kept being repeated around him. People from the village coming in for healing, mostly hunters and farmers, kept saying to Seisyll and Ulrika they had to be ready in awed, hushed tones. The conversations ended around him but when the colours were not distracting, he caught enough of their words to know: the whole village was worried. Given what he had learned from Greta underneath the old oak, he could understand why.

He tried not to think about it. What these people did for their god was not his concern, no matter how scared they seemed or how uncomfortable it made him. So he had continued without saying anything.

Absolon had lost track of how many days he had spent in the north; the people here had no calendar like they did in Corvus, or at least none he could recognise. But the blood-red chill upon his skin had grown more piercing, more agonising, and the crimson crunch of frost beneath his shoes whenever he went outside had grown more pronounced. Winter was definitely on its way, and for the first time in his life, he actively dreaded it.

It was sunset. Absolon had been engrossed in his daily prayers, reading from the Book of Peace when a dark grey gust of wind accompanied by the sudden red feeling of cold on his skin interrupted him. He shivered and ducked closer in on himself, trying to preserve the warmth of his body in addition to the spell that he had cast around himself.

“Come with me. I need your help,” Seisyll’s voice rang out in his vision.

The young man looked up, peering through the colours at his host. “Is there an emergency?”

“No,” the healer replied, and ducked down by the two sacks and fishes that had stood off to the side, away from everything else, untouched. Grunting slightly from the effort, Seisyll hoisted one up to his shoulders. For a moment, he shot a thoughtful gaze at the fishes but then turned around, starting to head outside. “Take the other one and follow me.”

It had not been a request and though he did not know why he needed to carry that load, Absolon did not dare refuse. He closed the Book and ended the warming spell with a flick of his wand. Wrapping his cloak tightly around himself, he went over to where Seisyll was standing. For a moment, the young man considered using magic to lift it up but decided that was unwise. Given how much he had been relying on magic to keep himself warm, he needed to conserve it to avoid the pull. So, gritting his teeth, Absolon wrapped his hands around the sack lifted it up on to his shoulders. Immediately, he regretted his decision. Agony blossomed all the way down his back where the weight pressed down upon him, staining his vision an ugly muddy brown from the sack’s texture and black from the weight. A moan escaped from his mouth and the young man’s knees buckled slightly under him. Like a man pulling his hand away from a fire, he dropped the sack and let it go, gasping for breath as he waited for the pain to pass.

“It’s not that heavy,” Seisyll remarked, his voice dark with scorn, making Absolon wince even more. “And Ulrika can’t carry it.”

“I know...give me a moment,” Absolon whispered, taking several deep breaths. He had no choice, he thought as he, took out his wand. Still keeping his eyes closed, he pointed it behind him. “Wooguardium Leviosa.”

The heavy sack floated up into the air, seemingly light as a feather. Absolon gasped with relief and while still holding his wand out to keep the spell going, carefully wrapped his hand around it. He closed his eyes as the rough brown once again hit his eyes but without the black, agonising weight, it was not unbearable. Carefully, he pulled the sack over to himself and looked up at Seisyll, waiting for a command.

If the healer thought anything about Absolon’s unorthodox method, he did not voice his thoughts. Instead, he walked out of the door with his own load and Absolon followed. Ulrika was waiting for them, holding on to Greta with one hand and wrapping her thick shawl over her belly with the other. The girl herself was carrying a bright torch, its light glistening off the deepening snow.

They were not alone outside. All around, the people of Eo were walking in clusters, stepping through the snow like tentative deer. Much like Absolon and his hosts, some carried torches while others carried sacks or wooden containers, or even entire animals trussed up over their shoulders. At a glance, he saw Torcull, the man he healed, as well as various other patients that had come in to the house over the past few days. And all were going in the same direction: the forest.

The group joined up with the procession of villagers, with Ulrika pressing herself against her husband and burying her head into his shoulder, to which he responded by wrapping an arm around her. Absolon, meanwhile, moved over to walk by Greta, narrowing his eyes painfully against the crimson crunches of snow all around him.

“Why are we going there?” he asked her.

“To give the harvest sacrifice,” she whispered.

Absolon swallowed, a sinking feeling settling into his stomach. He took another glance at the people walking around him. Solemn, their eyes downcast, they clung to their burdens as though to lost loved ones even as they proceeded through the snow that had fallen, thicker now with the onset of winter.

He shuddered but not only from the cold seeping in through his clothes or the various shades of scarlet in his vision irritating the pain in his chest. It was as though they were all going to a funeral.

Above the procession, the mostly naked branches of the forest rustled. Their black-green song tickled the edge of his vision, melding with the colour of the sackcloth scratching him and the red crunching of feet in the snow. He gasped, closing his eyes against the sound and running through the passages of the Book of Woo to give him strength against whirls of colour in his eyes. Presently, however, Absolon became aware of another sound: a pale green, soft whimper, barely there were it not for the colour alerting him. Yet it was not the sound by itself that surprised him; he knew who that shade of green belonged to.

Though the tints in his vision, the young man cast his glance over to Ulrika. Her blue eyes were wild and wide as they dashed around, taking in their forest surroundings. Her chest rose and fell rapidly and she clung to Seisyll as though he was a piece of wood that was keeping her afloat in a raging current. One hand was on her stomach, rubbing her belly

“Are...are you alright?” Absolon whispered.

She snapped her head around to face him. “Fine,” the woman’s hiss was so violent that it made Absolon flinch. Closing his eyes, he stepped back into his place beside Greta.

The girl kept her eyes away from him. “Mummy is afraid of the forest,” she whispered.

“Why did she have to come then?” Absolon asked. “Surely in her condition...”

Greta’s hands tightened around her torch. “Everyone has to come. Everyone has to give something.”

The young man turned back ahead to path ahead of him, though the colours of the snow and the cold were forcing the ache in his chest to rise up. He sucked in several deep breaths and pressed his hand with the wand down upon his breastbone, feeling the jade texture of the feather beneath drown out the other, lesser colours. How much he wanted to be back in the quiet and warmth of the storehouse instead of going to some pagan ceremony but he knew he had no choice. At the very least, he could pray to the Woo and narrow his eyes to prevent himself from seeing too much.

Eventually, the trees moved aside to reveal a large clearing. The first of the villagers had already formed a circle around its edges and shifted to make space for stragglers. Up at the head of the procession, in the centre of the clearing, people were stopping and slowly dispersing to stand by the edges of the crowd, also empty handed. Absolon looked up and through the scattering of people around them he glimpsed an enormous grey stone, surrounded on all sides by food of every variety. Meat, fresh and cured, grains, fruits, fish, everything these people ate was scattered haphazardly in the snow around the stone. More disturbingly, wriggling and struggling in the snow, were several live animals, most of them birds.

The elderly couple in front placed a large head of cheese and several loaves of bread around the stone before moving away to stand with the rest of the crowd, leaving the way ahead clear for Seisyll and Ulrika. Absolon lifted up his head and immediately fell under the gaze of the three figures standing behind the stone.

The first he recognised as Eifion, the elder. The second was an old woman with wizened features. Her clothes were fur-lined and intricately patterned, with a thick emerald cloth, probably the brightest colour he had ever seen people wear here, wrapped around her shoulders and held in place with an iron brooch. Beneath it, he could just barely make out a long thin leather pouch with a symbol stitched into it, though the colours dancing across his vision prevented him from seeing the sign properly. The old woman was watching the healers ahead of him but the third figure stared directly at Absolon. This person was younger, probably closer to his age. His dirty –blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and he wore similar clothing to the old woman, though he lacked the green shawl and the pouch around his neck. His bright blue eyes, fixated on him, made Absolon’s stomach twist. He flinched and bowed his head, turning away from that intense gaze before it could bore into his heart further.

Seisyll hefted the sack off his shoulders and bowed deeply to the woman and the young man. “Priests of the Shifting Tree,” he murmured, tipping the sack out. Turnips tumbled down from it, enough, Absolon suspected, to feed all four of them for a week if they were careful. “Ask Her to bring spring sooner, and to not rob my child of their life before they have barely experienced it.”

“Only offerings will influence Her, healer. You know that” the old woman replied neutrally, the colour of her voice like wine mixed with vomit. Seisyll nodded and turned to Absolon.

“Tip it out,” he ordered and placed his hand around Ulrika’s shoulders, leading her away towards the rest of the crowd. Though he was still cringing from the old woman’s voice, Absolon nodded. He waved his wand, finishing the incantation. The sack dropped heavily on to the ground. Once he had put it back into its holster, he untied it and tipped it on its side. Oats tumbled out like raindrops, scattering across the turnips and on to the snow. He stared at them, swallowing to suppress his disgust the thought of food going to waste like that, especially with the winter coming. But Seisyll, the head of the household, had ordered it to be so, and he had to obey.

Straightening back up, Absolon immediately found himself meeting the gaze of the two Priests. Their eyes bored into him like needles and he immediately tore his head away, feeling the ache in his chest suddenly grow sharp, as though it was responding to the threat of the two people. Taking several deep breaths and gripping his chest, he hurried away from them before either could call him out on his strange behaviour.

Greta followed after him, tugging softly on his sleeve to catch his attention. A slight shade of pale grey fluttered at the edge of his vision as the fabric shifted and he stopped, looking down at her. She pointed to where Seisyll and Ulrika were standing and let go of him, running over to be by the side of her parents. As soon as she saw her, however, her mother looked away, burying her head into her husband’s shoulder. Absolon frowned as he noticed this but pushed it out of his mind. He followed after Greta, taking a spot by the edge of the crowd to avoid being jostled. But surprisingly, though the entire village was gathered here, nobody dared move a muscle or speak a word. The only sounds were the forest, the crackle of torches and occasionally, a sharp yellow cough and the dark ruddy sound of chattering teeth.

As the last of the people of Eo gathered to deposit their offerings into the pile by the dark grey stone, Absolon gasped and pulled his cloak in tighter around himself. The cold was oozing in through his clothes and tiny red pinpricks appeared in front of his eyes as it bit into him, causing the pain to push back in equal force: soft but persistent. He tucked his hands in under his arms and leaned his head down, letting his breath recoil from his arms to warm his face.

Lord Woo, forgive me. Even though I stand here before an altar of another god, know that my thoughts lie with you. You are not forsake-

“People of Eo,” Eifion called out across the gathered crowd, interrupting Absolon’s thoughts with a blast of his brown. “Today we say farewell to the harvest season and prepare for the long winter ahead. And we pray that the Shifter of Seasons will judge our offering to be worthy of her favour.”

He gestured at the stone, now surrounded by food of all types, “I thank you for sparing all this,” the elder smiled weakly. “Though the harvest has been poor, I still pray She will understand and take mercy.”

Absolon stared in disbelief at the pile of food around the altar. This was what they gave during a poor harvest? It could feed the village for days!

He had no time to ponder before the older priest took a step forward, towards the stone. “As life fades, death takes over. As death retreats, life will flourish again. This is the eternal cycle,” she stated. Absolon sucked in several deep breaths of the sharp, cold air, bracing against that voice. The cold and the colours lingering in his eyes were almost on the edge of being overwhelming and in response, the pain in his chest was spreading beyond the confines of his ribcage, tugging at his limbs and going up his throat. His punishment for attending this pagan ritual, no doubt. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, trying to hold in the pressure.

The priest, meanwhile, took out the thin pouch from under her cloak and grabbed the bone handle sticking out of it. She pulled it out and the sharp blade of a knife glittered in the torchlight. The younger man, seeing this, picked up one of the tied up chickens lying in the snow by the legs and placed it down on to the stone. With his left hand, he pressed down its feet while the older priest held it by the head.

Absolon stared in horror. No, they were not going to do what he thought- but that was obscene! No!

“Accept our offerings, Cebeline.”

The knife came down upon the bird’s throat. Its piercing yellow shriek of pain tore through Absolon’s eyes. Biting down on his own tongue so as to not scream himself, he crouched down, pressing his legs against his chest in order to hold back the pressure that had flared throughout his body.

This was wrong. This was beyond wrong. Killing a bird on the altar of a pagan god...

There was another shriek, layering over the previous one in his vision and making the bright yellow unbearable. He moaned with pain and covered his ears with his hands, listening instead to the burgundy of his own blood pumping through his body and the grey of his breath. It did not matter who saw him. He could not watch this.

It took a while before pale murmur of sky-blue interrupted his panic. Absolon dared to open his eyes, only to find himself looking up at Greta. Her expression was wide-eyed and worried and her fingers clung to the torch as though it was a weapon she was going to use to futilely defend herself. Behind her, he could barely perceive movement as the crowd shifted.

He scanned the scene around them. People were beginning to move, the crunch of snow beneath their feet filling the air, only just penetrating through his hands. Seisyll and Ulrika were already hurrying away, as was the elder and the two priests. His gaze swept over them and then landed upon the altar again.

The corpses of the birds lay covering the stone like a grotesque tablecloth, unmoving. Not just the chicken he saw but a duck, pigeon, grouse and a few songbirds too. Fresh blood congealed in their feathers and trickled down the stone. Where it dripped on to the snow, it stained the pure whiteness of it a deep red.

Absolon recoiled and leapt up to his feet. He pressed his elbows against his chest, pressing down upon it as much as he could while keeping his ears shut and ran. All he wanted to do was get away from this place. He pushed through the crowd, not caring who jostled him, not caring about the pain flaring up on all sides of his body. Vague colours of what were no doubt voices calling out to him or the crunch of his boots against snow flashed in his eyes, faint thanks to his hands over his ears but their sheer magnitude still penetrating them, obscuring his vision like a painful curtain. But Absolon did not care about them. As long as he could get away from this evil place, from these sacrifices of birds given to this pagan god, that’s all he needed.

Somehow, he got back to Eo and found his way to the storehouse. Panting, he pushed away the bar that was used to close the door and tore it away, rushing into the building. He fell down on to his knees in the straw and immediately, a sharp red yowl pierced the air. Absolon cried out as the sudden colour blinding him but it was the slap in the face he needed to wake himself up out of his blind stupor.

He just barely noticed the flash of white disappear from out beneath him. Still keeping his ears covered, he blinked and looked around only to meet Snowflake’s hazel eyes peering suspiciously at him from behind several pots. His scar curled as he gave off an accusing mew.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, turning away from the cat. His gaze settled on the Book of Woo, lying where he had left it. A shudder ran through his and he closed his eyes, feeling the cold biting into him painfully.

Removing one elbow from his chest, Absolon reached for his holster, taking out the birchwood wand. He whispered the incantation and the pale green shield burst into being around him, shimmering. Outside, the crunching of snow and the trees rustling in the wind disappeared, blocked by the shield. Though the noise was normally bearable, he wanted silence now.

Wrapping his blankets around himself, he cast the warming charm again, staving off the freezing air. With his comforts restored, Absolon opened the Book and picked up his wooden feather, holding in both hands and pressing it to his lips, just barely feeling its jade texture.

He closed his eyes. Lord Woo, forgive me. May the souls of the birds given up to appease this spirit the people here worship find their way up to you, not to her. Having said the prayer, Absolon stretched out a hand to the Book, caressing its pages and letting his eyes skim over the words.

There was a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Turning his head, Absolon found Greta’s green eyes looking directly at him. He could not hear her voice but he did not have to; the concerned expression on her face was enough to tell him what she was thinking.

He gestured for her to come closer. Gingerly, the girl stepped forward. Snowflake dashed out towards her, rubbing against her legs. She picked the cat up, hefting him up on to her arms and stepped closer to Absolon. Ducking down beside him, she entered into the green shimmering shield, her eyes immediately widening.

“It’s so quiet here,” she whispered.

“I did not want any noise to disturb me,” Absolon replied, lowering his feather to let it hang off his neck again.

“Are you alright?” Greta leaned closer to him. “It wasn’t that noisy at the sacrifice, and nobody touched you.”

“It wasn’t that; it was the birds. I couldn’t watch them being killed,” the young man looked up at his companion, his eyes wide with horror. “How could you stand it? It’s obscene.”

“Obscene?” she blinked, confused. “Why? We give offerings and She will grant us a shorter winter. It’s fair and normal.”

“But the birds...why would you kill anything, let alone birds?” Absolon gasped, feeling the ache in his chest rising up again at the memory. He pressed down, trying to suppress it.

Greta frowned, “Sometimes the Priests give deer or sheep but this year, everyone says they could only spare birds,” she ran her hand down the spine of the cat who had nestled in her lap.

“Birds are the sacred creatures of the Woo. Nobody should be killing them, let alone on an altar,” he murmured, his fingertips stroking the wooden feather on his neck.

“You always mention the ‘Woo’,” the girl remarked, tilting her head. “Who is that?”

“The Lord Woo is...He is my god,” Absolon smiled slightly. “A kind god, one who does not require such sacrifices to appease Him. He only asks you live a good life...and only punishes sinners.”

He closed his eyes briefly, chasing away the colours that had accumulated during the conversation. Sinners like me.

“And birds are His sacred creatures,” the young man murmured. “I do not even eat bird meat. Most Wooists don’t. So sacrificing them...it’s just not done”

Greta bowed her head, thinking about this for a while. “He sounds like a nice god,” she buried her hand in Snowflake’s fur again. “You said he’s the one who gave you magic, right?”

“That’s right,” Absolon smiled. “That is His blessing to humanity.”

“It must be wonderful,” Greta wrapped her shawl tighter around herself. “I wish I had magic like you. Then I wouldn’t have to be afraid of fairy things.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But you have me? And failing that, you have Snowflake.”

“That’s true,” a smile also appeared on the girl’s face. She looked up at Absolon. “Do you want to stroke him? It might make you feel better?”

The young man shook his head fervently. “No, Greta. I...I shouldn’t touch him. Especially since I...might have stepped on him earlier.”

“Oh...that’s okay. Snowflake will forgive you, won’t you, Snowflake?” she shifted the cat off her lap but he slunk back, curling up on her knees, curling his nose so that the scar on his face shifted. Greta giggled and looked back up at Absolon. “I promise it will be nice. Pet him.”

He swallowed, hesitating for a second. What if the cat scratched him or otherwise lashed out?

“Go on,” Greta murmured, rubbing the cat under the chin. “He’s happy. He’s purring. It’s alright.”

Absolon took a deep breath and carefully placed his hand on to Snowflake’s fur. He felt a slight tingle in his hand as the pain of contact surged in and winced for a moment. But then, other things began to filter in: the warmth of the cat’s body, the softness of his white fur and the vibration of his purrs beneath his hand. Combined, the three sensations produced a colour like soft lavender.

He smiled, closing his eyes and running his hand across Snowflake’s flank. Greta continued to scratch the cat behind the ear and he purred, obviously enjoying the attention. Absolon too, began to feel more at ease with the animal. Slowly, all colour filtered out of his vision, leaving only the lavender.

“I told you it would be fine,” she said after a while with a trace of smugness in her voice. “Do you feel better?”

“A little,” Absolon whispered and shivered, wrapping the blanket around himself. He rested his hand on Snowflake’s fur, absorbing the warmth.

“Are you cold?” Greta tilted her head.

“Yes,” he buried his face deeper into the blanket, where the warmth of his spell was concentrated. “This is as cold as it got, back in Corvus.”

The girl’s shoulders slumped. “It’s going to get colder,” she sighed and looked up at him. “I can try to get you more blankets?”

“That would be nice,” Absolon whispered. Woo, if it was going to get colder... “How much colder?”

“Very, very cold. And dark, and snowy,” Greta shivered. “Winter is the worst time.”

The young man gripped his blankets tighter around himself. Inside him, the ache flared at the very thought of cold greater than this one. No doubt this was the Woo’s test. If he wanted to be cleansed of the pain, first he would have to endure this. But that would not make it any easier. Accompanying Greta into the forest would be impossible too, not without risking overload from the cold. Even the thought of it made Absolon wince.

“It will be okay. You can make it. We’ve made it,” Greta murmured, seeing his distress. “I’ll...I’ll come see you too. If that’s alright with you...”

He blinked, looking up at her. “Of course. That will be nice,” he nodded, giving the girl a smile. “I’ll appreciate your company, Greta, anytime.”

“Me too,” Greta murmured, lowering her eyes. “Especially this winter.”

“What will happen this winter?”

“Mummy is going to have the baby. And when that happens,” the girl swallowed. “She won’t want me anymore.”

Absolon blinked and shook his head, trying to smile for her sake. “I’m sure she will,” his voice wavered as he thought of Ulrika and her harshness towards the girl. “But you’re still welcome to see me. I like you, and your voice isn’t too overwhelming.”

Despite his doubts, the girl smiled back, seeming reassured by him. “I’ll bring Snowflake too. It won’t be so bad.”

“No, it won’t be,” Absolon nodded. “I trust you, Greta.” I have to try.

Part 9

SPOILER: Click to show

Much to his relief, it turned out that after the harvest sacrifice, going to the forest was forbidden for all the residents except the hunters. With the cold, the snows and the unseelie beings walking around, it was far too dangerous. And with the frost setting into the ground, any plants that Ulrika would have wanted Greta to hunt down there died off anyway. For better or for worse, they were cut off.

Time passed. The temperatures fell and the snow thickened in a wall around the village of Eo. With the forest out of bounds, Absolon only left the storehouse when the healers needed him. The types of injuries he treated with them changed, and for the first time, he saw what the biting cold could really do to a man. It made him even more adamant to avoid its ravages. The red colour and the pain it inflicted upon him were bad enough already.

This came at a price: there were more than several days where he could feel the pull in the tips of his fingers. Always he had tried to stave off its advance but, combined with his healing and the warming charms that had to be strengthened as the weather got worse that was not always possible; it was either get pulled or freeze to death. On windy days, when the black howl of a winter gale howled through the forest, almost as black as Corvid thunder, he was often forced to choose between the pain of the pull and the agony in his chest at the overload of colour, and more often than he would have liked, he had to choose the latter. On those days, he had spent curled up by his makeshift with his hands over his ears, murmuring prayers to the Woo. He never knew when his magic would be needed to heal after all. Though the preserved fruits and other gifts of food he had received for his services had provided some relief, Absolon was careful to ration them. They had to last him all winter.

However, there was one exception. Though he had lost track of the time that he had spent up in the north, Woomas was still somewhere on the horizon. A northern winter with its darkness and cold snow enveloping the land needed the blessing of the Woo more than ever, even if he was the only one who was going to let it into his heart to combat the misery of winter. Surely, given such circumstances, the Lord Woo would not mind if Absolon celebrated His festival a few days early or late?

It was on one of the days of Woomas when the storehouse door slamming open interrupted Absolon from his thoughts. He winced and shut his eyes tightly against the sudden dark maroon, wrapping his blankets tightly around himself to stop the sudden onslaught of cold. Only once he had recovered from the momentary burst of pain and the sharp colour had faded from his eyes did he open them and turn his head to see who this visitor was.

Greta stood with her back pressed against the entrance, her green eyes wide and terrified. Snowflake had run in with her, just barely missing his tail getting trapped by the door, and was now nudging the girl with his head. However, that barely seemed to have any effect. She was frozen in place, terrified, even as the snow clinging to her boots slowly melted thanks to the warmth of the storehouse.

Absolon looked at her, concern stirring in him as he regarded the girl’s pure fear, “Greta?” he asked, placing his hand on the Book of the Woo in order not to lose his place but lightly enough to only get a hint of sea green. Taking out his wand, he extended the warming charm out to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Absolon...” she murmured and collapsed down beside him, her sobs staining her normally blue voice with a slight shade of green. “It’s mummy. Mummy is having her baby.”

A chill ran down his spine. The young man did not know much about the process, having been raised either in a convent or monastery for most of his life, but he knew enough of its dangers to work out why Greta was so scared.

“Does she need help?”

“No. Mummy and daddy said that we shouldn’t disturb them, unless things go really bad,” Greta whimpered and hugged her knees to her chest. “What are we going to do if mummy dies?”

“She...she won’t,” Absolon’s voice quavered. “Of course she won’t.”

The girl barely seemed to hear him. She buried her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. He twitched with each sob, closing his eyes against the painful colour of his friend’s distress.

“It will be alright,” he tried to smile weakly at her. “The Lord Woo will be with her.”

Greta only continued to cry. Snowflake paced up to her, purring and rubbing himself against her legs but she barely reacted.

Absolon winced, turning himself around to her. “Greta, don’t worry. These are the days Lord Woo has chosen as His own. He would not let anything bad happen on Woomas,” he pointed to the candle that was burning on one of the shelves. “I’ve been praying to Him. He’ll be here, to protect your mother, and to ward off any evil this winter. I promise.”

The girl looked up, her eyes rimmed with red. “Is that...why you’ve been doing all those strange things the past few days? With the candle, and the oats you scattered for the birds, and the wooden feather?”

“Yes, yes,” he nodded, glad that she was talking now instead of crying. Her voice was much more pleasant this way too. “Those are part of the twelve days of Woomas. It is when Wooists, like me, stave off the misery of winter and honour the Woo’s fight against the ‘Pit creature that fed off His people’s energy.”

Absolon stopped, pondering those words. Up here, in the north, where the winter was harsher than anything Corvus ever experienced, and a creature did feed off its people, Woomas suddenly seemed more relevant than ever. “Do you want me to tell you the full story?”

Greta nodded and the young man picked up the Book of Woo, opening up the chapter in the Book of the Heart and reading it to her. As he read, the girl’s sobbing stopped and she listened, enraptured to the very end.

“It sounds...really nice. Lord Woo is so nice, to look after you like that,” Greta murmured when he had finished. “Do you really celebrate for twelve days?”

“Back in the monastery, the ceremonies were larger but here, because I’m alone, I had to do much smaller things,” Absolon took several deep breaths, waiting for the colours to clear from his vision before pushing the Book aside.

“Like the candle? And the scattering of the oats you got instead of eating them?” Greta tilted her head. “What that for the Lord Woo?”

“No, the oats were for the Lord Woo’s birds,” he smiled. “Don’t worry, I got plenty to eat on the eighth day. That was when we are supposed to have a big feast.”

“A feast?” her eyes widened and she bowed her head. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have a feast here.”

“It’s alright. I saved food from my meals earlier. And I had other things that people had given me,” Absolon replied. “I saved as much as I could. That was the point of the seventh day.”

Greta nodded, seeming to understand. She scratched Snowflake behind the ear and looked up at Absolon earnestly. “What day is it today?”

His heart fell and he looked away, curling in on himself. “The day of carols,” he whispered. “When we’re supposed to sing.”

The girl smiled widely. “Are you going to sing?”

“No. I don’t like singing,” Absolon shook his head. Back in the monastery, he had done everything he could to avoid the services on this day. The mass of voices, loud and varied in their colours, all assaulting his eyes and ears, had simply been too painful for him to bear.

“Oh,” Greta curled back in on herself, disappointed. “Don’t you like songs? If they’re quiet?”

“I do,” the young man smiled fondly at his memories of spending time with Elijah and listening to the monk’s bluebell voice sing of the north. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Then why don’t you sing?” Greta’s eyes twinkled. “Or I can sing? Please?”

Absolon pondered this. It was true he did not like singing but he had enjoyed listening to Elijah’s voice, at least before the colours than begun to linger in his vision for longer than usual. However, he liked Greta’s voice too, not to mention the day was silent, lacking the black wind which usually resulted in overload for him. He could spare some attention for sound, and the girl needed a distraction, now more than ever.

“Alright,” he nodded, wrapping his blanket tighter around himself. “You can sing.”

Greta smiled widely and pushed Snowflake off her, clearing her throat and launching into a quiet melody. It was a simple song, about a rowan tree, but it stained her normally sky-blue voice turquoise.

Absolon closed his eyes. He did not know this song; Elijah had never sung it, so he figured it was one his clan and Greta’s did not share. It was, however, without a doubt, beautiful. Despite his fears, the girl’s voice was quiet enough and its colour pleasant enough to not be overwhelming. By the time she had finished, the young man was surprised to find himself smiling.

He kept his eyes closed, waiting for the last of the turquoise notes to fade out before turning to look at Greta. The girl’s green eyes glowed with expectation and she leaned closer to him.

“Was that good?” she murmured. “Or did I...make it hurt for you?”

Absolon shook his head. “No, it was nice,” he smiled at her. “You have a lovely voice, especially when you sing.”

Greta beamed. “Can you sing to me too, Absolon?”

“I don’t...think you’ll enjoy that,” he sighed. “I can’t sing. I never learned.”

“But...I want to hear you sing? Please?” the girl murmured. “Do you know any songs?”

“I do. I learned hymns and carols with the nuns and at the monastery,” Absolon lowered his head, touching a hand to his ear. “But I was always too sensitive to sound to sing them with anybody else.”

“I’m sorry. But there’s only me, and I won’t sing,” Greta smiled at him, stroking Snowflake. “And you can stop if it gets too much. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to hear.”

Absolon lowered his head, thinking about this. They were alone, and he was right, he was under no obligation to keep singing if it hurt. Glancing back at the wall behind him, the one that joined on to the house, he thought briefly about what was no doubt happening beyond. Greta seemed distracted and she needed her thoughts kept away from events surrounding her mother. And today, on the day of carols, what better way than to sing?

“Alright,” he whispered quietly. Greta gasped and her grin widened, reaching from ear to ear. She pulled her cat on to her lap and waited. Every cell in her body was tense with anticipation.

Absolon waited for the colours in his eyes to fade and opened his mouth, letting his pale bronze voice pour out into a hymn. It was one of the earliest ones he had learned, back with the nuns, named simply for its first line: Brood over us with Thy sheltering wing. He sung quietly, not wanting to overload himself, and kept his eyes closed, but to his surprise, the song, with only him singing it, was soothing. After so long speaking out loud only the northern tongue, his native language proved far more welcome to his ears than he could have ever guessed.

Once the song had finished, he exhaled and waited for a while, letting the echoes of his voice fade from his vision. Only then did he open his eyes, only to meet Greta’s beaming face.

“That was wonderful,” she cried, clapping her hands together.

Absolon smiled. “Thank you, Greta. I had never enjoyed singing like that.”

“You should do it more, please?” the girl pulled her hands apart sharply. And from out between her palms, a mote of light, the colour of pine needles, floated out up to the roof. It lingered there for a few seconds before blinking out of existence as though it was a dream.

Both Absolon and Greta stared at her hands, paralyzed. The girl suddenly gave off a sharp cry and pressed her hands down against the floor.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she whimpered. “I shouldn’t have done that, I shouldn’t! Mummy is right, I am a changeling, I am a-” the girl burst into sobs again, wrapping her arms around her cat.

Absolon remained staring at her, mouth open, trying to comprehend what he had just seen. “Greta...you’re a mage,” he finally murmured.

The girl looked up at him, wiping her eyes. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Absolon nodded, leaning closer and smiling at her. “I discovered I had magic by making lights too. You’re a mage, Greta, just like me.”

“L-like you? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Watch,” he pressed his own hands together, concentrating hard just as he had done the first time he conjured these. When he unclasped his hands, a small mote of white light drifted out of his palm and floated up to the ceiling, dissipating in the rafters as though it never existed.

The girl tracked the light’s path with her eyes until it disappeared. When it had, she turned back to Absolon and slowly but surely, an enormous grin spread across her face. “Does that mean...you can teach me magic?”

His shoulders slumped. “No. I don’t know how to teach magic and you need a wand for it.”

“Oh,” Greta dug her fingers into Snowflake’s fur but her smile did not disappear. “I still have magic though. Maybe I will be able to learn something. And I won’t be so helpless.”

“Perhaps,” Absolon nodded again, not wanting to quench the girl’s enthusiasm. He shook his head. “We can discuss this later. Do you want to sing some more?”

“Yes, lets,” she blinked, shyly stroking her cat. “If that’s okay.”

“It is. This isn’t...as bad as I thought it would be,” the young man told her. “Go on. I’ll tell you when it’s too much.”

“Hopefully Lord Woo can hear us through the snow,” Greta looked up at the roof.

Absolon nodded, clasping his hands together. “He can. He can hear all His worshippers. Especially on Woomas.”

Encouraged, the girl opened her mouth, her turquoise voice weaving into another, slow, quiet song.

Part 10

SPOILER: Click to show

Absolon’s assistance with the birth was, mercifully, not required. Greta stayed with him in the storehouse the whole day and the entire night until, early next morning, a very exhausted-looking Seisyll arrived. Though the man seemed stoic as usual, it was hard to miss the smile threatening to tug at the corners of his face. He told them both the good news: his and Ulrika’s child was born healthy. A son, named Amund, in honour of Ulrika’s late father. Greta had wanted to go see him, and ran out of the storehouse, but Absolon declined; he had no desire to go see a child, one who might begin screaming at any moment.

But no matter how much he wanted it to sometimes, life did not stop because of his fears and sensory issues. Now with the child born and the winter still dragging on, he was called on to help with healing more than ever.

A week or so after Woomas ended, Absolon had been called on to assist with another hunter who had slipped and broken his leg while chasing quarry. Him and Seisyll together had managed to fix the injury but the pull travelling up his arms warned him to not attempt to tackle the extensive bruising. The healer had given him a dirty look, making Absolon recoil, but whatever disapproval Seisyll felt, he did not express it further. Instead, he turned to face Greta who was sitting a short distance away from her mother and playing with the cat.

“Greta, bring the salve for bruising,” Seisyll instructed, turning back to the hunter.

She nodded and stood up but immediately stopped. “Where is it, daddy?”

Ulrika looked up, her eyes fixing on the girl. “Middle shelf in the far corner,” she replied, looking back at the baby in her arms with a far softer expression. “It’s the jar covered with grey cloth. I’ve even sewn a circle on it to identify it easier.”

Greta nodded again and rushed over to the shelf, peering through its dark nooks as she looked for her target. “I can’t see it. There’s no light.”

“Then get a candle and look, girl,” her mother remarked, letting a faint note of irritation slip into her voice as she turned back to Greta. “It’s very si-”

There was a startled cry from Ulrika, her olive voice tainted with yellow. Seisyll immediately looked up to see what was going on. Absolon flinched away, snapping his eyes shut at the sudden sound but his curiosity overcame him and eventually, he had to look up to see what had happened.

The woman was on her feet, her blue eyes wide as she stared at Greta. The girl had turned around, her confused expression lit up with the pine-coloured glow emanating from the light in her hand.

Seisyll leapt up, striding over to his wife and putting his hands on her shoulders. His eyes turned towards Greta, solidifying into a glare. “What are you doing?”

“I was just...I didn’t want to take a candle so I-”

“You made light,” Ulrika spat, so angrily that it made Absolon wince and clench his eyes shut.

Greta nodded, “Y-yes...but it’s nothing bad,” she craned her neck, looking past her parents, right at Absolon. “It’s not bad, tell them.”

He swallowed and stood up, taking several deep breaths and walking over to the couple. “It’s...it’s nothing to be worried about. It’s a...a manifestation. Of magic. Like mine.”

“And why would she ever have southern magic?” the woman hissed, hugging her baby closer.

Absolon flinched at her words, clenching his eyes tightly. “Because...” he trailed off. How could Greta, a northern pagan, have the Lord Woo’s magic? It made sense when he saw it yesterday, in relation to his own experiences, but the more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. “I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t. You know nothing of the north, and Greta-“ Ulrika’s eyes flickered over to Seisyll. “Is not from the south. She never was. I always knew she was not our daughter,” her voice filled with dark venom “And I was right.”

Seisyll frowned. “Ulrika...are you saying.”

“It explains everything, Seisyll,” she replied, scowling. “How she attracts fairy things, her eyes and hair, how she brings bad luck...and now this.”

“You always called her one...”

Ulrika nodded. “You’ve always doubted me but this proves it.”

Greta’s eyes filled with tears. “Mummy-”

“Don’t you dare call me your mother, you changeling!” Ulrika screamed, making Absolon cry out with pain and double over, clutching his hands to his ears.

“Stop,” he murmured, pressing his chest against his knees. The pressure was beginning to build in his chest, writhing inside his ribs, threatening to spill over.

The girl had begun to sob. “I’m not a...”she looked over at Absolon. “I’m not...he said I’m not.”

She reached her hand over to her mother but the woman recoiled away from her, cuddling her son closer to in her arms. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

“But mu-”

“You’ll steal this child as well! I’m not going to let you.”

“Ulrika-” Seisyll growled.

“I really am a mage,” Greta cried, “Absolon, tell her, please.”

He tried to open his mouth to defend her but the invasive colour of the three voices, loud and piercing, had made the ache in his chest flare up through his entire body. The only sound that came out of him was a gasp of agony.

“What does he know?! Don’t rely on the foreigner’s help because he doesn’t know better! You changeling, you fairy child, you-”

The baby began to scream. Absolon had to bite his tongue not to do the same as the vicious yellow sound flooded over his eyes, lingering even behind his eyelids. He buried his fingers in his hair, clutching at his ears in a futile attempt to block all the noise. His world had become nothing but the yellow layered violently over the already vivid green and blue and the hammer-blows inside his chest threatening to break him apart. He pressed his knees to his chest, trying to keep himself together and tried to take a breath but that simple action merely jolted the pain inside him. He was drowning in sound.

A vague blue sound pierced through the haze, forcing him to attention. Greta. Absolon forced himself to look up and open his eyes only to see the girl dash out of the house. He barely caught a glimpse of the snow and darkness outside before the door closed behind her.

What had he done? If he had not gotten overwhelmed, he could have stood up for her. And now Greta was alone, outside...

The baby’s cries began to fade, slowly draining the redness out of his eyes. As soon as the pain faded to a slightly manageable level, Absolon leapt up to his feet, his eyes wide as he stared through the lingering colours at where Greta had been a few moments ago. He had to get her back.

With his arms, he pressed down on his chest, holding himself together, and forced his legs to move, stumbling into a disorientated run. Stopping only to pull the door open, he burst out into the freezing cold. The night was briefly illuminated by light from the house before the door shut, leaving him out in the dark. Snow crunched deep red beneath his feet and the biting of the icy air sent colour like rivulets of blood across his vision. Absolon gasped at every sound, clenching his eyes tightly shut. Pain flared inside him where he colour caressed his skin and he tucked his hands close to his body, both to keep them warm and to press down on his ribs to keep it from bursting out.

Shivering, he wrapped his cloak around himself and took out his wand. He whispered an incantation and spring green light burst from its tip. With the darkness banished, small footprints appeared in the glittering snow. No doubt they were hers. Holding it up in his right hand to get the maximum amount of illumination and keeping his left around his torso, Absolon forced himself forward, even as he strained to keep himself together against the cold.

“Greta!” he shouted hoarsely and immediately coughed as the cold air funnelled down his throat. Muddy yellow punctuated each spasm and he doubled over, still clutching his arm around himself. Nevertheless, Absolon forced himself to move his feet, putting one in front of the other. “Greta!”

No answer. He kept walking, following her footsteps. Woo, it was cold, so cold. His eyes were almost overflowing with redness while his skin prickled as the ache pushed against it. He could swear icicles were forming upon it and driving their points into his skin.

He wandered, half-blinded, through the village. His feet moved forward automatically, unsteady, blinded by the dark red hue that was fed on the crunch of each footstep. Absolon barely felt the bump beneath them but it was all it took to have him topple into the freezing snow.

The snow soaked through his clothes, cold spreading through his skin, and in response, inside him, the pressure almost exploded as it tried to fight against the unconquerable chill. He screamed loudly, dropping his wand and hugging himself tightly to keep his body together. Thoughts of the injuries he had seen, frostbite and hypothermia if he could recall, flashed across his brain. If he got those...

“Absolon?” the sky blue voice, though tinted with green, layered on top of the colours of the snow and cold. He forced himself to look up and found Greta staring at him. “What happened?”

“I...” he pushed himself up to his knees, picking up his wand. “I fell.”

“You lied to me.”

He recast the light spell and in the green glow, he saw frozen tears streaking her face.“I’m sorry.”

“You could do this too, but it’s not your magic, is it? It’s fairy” she sobbed. “I’m a fairy child. Now mummy and daddy hate me even more!”

The cold forced him to close his eyes. His teeth chattered, each click sending a rusty brown hue piercing through his eyes. He tightened his jaw against it, trying to remove at least one source of colour. There was already enough cold and colour to keep him barely on the edge of overload, he did not need to be driven over that borderline.

“I don’t...I don’t know what your magic is. It-it might be of the Woo, it might...not be. But you’re...you’re not evil. Or a fairy,” Absolon gasped. He pulled his cloak in around himself in a futile attempt to keep warm, though he was careful to keep the light-giving wand exposed.

Greta shivered, tucking her hands under her arms. “Then why didn’t you say anything to mummy and daddy?” she looked up at him, fresh tears pouring from her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I got...overwhelmed. Too many voices, too many sounds...” Absolon doubled over again, wrapping his arms around himself. “It’s cold. Woo, it’s so cold...”

He had never been so cold in his life. Even the storehouse kept more warmth in than this, and he had always tried to keep himself warm with his magic. Moving between his home and the house only ever took less than a minute too. But out here, in the dark, without the protection of dry clothes, he was vulnerable.

In a last-ditch effort, he took out his wand to cast the charm. “Cal-” his teeth chattered, cutting the incantation off at the root. Brown spread across his eyes, clashing with the red and he moaned with pain, clenching his eyes shut tightly in a desperate attempt to block out the colours.

“You’ll die if you stay here,” Greta bit her lip before wrapping her arm around his, trying to push him up. The pressure surged up his arm, repelling her. Absolon yelled out in pain but the girl’s actions were all he needed to motivate himself. With herculean effort, he pushed himself up to his feet. As soon as he did, Greta immediately leapt away.

“We need to get you back,” she whispered. “Before you get sick.”

He nodded weakly and turned himself around on his feet, his legs shaking beneath him as he walked.

“Can I...stay with you tonight?” Greta murmured, walking beside him. “I don’t want to go back to mummy and daddy.”

Absolon tried to speak, to say yes, but he did not dare unclench his jaw in case the chattering returned. Besides, his body felt so numb that he doubted he could even move his tongue to make words. Instead, he nodded again, already looking forward to collapsing beneath the blankets and into the straw.

***

When he woke up the next day, it was to agony. Absolon immediately cried out and buried his head in his blankets. The inside of his throat was being torn open by some tiny creature’s claws, none of which did anything for the blockage inside it. Worse yet was the pressure just above his nose. It felt slightly like the normal ache in his chest, as though something wanted to burst out from between his eyes, but the normal pain inside him seemed to swell in response to these symptoms, pushing against these foreign discomforts as if trying to reassert its dominance, and he was caught in the middle. He gasped for breath but that gasp turned a cough. Its murky-yellow colour blossomed across his eyes, blinding him with each subsequent spasm.

Only when he finally ran out of energy to continue did he collapse into his bed. A shiver ran down his spine as he realised how cold it was. His clothes from last night still hung where he had left them above his bed. Reaching out a hand from the relative warmth of his blankets, he gripped a fold of his robe. Still damp, and freezing too.

Absolon withdrew back into his blankets, lying face down and pressing his chest and head against the ground to try to do something, anything for the pressure. He shivered, the cold creeping red across his vision, and the ache inside him flared, pushing against the foreign pains in his limbs, his throat and his head. A moan of agony escaped him and he tried to hide his face inside the blankets to warm it but the dark-green itching of the rough wool tickled against his bare skin. The pain in his sternum spread outward, trying to repel the fabric, which forced him to pull them away from him with a sharp cry.

They felt heavy, Too heavy. To rip them off would let the cold in but if he kept them on, the pressure would grow unbearable.

Lord Woo, what did I do to deserve this?

Stretching out his right hand, he groped for his wand and pulled it closer to him, clinging to it like an old friend. He clenched his teeth and his eyes tightly shut, sucking in air and forcing himself to focus on his breathing, clearing his mind for the runes and magic to flow.

“Calor” he whispered and immediate relief flooded over him as the now-familiar warmth charm spread over him. Once he was sure he would not freeze, Absolon shrugged off one of the extra blankets, relieving some of the weight upon him. He gave off a gasp and collapsed, curling in on himself to try to conserve as much heat as possible and to keep the pressure from tearing him apart.

There was a shifting by his side. “Absolon?” Greta peered over him, “What’s wrong?

The ache flared, forcing him to clench his eyes shut against the colour. Even her voice made it worse. “I’m cold. And there is too much pain, between my eyes and in my limbs...it all hurts,” he murmured.

The girl gave off a small whimper. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. You stayed out in the snow and got sick,” her shoulders slumped. “It’s because of me. I bring bad luck. Mummy was right.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t your fault. It’s all this cold. I’m not used to it,” a weak cough escaped from him again. “Please don’t...don’t speak so loudly.”

“I’m sorry,” Greta murmured. She sat down beside him, struggling with her thoughts until turning back to him and whispering. “Are you cold?”

Absolon nodded. The girl did not hesitate before she lifted up his blanket and slipped under it. She lay down next to him, careful not to touch him and curled up by his side.

“W-what are you doing?” Absolon’s eyes widened. “Greta, you can’t. You’ll catch it.”

“I don’t care,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “It’s warmer for you. Me, mummy and daddy used to sleep like this during the winter...but not now, not with the baby.”

Greta’s shoulders shook. “She’s not going to want me anymore. Since I’m a changeling, and she has Amund...” she barely repressed a sob and her green eyes opened, peering at Absolon. “Please don’t leave me, Absolon.”

“I...” he closed his eyes, wincing as the pain surged through him. Even that tiny amount of otherwise pleasant colours was painful.

Why did the Woo torment him like this? Absolon had done as He had asked and yet, the pain had not gotten better. Lying here, sick from the cold, with the pressure barely contained by his shell of a body, he did not feel cured. In fact, he felt cursed.

This might have been another test of his faith, to see if he deserved to be cured of his sins. And yet... Absolon had been so sure it was the Lord Woo speaking to him but he did not see the Woo, he only heard a voice in a dream. Since then, the Lord had not answered a single one of his prayers. The white and gold voice, the voice he thought was the Woo’s, had gone silent.

“Maybe I made a mistake coming here, Greta,” Absolon whispered.

“You...you regret meeting me?” the girl’s lip wobbled.

He shook his head. “No, not at all, I just-” a coughing fit interrupted him, making the pain in his chest convulse painfully with each spasm. He collapsed down on to the straw, moaning with pain and hugging his arms around his chest, holding himself together.

Only when the agony had retreated somewhat did he turn back to Greta. “I don’t think the Woo wants me here after all.”

“Why not?” she asked, frowning.

“I came here...because I thought he told me I would get better. I would not see colours and have this pain inside me. But he hasn’t spoken to me since and the pain has gotten worse,” Absolon wheezed. “So maybe I should go home? Go back to the monastery and pray again.”

“You don’t like it here?” Greta’s eyes widened.

He hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. “No. It’s too cold. Too wild, and you have your own gods which you worship in-” he cut himself off before he could voice his thoughts on the ritual. “It’s wrong. I don’t belong here. I should go home.”

“No,” she murmured, her sobs bubbling to the top again. “Don’t go. You protect me from the unseelie. And you’re...you’re my only friend.”

“I’m sorry. But I can’t stay here...I’ll die,” Absolon looked away from the girl, trying not to see the pain in her eyes, or hear the greenish-blue misery in her voice that was getting far too loud for him again.

Greta hesitated, remaining silent for a while. “I don’t want you to die,” she finally whispered. “But I’ll miss you.”

“Me too,” he turned back and smiled weakly at her. Suddenly an idea struck him. “But you can come with me?” his smile grew wider. “If you come with me, you can train in magic. In the south, they can teach you.”

She stared at him. “But I’m a...a changeling. I’m a fairy child. I’m not like you.”

“Even if you aren’t, you’re still a mage, and people in the south don’t look down on magic like they do here. You will be right at home there,” Absolon suddenly felt so much more animated at the prospect of Greta going back to Corvus with him. Even his body seemed to ache less. “Maybe the Woo sent me to find you? Maybe He has something special in mind for you?”

“Really?” her green eyes were as wide as saucers before the girl’s shoulders deflated. “What if mummy and daddy won’t let me?”

“I’ll...I’ll try to speak with them...sometime,” he continued to smile at her. “They will, I’m sure they will. But do you want to go?”

She pondered this for a short while. “I do. I want to learn magic...and I’ll miss mummy and daddy but...they probably won’t want me.”

“I’m sorry,” Absolon coughed, feeling his throat blocking up again. The pain in him surged with each spasm, making him moan in pain. He closed his eyes, sucking in breath as he waited for the colours of his coughs to die. “But...you’ll have me. I hope that’s enough.”

Greta smiled and nodded. “That will be fine. I like you,” she paused, thinking. “Can I bring Snowflake?”

“If he wants to come,” Absolon replied, closing his eyes.

“Can we go when the snows melt?” Greta curled up under his blanket.

“Yes,” he murmured, bringing his knees up to his chest. “When spring comes, we’ll go.”

Another coughing fit wracked through him, each motion sending flares of pain shooting through his body. Absolon pressed his fingers against his sinuses, trying to hold them together.

Spring could not come fast enough for him.

[Celestial]

("The Bringer of Spring" continued)

Part 11 -Warning for blood, ritual sacrifice

SPOILER: Click to show

But no matter how much time passed, spring never seemed to come. Temperatures never soared above freezing while the snows kept falling and piling up in drifts, keeping the road in and out of Eo firmly shut. No snowdrops poked their head out of the cold blanket of white that layered over the land and the trees showed no sign of awakening from their slumber. Days dragged on into weeks and weeks dragged into months but the winter showed no sign of breaking its siege. Walking outside every day, Absolon prayed that he would see some sign of the approaching spring and the end of his time in the north, but every day was the same: snow, cold and ice, without even a hint of a change in the weather. And every day, he felt his heart sinking.

Winter life carried on as normal in the village, with the hunters going out to catch what game they could and everyone else doing their best to scrape together a thin meal out of the stocks they had left. The healers still had plenty to feed all of them thanks to the gifts and payment that the rest of the village had given them in exchange for their services, but even sp, Absolon had noticed his food growing much less varied and smaller in portion.

Nobody dared breathe a word about the strange weather circumstances. At first, he thought he was the only one with the fear of the unchanging winter; perhaps this was how long it lasted in the north. But soon, he began to see signs that it was not just his southern softness. The hushed whispers exchanged between Seisyll and their latest patient, a shared look between the two healers and the heavy, drained eyes of the people who came to them for help all betrayed the fear that had settled in over Eo.

The memory of what Elijah had told him came back, sharp and clear as when he first heard it: you cannot know the horror a long winter means to a northerner. But now he saw that horror firsthand, settling into the fibres of every adult in the village, and the chills running down his spine were not only from the cold. Whispers had begun to run through the people, that the Shifter of Seasons was displeased with them. And more ominous yet, that something, or someone, had to be given to win her favour again.

Once, Absolon had been called to tend to a woman who had caught a deadly chill from staying out too long in the snow, a condition he had seen far too often that long winter. He followed Seisyll out of the storehouse just quickly enough to see the village elder leaving the house, along with the young man he had seen during the harvest sacrifice. Except now the blond wore the green shawl and carried around his neck the leather sheath of the knife. Ulrika had watched them go, holding the baby tightly in her arms.

He had wanted to ask about the strange visitors but she simply guided him to his work. After that, there had been no time. Nor, he supposed, was it any of his business to know what they were doing in her house. But by the looks in the eyes of all three of them, grim and far-away, it had been as pleasant as the general atmosphere of Eo.

Even the children seemed to have picked up on the ill feeling of the people. Greta certainly she spent most of her time curled up in the storehouse cuddled with Snowflake, an anxious look all over her face.

“When will the snow melt?” she murmured to him one day just after the end of a blizzard. “I want to go south with you.”

“Me too,” he replied, lifting the sonic shield that has protected them both from the noise. “As soon as the snows begin to thaw, we’ll go. I promise.”

Seisyll and Ulrika had given him their blessing, in a way. When he had approached them soon after he had recovered from his illness, Seisyll only expressed regret that he was losing a good healer, dancing around the subject of Greta. Ulrika, without looking him in the eye, eventually told him to do as he wished. It meant fewer mouths to feed and one less fairy in the north.

“What if the snow doesn’t go away?” the girl wrapped her arms around the cat in her lap. “It’s always ended by now, as long as I can remember,” she swallowed. “They say we’ve angered Her. That she won’t stop the winter.”

Absolon gritted his teeth. “It will stop. It has to stop,” he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together in prayer. Lord Woo, make it stop. Your power is stronger than this.

There was a soft grey rustle of Greta shifting beside him. The young man cracked open an eyelid and peered to the side. He found himself staring at the silhouette of the girl on her knees, her hands clasped in an exact replica of his pose.

“What are you doing?” he frowned slightly.

“If Lord Woo hears us both, it might help?” Greta told him without moving.

“Yes, it would,” Absolon smiled widely and nodded, turning back to his own prayers.

The door suddenly opened up, sending a ray of white light and a blast of cold air into the storehouse. Both Greta and Absolon looked up at the sudden interruption and found themselves looking right up into the faces of elder Eifion and the blond Priest. Behind them, Seisyll and Ulrika stood with their eyes downcast, not daring to meet the gaze of either the girl or Absolon.

“Hello, Greta,” Eifion tried to smile but it was as hollow as the now empty wooden pots surrounding him.

“Hello, Elder,” she bowed her head to him. Snowflake hissed beside her and she shushed him before turning back to the men with terrified eyes. “What’s happening, mummy, daddy?”

The healers standing behind said nothing, only turning away. Absolon just barely caught their grimace. From within his chest, the ache gave a sudden pang. Something was wrong.

“You’re coming with me,” the blond Priest stated, his voice heavy with authority, filling Absolon’s eyes with indigo.

Greta bit her lip and glanced between her parents, Absolon and the elder. The young man frowned.

“What is going on?” he asked.

“It’s none of your concern, Absolon,” Eifion replied, shaking his head.

His frown grew deeper. Pressing down on his chest to contain the growing ache, he turned to the priest. “Where will you be taking Greta?”

“As the elder said, stranger, that isn’t your concern,” the blond man replied.

“Do her parents know?” Absolon asked, trying to look out of the doorway and catch a glimpse of Seisyll and Ulrika.

“Yes. We have discussed it with them and they approve. This is a decision we have all made,” Eifion looked at him sympathetically. “I am sorry.”

Absolon glanced at Greta. She was running her hands up and down Snowflake’s spine, scratching behind his ear, doing anything to procrastinate on getting up.

“Come on, girl,” the Priest squatted down beside her, giving her a wan smile.”This is an honour you have been chosen for. The sooner it is done, the better it will be, for everyone. Including your cat and your friend here.”

She nodded slowly, taking Snowflake off her lap and putting him beside Absolon but he had barely noticed, too distracted by the colours of the voices and the stress, both forcing the pain inside him to rise. Gasping, he wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes.

By the time the layers had settled enough for him to open them; Greta was gone, along with the priest. Eifion had also turned around and started walking out. Leaping to his feet, the younger man caught up with him.

“What is happening? Please, tell me,” he begged.

The elder sighed, his dark brown voice tinted with grey. “Nothing you would understand, I’m sorry. But given that you are foreign and how close to the girl you are, we all decided it was best not to tell you.”

“Why?” Absolon gasped. The pain continued to spike, making him wince and press down on his sternum.

Eifion rubbed the bridge of his nose and gave him a weak smile. “Don’t worry, lad. Soon you’ll be able to go back south like you wanted to,” his voice wavered. “It’s going to be tough without you and your magic. You’ve saved a lot of lives this winter.”

“But the snows haven’t even melted yet,” Absolon swallowed, his breathing growing more rapid.

“They will very soon,” the elder said, his voice heavy as a stone. He quickened his pace and disappeared outside before Absolon could ask any more questions.

The young man stood abandoned in the snow. He shivered and closed his eyes as the cold bit into him and turned around, looking back at the inside of the storehouse. No, he had to get answers. Even if nobody wanted to tell him, he had to know what was happening. He was going to be taking care of Greta in the south after all,

Taking several deep breaths, Absolon turned towards the house of the healers and walked inside, narrowing his eyes against the smoky air within. As soon as he went in, both Seisyll and Ulrika snapped to attention.

The woman’s eyes narrowed and she clutched her baby closer. “Have you forgotten the rules about coming in here without permission?”

Absolon recoiled, closing his eyes at her dark green voice. Of course, the rule. He had gotten so used to coming in to the house that he had slipped his mind completely. For a moment, he wanted to apologise and dash out as quickly as possible but stopped before he could move. This was more important.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured and bowed his head. “But I need to know what’s happening to Greta. Please, tell me.”

The couple exchanged dark glances between each other before turning away from him, Ulrika looking back at her herbs while Seisyll stoked the fire.

“Tell me what is going on, I beg you,” Absolon clasped his hands together. “I was planning to go south with her, and you agreed to it. So I must know, please.”

“You do not need to know, Absolon,” Seisyll sighed, poking the fire. “But Greta won’t be coming south with you.”

A shudder ran down the younger man’s spine. In response to his fear, the ache continued to rise up, almost choking him. “Why not? Why can’t you just tell me what is going on?”

“The less you know, the better you will sleep,” Ulrika remarked, hiding her face in her hair. “Especially given your display at the harvest sacrifice.”

The sacrifice...how he had reacted to the birds being slaughtered. And now Greta was going with the priest to the altar-stone.

Words the girl had told him that morning bubbled up in his mind. They say we’ve angered Her. That she won’t stop the winter. And then, what she had told him way back in autumn...And then...you have to give more. Lots more.

Eifion had said the snows were going to stop soon. He had been sure of it.

Absolon’s eyes went wide. His heart hammered in his throat and the pain inside him flared. “She’s going to be slaughtered,” he stared at the two people in front of him. “You’ve given her up to be slaughtered!”

Their reactions were instantaneous. Seisyll stiffened and turned back towards the fire, grimacing. Ulrika, however, turned and stared directly at him. Her face seemed to be a mask of rage were it not for the tears in his eyes.

“Better a fairy child than a real, proper child from the village. We’re giving Greta to Her so that the entire village would live. So Amund would live!” she cried.

“But she-”

“And don’t you dare judge us! We’re doing what we can to survive! You wouldn’t understand!”

Absolon moaned, crouching down and covering his ears against the sheer power of Ulrika’s voice. His breathing had grown even more rapid, sucking in the smoky air of the house even as he felt it irritating his throat.

This was not right. Killing birds was one thing but a child? What kind of god would demand a child, and what kind of people would give their child?

He was not going to let it happen.

Not even waiting for another word from the two healers, Absolon dashed out of the door and stumbled through the snow towards the storehouse. Each crimson crunch sent pain shooting through his ribs but he forced himself to keep going, fuelled by the sudden need to keep moving. He lingered only long enough to grab his cloak, not even waiting there to put it on but pinning it across his shoulders on the run. The fabric settled heavily around his shoulders and his face twisted in pain as the already violent aching pushed against it. As soon as his body had gotten used to the sensation of the cloak against him, he quickened his pace. Two sets of footprints led away from the storehouse and into the forest, one belonging to Greta and the other to the priest who led her. Without even stopping to think, Absolon followed them.

The snow sucked at his feet, preventing him from going too quickly and occasionally he had to stop to catch his breath let the blood red of the crunching snow fade away from his vision. Cold seeped in through his feet, from his hands and exposed face, prickling red at his vision. Inside him, the pain continued to flare, pushing against his ribs, threatening to spill out from his torso and out into his ribs. His whole body felt as though it was going to burst from the pressure inside. As if to make matters worse, a light dusting of snowflakes began to trickle down from the clouds, settling on to the footprints he was following and threatening to bury them.

Absolon wrapped his arms around himself to contain the agony in him and pressed on, head-first through the forest, following the tracks while their outline was still visible in the snow. The forest around him rustled, adding dark green to his already red vision. He stopped and gasped for breath, closing his eyes and sucking in breath as he tried to fight off the mixture of reds and green that combined with his own grey ragged breath. The irritation of colours fuelled the agony that was throbbing inside of him, strangling his heart and lungs as though he was drowning.

Greta...every moment he hesitated was a moment in which her blood would run down the stone.

The thought pulled his eyes open. He forced his feet forward, moving them one in front of the other, pulling against the pressure inside him with the effort it would have taken to carrying a stone to the top of a mountain. Was he even close? The footprints still stretched out in front of him but he could barely remember the route to the altar-stones.

Snow continued to fall like white downy feathers. Lord Woo, please guide me. Please help me find the girl who you have blessed with your magic so that she might be safe from this barbarism.

Absolon lifted up his head and caught a flash of bright green between the trees. Another sound? No, there was nothing that could cause that shade to blossom in his eyes, nor did it disappear after several seconds. The priest’s shawl! He had found them!

He lunged forward, making the final push through the trees and burst into the clearing. Greta lay on the altar-stone, her hair draping over it as though it was pale moss. The priest stood above her, his face twisted into a grimace. Pressed against her throat was the knife, glinting in the light as it shook along with his hand.

“...she satisfy your hunger, Cebeline.”

With tears in her eyes, the girl turned away, looking to her left, and as her eyes met his, a sudden smile appeared on her face as though the sun burst through the clouds.

“Absolo-”

The priest’s knife ripped across her throat. Blood gurgled out of the wound, pouring down the stone.

He could have screamed. It was too late. He had not been in time to stop this.

No. No, there was still hope. He was not a mage for nothing.

Absolon’s fingers closed around his wand and he pulled it out violently, pointing it at the priest.

“Carpe Wootractum,” his voice hitched as he said the spell. Green light shot out of his wand and wrapped around the priest. The man gave a startled cry and dropped his knife as Absolon threw his arm back, yanking him closer.

“Wait-” the priest gasped.

“Dwoopulso,” Absolon whispered. The light immediately pushed the blond man back and he cried out as he slammed into a nearby tree.

“I’m sorry. I...I had to...” the priest pushed himself up against the ground, trying to get to his feet.

Gasping, Absolon pointed his wand at him once more. “Iwoobulus.”

He froze in place, half-way between a standing and sitting position. Without wasting any more time, Absolon ran towards Greta, still bleeding out on the stone. Lord Woo, please let her be alive, please...

“Get away from her!” the priest yelled at him, his muscles twitching as he tried to struggle against the spell that was holding him in place. The shout forced a gasp out of Absolon’s mouth as the pain stabbed through him, forcing him to double over.

“Be quiet!” he barked, rubbed his eyes in an attempt to get the colour of the priest’s voice out of his eyes.

“You don’t understand! We have to go!”

“Please be quiet!” he cried, indigo flaring in his eyes again, layering over itself. His vision blocked, he did not see the depression in the snow. Catching his foot in it, Absolon tripped and was sent flying. Only throwing out his hand to catch the stone upon which Greta lay saved him from falling completely. Its rough, jagged texture rubbed against his palm, a dark, disgusting puce, almost like dried blood. Pain flared under his palm, making him scream as the agony shot through his entire body.

Nevertheless, he pushed himself up and turned his attention to Greta, praying she was not yet dead. At first glance, however, with her pale skin and unmoving body, it seemed like she was. Her hair and her shawl were soaked crimson with her blood, which pooled in the rough carving beneath her neck that with its stem and branching rivulets resembled a river delta or a tree. Absolon guessed it was the latter.

“Greta?”

The girl’s green eyes flickered over to look at him and the corners of her mouth twitched. Her chest too, rose up and down with tiny, rapid breaths. Right there and then, he could have fallen to his knees with relief. Thank Woo, she was still alive.

“I’m-I’m going to h-help you,” Absolon lifted his wand up. Mentally thanking the Woo for the whole winter he spent preparing for this, he pointed it at her neck. “Vulnera Sanwootur.”

Once again, soft green light poured out of his wand and into her injury, knitting together and torn flesh and skin. Carefully, she brought up a hand to where the wound had been and smiled brightly.

“You saved me,” Greta’s eyes began to fill with tears. “I knew you would.”

“Yes,” Absolon beamed at her and his shoulders sagged. Though the pain still writhed in his chest, the hammering in his heart and his rapid breathing seemed to be dying down. Looking over her, there appeared to be no other injuries except the gash in her throat which he had healed.

Indigo tinted with grey flashed in his eyes as the priest gasped. Absolon spun his head around to look at him but the blond man’s attention was not fixed on him. Instead, his blue eyes were focused firmly on something to the right of the stone.

His heart began to race again as Absolon too, turned to see what the priest was staring at. For a moment, he saw nothing but the trees until something in them moved. From out of the forest and into the clearing, something stepped out.

Like a human girl, it was small and thin, but that was where the similarities ended. His mind leapt to the unseelie being that he encountered on his first day in Eo but even that creature seemed more like a person than what was advancing towards the stone now. Scaly bark covered its entire body, from the top of its head to the tips of its long limbs. Branches crowned its top like horns on a stag but these hung downwards in a pale imitation of a cloak or human hair. Upon them, the green leaves of summer grew alongside golden autumn ones, which coexisted with the pale pink flowers of spring and the icicles of winter. From its hips, more roots wound but only two reached in the ground, splaying out into feet that most closely resembled a bird’s. Inlaid into its head, like gems in jewellery, were two solid golden eyes that glowed with an inner light. They were fixed directly on Greta.

Slowly, in absolutely no hurry, it walked towards them. Where it stepped, the snow retreated and bluebells grew in its wake. But as soon as it lifted its “foot”, they died as snow consumed them again.

Absolon pressed a hand to his chest, clutching the feather beneath his fingers. He lifted it up off his neck, holding it in front of himself like a shield, and pointed his wand at the creature.

“G-get away,” his voice barely came out as more than a murmur. “Don’t come any closer.”

It stopped in its tracks and blinked, or rather its eyes were covered in bark for a brief second before they affixed themselves upon Absolon. A shiver ran down his spine and something primitive deep down in his brain screamed at him to run. But the creature soon lost interest in him and, as casual as though it was merely taking a stroll, resumed walking towards the altar.

He risked a glance back towards Greta. The girl had sat up on the stone but she was frozen in place, staring at the thing in front of her.

“Run,” Absolon gasped but there was barely any acknowledgement from her. She was paralyzed with fear.

It was almost upon them. Even though he was shaking, Absolon took a few steps forward towards it. The wooden single feather swayed in the wind slightly but unlike the unseelie, it paid it no attention to the amulet. It clearly held no fear for the Woo.

He’d have to use other ways. His hands shook as he aimed his wand.

“Dwoofindo,” Absolon murmured. A twitch of his hand sent the spell flying at the branches crowning the creature’s head. The green blade struck a twig, slicing it clean off and sending it fluttering down on to the ground.

It stopped and turned its head slowly, the bark of its skin shifting to accommodate its new pose. Blinking again, it beheld the branch has been sliced off it, and stood in place for a moment, unmoving. From the stump, a new branch grew in to replace the one that had been cut off. Once it had completed regenerating, the creature looked back to Absolon, its golden eyes narrowing. A slit opened up in its head where a mouth should have been and twisted into a silent snarl.

Absolon choked back the ache that flared up in his chest, wrapping his left arm around himself as it to keep it from erupting. The spell had been a mistake. He lifted up his wand again but in response, its expression became neutral and it lifted up one branch-like arm, flicking it at him.

The movement of his body slowed to a crawl. His hyperventilating breaths were now stretched out across impossibly long periods of time and the ache which normally exploded inside him in a flare was only gradually spreading through his body. Only his thoughts operated at normal speed. And he realised with horror that he was thoroughly, utterly immobile. It had paralyzed him.

Satisfied, the creature turned away. Instead, now, it focused back on Greta. As soon as it reached the stone, its roots found purchase in the imperfections of the rock and it clambered on.

Absolon did not see what it did but he heard it well enough. Greta screamed, her voice grew slightly deeper and then raspier before ceasing completely. Immediately, it was followed by the slurps, liquid and disgusting, the sound a plant in water would make as it drank, or that of a mosquito as it sucked the blood from the vein of its chosen victim.

But his vision remained perfectly clear. Only the bronze echo of his own voice and the rustling of trees stayed in his eyes, but they had been there for an unimaginably long time. The creature had delayed everything.

Very soon, the sounds stopped. There was a slight rustle of branches behind him and then...nothing.

He completed his turn towards the stone but it had been picked clean. There was no blood, no bones, not even a scrap of cloth to signify the girl had been there. All around him, there was the scent of grass and the singing of the birds. The air was also distinctly warmer.

His expression twisted into one of wide-eyed horror. Greta was gone. She was dead.

Then the colours erupted across his vision,. Sky-blue, tinted with red, then a layer of azure, and then another layer of the same blue but greyer. Then all that was covered with brown, an ugly, greenish-reddish brown that mixed together the worst hues imaginable to produce something horrible.

Every cell in his body felt like it was about to explode. Absolon dropped his wand and threw his hands to his ears. But that was no good. The sound had already entered into him, burrowing into his eyes and his brain, feeding the agony in his chest.

Woo, make it stop, make it stop!

He fell down. Grass brushed against him and where it did, it felt like he was being burned. The colours, the sounds, the sensations, it was too much. Too much.

MAKE IT STOP!

Absolon opened his mouth. A red-tinted bronze scream rushed out of it and echoed throughout the spring forest.

Part 12- Warning for suicide attempt

SPOILER: Click to show

“Hey,” a quiet indigo voice crept into his awareness. “Hey, are you alive?”

Slowly and carefully, like a prisoner stepping out of a dungeon for the first time, Absolon cracked open his eyes. Spring grass swayed around him, cool and soft, whilst the silvery trill of birdsong mingled with the soft dull green rustle of leaves. Inside him, the ache had somehow retreated back from the unimaginable agony that had run through him before into a faint throb that pulsed along with his heart, but was still there, still waiting for the next thing to trigger it.

He turned his head and his gaze fell upon the sacrificial stone looming over him, its clean surface taunting him with what had happened. Greta was gone. She had been taken by that thing; no doubt the spirit that the people of the north so desperately prayed to. And the answer to those prayers had come at the expense of the life of a little girl. The girl who had also been his friend.

Tears prickled in his eyes. She was dead. He had failed to save her.

Arthritically, Absolon lifted himself up on to his knees and bowed his head, clasping his hands together. Lord Woo, even though Greta was a pagan, her soul deserves eternal rest in your presence. Accept her, for she has suffered so much, and her death came so young and...so awful...

The screams and then the slurps that followed them flared up in his mind. A sharp aftershock of pain pierced his chest and he clutched at his breastbone, doubling over in the grass.

“Are you alright?” the indigo voice came again. Absolon blinked and looked up at the source of the voice. The priest still sat where he had been left, his eyes fixed on the young man in front of him.

Carefully, Absolon pushed himself up again, keeping his gaze squarely on the priest. His jaw tightened.

“How could you ask me that?” he hissed. The blond man recoiled and his shoulders slumped.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know, I have no right to ask you that. Not after what I’ve done.”

Absolon continued to watch the priest. His head was bowed low, and likely, where was not for the paralysing charm he had cast upon him, the man would have been down on the ground. His blond hair hung limply like curtains over his eyes, eyes which retained their bright blue colour but stared blankly into the space in front of him. The voice, which not long ago had been confident and strong was now washed out and weak, its colour having changed to correspond with that. For the first time, he realised just how young the priest was: barely older than him, if even that.

Flecks of blood still stained his green shawl. The leather sheath of the knife continued to hang around his neck, the tree embroidered into it a constant reminder of who it served. This man had delivered Greta for the slaughter.

Absolon turned away, staring down at the ground. “Why?” he asked quietly. “Why did Greta have to die?”

The priest bit down on his tongue and opened his mouth, answering mechanically. “To end the long winter and to appease the Shifter of Seasons, a child must be-“

“I know that,” Absolon shook his head. “But why would you do it?”

The blond man flinched, slumping over even further. “We have no choice. I had no choice,” he whispered. His shoulders convulsed. “It was either that or let the winter continue and starve. She would not have let us have it any other way.”

“She?” Absolon frowned. “That spirit, Cebe-”

“Don’t say Her name!” the other man cried at him, so hard that it made Absolon flinch and cover his ears. “If you say Her name, you call Her to you. I don’t want to see Her again, ever.”

Carefully, he looked back up, his eyes wide. “...how could you worship something like that? A creature that demands sacrifices...that’s beyond horrible!”

“As I said, we have no choice. Don’t you understand?” the priest looked up at him, tears running down his cheeks. “You’re from the south so this must all seem barbaric to you. But this is the only way we can survive.”

“Ulrika said that too,” Absolon’s eyes darkened. “But you’re a priest? Surely you can do something about it?”

The blond gave off a sad, humourless laugh. “You saw Her as well as me. Do you think She cares about what anybody thinks? The most we priests can do is offer Her what She wants, hope it is enough and run. We have no power over Her will.”

“What kind of god does that?”

“The same god who does...that to children,” there was a momentary flash of anger before it faded and the priest slumped again. “But it doesn’t matter anymore,” he turned to look up at Absolon, his blue eyes pleading. “You can leave me here or let me go. It’s up to you.”

The temptation to simply leave him here did flash briefly across his mind but Absolon quickly pushed it out of the way. After all, the man did seem to genuinely regret what he had done. Leaving him here, for a wolf or a bear to worse to hunt him down would have been barbarism greater than what was done to Greta.

Absolon took out his wand and pointed it at the priest. “Endium,” he whispered. Whatever invisible hold that had gripped the other man fell away and he collapsed down on to the ground, surprised to be let go.

He blinked, looking back at Absolon. A weak, shaky smile appeared on his face. “I’m sorry for what I did. I know you were close to the girl. But...perhaps this will give you some satisfaction.”

The priest pushed himself up off the ground and walked over to the stone. His eyes darted across the ground before he ducked down, his fingers closing in around the handle of the knife. The tip wavered as his hands shook holding it. He took a deep, scared breath and turned it around, pointing it as his chest and staring at the blade as if trying to gather the courage to plunge it forward.

Absolon’s eyes widened. He dropped on his knees and groped around for his wand. Pale yellow swept across his vision and pain prickled at his fingers as the grass tickled at his skin, but he did not dare pull his hand away until finally, he felt the familiar birch wood handle beneath his hand. Gripping it tightly, he held it up, pointing it at the blond.

“Expelliwoormus,” he whispered. Thankfully, the priest’s hesitation played to his advantage. He cried out as the spell hit his hand sending the knife spiralling upwards until it lodged itself up to the hilt in a nearby tree.

The blond stared at his now empty palm, blinking as though unsure of what he was seeing. Then, slowly, his head turned to face Absolon, his eyes wide.

“Why?” he gasped, rubbing his hand to ease the pain of the magic that struck him. “After I killed your friend...don’t you want to see me dead too?”

Absolon’s shoulders slumped as he pondered this. After a few moments he took a deep breath. “No. And even if it was...to want revenge is against the teachings of the Woo,” he shook his head. “And you did not kill her. That thing did.”

“I lead her to her death. I... I gave her to that. I watched as she was devoured,” the priest shuddered and fell on to his knees, bringing a hand over his mouth. “I can’t do that again.”

He closed his eyes, sobbing a few times before turning to Absolon. “Please give me the knife back. Even if you don’t approve of revenge...please let me die.”

“I won’t. You have been given life as a gift, to take it is to abuse it. That is what the Woo teaches too,” Absolon lowered his eyes, holstering his wand as he did. Nobody, save Greta, had cared for the word of the Woo here. But that was irrelevant; no matter what the blond had done, he could not condone his suicide. “There must be something else for you.”

The blond man shook his head. “No. I was raised to do this, I have no other path. But I don’t want to serve Her, not anymore. So there’s nothing for me but death,” his head lolled to the side listlessly.

Absolon closed his eyes and turned away, letting the colours of the conversation fade in his eyes. It occurred to him that with the angle where he was sitting, the priest had seen what he had only heard. And combined with the knowledge that he had led her there...no wonder he wanted to die.

“This ‘Woo’ you speak of...”

He looked up to find the priest had turned around to face his direction. “Yes?”

“That’s your god, isn’t it?” the blond man’s voice was wistful.

Absolon nodded. “Yes, He is.”

The other man gave a bitter chuckle. “A god who respects life enough to not order his followers to kill themselves?”

He could feel himself bristle slightly. “Yes. He is different from the creature you worship. The Woo cares about His people. He would not kill children,” Absolon swallowed. “It is forbidden by His word, in fact.”

At this, the priest looked surprised. “And you follow it?”

“Of course I do,” he exclaimed. “I trust the Lord Woo’s word and His judgement. In times of need, I know He will be there for me. He gives me comfort when there is nothing else. It’s been that way my whole life.”

The blond blinked in surprise at the sudden fire in Absolon’s voice. A small, sad smile crept across his face. “You sound like you have a lot of love for your god.”

“I do.”

“And he...seems like a good god too,” the priest sighed, looking down at the ground.

“He is,” despite himself, Absolon smiled. Absently, he put a hand over the wooden feather and stroked the carving, letting the faint jade roll over his eyes.

The blond went silent again, giving him some time to clear his eyes of the deep indigo colour of his voice. After a while, Absolon looked up at the other man. His eyes were downcast still but there was a thoughtful look on his face. Clearly, there was no more conversation that could be gotten out of him, not anymore.

He turned away from him, curling his knees up to his chest. The priest might not have known what he was going to do but Absolon was not quite sure what he was going to do either. The plan had been to go south with Greta, to teach her magic, but Greta was dead and her magic had died with her. A wince passed across his face at the thought and he pressed his knees into his chest. Even though he had practically witnessed her death, it was still hard to believe the girl he knew was gone.

Perhaps he should go south on his own. One way or another, spring had come and no doubt the trader’s carts were going to start moving again. He could move on, forget all this. The north had been a mistake, a dream. It was foolish to think that Lord Woo would ever have plans for him here, in this pagan land, where He had no power. Where His mage children were sacrificed on the altar of another god-

Absolon’s eyes widened. Elijah had also said his son had magic, just like Greta. And that his son had died after a long winter...

He felt like he could have thrown up. This was not just here, and it had not just been Greta: Elijah’s son had died upon the stone too. And Woo knew how many other children had been given up to satisfy her repulsive hunger.

This was not going to stop. Even if he went south, people were going to continue to offer children to this being, Cebeline as they called her. More people were going to have their families destroyed as Elijah’s had been, and more people were going to get rid of unwanted fairy children as Ulrika had done.

He could not just leave. He had to do something.

Maybe this was what the Woo had wanted of him.

Absolon got up to his feet and lifted up his head, taking a deep breath. This had to be it, why he was sent here, how he could earn his redemption.

The priest looked up at him, his brow lowered with confusion. “Where are you going?”

“Back to Eo,” Absolon replied, and with that, he strode forward and walked out of the clearing, leaving the blond man alone.

He strode through the forest, still keeping his cloak wrapped around himself, but the air was noticeably warmer and he no longer had to fear the invasive ruddy crunch of the snow. The birdsong and the rustling of leaves did force him to close his eyes to make sure the colour did not overwhelm him but even it could not break his concentration, not with the goal he had in his mind.

It was not long before he had reached the village. Though he must have only been gone for a short while, Eo had transformed since he had left. People who had previously hid in their homes away from the cold and the snows now buzzed outside, chasing animals out to graze in the forest or preparing for the planting of crops in the fields. Children played in the streets, stretching out their hands to the sun, oblivious to the life that had been given so that they might see it once again.

With life, however, came sounds, sounds which burrowed into his ears and manifested in his eyes as colours. Greens, yellows, browns, oranges, even a few blues swirled in a kaleidoscope in his eyes, just as they had when he had first come here, tugging at his concentration, forcing up the ache in his chest. With a moan, Absolon shut his eyes and covered his ears, attempting to block out some of the din. But he could not afford to be distracted, he had a task in mind. So he strode through Eo, still keeping his hands over his ears.

Even if he could not hear, all around, he nevertheless felt the stares of people as he passed by. In a village this small, rumours did not stay in one place for long.

A streak of white flashed by his feet, followed by a tiny, pale red meow. Absolon looked down only to meet the hazel eyes and scarred face of Greta’s cat. Seeing that he had been noticed, Snowflake gave off another sad meow and curled around his feet. The young man winced at the cat’s touch slightly and bent down to him, though he did not dare remove his hands from his ears to stroke the cat.

“I’m sorry, Snowflake but Greta is gone. You won’t see her ever again,” he murmured, closing his eyes. The cat continued to rub against him, his meows turning into purrs. It was not certain whether he quite understood his words and if he did, whether this was his way of mourning.

Even if he was an animal, no doubt Snowflake still missed Greta. He had been her only friend long before Absolon came, and the cat had never seemed too fond of her parents. Now, with the girl gone, it was likely he was the only one left for him. Absolon’s heart clenched in sympathy for the cat. Carefully, he removed his hands from his ears, wincing as the noise hit him, but it had faded to a more tolerable level, the colour now only a faint sheen across his vision. He reached down with one hand, taking a moment to get used to the lavender colour before running his palm up and down the cat’s spine. Snowflake purred rubbing against him, seeming satisfied with the attention, attention that Absolon surprised even himself by being ready to give.

He got so caught up in stroking him that he did not notice as somebody placed a hand on his left shoulder. Pain flared up below their touch and orange mingled with the lavender in his eyes, causing him to cry out and recoil away from it. At his cry, the owner of the hand pulled it back. Forcing himself to take several deep breaths, he wrapped his arms around his ribs and forced himself to look up.

The young woman who had touched him had also sprung back and lowered her eyes, not meeting his gaze. It took Absolon a few moments to realise that she was not, in fact, a stranger to him: he had met this woman several times during the winter when she had come in to the healer’s hut, the last visit of which had been to treat her pneumonia. He had not been able to do much for her aside from keep her warm and help Seisyll and Ulrika give her medicines but as evidenced by her standing here, she had still recovered. It took him a moment to place her name: Sille.

“I heard what happened,” she murmured, her yellow voice still carrying a raspy grey tint. “I’m sorry.”

Absolon sighed and shook his head. “It could not be helped,” he got up off his feet, removing his hand from Snowflake. Closing his eyes briefly to allow the colour to settle, he turned back to Sille. “Could you direct me to the house of the elder?”

“It’s...that way, and then to the left. It’s the larger house with the fence,” she pointed down the road.

“Thank you,” he bowed his head quietly to her and rushed off in the direction that she had shown him. Snowflake lifted his head up and dashed after him, trotting alongside Absolon as though he was only going in the same direction.

Eo was a small village so it did not take long before Absolon reached what he assumed was elder Eifion’s house. With its sloped roof and wooden walls, it did not look much different from the other homes which made up the settlement. The only distinguishing features were the ones Sille mentioned: a fence going around it and its size, which made it big enough for at least two families, if not more.

He closed his eyes and sucked in air, trying to calm himself and let the sounds of the now living village drift out of his eyes again. Was this even a wise decision? Could he even do this?

Whether he could or not, he had to at least try. This was, without a doubt, why he had been sent here.

Opening his eyes back up, Absolon raised his hand and knocked softly on the door. But no matter how softly he did it, he flinched with each blow as the dark rusted sound flared in his field of vision.

Presently, the door was opened by a middle-aged woman. As soon as her eyes alighted on the young man, she gave a small gasp.

“It’s you...” she murmured in a greyish-cream voice. “I am sorry...I heard from Eifion.”

“It’s alright,” Absolon shook his head. “...may I speak to him?”

She hesitated and glanced back into the house before turning to him again. “Wait here,” she murmured and closed the door. The young man stepped back. He considered sitting down and waiting but decided he should not make himself so comfortable on the elder’s property. So he stood, awkwardly, waiting for an answer.

There was a spike of pressure against his legs. Snowflake again, still craving the attention that had been torn away from him. He wished he could touch him again but he could not afford to get lost in the lavender again. Instead, he only watched as the cat wandered around him, examining this strange new territory he had found himself on.

Eventually, Eifion came out of the house, his head bowed. “What have you come to speak to me about, Absolon?”

“I...” the young man looked up the cat and stood up. “I want you to call a meeting of the town.”

The elder looked up at him suddenly and tilted his head. “This isn’t about Greta?”

Absolon looked down at the ground. In some ways, it was, except not how Eifion would expect. “Just...please call the people? I...I want to speak to them.”

“It’s unusual for you to want to speak to anybody,” Eifion narrowed his eyes.

Absolon shivered a little under his gaze. If the elder refused him, he would have to start again before he had even begun. Where could he even go with this?

“Just...please. As soon as possible,” he murmured, bowing deeply. “I will do anything for you in exchange.”

The elder pondered this before giving a slow nod. “Alright. I shall spread the word.”

Absolon smiled slightly, his shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank you,” he bowed his head. Woo, give me the strength and confidence to carry this through.

Part 13

SPOILER: Click to show

The crowd gathered quickly. As he waited for them, Absolon sat off to the side, a soundproof spell around him to protect him from their accumulating murmurs. Snowflake had, with some reluctance, gone off to hunt, leaving him without a distraction. The Book of Woo lay on his lap. He had stopped by the storehouse briefly to collect it, to both read from the Feathered Lord’s words to these people and to comfort himself. Right now, it was open to the Book of Strength and he was reading it carefully.

Those who seek to do the Lord’s work shall find the Woo sitting upon their shoulder, giving them strength to carry out even the heaviest of endeavours : that was what it said. Glancing back up at the crowd, Absolon dearly prayed that the Woo would be on his shoulder as the Book said. He was doing the Lord’s work, yes, but...

He had never done anything like this before. Even normal monks rarely preached, and with his sensory issues he had avoided even the thought of it. Yet here he was, in front of a pagan crowd, about to speak to them. Absolon was not even sure what good it would do. There was a good chance they would not even listen to his words. They were not in their tongue too, he would have to pick and choose what he would say and be careful not to mistranslate. No doubt, to mangle the Woo’s word was a heavy sin.

But he had to try. For Greta, for Elijah’s son, for all the children given to that creature. Even, he pondered as his thoughts turned back to the man he spoke with in the clearing, for the priests who had to commit such repulsive acts to save their lives.

Orange spread across his eyes and pain suddenly flared in his shoulder as somebody tapped. Absolon gasped, flinching away from the touch and staring up, meeting Eifion’s eyes. He gestured across to the crowd that had gathered before turning back to the young man and giving him an expectant nod.

Everyone he knew in Eo was here. Torcull, Sille, all the other people he had healed during the winter, the men that came as Eifion’s guard when he first arrived, the man who had shouted at him....none were missing. At the back, he could barely make out Seisyll and Ulrika. Even though most were the same height as him, if not shorter, their eyes all falling upon him made him feel as though he was an insect being examined. Pain flared up suddenly in his chest and he pressed his right hand against it, touching his fingers to the single wooden feather that hung off his neck.

This was a test to see if he was worthy of being forgiven of his sins, of being absolved of the ache inside him. After all, it was the Feathered Lord who sent him up here, and He would never make a mistake when it came to choosing his messenger. The Woo would be with him.

Closing the book and holding it to his side, Absolon stood up. He closed his eyes and waved his wand, dispelling the shield from himself, but the crowd was quiet, watching him and waiting for him to speak. Holstering his wand, he turned to them.

“I...I’m sorry for distracting you from your work. But...” he grasped the feather in his hand. There was no use avoiding his point. “I want to ask you to stop. Stop the sacrifices to that thing you worship.”

A multitude of voices all arose from the crowd. Absolon bit his tongue in order not to scream as the din assaulted his eyes with a million colours. Without even thinking, he clenched his hands over his ears, closed his eyes and ducked down, pressing his knees into his chest to keep the ache down at all costs. He could not get overloaded, not here, not now. But when he tried to stand up, the pain inside him exploded, forcing him back down. He had barely even started.

“Quiet!” the elder shouted, filling his vision with the man’s dark brown voice for a few moments. He waited until it faded before opening his eyes and looking up.

Eifion’s grey eyes bored down into him from above, making Absolon wince. He turned away immediately, unable to meet the glare of those eyes.

“You cannot ask this of us, Absolon,” the elder told him, his voice steely with the colour to match. “I know you were close to Greta, and you are grieving right now, but this is our way of life and we do not have a choice in the matter.”

The young man paused for a short while, letting the unpleasant colour drain out of his eyes. “I know. You do have a choice though.”

He glanced to the side. The Book of Woo lay on the ground, its front cover pointed upwards. In his hurry to hide from the noise, he must have dropped it. Absolon touched a hand to it, letting himself slowly get used to the texture before lifting it up with both hands. He winced slightly as the pressure pushed against it and hugged it his chest as though it was a child, forcing the ache in his chest down with its power. Getting back up on to his feet, he forced himself to meet everyone’s expectant gazes.

“The Woo: His power can protect you, and you do not have to give that thing more sacrifices. Animal or...or human,” he shivered and pushed the thought of his head. “If you accept Him, He can do that. Defend you from...from it.”

There was a derisive snort from a man in the crowd. “Why should we believe you?” his dirty brown voice called out.

“Yes, why should we risk another long winter on your words and your words alone?” another, a woman’s voice, yellowish-green.

“Elder, why did you let him talk and waste our time?” came a third voice, sea-green.

His eyelids snapped shut in a futile attempt to protect himself against the voices. Absolon pressed the Book of Woo against his chest harder in an attempt to keep the growing pressure down. It did not even matter so much if they listened, just as long as they could be quiet. Lord Woo, help me, please help me.

Eifion lifted up his hand again, silencing the voices. “I let him speak because he has done a great service, to all of us,” he glanced around the crowd. “I am sure many of you owe him your lives.”

Murmurs and nods rose up among several members of the crowd. Others derisively shook their heads, mumbling. But the effect was the same: their voices blended into a myriad of many, making Absolon moan with pain. Focus, he needed to focus, but there was too much colour, too much sound, too much pressure. He clenched his eyes tighter and pressed the Book against one ear while covering the other with his free hand.

The elder turned back to him, narrowing his eyes. “If you don’t want to listen to us, boy-”

“I do, it’s just...” he stared up at Eifion, pleading silently. “Please ask them to be quiet. I can’t concentrate.”

“Silence. Let the boy speak,” the elder called. Once the crowd was silent, he turned back to the young man. “There, Absolon. But everyone has questions. You cannot ignore them forever, and you are asking the impossible of us.”

He took several deep breaths, waiting for the colour to dissipate from his eyes. “I know that. But...” Absolon swallowed. “I don’t want more people to die.”

“Then you will leave us to our ways,” Eifion’s voice suddenly gained an edge and the young man flinched. “Go south. Leave us if you find it so distasteful.”

“I can’t...not after all I saw,” Absolon shook his head. “You don’t know-”

“We know well enough, Absolon. We know how She works,” the elder growled. “And by asking me to stop the sacrifices, you are asking me to doom all these people to starve and freeze to death.”

He was shaking now, clenching his eyes tightly shut to clear away the elder’s voice. “N-no. That’s not what I want,” Absolon opened his eyes and looked around at the crowd, pleading. “I believe in it. I believe the Lord Woo will protect you. If you just ask Him-”

“And he’ll do what?” somebody shouted.

Eifion glared across before turning back to the young man. “How will your god protect us? We know Her power and what She wants. We know nothing of what your god can do. Your belief means nothing.”

“He is stronger than her. It’s true, trust me,” Absolon cried, his tone growing increasingly desperate. “And unlike her, He cares.”

“She cares for us too,” a nearby woman growled.

He shook his head vigorously. “A caring god would not ask for sacrifices. A caring god would...would let you know that he cared.”

Several derisive snorts rose up from the crowd. The young man winced, continuing to cling to the Book of Woo as though it was a life raft, using it to suppress the growing pain inside him. He was getting nowhere.

“And how does this Woo let you know?” came a loud cry.

Absolon flinched and lowered his head, thinking about this. The answer, however, was obvious to him: it had been hammered into his head before he could even walk.

“The...the Book of Woo. He gave us His word,” he murmured but by the contempt he saw in people’s eyes told him exactly what they thought. He swallowed, feeling himself shaking. The ache in his chest was growing greater. “He...He listens and protects His followers. He asks for nothing in return. No sacrifices, nothing.”

“That’s what you say,” the same woman snorted.

“It’s true. The Woo’s love is everywhere, there’s proof of it,” he gapsed, sucking in breath and trying to keep his thoughts focused despite the colours that danced in his eyes, forcing his attention on to them. He had to think. What proof was there? What was tangible to these people?

“My magic!” he cried, a smile spreading over his face. “Magic was the gift of the Lord Woo to humanity. Many of you have seen its benefit.”

Several raised eyebrows and a few appreciative nods. A blend of murmurs rose up, along with the ache in his chest. He moaned with pain, pressing the Book of Woo down against his sternum to keep the pressure under.

“Please, be quiet,” Absolon murmured but nevertheless, hope sprung within him. He had struck a chord.

The crowd obeyed him, going silent and allowing him to gasp for breath. Once the ache had settled, he continued. “Magic is proof the Lord Woo loves and cares for. There are many tale of him helping people,” his eyes dashed back and forth as he searched his mind for one that would best illustrate his point. “The tale of Woomas. Of how the Lord Woo saved the people from the misery of autumn.”

Without even waiting for the people to start speaking again, Absolon removed the Book of Woo from his chest. Pain flared up, uncontained, making him whimper slightly. Nevertheless, he forced himself to flick the Book open, turning in particular to the Book of Heart and finding the story of Woomas. People fell silent as he began to read it out.

Every sentence had to be translated. Even without the distracting colours, it took him a few moments to make the connection between the two languages but it was just enough time to let the colour of his voice fade a little so he did not get overwhelmed. Absolon told the tale, only occasionally looking up to see the reactions of the crowd. At first they seemed indifferent but when he got to speaking of the ‘Pit creature, they began to soften. As he continued, moving on to the magnificent feast that the Lord Woo told people to prepare and the songs and happiness of the people that He cultivated, they listened closer. Not enrapt but nevertheless intrigued; intrigued by this god who would do so much for his people.

Absolon smiled a little, glad to at least see some interest from these people. Having grasped their attention, he continued to read on, telling the Eo more stories of the Woo’s mercy. One of them was from the Book of Miracles, of how Lord Woo had given magic to the world: of how he had given those who became the first mages a portion of His power so that they may protect humanity from the scourges of the ‘Pit. They may have ranged in strength and ability but each was just as important to Him. And among them, He had placed the archmages, men and women whose power, and whose burden, was the greatest of them all.

Once he had finished his tale from the Book of Miracles, he looked back up at the gathered crowd. Their eyes dashed back and forth as they studied their neighbours before returning to him. The previous hostility they held had vanished but nobody seemed willing to make the first move. Taking advantage of the silence, the young man clenched his eyes shut, trying to remove the thick layer of bronze that his voice had built up in his eyes. Even if it did not trigger as much pain as unexpected voices, he could barely see through it now.

“Those are fascinating tales, Absolon,” Eifion spoke up beside him.

Despite the colours still lingering in his eyes, the young man forced himself to open his eyes and turn back to the elder. Stiffly and slowly, he nodded.

“I have no doubt of your power: I’ve seen many good people saved by it this winter,” the elder continued, his grey eyes meeting Absolon’s brown. “But you are telling us that your god will give us this magic too if we worship him?”

The young man shook his head. “No-no. But...he will give some. He already has. Greta...” he grimaced. “She was no fairy. She was a mage, just like me. The Lord Woo gave her that power.”

Eifion frowned. “How could she have had that power? She was one of us.”

“I’m not sure, but I know what it was: she displayed the same manifestations of magic that I did when I discovered mine. You have to believe me,” Absolon clasped his hands together and looked around, first at the elder and then the crowd. “I beg you, please, listen to me. Stop making sacrifices to a god who gives you nothing and have faith in the Lord Woo’s protection.”

The people of Eo glanced nervously at one another. Even Eifion lowered his head to the ground, thinking but not daring to make the leap.

“Please?” he bowed his head, swallowing nervously.

There was silence for a short while before an agitated murmur rose up from the crowd as though from a disturbed hive. It grew louder and more piercing, every single voice joining to buzz inside his head, sending flashes of colour which did not stop through his vision. Before he even realised what was happening, Absolon threw his hands up to his ears and clenched his eyes shut. There was a faint dark brown thud on the edge of his sight as the Book of Woo dropped down on to the ground but it was soon buried beneath the assault of sounds and colours that were drowning him.

“Quiet. Please, be quiet,” he murmured, his bronze voice barely penetrating through the sediment of noise. “Please, quiet.”

“Silence!”

It had not been Eifion who quietened the crowd. But he realised he knew that voice: nobody else spoke in indigo.

Absolon opened his eyes and lifted up his head, meeting the eyes of the priest before. However, he no longer wore the green shawl or the knife holster around his neck. The other man smiled at him and held forward the Book, which Absolon took, hugging it to his chest.

“What...”

“I’ve been listening to you for a while. And I’ve been thinking about what you said, both in the clearing and here,” the blond lowered his eyes. “I don’t want to serve a deity for which I have to kill. And if your Lord Woo is as forgiving as you say and can save us from her...”

He bent down on to his knees in front of Absolon. “Then I wish to follow His word as you do.”

Absolon blinked, staring down at him. “Uhh, that’s...good,” he said, a nervous smile spreading across his face. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what he would do when people actually accepted the Woo’s word.

Of course, the person had to let the Lord Woo into their heart first but then what? As far as he could remember, there was a ritual to formally welcome anybody who wished to convert into the flock of the Feathered Lord. But he had rarely witnessed it and certainly never done it. Novice monk brothers never did baptisms. As far as he could remember, the Book mentioned water and touching with a Woocifix, the former to cleanse their previous sins and the latter to bless them with the Woo’s love. But he could not remember which part of the Book spoke about it, nor did he have the time to look for it now.

He was not even ordained! Could he even baptise people?

Every single eye was on them and the blond man’s bright blue eyes were on him. He had to do something.

Absolon closed his eyes, bowing his head. Lord Woo, please don’t take offence if I get this wrong. I’m doing my best.

First, water. There was none around but he was a mage; that was not really a problem. Taking several deep breaths, he removed his wand from its holster and pointed it towards his cupped left hand.

“Agwoomenti,” he murmured and in a split second, his palm filled with water. It spilled over the sides, leaving barely anything in his hand, but it would have to do. Carefully, not wanting to lose any more, he poured it down over the blond’s head. He flinched slightly as the water ran down his face, dripping down on to his clothes, but he did not complain.

Once the water had gone, Absolon replaced his wand and took the wooden feather off his neck, tugging it out from under his cloak. He hesitated, glancing from its tip to the man in front of him. How should he do this?

The answer was obvious. Carefully. Absolon lowered the feather to the man’s chest, touching it lightly before touching it to his left shoulder, then head and finally his right shoulder.

Was he supposed to say something now? He felt like he had to. A prayer, a welcome gesture, anything.

“Umm....” was all he could muster. No, he could do better. “Lord Woo, please accept...” he paused and looked down at the blond. “I don’t even know your name.”

The man smiled. “I am Ivar. Ivar of the Roan clan”

“-Ivar of the Roan clan into your wings and grant him protection as you do any of your followers. Amen,” Absolon finished and glanced down at Ivar. If he had noticed the prayer was improvised, the blond paid no attention to it.

A few moments of silence passed with Ivar on his knees and Absolon standing over him with the crowd watching them, wide-eyed. Clearly expecting him to do something.

“Uh...that’s it,” he murmured. “It’s over. You can stand up.”

Ivar got up off his knees, smiling widely and looking Absolon directly in the eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much, for accepting me. I don’t know how I can repay you.”

Before he could react, the man threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly. Amber flooded across his eyes and the pressure inside him rose up like a violent wave, trying to push Ivar away. Absolon screamed and flailed, trying to get the blond to let go of him. His cry was like a slap in the face for Ivar, who immediately withdrew his grip, allowing Absolon to get away. He leapt away as though burned. His ribs felt like they were going to burst from the pressure and the amber colour consuming his vision was too bright, too intense for him to focus on anything but it. On instinct, his eyelids slammed shut and he threw his arms around himself to contain the pain inside.

“I’m sorry, I...I didn’t mean to,” Ivar murmured. “Will you be alright?”

Absolon remained silent until the agony had receded. After some time, he dared to blink open his eyes but thankfully, the colour had faded. Slowly, he uncurled his arms, tentatively testing the levels of the pain within. “Yes but...touch hurts me. Don’t do it.”

The blond averted his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know”

“No. But...please remember it,” Absolon replied, straightening up his back once the ache had retreated to its usual level.

His eyes ran over the former priest. The man who only this morning had been his enemy was the first one to accept the Woo. It seemed almost impossible. And yet, Ivar had seen what she could do, how uncaring she was. If the Word of Lord Woo gave him hope and a reason to live, he would not begrudge him that. This was what he had set out to do after all.

But he was one man. There was still the entire north to contend with.

Absolon turned back to the people of Eo, who had been watching the entire transaction with shocked, disbelieving eyes. It took him a second to realise exactly what he had done: he had robbed them of their Priest. The man tasked with performing the duties of their religion was one of his own.

He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off as Ivar stepped forward.

“I know what most of you are thinking: as of now, you have no Priest to serve her anymore. But I have no desire to live my life in her service, or give her our food, or your children. I’ve seen what she can do and I would rather place my faith in the Woo than in her,” he looked around the crowd, staring them down. “And I know all of you would rather not starve during the winters, to not have to fear your children getting chosen to die on the stone in order to survive. This our way out of that eternal cycle.”

Mutters run through the people of Eo like wind through reeds. Absolon winced, covering his ears, but Ivar stood firm, watching the crowd for a moment before he turned to the elder, who had gone to stand off to the side, looking away.

“Elder, would you not say this is a better way than what we have now?” he asked firmly. “This way, nobody has to die. You wouldn’t have to make the decision we had to make this morning ever again.”

“Ivar...” Eifion clenched his jaw, turning away, deep in thought. “I’m used to that decision. But this...”

“You said so yourself: Absolon’s magic has saved a lot of people. And if he is right, that the Lord Woo gave magic to humanity, would you not say that He has done more for this village than she has ever done?” the blond retorted.

The elder continued to look away. However, the crowd shifted again and a man stepped forward towards Absolon, bending down on his knees before him. Torcull, the man who had been gored by a stag.

Behind him, several others broke away from the crowd and headed towards him. He recognised some of them as men and women he had healed at some point, including Sille, but others were strangers he had only seen here and there around the village. They had accepted it based on his words alone.

For a moment, he could only stare at these people. More in the crowd were stirring, muttering amongst themselves. Their whispers made him wince and close his eyes but the happiness he felt was almost enough to offset it. This was happening. People were accepting the Woo. He could do this.

And it was all thanks to Ivar: he had done what Absolon alone could not do: fully convinced the people of Eo. He turned to the blond man and was greeted by a warm smile. His heart skipped slightly at the unexpected gesture, but he found himself returning it.

With that smile still on his face, Absolon took out his wand and pointed it at his hand to begin the ritual again.

Part 14- Warning for squicky implications

SPOILER: Click to show

It had been a bad idea to use magic to create the water. After many repetitions, the pull had begun to manifest itself in his fingers, mingling with the pressure from within to break his concentration with stabs of pain. Yet, more and more people kept coming forward to be baptised. He could not cope. In the end, he had to ask Ivar to get water. Thankfully the blond man complied and, despite the aching coursing through his hands, Absolon was able to keep going.

Those who were hesitant about accepting the Woo grew emboldened by seeing their friends and neighbours doing the same, and he was more than happy to welcome them. Eventually, even Eifion relented, and when he did, the rest of the village sided with their elder.

The din when Eifion finally decided to take the risk and go to the Woo had been unimaginable. He barely remembered much of what they said, just the swirl of colours and noise pushing the ache in his chest up through his body, squeezing it through his veins like burning acid. Absolon had ducked down, clamping his hands over his ears and pressing his knees against his chest in order to do anything to keep the pressure inside and avoid going over the brink of overload. Thankfully, Ivar stepped in to calm the situation. Single-handedly, he silenced the crowd and stalled until Absolon had recovered. It was something he was incredibly grateful for, but only then did he realise how much he already implicitly trusted the priest to keep things from going sour. However, it made sense that he would help: these were his people and Ivar knew them well.

It was getting close to evening when the setting sun forced them to stop. New converts and the few individuals who had remained unconvinced alike retreated to their homes. After saying goodbye to Ivar, Absolon too, had headed back to where he stayed. It was still cool but his winter clothes would provide him with enough warmth overnight to not need to cast the charm, which was a blessing. After all that and with the pull in his hands, the only thing he wanted to do was sleep.

But that was not to be. When he opened the door of the storehouse, he found Ulrika there, sitting on his straw bed. Snowflake was perched up on a shelf, his ears flattened, staring at her and the hand she had extended out to him. However, her head snapped up when she heard Absolon come in but then she immediately looked away from him.

He frowned, seeing her. “What...what is this about?” he asked. Despite himself, he could not keep the edge out of his voice.

“You can probably guess,” Ulrika murmured. “It’s about Greta.”

“What about her?” Absolon closed the door behind him. The woman flinched slightly and sighed.

“I wanted to ask your forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” Absolon’s eyes widened. “You volunteered your child to be killed, a child who was also my friend.”

“I know,” Ulrika clenched her jaw together and closed her eyes. “You seemed to forgive that priest though, and the elder.”

“They were not the ones who killed her,” he replied, closing his eyes and collapsing against a shelf. After the day he had, he could barely stand on his feet. “But you, you volunteered her.”

“I told you why that was.”

“You said she’s a changeling,” Absolon murmured and shook his head. “But it’s not true. I know it isn’t true.”

“Yes, I remember what you said; she was a mage like you, blessed by your god,” Ulrika raised a hand up to rub her eyes. “I heard the story you told. And...when we came to collect her, she was praying with you, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right,” he nodded. “Lord Woo chose to bless her. But you thought that blessing a curse.”

“For which I am sorry. I’ve told you; I want to be forgiven,” the woman kept her hands on her eyes. “Would your god forgive me?”

“Yes, he would. Lord Woo says we should forgive everyone, no matter what their sin. And I should, I really should,” Absolon curled his knees up to his chest. “But I can’t get over the fact that you volunteered your own daughter to be killed.”

“For what it’s worth, I regret it,” Ulrika lowered her hands on to her lap. “You must think I’m a monster. But if you knew...you’d understand.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Knew what?”

“Nothing,” Ulrika said quickly and sharply, causing Absolon to wince. He closed his eyes, hugging his knees to himself.

Silence settled around them both. Absolon remained curled in around himself, carefully flexing and unflexing his hand, trying to work the pull out of it and only sometimes casting glances at her. Snowflake finally acquired the courage and leapt down from the shelf, scurrying over to Absolon’s side. He gave him a few strokes, the warmth helping to ease the pull momentarily, before pulling away, not wanting to be distracted by the lavender, and turning to the woman sitting opposite.

“Ulrika...even before the magic, you seemed to dislike her for no reason. What did she ever do to you?” Absolon asked.

He had kept his hands close to his ears, preparing for her to snap at him. To his surprise, the woman remained silent, only pausing to wrap her shawl around herself. “It was never about her. It was what she...reminded me of.”

He blinked, confused. “What she reminded you of?”

Ulrika flinched slightly but she did not say anything else to enlighten him. With her silence to help him focus, Absolon conjured up an image of Greta in his mind. The small, thin girl, her shawl and dress tattered in places, stroking her cat, a cat whose fur was almost as white as her pale hair. Her quiet sky blue voice ringing out and her green eyes-

Green. Not blue like either of her parents but green.

It became very clear now. He lifted his head up, staring at Ulrika. Just in case, he prepared to cover his ears again. “You...you said, even before the magic, that she was a changeling?” he swallowed. Asking this felt like an intrusion. “Was it because of her eyes?”

Her breathing quickened and she visibly shuddered. “Yes,” Ulrika swallowed. “They’re were reminder of...her father.”

She grimaced. “I never quite knew where he came from, but his accent was southern. He had been attacked by an animal in the forest and came to us for healing. But he...he...” tears began to flow from her eyes. “I’ve never loved anybody but my husband. But before my son was born, you couldn’t imagine what it was like every day, to wake up, look into Greta’s eyes and remember that I was not raising Seisyll’s child...”

Ulrika gave off a sob and covered up her eyes, bursting into tears. Absolon stared at the sudden reaction, his gaze remained firmly fixed on Ulrika. His mouth opened and closed again. There had to be something he could say to comfort her and yet, nothing was coming into his head.

“Does...does your husband know?” he murmured but that barely broke her crying. She merely shook her head.

The harsh dark brown slam of the door interrupted his thoughts. “Ulri-”

Absolon looked up. Seisyll stood in the doorway, his son secure in his arms, his eyes scanning the scene. As soon as they landed on the younger man, the healer strode over, his face twisted in unconcealed rage.

“What did you do to her?” he hissed, making Absolon flinch at the darkness of his navy voice.

“He didn’t do anything, Seisyll,” Ulrika lifted her head up to her husband. “I was...speaking about Greta.”

Immediately, his demeanour softened. The healer seemed to shrink. “What about her?”

Absolon took several breaths to steady himself before looking up at the man holding the baby as warmly as his mother ever did. He realised had never shown such warmth to Greta.

Before he could open his mouth, however, Ulrika spoke up. “Forgive me, Seisyll. For volunteering her.”

“It’s alright,” he walked over and sat down beside her. “I understood why. And I did not want to fight the decision...I thought it would help you.”

“Me too. But I just feel worse. The guilt, it-” Ulrika blinked suddenly and stared at him. “You thought it would help me?”

He nodded.

Her eyes widened. “You knew, all this time? That you weren’t her father?”

Another nod. “And I know exactly who it was too.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Seisyll paused and raised a hand to his mouth as though he was going to be sick. “Because I killed him.”

Ulrika stared at him, horrified. “You did?” she gasped. “How? When? How did you even know?”

“Plenty of things about your demeanour told me,” Seisyll lowered his eyes. “That is why I asked him to accompany me to the next town, but we never made it. Out in the woods I...”

Amund wriggled in his arms and Seisyll adjusted his blanket. “I poisoned him, Ulrika, and he realised it as he lay dying. I still remember his eyes, bright green, staring at me in horror” the healer closed his eyes. “I swore to never harm a man and yet, I am a murderer, so when Greta was born...she was a constant reminder of what I had done.”

Ulrika wiped her eyes and wrapped her arms around her husband, leaning against his shoulder. “So, you and I were both running from the same thing, all this time, and we never realised,” she shivered. “Greta ended up paying the price for it.”

He nodded. The baby in Seisyll’s arms stirred a bit more, giving off a soft whimper and Ulrika lifted him up into her arms, cuddling him closer.

“Do you feel better now that she’s gone, Seisyll?” she murmured.

He shook his head. “No. And you?”

“I always thought I would, but I just feel guilty for giving her to die,” Ulrika shifted Amund up. She looked at him, smiling slightly, before lifting up her gaze. “Absolon?”

He did not react. After a while, he had covered his ears while they spoke, not wanting to be overwhelmed by the colours of their voices.

“Absolon?” she called out, louder.

He looked up, lifting his hands away. “Yes?”

Ulrika bowed her head. “I understand if you never forgive us for Greta’s death. But you said...your god forgives all sins, right?”

Absolon nodded. The woman glanced at her husband before turning back to the young man in front of her. “Would he accept two people like us? For our son’s sake.”

He paused. On one hand, he still felt some anger towards them both for allowing Greta’s death, and yet, she had indirectly caused both of them so much heartache. He had forgiven Ivar and Eifion easily, and had accepted them both into the Woo’s flock. After all Seisyll and Ulrika had given him and all they had suffered, he could do the same for them, especially for their son, so he would not have to die as his half-sister had done. Perhaps if he knew the Lord Woo forgave them, he could more easily forgive them too.

Absolon stood up, taking out his wand. He was pulled but for them, he could spare the magic.

Filling his hand with water, Absolon performed the now-familiar ritual on his hosts. And they accepted it with tears in their eyes and smiles on their faces.

Part 15

SPOILER: Click to show

Seisyll and Ulrika had extended their invitation to him to live in the main house but Absolon had remained in the storehouse, preferring the quiet that it provided. It was there, a short while later, that Ivar came to visit him.

Absolon heard and saw him coming in. He looked up where he had been praying over the Book towards the blond man. Ivar had abandoned his more elaborate priest clothing and now wore a tunic and trousers more akin to the ordinary members of the village. Suspended on a cord hung around his neck, instead of the knife, was a wooden Woocifix that he had carved out himself. The shaft and barbs of the feather were so intricate that it almost seemed as though the feathers were real.

He smiled and nodded in greeting to Absolon before sitting down opposite him. “Good news; the elder has begun to work on setting up the shrine to the Woo for the village.”

Absolon smiled back, noting how quiet Ivar was keeping his voice. Though the indigo was not irritating at the worst of times, it could be overwhelming, especially in a long conversation, and he was grateful for the accomodation. “Good. I’m glad.”

“It will be by his house,” the blond added. “There’s also been some question about what to do in regards to worship of the other spirits. They don’t require big sacrifices like she does,” he paused for a moment. “But others say they should leave them behind as well. The Woo’s protection should be enough; we should not rely on the old spirits who answer to her.”

The younger man pondered this. On one hand, the Lord Woo did not mind other gods, but worshipping them together with him seemed...wrong, sinful in a way. Yet he did not want to impose a completely new way of life upon people with no connections to their old. All he had wanted was for the killing to stop.

“If people want to continue worshipping them, it’s alright. As long as they don’t give offerings and worship the Lord Woo too,” Absolon replied quietly. “But...they should not give the Lord Woo anything. He forbids offerings, save prayer.”

“Very kind of him,” Ivar remarked.

“He’s a kind god,” the younger man said absently, sighing and turning away from the blond.

The conversion of Eo was going well. By now, the entire village had accepted the Woo’s word, and by the look of it they were getting quite enthused about their new god. Certainly, the hunters in the woods and the workers in the fields went about with bigger smiles, and those with children seemed more at ease. Seeing the Woocifixes resting on people’s chests, it almost felt like home. And yet...Absolon could not help but feel uneasy.

“Ivar...” he looked back up at his companion.

“Hmm?” the blond tilted his head.

“You’re from the north. How many villages like this would you say are there?”

He put a hand to his chin. “I don’t know. The nearest one is several days travel away on foot.”

That hardly told him anything. Absolon decided to change the angle. “Where does clan Rabicano live?”

“Rabicano...probably in the mountains to the north, if their name is any indication. Definitely very far from here,” Ivar replied, a small frown crossing his face. “Why?”

The younger man’s shoulders fell. “There’s lots of clans and lots of villages, just like this one, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” the frown on the blond’s face grew deeper. “What’s on your mind?”

Absolon sighed. “Eo’s not enough. Children are going to keep dying all over,” his brown eyes met Ivar’s blue ones. “I can’t stop here. I have to go on.”

He was silent for a moment before returning the nod. “Yes, you should. This is something not just Eo needs to hear.”

“Except...” Absolon swallowed. “I don’t know where to begin. People here know me, but to anybody else, I’m a stranger, one with magic too. How can I convince them?”

Ivar rubbed his chin again, thinking about this. “It’s true, the people here trust you, so unless you want to spend every winter in a new place healing people...”

Absolon shook his head. “No. That would take far too long,” he closed his eyes, trying to focus. “I need to gain their trust some other way, but I don’t know how.”

“You need to win over somebody they already trust,” the blond stated.

His eyes snapped open. “Like the village elder?”

“That would still take far too long as well. One elder only has authority in one village,” Ivar’s eyes lit up. “But the Dux...”

Absolon frowned. “Who?”

“Every person in the north has a clan allegiance and the Dux is their leader, their father-figure. They will listen to him,” a wide grin spread over the blond man’s face. “If you gain the Dux as an ally, if you gain his approval, the people of our clan will follow him. I guarantee it.”

“That...does sound like a good idea,” a smile also began to creep on to Absolon’s face before immediately fading. “But I don’t know how to win his trust, or even where to go.”

“I’ll show you where to go,” Ivar told him, nodding.

“You would?” the younger man’s eyes widened. “But...aren’t you needed here? You’ve been coordinating with Elder Eifion and-”

“The elder can take care of things here. And travelling alone is too dangerous,” the blond stretched out his hand towards Absolon before recoiling, remembering about his aversion to touch. “I’m coming with you, if you will let me, of course.”

Absolon waited, taking the opportunity to let the colours of his eyes fade but he knew immediately what his answer was going to be. “Please come with me. I need somebody who knows this land. And I would like your company, Ivar,” he lowered his eyes, feeling strangely like had admitted something forbidden. “Woo knows, I cannot do this alone.”

“I have faith in you, Absolon,” Ivar replied, giving him an encouraging smile. “And I swear, I will still do everything I can for you.”

He could not help but smile at that answer but nevertheless, it struck him as just a little odd. “Why would you?” he glanced up at Ivar. “You barely know me, and yet you’re willing to do so much for me.”

The blond man lowered his eyes and sighed. “You saved my life, and you have given my life meaning. I don’t have much other use for it.”

Absolon blinked. “Don’t you have any family? Or friends?”

Ivar slowly shook his head. “My family died when I was a child. Cruach, the old priest, she took me in as an apprentice...but the thing about the priesthood, it leaves you isolated. We’re not even allowed to live in the village with everyone else,” he smiled grimly. “Nobody loves child murderers.”

“I’m sorry,” the younger man murmured, shrinking back. He wrapped his arms in around himself, suppressing the slight ache that suddenly arose up in it. “My parents died in a flood when I was four years old. I barely remember them.”

Ivar’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry...that’s so young. But you survived?”

Absolon nodded. “The...” his mind struggled. There was no word in the northern language for nun. “I was raised by...a community of people who dedicate their lives to the Woo. That’s the best way to describe it.”

A sad smile appeared on the blond’s face. “So we both had religious upbringings...except with a god like the Woo, I’m sure yours was much better.”

“I was isolated, but for a reason that was better than yours: these people who raised me deliberately isolate themselves, to better serve the Lord Woo. They’re not allowed to marry or have families but they looked after me and the other children. I had them, and they were kind to me,” Absolon sighed. “I’m sorry you didn’t have that.”

“Different religions,” Ivar shrugged and blinked, looking up at him. “They have people in the south voluntarily isolate themselves serve the Lord Woo?” his voice was quizzical, with a hint of awe as though he had been given a revelation.

He smiled and nodded. “Yes. We call them monks for men and nuns for women. I was the former, or at least I was training to be, until I came here.”

“It seems...nice. I cannot imagine it, but it must be far better than the Priesthood here,” the blond remarked. “I can’t imagine you leaving.”

Absolon rubbed his eyes and glanced down at the Book by his side. Did he want to admit this? But he was already committed to Ivar as a travelling companion, and the blond had proved himself to be trustworthy many times over. Besides, he wanted to trust him, so why not tell him this? “Lord Woo...told me to come here.”

Ivar blinked and stared at him, looking for the world like a startled deer. “He told you to come here? Why?”

The younger man paused, closing his eyes. The indigo and bronze had layered on top of one another over the course of the conversation, becoming almost unbearable, almost as if to answer Ivar’s question. “To cure me. You know that I don’t like touch but I...I also see sound as colour.”

It seemed impossible that Ivar’s eyes could get any wider but somehow, they did. “You can do that?”

Absolon gave a nod. “It’s why I have to take pauses in the conversation sometimes: to let the colour disappear, otherwise it gets too much. And when it gets too much, my chest...it feels like it’s exploding,” he closed his eyes, his hand clenching over his ribs. “It’s what happened to me at the altar stone.”

“That sounds awful,” the blond murmured. “Do you think then, that if you spread His word, He’ll cure you of this?”

“I hope so,” he bowed his head. “The Woo works in mysterious ways... but it has to be it. It can’t be anything else.”

A wide smile blossomed across Ivar’s face. “Then let’s not disappoint Him, for your sake,” he pushed himself up on to his feet and turned on his heel. “As soon as things have settled here, we’ll go to the Dux of Roan. And we’ll get him to listen to you.”

“Yes,” Absolon replied, smiling back at Ivar. He had his reservations about the trip but upon seeing the blond man’s enthusiasm, he could not help but feel slightly optimistic about it himself. “Somehow, we will.”

As long as he had Ivar with him, he somehow felt it would be alright.

***

Neither wanted to linger as long as the weather was good so it was soon after, while Eo was beginning to settle after their conversion, that Absolon and Ivar informed Eifion they were leaving. Though the elder was clearly saddened to see them go, he understood and told them that he would watch over the village here, as he had always done. And much to Absolon’s great happiness, he said he would pray for their success.

Saying goodbye to his hosts had a much more poignant personal note. Seisyll had coolly thanked him for all his help with his patients and was sorry that he was leaving, though the waver in his eyes and his voice betrayed that this was not just due to the loss of a good healer. Ulrika, however, had not looked him in the eye as they parted and only wished him the very best of luck. Absolon, in return, had promised to think of them and to ask the Woo to look out for their well-being and especially the well-being of their son. This, if nothing else, seemed to provide the couple with the most solace.

And so, one bright spring day, Absolon finally left Eo behind. Aside from Ivar, who had accompanied him as promised, several other men from the village had decided to join the two to guard them on the long journey up to the Dux. Though he was thankful for their protection and their knowledge of the land, more people meant more chance of overload for Absolon. Ivar was at least considerate enough to keep quiet when he saw he was in pain but the constant chatter of the other men was a painful, irritating distraction, especially in the evenings around the fire as they relaxed. Often, he had to isolate himself and cast a sonic shield around his ears in order to be able to focus on the road ahead or rest for the coming day.

However, he did have some comfort on the journey: Snowflake had followed him too. It seemed after the death of his owner, the cat had attached himself to him. Though at first he seemed like an unnecessary tag-along, he had some uses: often the feline’s hissing provided some warning of fairy creatures that dared come too close. Stroking him too, was one of the few touches that Absolon genuinely did like, even if he could not keep it up for long.

Though most of their journey was spent on the road through forests, occasionally the party did stumble upon a town. As he had thought, the residents had met Absolon and his company with all the suspicion that had been granted to him upon his first day in Eo. People were wary of this sudden group of men who had appeared in their midst, not helped by the fact that they often camped out on the edge of town. They rarely stayed long in these villages and though Absolon had tried to spread the word of the Woo in each one of them, as predicted, their inhabitants were far less receptive than the people of Eo. However, he was not without a few successes; men, women and children who had come to find him later to accept his words. Sadly, but all too predictably, they were people who had lost children. Without much ceremony, Absolon had baptised them before they headed on their way. Once they had secured the patronage of the Dux, they could help these people more fully.

Slowly but surely, they made their way north. As the party kept walking, the land began to shift. Though the trees around the road still clustered thick and impenetrable, the ground beneath their feet began to rise and buckle, and with it came another trigger for the agony in Absolon’s chest: prolonged uphill climbs. Frequently, he had to stop and let it dissipate, and then let his grey panting also fade from his eyes before continuing onwards.

“Are these the mountains?” Absolon asked one day, after another exhausting trek.

“No,” Ivar replied, shaking his head. “The Roan clan possesses no mountain territories. These are merely hills.”

He gasped, clutching at his chest in order to ease the ache inside that had combined with an acute shortness of breath. “If these are hills, I dare not imagine what the mountains are like.”

“You have to find your way through the mountains with special paths. You cannot simply go over them as we can now,” one of the men ahead of him remarked in his gruff, juniper-coloured voice.

“Why do we have to go over hills though?” Absolon asked, sitting down on a nearby rock to rest.

“The Duxes of each clan build their forts on the highest point of their territory. For defence, you see? Ours has chosen this place,” the man told him and smiled. “Cheer up, lad. If the hills are this tall, it means we’re close. You’ll get your audience yet.”

The young man could only nod as he closed his eyes, trying to ease at least some of the pain inside his ribs while he gasped for air. They could not get there soon enough.

Only two days after that, however, Absolon finally got his wish. They were walking down a wide valley and turned a corner and there, on the hill overlooking the entire landscape below, was great wall. Thick wooden columns, each one sharpened to a cruel point, made up the length of its body which spanned around the tip of the hill to protect its charge inside. Above the walls, they could just barely make out the inner keep itself. Smoke rose up from within, betraying the signs of life, and the road leading up to the great gate of the fort occasionally had a stray person, seemingly no bigger than an ant, going up to it.

He looked up at it and swallowed nervously. Though the fort was hardly the grandest building he had ever seen, after an entire winter spent in a tiny village, it exuded power and strength. Even back in Corvus, noble residences always had some refinement and delicacy to them, unlike the Dux’s home, which seemed to stand as testament to the north’s might. It loomed over them like an eagle might loom over its territory, surveying the prey below.

“It will be alright,” Ivar remarked beside him, noticing Absolon’s discomfort. “You might not be one but we-” he gestured around at himself and the men. “-are Roans: his people. He has to give us a safe audience at least.”

“I just...cannot believe I’m stumbling into the company of a powerful man and delivering the Lord Woo’s words to him,” the younger man bowed his head. “That’s a job for great leaders and holy men, not me.”

“You’re what we have right now, Absolon so we’ll have to make do,” the blond smiled at him. “But I would rather have you than anybody else.”

Absolon turned away from him but despite the gesture, a wide smile blossomed across his face at the compliment. He took a few moments to regain his composure before lifting his head, taking a deep breath and stepping forward down the road.

Part 16

SPOILER: Click to show

Nobody gave them so much as a second glance as they wandered through the settlement at the bottom of the valley. Unlike the villages they passed through before, these people were used to strangers coming and going to see the Dux. They simply got on with their work, whether it be farming or herding animals or even craftsmanship, ignoring the new visitors as they ascended up to the fort. They walked in through the heavy wooden gates and immediately, the noise assaulted him. People dashed back and forth between them, working and talking to each other. The dark green, almost black knock of wood against wood, the sharp orange of a blacksmith striking his anvil, the distant red-brown lowing of cattle, all mixed into a kaleidoscope in his eyes, forcing him to cover his ears and press his head down. Woo, after the tiny villages of the north, he had forgotten what it had been like to be in a heavily populated area.

He quickened his pace, heading the building in the centre. As they got closer and the sound faded, Absolon dared to look up, to at least see where he was going. It stretched out like a slumbering giant, dwarfing the surrounding huts. He noticed the wooden hawks at each corner holding up the sloped, thatch roof, but they were hardly the only flourishes the hall contained. Carvings decorated the columns that held it up too, depicting birds and beasts amongst trees. In between were complex symbols, though he did not know what they represented.

Any thoughts regarding their meaning were swept aside as they reached the great front door. Unlike the people outside, the guards at the entrance gave them a closer inspection, their eyes narrowing as they swept over the party.

“What is your business here?” one of them asked in a dark grey voice, slightly tinted with blood red.

Absolon flinched at the sound. He took a few moments to draw breath and gather his composure, especially after the pain of the noise of the fort, before forcing himself to look back and open his mouth. “We-”

Ivar stepped forward, cutting him off. He turned his head up to the guard, looking him in the eye. “The men of Roan who work and fight for the Dux of Roan wish to invoke their right to speak with him,” he stated, his voice unwavering.

The other man met his gaze without hesitation. “And in doing so, you accept the laws of hospitality of the Roan Clan. You shall do no harm and no harm shall be done to you.”

“We accept,” the blond replied with a nod.

Returning the gesture, the guard turned to one of his companions and whispered a few words to him. Once the other man had left, he looked back at the group and opened the door into the great hall.

“You may enter,” he said, guiding them with his hand inside.

Absolon’s heart began to pound. This was it. He was going to speak of the Woo with the most powerful man in the vicinity. Already, he could feel the ache in his chest beginning to rise up at the thought he pressed a hand down against his sternum to keep it from exploding. What if something went wrong? What if he was not listened to?

Snowflake curled around his legs and he absently leaned down, giving the cat several strokes along his back and absorbing the soft lavender texture of his fur. Perhaps it would be fine. The guard said no harm would be done to them at least.

“Absolon?” Ivar called to him, already a few steps inside the hall. He caught himself and hurried in, the men with them following after him and the guard bringing up the rear.

Traces of smoke lingered inside, steaming from the candles that lit the darker corners of the hall. Unlike most buildings, however, this one was graced with windows high up that let in light to illuminate the inside. More carvings wound around the walls and columns that held up the roof, giving the hall some decoration, though they were nowhere near as intricate as the ones outside. Rushes covered the uneven stone floor, doing their best to hide some of the grime.

At the end of the hall, up several steps, stood a chair. It was relatively unadorned, but its position and the carvings and animal skins that surrounded it gave it an air of importance, almost like an altar in a church. In fact, Absolon realised as he looked around, save for the lack of stone, pews and stained glass, this place did resemble the chapel in his old abbey.

Mutters all around them distracted him from his thoughts. Absolon winced, covering his ears and glancing around him at the sources of the myriad voices. Various servants were regarding the new visitors with some curiosity, a few talking amongst themselves. He closed his eyes and covered his ears trying to drown them out. This was already going to be hard enough without the sounds of strangers layering over his vision.

But as quickly as it started up, the mutters stopped and the servants turned away, focusing on their work. As the colours faded, Absolon opened his eyes and noticed that Ivar and the men with him had bowed their heads. One of them was clutching Snowflake to him, as though afraid the cat was going to run away.

“You look lost, lad,” a rich voice the colour of blackened copper filled his eyes and ears. Slowly, he turned his head towards the source. As he did, his gaze settled on to a tall middle-aged man with hair that shifted from gold to red in the light, an effect that made his neatly braided beard even more striking. His clothing was richly decorated with similar patterns as the walls and columns of the hall, accented with a billowing black cloak that was fixed to his shoulder with an iron brooch. From his hip swung a long object bound in a leather sheath. It took Absolon a moment to place it for what it was: a sword.

“Well, are you lost?” the man’s hazel eyes twinkled with amusement as he sat down on to the chair that had been provided for him. The younger man suddenly felt his chest clench as he realised who this was: the Dux.

“I-I-” he dipped his head down hurriedly. “No, I’m...I’m not.”

A soft chuckle emerged from the man, staining his voice slightly yellow. “A strange boy in odd garb with a southern accent and he claims he is not lost while coming to me with a party of my clansmen who are asking to speak to me on some matter?” he smiled. “Now you have my curiosity piqued.”

Absolon opened his mouth and closed it again, feeling for all the world like a fish that had just been thrown out on to the riverbank. “We-“

“Sire,” Ivar stated, straightening up and looking at the Dux. “We are here because of him. We seek your support.

“My support? For what?”

“I think it is best that he explain it,” the blond stepped backward and gestured for Absolon to come forward.

He could feel all eyes turn to him. The young man closed his eyes painfully and touched the wooden feather on his chest, letting the jade colour of its texture soak into his eyes. The whole journey, he had been practicing what he would say to the Dux but now that he was here, his mind had hone blank. But he could not afford to stumble now. If he missed his footing here, he would hit a dead end.

So, opening his eyes again, the young man leaned down and withdrew the Book of Woo from his pack, holding it tightly against him.

“S-sire,” Absolon turned his gaze up to the person in front of him. “You and your people, you still give...offerings, to the one you call the Shifter of Seasons?”

“Yes...” the Dux remarked. “But why would a southerner care about that?”

Absolon shuddered, the ache in his chest spiking and pressing against his sternum. He pressed the Book down upon it, trying to suppress it.

“I know why you do it. I spent part of autumn and an entire long winter in your land, living in a village in your territory. It was the worst winter of my life and I know why you hate and fear it,” he said quietly. “But there is another way. A way to make the spring come without having to give her anything.”

“Impossible,” came a grey, only barely-green, cry. Absolon winced but he did not look around for the source of that colour, instead keeping his eyes on the Dux.

“It isn’t. If you would let me speak...” he panted, clutching the book tighter. “There is a way to go without killing anyone.”

“And that way is giving her proper offerings,” the owner of the voice stepped into his field of vision. From behind him, Absolon heard Ivar sharply draw breath and he could see why: the man was wearing a bright green shawl around his shoulders. From beneath it, the leather point of the knife sheath stuck out, a grim indicator of who was addressing him.

“And when those are not enough?” Ivar growled, his blue eyes staring daggers at the priest. “Or do you enjoy killing children?”

“It is an honour to be chosen. It is bloody and unpleasant but the child is doing the entire community a great service,” the man replied calmly. “And if you don’t want to do that, you give Her the fair share of the harvest.”

“Fair?” the blond man clenched his fists. “A ‘fair share’ for her is often starvation for everyone else!”

“Then you should be happy that only one person has to be killed instead of your entire village dying,” the priest’s voice dripped with condescension. “Accept Her will and be happy.”

“I served that thing once, like you and I never want to, ever again!” Ivar cried. “And if you knew what was good for you, you wouldn’t either!”

Absolon gave off a small moan as their two voices continued to clash. The layering of the priest’s almost grey voice over Ivar’s indigo was blocking out everything else, forcing the already great ache in his chest to grow ever larger, pressing against his ribs and spreading throughout his body. He took several deep breaths and covered his ears, trying to hold on to the Book of Woo in the process.

Ivar noticed this and bit his tongue, though he continued to scowl at the priest. With a few careful steps, he was by the younger man’s side, looming over him protectively. The priest’s gaze grew darker and he opened his mouth to reply.

“Crom,” the Dux said calmly, standing up and turning to the priest “As Dux of Roan, it is my duty to listen to that which my people bring before me. And if this young man claims to have a way to deal with the winters, I wish to listen to it.”

He turned his gaze back to Absolon. “Stand. What is your name, lad?”

“Absolon,” he replied quietly, forcing himself up on to his shaking feet.

“A pleasure then, Absolon,” the Dux nodded. “I am Dux Ragnarr of Roan, as you have guessed.”

The younger man swallowed, bowing his head. “I’m sorry, Sire. Loud noises, they-”

“My Priest was rude to you. I am a fair man, however, I believe I should hear you out,” the Dux met his gaze. “Even if what you say sounds far too good to be true.”

“I know it does, but hear me out,” Absolon bowed his head, clutching the Book of Woo tightly. “In the south, our god protects us. And if you stop worshipping her and begin worshipping Him, He could defend you from her, and He does not require sacrifices either.”

Ragnarr quirked an eyebrow. “So you say. And why should I believe you?”

“Because...because the Lord Woo said so. That is His word and his promise,” he held out the Book in front of him like a talisman. “If you wish to listen, I can read it to you.”

The Dux nodded and gestured to a bench nearby, clearly inviting him to sit down. Gratefully, Absolon did. Before he was even aware of it, Snowflake hopped on to his lap, curling up. The pressure beneath the cat suddenly rose up and he gritted his teeth together in order not to cry out. Carefully, he shifted the animal off his lap and put his right hand on to the cat’s. The lavender colour of Snowflake’s warmth and fur blossomed in his eyes and he closed them briefly, drawing comfort from the colour in order to soothe himself. When he felt comfortable, Absolon opened the Book and began to read it out.

He had planned carefully which passages to read out. Slowly, he worked through the Books of Strength and Wisdom, reading the Woo’s words on protecting his followers, on the lack of sacrifices and the promises that the Woo made to those who are devoted to him. The Book of Heart too, got some passages, including the tale of Woomas which had struck such a chord with the people of Eo. As he read, he occasionally cast his eyes up at Ragnarr. The Dux remained motionless as he listened, though his eyes betrayed the depths of thought going through his mind.

When Absolon finally finished the reading he had chosen, he closed his eyes, taking a few moments to let the colours to fade away. Then, he turned his head up at the older man, silently pleading with him.

The Dux remained silent for a few moments before leaning back in his chair. “Those are some very interesting stories, lad, and if what you say is true, I can see the appeal of your god. But,” he met Absolon’s gaze. “Words alone are not enough for me to risk my people.”

His heart fell. “They...they aren’t just words. They’re true,” he clasped his hands together. “Believe me.”

“I need proof before I commit to anything that could cost lives,” Ragnarr stated.

Absolon swallowed nervously. His hand hovered over his wand. “I...I can prove it. You see, I...” he bowed his head. “The Lord Woo blesses some of His followers with magic, so that they may protect His people. And I...I have that magic.”

A derisive snort came from the side. “Magic? Whoever heard of a man having magic,” the priest remarked again.

“It is different from fairy magic. This is magic granted by the Woo, to help Him keep His promise,” Absolon said, gripping his wand.

“It is true,” Ivar stepped forward. “Absolon won over the entire village and saved many lives this winter with his healing magic. I...I would be dead were it not for him.”

The men behind him nodded silently and gave Absolon smiles of approval. Ragnarr tilted his head, intrigued.

“Show me,” he finally said, gesturing with his hand.

The young man took a deep breath and stood up, taking out his wand from his holster. Memories of the abbot receiving him into the monastery seven years ago flooded back into his mind. Except he doubted a simple light spell would impress the Dux. Unless...

“Woomos Maxima,” he murmured. A bright flash of green light emanated from his wand, filling the entire great hall with its power.

When it had faded, Absolon opened his eyes to find the Dux blinking at him.

“Impressive, lad. That is power,” his gaze bored into Absolon. “But what can you do to protect us?”

“I’ve been able to fight off unseelie,” he said, glancing at Snowflake. “With my magic, and with the Lord Woo’s power.” His fingers traced the barbs of his feather.

“Is that true?” the Dux asked the men with him.

“Allegedly,” Ivar winced. “The only person who knew for certain...is dead.”

“So I only have hearsay of your protective abilities,” the Dux remarked.

Absolon gasped like a fish on land, feeling the ache in his chest rising up. This was not going well. “I...I know fighting spells,” he stammered. “And warmth spells. And spells for creating water, or fire or-”

Ragnarr threw up his hand, forcing him into silence. “Since this is about that, what magic do you know that can save us from Her influence?”

“I...” Absolon opened and closed his mouth again. His mind flashed back to the clearing when he faced that thing. He had cut her but in return, she froze his body completely...reduced him to a sensory wreck.

He winced as pain flared beneath his sternum as though it was a remnant of that day still trapped inside him. “I am confident the Lord Woo will back me. He will have my side, as He will have yours. If you only-”

“Lad, I wish I could believe you. What you are offering to me seems very appealing, but I am not going to risk it. Not unless you prove to me that you and your god can really fight against Her.”

Absolon closed his eyes, both in an attempt to rid them of colour and to blink back tears. So he had failed. He had come all this way and tried all he could, only to be turned away. It was never going to be easy but he had hoped this would work. Now, he had no idea what to do.

Ragnarr sighed, getting up. “I am sorry, Absolon. You are enthusiastic and keen, and you clearly believe in this, but I have people to look after. I will not trust you and risk them.”

“I understand,” he whispered, keeping his head low. Behind him, he could hear Ivar approaching, each footstep registering smoky olive in his vision.

“Please, Sire, reconsider. The people of Eo all trust him with their lives. Elder Eifion-”

“I do not have whatever it is the people of Eo saw that made them choose to follow him. Perhaps I might reconsider if I get proof that I can rely on this god’s power,” the Dux replied. “That is my final decision.”

Ivar gritted his teeth before deciding any further argument was unwise. He bowed deeply. “I understand, Sire.”

“Nevertheless,” Ragnarr continued. “You have come this far and even if I do not put stock in your god, I admire your faith in him. In accordance with the customs, you shall all dine and sleep in my hall tonight.”

It was barely a consolation prize. But after the winter he had spent and the long, hard trek north, Absolon did not dare reject hospitality, good food or a comfortable place to sleep.

“Thank you, Sire,” he bowed with Ivar. “I am grateful, even for that.”

Part 17

SPOILER: Click to show

The Dux held true to his word. All of them, including Absolon, were fed a good meal that night and were lodged in guest rooms. At first they were delegated to group rooms but Absolon, with Ivar’s help, had managed to get an individual one. He could not remember ever having such luxury, not in the convent or monastery or anywhere. It was relatively spacious and warm but that was not what he cared about the most; this room was almost soundless. All he could hear was the occasional black-brown groan of the hall as it settled and the leaden wind picking up outside. There were no voices to colour his vision, no sound to irritate the ache in his chest, nothing to cause him any discomfort.

That was, until he heard a dove-grey scratching and reddish mewling at his door. At first he considered ignoring it but it only got louder and more insistent. With a sigh, he opened the door. A dash of white streaked in as Snowflake ran into the room, proceeding to explore every corner of it without giving the human a second glance. Shaking his head slightly, Absolon closed the door behind him.

He sat back down on his bed, watching the cat and waiting for him to come to him. But after attracting his attention, Snowflake was clearly more interested in his surroundings than in Absolon. Already he was snuffling at the corners, the scar across his muzzle curling with each breath he took.

Should he let the cat out so he would not interrupt his sleep? No, no doubt Snowflake would just mewl and scratch at his door again. It was not like he had ever been too much of a nuisance, not on the road or back in Eo. Even if Absolon was disrupted, it would hardly be the first time. He could always throw him out then, but right now, he was too exhausted from the day to consider it.

So Absolon left him to his own devices, letting him pounce on a particularly interesting corner of the chair that stood off to the side. As soon as he lay down in his bed, the first bed with anything resembling sheets he had slept in since he left Corvus, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

And gasped awake when an olive cry of pain and a loud, carmine hissing pierced his ears.

Absolon shot up in his bed just as the dark human shape looming over him gave off another loud yelp. A white blob had latched on to it, hissing and yowling, which he took for a second to recognise as Snowflake, his muzzle twisted up as far as the scar would let it. The man he was attacking gasped and flailed.

“Get off me, you wretched beast!” the dark green voice shouted as it stumbled back into the wall, flailing as it attempted to dislodge the cat. Absolon’s eyes widened as the colour layered over the reds of the cat’s hissing, forcing him to cover his ears. The Priest! That was his voice. But what was he doing-

A metallic glint caught his eye as the priest continued to struggle with Snowflake. A knife. His heart began to pound and the ache in his chest intensified. He was going to kill him!

Snowflake did not stop yowling as he tore mercilessly at the man’s face, making him continue to yell out in pain. The priest’s flailing leg caught the chair, knocking it over with a jet black bang. Absolon winced and on reflex, he shut his eyes, curling in on himself. No, he could not do that now! Not if he wanted to live.

Keeping his eyes shut, he forced himself to tear one hand away from his ears and groped for his wand. But instead of the comforting texture of wood, all he felt was the cloth of the holster. Where was it?

Absolon forced himself to open his eyes. The colours of the struggle continued to layer painfully over his vision, almost blocking it, pushing the pain inside him up. Yet through them colour and ache, he could see his wand was gone. His heart gave a painful start and the pressure inside him increased even more, inching up through his limbs. Oh Woo, where was it?! Where did it go?

Snowflake gave a pained screech. Involuntarily, Absolon doubled over, desperate to keep the noise and colour from overwhelming him. Pain spread through him like spilled liquid from a cup, forcing a cry out of his throat that added bronze to the spill of colours he saw. Now now! He had to find his wand!

The door opened. “Absolon?” Ivar’s indigo voice rang out. “Are you-?”

His voice was cut off and immediately there was a sharp cry from the priest, followed by the dull slam of his body as he hit a wall. Absolon cried out again, clamping his hands over his ears and shutting his eyes even more tightly while pressing his knees into his chest. The fight around him raged until through the shield of his hands, he heard two things clatter against the stone floor. The first sound was a distinctly silver-grey metallic but the second had the softer, yellow-grey of wood hitting stone.

Somehow, despite the whirl of colours and the pressure in him, Absolon forced his eyes open. Remaining curled in the same position in case the pain flared up, he looked up at the scene in front of him. The priest was on his knees with Ivar pressing down upon him, clutching both his wrists. His blond hair was out of its usual ponytail and hanging down his head, framing his face. Snowflake was limping beside him, his back arched and his ears flat against his head, hissing weakly at the priest. On the man’s right side, there lay a cruel iron dagger. On the left, however, was Absolon’s wand.

“What did you do?” Ivar hissed.

“Nothing!” the priest cried. From nearby, there came another weak hiss from Snowflake.

Absolon sharply drew breath and practically tumbled out of bed, reaching out and snatching it up from the stones. Clutching it to his chest, he closed his eyes, getting used to the familiar feeling of the wood once again in his hand. Thank Woo. The thought of losing it, here, where he could get no replacement...he might as well have lost a limb.

“Are you hurt?” Ivar murmured, in response to which Absolon shook his head. The blond man visibly uncoiled before his gaze hardened and he turned back to the priest.

“You were trying to kill him,” his indigo voice was dark with rage. “What happened to ‘no harm shall be done to you’, Priest?”

The other man snarled. “That only stands as long as you do us no harm. And this boy,” he glared up at Absolon. “Was trying to doom us all.”

“He was trying to save you. But you cannot grasp that,” Ivar twisted the man’s wrist even tighter, making him groan.

Absolon threw his hands around his ears, pressing his elbows against his chest. “Quiet, both of you. Please. I can’t think.”

Ivar immediately went silent, bowing his head. He glared at the priest, daring him to make a noise.

He took several deep breaths, letting the Lord Woo’s words run across his mind to distract himself from the ache inside. The colours of the scuffle eventually began to fade away and the pain followed suit.

Finally, Absolon felt composed enough to look up. A pitiful red mewl from Snowflake immediately pierced his vision and he turned to the cat. He was limping, a bloody gash scored across his side by the knife.

The cat had saved his life for the second time. With a smile, Absolon kneeled down and ran a hand down his spine before pointing his wand at his injury.

“Wait, Absolon,” the blond spoke. “Leave him be.”

“W-why?” the younger man frowned. “He needs healing.”

“We need proof this vermin was here and caused injury,” Ivar painfully tightened his grip on the Priest, making the man whimper. “So we may take our case to the Dux tomorrow.”

“Go ahead. It was you who brought this boy with his dangerous idea into the fort, an idea he’s already infected these lands with,” the Priest spat. “I had every right to stamp it out when I had the chance.”

“Your chance is over. Explain it to the Dux tomorrow and pray to your god that she listens, if she even cares,” the blond snarled. “Woo, I’m in half a mind to kill you myself.”

“Ivar!” Absolon exclaimed. “Don’t.”

Ivar glanced up at him, catching his eye before turning back to the priest. “But I am better than you. We can deal with this tomorrow,” he hefted the priest up to his feet and shoved him towards the door. “Get out!”

The man yelped slightly as he caught his balance in the corridor outside, just in time to Ivar to slam shut the door, making Absolon flinch and shut his eyes for a moment. Grabbing the rope attached to its handle, he tied it securely to the hook on the other side. Only then did the tenseness in his shoulders escape from him.

Carefully, Absolon placed his hands beneath Snowflake, lifting him up. The weight of the cat pressed down in his hands and he groaned as pain welled up beneath him, tingling at his palms and pushing the creature away. However, Absolon managed to tolerate it just long enough to transfer him on to the bed, sitting down next to him. A pitiful mew escaped from Snowflake and he curled into the blanket, shivering a little.

Absolon winced, running his hand along the cat’s back, careful to avoid the injury. He peered closer at it, trying to assess its severity. It did not look life-threatening, he could no doubt last the night, but nevertheless, Snowflake’s condition was hardly ideal. He swallowed, feeling a stab of sympathy for the cat.

“I’m sorry, I know you want to heal him,” Ivar murmured, walking over and taking a seat by his side. “But he will be alright until we tell the Dux what happened. His wound is vital.”

“I...I suppose. But I owe him my life,” Absolon sighed before turning to the blond. “You too. Thank you,” he smiled. “I didn’t know you were that strong.”

Ivar gave a soft chuckle, glancing down at the floor. “That old hag Cruach had me take care of all the manual labour, so I’m much stronger than I look. Fortunately for both of us,” he looked back at Absolon, his eyes full of concern. “Are you alright?”

The younger man nodded. “I got overwhelmed earlier but I’m fine,” he slipped his wand back into its holster. “He knew, Ivar.”

“Yes. If I, or Snowflake had not been here...” the blond shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it,” he swallowed, “Would you mind if I slept here tonight? I want to make sure you’re safe.”

He blinked, startled at the request. While he liked having the space to himself, the thought of Ivar being here was hardly unpleasant. “Uh, yes, sure,” Absolon nodded hurriedly and glanced around the room. “But where?”

Ivar smiled and shrugged. “On the floor. I will be comfortable there, if I get the blankets from my room,” he pushed himself up off the bed.

“Are you sure?” the younger man murmured. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“If it means protecting you from him, I don’t mind,” the blond headed for the door, untying the rope which served as a lock. “We need you more than I need sleep.”

Absolon nodded and lowered himself down on to the bed, careful not to disturb Snowflake. “Thank you, Ivar,” he murmured, curling up around himself. Despite himself, he smiled up at the blond man.

“You’re welcome,” Ivar replied, returning the smile just before he stepped out of the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Absolon reached out for his wand, holding it tightly to his body in case the priest took the opportunity to attack. The colour of Ivar’s voice was fading away but he could still feel his heart pounding painfully against his ribs, tugging at the pain in his chest.

He had expected opposition but never occurred to him that people would try to kill him over his beliefs. Now the thought would not leave his mind. Was this really how it was going to be? He might not even have Snowflake or Ivar next time somebody decided to go for his throat...

Absolon noticed the fallen knife, glimmering in the dull light. He swallowed and turned on his side, bringing his knees up to his chest. It was going to be a long night.

***

“Crom,” the Dux growled once they had told him the story of what had happened the previous night. “Is this true? Did you violate the law of hospitality?”

“I did,” the priest replied, bowing his head. “But, with all due respect, Sire, it is they who intend to harm us first,” he pointed his finger at Absolon and Ivar. “Them and their idea that somehow this foreign god, a god who knows nothing of the northern winter, can protect us.”

Ivar glared at him. “You-”

“They have already infected a village in your territory! A village that will no doubt be doomed when winter comes!” Crom glared back at him. “And you seek to bring this doom here!”

“Would you rather give your children up to a horrific death?! I’ve seen the power of the goddess you worship and I’ve also seen the Woo’s power,” Ivar replied, his hands clenching into fists. “I know who I would rather follow.”

“Then upon your head be it,” the priest spat. “But do not dare drag us down with you!”

Absolon moaned with pain and closed his eyes, clenching his hands over his ears. He had taken his wand out to heal Snowflake now that the cat no longer needed to bear the wounds of his encounter but the sounds of the argument of the two men had penetrated into his ears, layering his vision with thick, loud colours.

“Ivar, stop...please,” he murmured. The blond man’s head whipped around and as soon as he noticed his distress, he bit his tongue but continued to glare at the priest. Crom narrowed his eyes at Absolon, carefully observing him before turning back to the Dux.

“I maintain I have done nothing wrong,” he said, holding his head up high.

“And I maintain that he has violated the rule of hospitality,” Ivar spoke up after a few moments.

Ragnarr leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. “There is no denying that. But,” his eyes met Ivar’s. “He raises a good point: what you are doing can be considered dangerous.”

The blond stared at him, incredulous. “Sire, yesterday you indicated you thought no such thing.”

“But I also refused to accept your words because I consider them too dangerous for myself,” he folded his hands in his lap. “Perhaps I should also consider if this is too dangerous for you to spread to my people.”

Those words were like a punch to the gut. Hearing this, Absolon lifted his head up from where he had been working on Snowflake’s injury, gasping. He stood up and the now-healthy cat leapt off from where he had been lying beside him, startled.

“You wouldn’t,” he cried, his eyes widening. “Please, sire. I promise it is not danger to you. It would save you.”

“I cannot commit to that without some kind of proof,” Ragnarr met the young man’s gaze and for the first time, he noticed just how weary the Dux seemed. “Your faith is admirable, as I said, but I cannot risk my people on that alone. And I wonder now if I should not let others risk it either.”

Absolon gripped his chest, pressing down on the ache that was slowly rising up. This could not be happening. They had come here to get his favour but if he was turning against them...

Ivar’s gaze hardened. “So then you would consider his attack on us justified?” he asked with obvious venom before adding “Sire.”

Ragnarr remained silent as the blond kept staring him down.

“I believe in my actions just as much as you believe in this god of yours,” Crom sneered.

Ivar turned to him, snarling before he blinked suddenly. “Sire,” he turned back to the Dux. “If you had proof that the Woo is stronger than the Shifter of Seasons, would you accept Him?”

“Perhaps,” the man stroked his beard.

“And I want justice for the attack,” the blond shot a glare at Crom before meeting Absolon’s gaze.

He looked into his companion’s eyes and noticed the twinkle in them. A frown crossed his face. What was Ivar planning?

Having caught his gaze, Ivar turned back to the Dux. “Then I will formally ask for a duel.”

The entire hall drew breath all at once, making Absolon wince at the sudden burst of pale grey. Once that had faded slightly, however, he stared at Ivar, eyes wide. Fighting? Why would he suggest that?

“I decline,” Crom growled. “I do not want to fight you.”

“Because you’ll lose,” Ivar snorted. “But you will not be fighting me. You’ll be fighting him,” he turned and pointed towards Absolon.

“What?” the younger man gasped, staring at his companion. “Ivar, I can’t. I-”

“Trust me,” the blond shot him a smile before he looked back at Dux Ragnarr. “What I am proposing is the following: your Priest duels Absolon. Then we shall see both whose case is more just and which god is stronger,” he said slyly. “Not to mention you can see more demonstrations of magic, magic which can be used against her too.”

The Dux put a hand to his chin, stroking his beard. “Interesting,” he glanced between Absolon and Crom. “Do you accept this proposal?”

A toothy grin spread across the priest’s face. “Yes, Sire.”

The younger man, however, paused, bowing his head. Yes, an opportunity to demonstrate the power of the Woo to the Dux was not one to be passed up, but this? He knew some offensive spells, all mages did, but he was no war-mage, he had no real experience fighting another person. Not to mention it was against the Woo to knowingly injure or allow injury to come to another person. Could he even fight, given his sensory issues? If he got overwhelmed by noise or touch, or worse, pain...his chest gave a pang at the thought, making him wince and press his hand down over his sternum.

“Absolon?” Ivar spoke softly as he approached him. “I’m sorry but this is the only way I can think of,” he smiled. “You can do this. I have faith in you.”

He looked up at Ivar, seeing the trust and faith in his bright blue eyes, eyes that were fixated on him. His heart gave a little leap but it could not disguise the uncomfortable sensation in his stomach, or the ache inside his chest.

“I don’t want to kill him,” Absolon murmured.

“You don’t have to,” the blond replied. “You just have to defeat him.”

He pondered this for a few moments. Ivar trusted him, he believed in him with all his might, and he trusted Ivar not to put him in danger. Besides, if he managed this, he could have what he came here to achieve: the spreading of the Woo’s Word, and that might finally grant him some respite from the pressure that constantly writhed inside him.

“If this the only way...” Absolon nodded slowly to the Dux. “I accept as well.”

“Very well. Then I announce a duel between Priest Crom and the southerner Absolon,” Ragnarr stood up, looking out over the hall. “When do you wish to hold it?”

“Now,” Crom smiled toothily at Absolon. “If you are comfortable with that, southerner.”

Absolon shivered. In theory, he knew that the Lord Woo would support him and his power would allow him to triumph. And yet, the priest’s smile and his confident tone sowed a niggle of doubt into his heart. Nevertheless, he had no choice: it was now or never.

“Now then,” he nodded. “Let’s do this now.”

Part 18

SPOILER: Click to show

A short while later, the two were out in front of the great hall, facing each other. The priest held his hands in his sleeves, watching the young man opposite him with hawkish eyes. His green shawl was tied around his waist, allowing his arms to be unimpeded. Absolon stood still opposite him, his eyes closed and his hands clasped in prayer. Lord Woo, give me the strength to fight and win on your behalf. Your magic has never failed me, let it not fail me now. If I want to save these people, I must do this.

Around them, a sizeable crowd had gathered and were now staring at the challengers. At the very front was Ivar with Snowflake in his arms, and the men that had come with them from Eo. The Dux stood off to the side, spaced exactly between the two challengers, his arms folded.

“For your benefit, Absolon, I shall explain the rules,” he stated. The young man’s eyes snapped open at his voice. Sensing there was no more time for prayer, he nodded.

“You both duel until one of you yields. You may use any weapons and any tactics you see fit, as long as they do not hurt any onlookers. The duel is also between the two of you. None may intervene,” Ragnarr told them before stepping back into the crowd. “Good luck, and may your respective deities be on your side.”

Absolon took out his wand, holding it out in his right hand. With his left, he pressed down against his sternum, trying to hold back the pressure in his chest. His breath came in rapid gasps, drawing in air to power his racing heart.

He lifted up his wand and turned to look at Crom, only to see the man withdrawing a horn from beneath his shawl and bring it to his lips. Before he even realised what was happening, the priest blew into it.

A deafening roar emerged from its tip. Absolon screamed but his bronze voice could barely penetrate the thick black plum hue that had infected every corner of his vision. Immediately, he clamped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, trying to get rid the noxious colour.

No! Absolon forced his eyes open, even though he could barely see anything. The priest’s soft ashen footsteps licked at the corners of his vision and instinctively, he shifted away from him, trying to keep his distance while he waited for the colour to drain from his eyes.

Finally, the purple began to fade enough to let him see. Crom was standing a few feet away from him, still holding the horn to his lips. Seeing that Absolon’s eyes had gained some focus, he blew it again.

Near-blackness assaulted his senses again. The pain in his chest flared up beneath his touch, stirred up by the sound like sediment by a storm, spreading through his torso. Absolon threw his hands up to try to block the sound out and then immediately shifted them to hug himself, lest he feel like he is falling apart.

He had to do something about that infernal horn. The priest blew on it again and he screamed, ducking down and pressing his knees against his chest again on instinct. He could not remain curled up like this. He was vulnerable.

Through the blackness, Absolon could hear Crom coming at him. Oh Woo, he had to do something. Anything!

“Protegwoo,” he somehow managed to spit out. Some dark green mixed in with the impenetrable layer of black and the pain in his arms suddenly grew to unbearable proportions as he felt the impact of a body into the force field. He screamed.

As if in response, there came another blast from the horn. Absolon fell down on to the ground, pressing his elbows against his ribs while trying to cover his ears. Woo, he had to get up. The shield would only remain intact for so long.

The horn...he had to neutralise that sound. Pulling one hand away, he drew his wand up to the shield, pouring all his energy into it. As the colour cleared, he could see the priest within arm’s reach of him, his knife out in his other hand as he tried to claw at the shield.

It would not hold forever. But he did not need it to hold forever.

Absolon tore his wand away and cut the magic to the spell, rolling out of the way at the same time. Crom overbalanced and fell forward, scrambling to his feet with the desperation of a deer. It took a few seconds but that was all Absolon needed.

Sonitum expungwoo, he murmured, waving the wand around himself. The priest snarled and blasted his horn again. To his relief, no new colour flooded over Absolon’s eyes. This, like his normal shield, was only temporary, until he ran out of energy or concentration, but it bought him time.

Crom’s face twisted into a growl and he slashed upwards at Absolon, the knife barely brushing against the cloth of his robe. The young man’s chest tightened even further as the pain inside him convulsed in anticipation of the slash. He stumbled backwards, only to be hit by the murmurs of the crowd. He gasped at the sudden sound but compared to the intense dark plum that had enveloped his entire vision at the blast of the horn, the multitude of whispers around him was not as bad. At least he could think through it.

Absolon pointed his wand at the horn. “Silencio” he whispered and green light poured out of his wand, infusing into the instrument. Crom lifted it up to his lips but no sound came out of it. He blinked in confusion and tried again before realising what had happened. Scowling, he pushed it into its pouch beneath his shawl.

“All of you! Why do you stand around as quietly as mourners at a funeral?!” he yelled up at the surrounding crowd. “This is a fight, you don’t have to be deathly quiet! Who do you believe to be superior?!”

The crowd immediately erupted into shouts and the colours that before had tickled at Absolon’s vision suddenly overloaded it. Pain immediately flashed through his body, violent and powerful, almost knocking him off his feet. He cried out and immediately covered his ears, trying to blot out the sound that had blinded him.

He had to keep moving and casting, he had to! Absolon stumbled back and tore away his right hand from his ear, pointing his wand at the priest.

“-”

Cold steel ripped through the flesh of his arm. Explosive agony ripped through him as the ache in his chest spread to push against the wound. His entire world became the wound in his arm as the two forces collided, absorbing every speck of his concentration. Red flared across his vision and a scream flew out of his mouth. Amidst the pain-induced numbness, he only just felt his wand fall out but through the curtain of red and bronze, its impact on the ground did not even register with him.

“SILENCE!” the Dux’s voice rung out through the air, for a moment drowning out all the other colours. “The rules were no interference! Crom, you will not stir up the crowd again.”

Absolon moaned with pain, not sure whether to cover his ears to press down upon his chest to contain the pressure inside. It felt like he was going to be torn apart, an impression not helped by his racing heart. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to curl up on the ground and cover his ears, to blot out the world. Woo! He forced his mind away from the pain, recalling the Book of Woo, any Book, any verse, anything just to stop himself thinking about his wound.

He just barely felt the wood of his wand grace his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Ivar’s quiet, indigo voice filtered across his vision, pushing out the more violent colours with its soothing, deep dark tone. “But he can no longer stir up the crowd and you’ve disabled the hunting horn. I have faith in you.”

His heart began to beat faster. Absolon shot him a weak smile, though he could barely see his companion amongst the indigo and remnants of red. Nevertheless, he closed his eyes, focusing not on the pain but on the soothing colour and the words of the Woo that he was recalling in his mind. Ivar...Ivar believed in him. For the Woo, for Ivar, for everyone, he had to keep going. He needed to fight.

Absolon turned back to the duel.

Weakly, he waved his wand, casting another shield around himself before turning it on to his wound.

“Episkey ,” he murmured. A cool balm of magic flowed over his wound, wrapping around the agony and absorbing it into itself as the wound closed up. Absolon almost gasped with relief when it completely healed and though the pressure in his chest was still severe from the stress, at least it left his arm alone.

By now, all the colours except Ivar’s indigo voice had become faint enough that he could see the priest through the curtain, pacing like a predator, deciding on his next move. But he was not going to give him the opportunity. Absolon threw out his hand and directed his wand at the priest.

“Stupefy,” he whispered. Crom cried out as a wall of green struck him, stunning him. Absolon winced internally but he knew he had no choice. The man would kill him if he did not.

He stepped closer to the priest, panting heavily as he kept the tip of his wand pointing at the man’s chest. Crom shook his head and groggily made a move towards him.

“Iwoobulous,” Absolon whispered and the priest immediately froze in place. He stared at the young man, eyes wide. The hand clutching the knife twitched as he tried to break free of the enchantment, red blood still dripping from its hilt. Absolon’s chest gave a pang at the sight.

He aimed his wand at the dagger. “Expelliwoomus,” he said and it flew out of Crom’s hand. Panting, Absolon held his wand up to the priest. He would not be able to evade any of his enchantments.

Crom slumped in place. “I yield,” he rasped and lifted his head up to look at Absolon. “You are stronger. You may have your victory.”

He felt like he should say something but all he could manage was a shaky nod. Still panting, Absolon placed his wand back into its holster.

The priest blinked and stared up at him. “You’re not going to kill me?”

“No,” he shook his head.

“You could...with power like that,” Crom bowed his head. “After I almost killed you and exploited your weakness...you should.”

Absolon sighed. “The Woo preaches mercy and compassion, even towards your enemies. Just because I have the power doesn’t mean I should take revenge.”

He glanced up just as Ivar approached him, beaming, and seeing the blond man’s expression, he could not help but beam back. Snowflake wriggled out of his arms and ran up to Absolon, rubbing against him. He bent down to stroke the cat, soft lavender hues forming across his eyes as he dug a hand into his fur.

“I knew you could do it,” the blond said, his tone full of fondness. “Once he stopped cheating, your power was far greater.”

“Indeed,” the Dux remarked. “I did not think you would make it, Absolon.”

“T-thank you, Sire,” the young man bit his tongue before he went further. He did not want to tell the Dux he did not think he did either.

“So, Sire,” Ivar turned to Ragnarr. “What do you think?”

“Impressive. Though...” he glanced at Absolon. “You seem very uncomfortable with sounds, lad.”

“Y-yes,” Absolon nodded. “But that is no flaw of the Woo. That is...my own human weakness.”

The Dux raised an eyebrow. “I will not claim to understand it. But, nevertheless, you overcame it,” a smile formed on his face. “You were strong enough to defeat my priest, as you claimed. And yet, you showed mercy.”

“That is what the Lord Woo says we all must do,” the young man smiled at Ivar. “I made a good friend that way.”

“I am sure. He is a loyal one indeed,” Ragnarr laughed. “You would certainly earn many a friend with kindness and mercy. No wonder your god managed to attract such a following.”

“Yes,” Absolon stared up at the Dux, hoping and silently pleading.

Ivar turned to him as well, his face more neutral but his blue eyes glimmering hopefully. “So will you accept, Sire?”

Ragnarr stroked his beard. “Perhaps...it is worth a try,” his gaze met Absolon’s “I am placing the lives of my people in your hands. You and your god will have to protect them.”

The young man could not stop the smile that spread across his face. He threw up a hand, clutching the feather lying across his chest. “Yes. Yes, Sire, I will. I swear, you will not be disappointed,” he bowed deeply to him. “Trust me.”

“I do,” the Dux replied, lowering his head in return. “So you better make sure my trust is well-placed.”

Part 19

SPOILER: Click to show

Crom left the hill fort shortly after his defeat. With Ragnarr’s support secured, Absolon and Ivar spent the rest of the summer travelling the Roan clan territories, spreading the Word of the Woo. People were still hesitant to accept the tales of a stranger, tales that seemed far too good to be true, but hearing that these men came from the Dux, they believed him. After all, many wanted to believe. And no matter why they accepted the message, Absolon welcomed them into the flock. Slowly but surely, Lord Woo gained converts among the people of the north.

Spring turned into summer, and summer turned into autumn. Cold began to stretch its fingers through the land once again, showering its populace with bitter cold wind and rain. Winter was fast approaching. He could feel it in his skin and saw it in his eyes.

“We should go back,” Absolon whispered to Ivar one day as they sat around the camp fire between villages. “Dux Ragnarr asked us to come back for the winter to protect his people. If we stay here, we’ll be trapped.”

“It’s still early in the autumn, Absolon,” a frown crossed the blond’s face. “We have some time.”

The younger man swallowed, closing his eyes. Their bronze and indigo voices mingled painfully, even though they barely said a few words to each other. At his discomfort, the ache inside him began to rise up, along with his heartbeat, loud and clear, pounding a clear burgundy and mingling with the colours that he already saw.

“I know but...” he swallowed. “Please, let’s go back. Before the cold sets in.”

A breeze tickled at the back of his neck. Red flared violently across his eyes and pain flashed on his exposed skin where the wind had bitten him. He pulled up his cloak and winced as the fabric shifted into an unfamiliar position on his body. Green prickled at the edge of his vision, creating an unpleasant contrast with the existing red. His entire back pushed against it and Absolon almost bit his tongue in order not to cry out before he got used to the cloak again. But it was only a temporary relief. He knew there would be more.

There was a grey rustle behind him as Snowflake appeared out of the bushes and padded up to him. Hesitantly, Absolon reached a hand into the cat’s fur, seeking some comfort. Lavender overwhelmed his eyes and each hair was a needle stabbing into his palm. He gritted his teeth in order not to cry out and tore his hand away. The cat blinked, confused before he was suddenly scooped up by Ivar. He gave off a yowl of protest that was soon silenced by a rub behind his ear.

“Absolon?” the blond whispered, his voice dumbfounded. “What happened?”

“I...” he trailed off, unsure how to explain it. In truth, he did not fully understand it himself. The effects were familiar but the intensity was more than he had experienced before. However, he did not want to worry Ivar. The blond had been his constant companion and helper on the entire journey; he did not need to have more of a burden placed on him.

“It’s only the cold. I don’t like the cold. I’m from the south, remember? And I’m sensitive,” he curled up further in on himself, covering his ears with his hands. “So we should go back.”

He did not miss the flicker of doubt that crossed his friend’s face but whatever he thought, the blond said nothing.

“Alright,” Ivar murmured, giving him a nod. “As you wish.”

Beside them, the fire crackled. Scarlet flared across his vision and the pain rose up, curling and penetrating his bones, his muscles, everything. For a second, every cell in his body was burning with agony. Absolon cried out, layering bronze painfully across his vision, prolonging the pain. Somehow, shakily, he pulled out his wand and found enough concentration within him amidst the colour and pain to whisper the silencing spell. As soon as the noise of the flames died, he collapsed on the ground, curling up into the foetal position.

Tears began to sting his eyes and, still lying down, he clasped his hands together. Lord Woo, what am I doing wrong? I am spreading your word, isn’t that what you wanted of me?

The trees around them rustled and dark green immediately invaded his eyes, forcing the pain in his chest up again. Absolon bit his teeth, suppressing the agony, and waved his wand again, creating a shield against the sound. He had been using that spell far too much lately. Woo, if he got pulled while like this...

At least with the Dux, he could hide in his room, in relative warmth. Out here...

A cold breeze assaulted him again, interrupting his thoughts. Absolon bit his tongue in order not to cry out but that in turn sent a bright vermillion stab of pain that mingle violently with the red. He shut his eyes, and only after an agonisingly long time when the colours finally dissipated, he pulled his cloak in around himself, slowly in order not to trigger anything by moving it too fast for his skin to adjust to the touch. It was going to be a torturous winter.

After a short while, they made it back to the hill fort of Roan. It and the entire valley below it buzzed with activity. All around, people were harvesting the crops in the fields or shepherding various animals with loud cries, each of which made Absolon flinch every time as a new colour filled his vision. Barely keeping his eyes open and his hands over his ears, he stumbled up the road to the fort, every ragged breath sending fresh spikes of pain through his limbs and the hue of grey ivory through his eyes. One foot in front of the other, that’s what he had to do: keep walking. Up the hill, he could leave the cacophony behind. And sure enough, as they went further, the noise gradually faded, giving him a brief respite.

But that did not last. As soon as he walked in through the gates of the hill fort, a wall of noise assaulted Absolon. The red-brown lowing of cattle mingled with the sharp yellow bleating of sheep, layered over by the near-black barking of dogs that was drowned out by what seemed like a thousand voices calling in every colour, tone and volume, moving like a knot of writhing snakes to overpower each other, flooding his eyes with unbearable colours...

Absolon clamped his hands tightly over his ears and clenched his eyelids shut, his knees buckling under him. He moaned as pain emanated from his body where the earth touched it, the rough, scratchy surface staining his vision a mixture of browns, yellows and reds. Pressure built up inside him and in a desperate attempt to keep it in, he curled in on himself. His ribs were breaking under the strain of the pressure, barely expanding and contracting to let only the smallest, most rapid gulps of air through, except even they produced colour in his eyes, adding to the myriad of hues that tore at his attention like rabid beasts at flesh. This had to be what drowning felt like, except in sound, not water.

Indigo suddenly filled his eyes as Ivar above him shouted. It was one word, one he did not discern amidst the overload, but he guessed what that was because immediately, the noise ceased. Nevertheless, the colour and the pain lingered, forcing him to lie on the ground. Only now could he barely make out the soft pink mewls of Snowflake and feel the cat gently prodding at him with his paw, but even that gentle touch was as though he was being burned.

“What happened?” Ragnarr’s voice boomed over, making Absolon flinch and curl further in on himself.

“I am...not quite sure. I think it was the sound,” Ivar replied, ducking down beside the younger man. Turning, Absolon could just barely see his hand hovering above his shoulder, close enough to provide comfort but not enough to hurt.

The Dux nodded to two men beside him. “Pick him up and get him inside.”

“No,” Ivar cried, spreading out his arms and forming a barrier between them and Absolon. “If you touch him, you’ll only make it worse.”

Absolon nodded and, with a soft moan, pushed Snowflake away and shakily got up to his feet. His vision was still coloured, the afterimages of the cacophony still lingering there. The pain too, had only barely retreated from his extremities, still lingering in the bases of his limbs like arthritis, but he would rather suffer that that strangers touching him.

“Take me somewhere quiet,” he begged, staring up at the Dux. “Please?”

Ragnarr nodded and turned on his heel. “Follow me.”

Absolon did as he was told, dashing after the Dux, keeping his hands tightly on his ears and his elbows pressed against his chest. Lucky for him, it was only a short walk from the gate to the hall. Once inside, the Dux closed the door behind them all, blocking out the sounds from outside. Looking around, he saw that the great hall was empty and Absolon took the risk: he tentatively removed his hands. The silence that swept over him almost made him want to cry. Now that he no longer had to block out the sound, he pressed down on his sternum with the full force of his arms, trying to keep the pressure down. Thankfully too, there was no sign of the cat, who must have gotten locked outside. Though normally he did not mind Snowflake’s touch, now, even it was agony.

“How was your journey?” Ragnarr asked, his hazel eyes running over them both.

Absolon winced, closing his eyes again as the russet voice spread over his eyes. The brief respite had only last a short while. “It was...fine, sire,” he managed to murmur. “Thank you...for your support.”

Ivar nodded. “We managed to spread the message far. Far fewer children will be given as sacrifices now,” a small smile spread across his face. “And I pray more people can find comfort in the Lord Woo this winter.”

“Yes, winter shall be the ultimate test of the Lord Woo,” the Dux’s eyes hardened briefly. “And I hope He shall not disappoint.”

“Of course He will not, Sire,” Ivar bowed his head and glanced back. “But...may I ask, what is happening outside?”

Ragnarr looked surprised for a brief moment. “I ordered preparations for the harvest sacrifice.”

“What!?” Absolon cried through the haze of colours, wincing immediately as the bronze of his voice was added to the layers present. The harvest sacrifice...he flashed back to the killing of the birds in Eo. The pain inside him gave a painful convulsion at the memory and he douvled over again, gasping for breath through the ache in his chest. A mistake: the sound of his breath flooded his eyes with colour, forcing him to clamp his eyes tightly shut.

The Dux raised an eyebrow at this but whatever thoughts went through his mind, he did not speak them. Instead, he nodded. “Yes. I am hedging my bets,” he glanced between Absolon and Ivar. “Is that a problem?”

“You said you would have faith,” Ivar frowned slightly. “Sire, you let us spread the Word because you believed.”

“I do believe in the power of your god, but I wish to play both sides,” Ragnarr replied, his eyes narrowing. “As I said, is that a problem?”

Ivar bit his tongue, glancing at Absolon. The younger man hesitated, gritting his teeth together and clamping his eyes shut as he waited for the pain and the colours to fade back away.

Finally, he managed to look up at the Dux. “Please... do not do it.”

Ragnarr hesitated. “Then I need your word that He shall protect us, totally and completely”

“We will, I swear, he will,” Absolon whimpered. “You have His Word, you have my magic. What more proof do you need?”

The Dux went silent as he pondered this. His hand traced the cord around his neck and settled over a spot beneath his clothes.

“You asked us back to pray for and protect you, now you should trust us to deliver. Besides, think how many people you can feed with the food that is normally given to her, Sire,” Ivar replied. “And you have no priest to deliver it anyway.”

“I had hoped we could do without a priest. It isn’t much of a ritual after all,” Ragnarr shook his head. “But you are right. The harvest has not been good this year. We need all we can get...”

He put a hand to his chin, stroking his beard. Absolon’s heart pounded as he waited for the Dux’s decision. Each ebony beat sending a fresh pulse of pain through him. Woo, he could not normally hear his own heart beating. Biting down on his lip in order not to cry out, he wrapped his arms around himself, drawing in shallow, sharp, greyish-ivory breaths in order not to put too much strain on his chest or on his ears with deep gasps. The colours of their voices had almost blinded him but he could not break. Not now, not in front of the Dux, when so much depended on his faith in Absolon.

Finally, Ragnarr gave a nod. “I’ll trust you both. I shall give the order to halt preparations,” he glanced around at both Ivar and Absolon, his eyes hardening. “But if the winter is long...I will have no choice but to resort to the old ways.”

“We understand, Sire,” Ivar bowed. “But rest assured, it shall not be so. And you will have saved many people from starvation with your faith.”

“Indeed,” the Dux smiled before he turned to Absolon. “I suppose...you can call me a full convert now. I hope you are pleased.”

“Y-yes, Sire,” Absolon bent over double in a bow. “The Woo will be happy to accept you.”

“I am glad,” Ragnarr replied. “Then in that case, perhaps you wish to baptise me as well?”

The young man’s eyes widened. The ceremony, now, with the pain in his chest? Woo, he barely had the concentration to cast the water spell, let alone recite the prayer. A prayer which would create more bronze across his eyes to compact the already existing colours of the conversation. But he could not refuse the Dux, not now when they had just gained his faith.

“Is something wrong?” the Dux asked him. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no,” Absolon’s voice wavered as he said this. Slowly and arthritically, he forced himself to stand up straight, wincing with each shift of the cloth of his clothes.

Ivar narrowed his eyes before turning to Ragnarr. “Perhaps, Sire, you could first ask the people to halt their preparations? So they have time to store the grain and meat properly instead of giving it to her,” he glanced back at the younger man. “I need to speak with Absolon alone.”

The Dux raised an eyebrow at this, glancing between the two. “If there is anything I can do-”

“With all due respect, it’s honestly better if you leave,” the blond murmured, walking over to Absolon. “He needs silence.”

Understanding crossed Ragnarr’s face. He gave the two young men a nod before heading outside the hall.

As soon as he was out of sight, Absolon collapsed down on to the floor, clapping his hands tightly over his ears and shutting his eyes. He barely heard the rustle as Ivar sat down beside him. For a long time, the two sat together in absolute silence until finally, the colour had faded out of Absolon’s eyes. The pain still lingered throughout his torso, settling on his bones like fine sediment, but at least he did not feel as overloaded anymore.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” Ivar’s voice rang through his consciousness, making Absolon close his eyes again.

“N-nothing,” he shook his head. “Just a momentary overload.”

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve been watching you all summer, you’re sensitive but never like this. Seeing you in pain like that...” the blond’s voice hitched before steadying. “Tell me what’s wrong, Absolon.”

Absolon curled in on himself, tucking his knees in against his chest, wincing as he did. “The pain is getting worse, Ivar. The colours too.”

The blond stared at him, disbelieving. “Why? What could have possibly-”

“I don’t know,” Absolon whimpered, clenching his eyes shut even tighter. Normally, he could listen to Ivar for a while, the blond had a beautiful voice and a comforting presence, but now the indigo was so deep as to be overwhelming. The ache in his chest had barely been provoked and yet he could feel it rising up violently inside him, burning like bile.

Ivar paused. By now, he recognised the signs of sensory overload in his companion far too well. He remained still and silent, letting the younger man recover. Only when Absolon had uncurled slightly, did he speak. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since...” Absolon took several deep breaths to steady himself. “It began to get worse after the fight with Crom. I tried to hide it but...it’s only increased,” he whimpered. “It’s too much now.”

“That’s why you wanted to go back. Not because of the cold,” Ivar closed his eyes, swallowing. “It’s because you’re in so much pain.”

Absolon nodded, gritting his teeth together. He turned towards his companion, studying Ivar. His broad shoulders had slumped and his blue eyes were muddied with a mixture of sympathy and pain. Woo, he knew this would hurt Ivar too. Guilt forced pain to shoot through his limbs, making him wrap his arms around himself. If there was anybody who did not deserve the burden of Absolon’s broken self, it was him.

The blond reached out a hand to him before yanking it back, realising it would only make things worse. He bit his lip, lowering his eyes away from Absolon. “Is there...anything I can do?”

Somehow, the younger man found himself smiling. “You’ve already done so much for me, more than I can ever repay,” he sighed. “But there’s nothing you can do.”

Ivar nodded, sitting quietly beside him for a while. “Absolon,” he spoke up, “Didn’t you say that the Woo would cure you if you spread His word?”

He froze for a moment, feeling a chill run down his spine before he gave an affirmative nod.

“Then...” the blond’s blue eyes went dark. “Why has it only gotten worse?”

Those words stabbed at him like an icy knife. He had been so distracted by the growing pain that he had never tried to stop and ask why, if he could even muster the concentration for it.

“I don’t know,” Absolon shook his head desperately, curling his knees up to his chest. “I thought I was doing everything right and yet...”

Ivar scowled. “Yet you’re still being punished.”

The young man swallowed, closing his eyes. That must have been it: he still was being punished for whatever sin it was that he had committed. He thought he had been doing such good work, yet this pain still gnawed at him, now more than ever. What if he had failed? What if he had been wrong the whole time?

It could not have been. And it seemed like the only explanation.

“Maybe it’s just winter,” Absolon buried his head in his knees in order to mask the tears he could feel stinging his eyes. “Maybe it will get better in spring?”

“If spring comes,” Ivar muttered.

Absolon’s head shot up, his eyes widening as he stared at his companion in horror. “It will come. The Woo will protect us from her,” his hands flew up to the feather around his neck, “I believe it. I believe it with all my heart.”

“But to fight her, we need you and your magic,” his companion replied.

“No. The Woo can do it Himself,” Absolon smiled weakly. “Maybe that’s why He is doing this: to keep me out.”

Instead of reassurance, however, the scowl on Ivar’s face grew deeper. “He has no right to hurt you.”

“The Woo works however He wants,” Absolon closed his eyes. The conversation was getting too much for him. “Trust Him, Ivar. I beg you.”

“I do,” the blond murmured and bit his tongue, seeing the telltale signals of an overload all over Absolon again. Relieved to have silence once again, the younger man clasped his hands over his ears. And all who suffer for the Woo shall be rewarded, either in this life or the next life eternal. But do not toil expecting a reward, for your reward shall come as he sees fit, even if it is impossible to understand for those of mortal persuasion. Know only that the Woo’s reward is just-

“Will you be alright, however?” Ivar asked him, interrupting the flow of the passage he was reciting.

Absolon looked up suddenly before giving a sad nod. “I have to be. But...”

“Yes?”

“Look after me,” he whispered. “I will need you this winter, Ivar.”

“Anything at all, for you,” Ivar replied. A smile spread across his face but it was shaky and weak. His hand moved towards Absolon before he caught himself and forced it away.

Despite the pain, Absolon managed to smile back at him. “Thank you.”

Ivar would never fail him. He just prayed that the same could be said of himself.

Part 20

SPOILER: Click to show

The scheduled day of the sacrifice came and went without any fanfare. Soon, snow began to fall outside. It first formed a thin coating on the ground and then huge drifts that piled against the hall, driven by the howling wind, so hard that sometimes it seemed like the entire structure was going to blow away. To Absolon, the noise was the worst part. It howled and roared, blasting sound like some ‘Pit-created horn with no regards for time of day, each gust filling his eyes with horrific jet black. Only Corvid thunderstorms made worse sounds, but given the pain it caused, the wind might as well have been one.

The cold was a bigger problem. The largest fire was the communal one in the great hall but he could hardly stand to be around it, not with so many people whose speech so violently and constantly coloured his vision at the slightest whispers. His room was warmer than the outside but the cold still bit at him there, especially at night. For a while, he got by with warming charms and covering himself in thick blankets, but the winter grew deeper, he needed more. He was given blankets but the blankets were heavy and rough, pressing down on him like a block of stone while the texture irritated every inch of his bare skin, filling his vision with green and both sensations creating unbearable pain within him. Absolon considered making a fire as he had done in the storehouse but he could barely concentrate on casting warming charms, let alone keeping a fire from burning down the hall. So he had no choice but let the the cold devour him from the outside while pain ate away at him from the inside. Often, his vision was flooded with red, despite absolute silence in his room as the winter temperatures stabbed at his goose bump covered skin.

In the end, he was forced to move to a smaller room that kept the heat in. Animal furs, warmer and smoother than the wool blankets he had been forced to endure, were also given to him to keep him warm. It was beneath them, curled up in his bed, using all the energy and concentration not sapped by the hues in his vision or the pressure in his chest to keep the bite of the cold off him, that Absolon spent the winter.

Day in and day out, Ivar visited him, bringing him warm food and drink and providing him with company. Speaking was often too overwhelming for Absolon but he simply liked the other man’s presence. It soothed and comforted him to have him near, to know that Ivar had not forgotten him even in the depths of his despair. He only wished he could do more with him instead of lying beneath the furs like a dying man, but the nature of that ‘more’ always eluded him.

What had he done wrong? He had been spreading the Word of the Woo and people had been accepting it. Should that not have been enough to at least afford him some healing, or at least not make it worse?

No doubt this was a test. He could hardly expect healing for just a few months of preaching. More needed to be done, the people’s faith had to be shown, especially if Lord Woo was going to send His protection down to them.

Which is why, one winter day when it was calmer, Absolon performed the herculean task of exiting his room and walked through the corridor.

“Absolon?” Ivar called out to him as he spotted him, rushing over. “Where are you going?”

“I want to see the Dux,” the younger man murmured, looking up at the blond. “Do you know where he is?”

“In the great hall but...you probably shouldn’t go there,” Ivar glanced back where he came from. “It’s noisy.”

“Then...could you ask him to come to my room?” Absolon said as loudly as he could while still keeping his voice at a level that would not overload him, a task that was already difficult given their voices clashing together. “I want to propose something.”

The blond nodded and without another word, turned around and headed back to the hall. Satisfied, Absolon returned to his room, wrapping the furs around himself to not lose the precious warmth they contained. Snowflake dashed out from beneath them, staring up at Absolon before padding along and settling further down at the foot of his bed. He had learned very quickly that his touch was no longer welcomed.

Soon, the door opened with a soft thunk, but even that noise forced a wince out of Absolon. Ivar walked in first, followed by Ragnarr.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen you, lad. I was beginning to think you were a dream,” the Dux gave a soft chuckle.

Though he did not mean anything by the gesture, Absolon closed his eyes as his voice invaded every corner of his vision. He doubled over and gritted his teeth together, calling the attention of both men to him.

“Are you, alright, Absolon?” Ragnarr’s voice was much softer now as he approached him. “Ivar told me you were ill but when I offered healers, he refused.”

“It’s...it’s nothing that any healer can fix,” Absolon murmured, opening his eyes a crack to look up at the man. “Did...did Ivar tell you why?”

The Dux nodded. “Sensitivity to sound; what Crom used against you...except worse now, for one reason or another.”

Absolon returned the nod before he closed his eyes again, sucking in a few sharp, shallow breaths as he let the colour drain like pus out of a wound. When it had settled to more bearable levels, he looked back up at Ragnarr.

“This isn’t why I asked you to come here,” he murmured. “Sire...I told you the story of Woomas, did I not?”

“You did, when you first came here,” the Dux replied.

Did he really? It felt like a lifetime ago, when he had been a different person. Absolon curled in on himself, suddenly nostalgic for the time the pressure had only been a mild ache.

No! He could not lose his train of thought, not now, not in front of the Dux. What was he thinking about...Woomas! The Dux knew Woomas. That was a start.

“Then...perhaps, you and your people could celebrate it?” he lifted up his eyes to Ragnarr, quietly pleading with him. “So the Woo hears us here too?”

The Dux lifted up a hand to stroke his beard, running his fingers through its hairs. Soon, a smile spread across his face. “Perhaps. We have plenty of food left over, thanks to you, and winter is very much lacking in entertainment.”

“Really?” he stared up at Ragnarr with wide eyes.

“Yes,” the other man nodded. “As long as you guide us through it.”

Despite the pain writhing in his chest and the sound that was colouring his vision, Absolon could not help but grin. A Woomas celebration, a proper one, not like the one he had indulged in a year ago...with Greta.

The memory swept over him, sudden and unexpected as a summer storm. So much had happened that he had barely had time to think about the girl, much less grieve for her. But now, the memory of her turquoise voice carrying a song up for the Lord Woo to hear in that storehouse consumed his thoughts. He wondered if that same voice would be so overwhelming to him now. How saddened she would be if that was true.

“Absolon?” Ivar asked him, stepping forward. “Are you alright?”

Again, his thoughts had overtaken him. He looked up, meeting the blond man’s blue eyes, eyes that were overflowing with care and concern. This was the same person who had run a knife across Greta’s throat. He should have hated Ivar, and yet, Absolon never once considered the possibility, far from it. It felt like no matter how much he tried, he could never feel anything but what the warmth he felt right now.

“I’m fine,” he replied, shaking his head. The Woo taught repentance and forgiveness, and Absolon was keen to accept that. Right now, Ivar was the only thing keeping him alive and sane. He was not his enemy, that thing was. And like any ‘Pit creature, she could be fought by the Woo, if the Woo was merely reminded that they were here.

Absolon turned back to the Dux. “I’ll tell you what to do. Or Ivar will,” he glanced sideways at the blond. “Would you?”

“Of course,” Ivar replied with a smile. “Whatever you wish.”

***

He proved more reliant on Ivar than he ever anticipated. In between the colour that assaulted his eyes at the smallest sound and the ache that threatened to rip his body apart disrupting his thoughts, he could not give instructions to anybody on what to do. However his companion, as usual, came to his rescue, relaying Absolon’s shaky words to the rest of the populace of the fort.

They had to make many adjustments to accommodate the poorer, harsher conditions of the north. The wind snuffed out any candles placed outside and nobody wished to keep them burning inside the great wooden hall for risk of fire. So instead, one great candle was placed at the head of the hall, beside the Dux’s chair, and blessed with holy water. The other rituals, he could mostly hand to Ivar to tell the people what to do. As awful as he felt delegating everything to the blond man, he was far more suited to leading a large group of people than the broken wreck Absolon had become. He had been scared that Ivar would complain to have this burden placed on his shoulders on top of everything else he had asked of him but Ivar never complained or expressed dismay at Absolon’s inability to do anything. Indeed, the only thing that seemed to get him down was his friend’s condition.

He wished he had even a fraction of Ivar’s strength. Absolon had wanted to try to power through the pressure eating him alive, to ignore the colours and the pain in order to carry out the Woo’s will, but the blond man had insisted against it. As weak as he felt, Absolon had no will to argue with him, and remained on the sidelines, focusing only on managing his condition.

Until the eight day, the day of the feast, when Ivar came into his room.

“Absolon,” he murmured. “The Dux requests your presence.”

Startled by the colour, the younger man jerked his head up towards him. “Why?” Absolon asked, swallowing.

“You are the one who delivers the Woo’s word. He wants you to say something to bless the feast so that the Lord Woo will hear us,” Ivar sighed. “I told him this was a bad idea...but he says there’s only so much hiding you can do before people need to see you, or they’ll start asking questions.”

Lying in his bed, he younger man wrapped his arms around himself, pressing down on his sternum as he felt the pressure inside him spike. He clenched his eyes shut tightly, waiting for the colour of Ivar’s voice to pass as he thought about this. Never for a second did it occur to him that the people’s faith depended on him. It was the Woo who was important, Absolon was nothing but a mere messenger. And yet...the Dux had put his faith in him as well as the Woo. So had Ivar. So had the people of Eo, and everyone he had preached to over the summer.

“You don’t have to go if you can’t,” Ivar spoke up suddenly, his face twisting into a pained expression. “I’ll...I’ll think of something.”

“I have to,” Absolon shook his head, pushing himself up off the bed, grabbing one of the furs and wrapping it around his shoulders. “If it’s only a prayer...I can manage that.”

The blond did not even try to hide the uncertainty that flashed in his blue eyes. However, seeing that Absolon’s mind had been made up, he gave a small, resigned nod and stepped aside from the door, wordlessly ushering him out.

Absolon paused to pick up the Book of Woo from where it lay at the edge of his bed. Carefully, he swept his fingers over it, wincing and shutting his eyes as its sea-green texture erupted into his vision. Slowly, he lifted it up, grinding his teeth together at the sudden pressure on his hand, and pressing it against his chest, using it to hold the spiking ache down. Its hue still stained his eyes throughout and Absolon did his best to peer through it. It would have to do.

Only once he felt confident enough that he had the Book in his grip and that even that simple thing would not overload him did he follow Ivar out. Lord Woo, help me persevere through this. Give me your strength and endurance so I may do what I must do.

Slowly, the two made their way through the corridor and entered the great hall. Absolon realised he had almost forgotten what heat felt like until it washed over his face, filling his vision with orange. A fire roared in its centre as whole carcasses of animals roasted above it. Tables had been laid out with every kind of dish, from soups to puddings to alcohol which people helped themselves with no regard for quantity or etiquette. All around, there were people laughing, singing, joking or talking, each one louder than the last. Noise hammered at his senses, violent and relentless. Green, brown, crimson, purple, orange, red, hazel, cyan; every colour layered itself over his vision and screamed at him to pay attention to it and only it. Pain shot through his body, wrapping around every fibre of his being, gnawing through him in an attempt to get out.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Absolon had dropped the Book and fallen to his knees, his eyes shut and his hands over his ears, praying to the Woo that it would stop. Anything to make it stop.

And stop it did. He gasped with relief, a mistake which added a pale beige tint to his vision, keeping his eyelids firmly closed. Colour continued to dance in his vision, afterimages of the din that had birthed them, but they could not linger forever. Cut off from their parent noise, they slowly faded until they were no more but a painful memory, and eventually, the ache they had aroused simmered back down. Only then did he look up.

Every single eye in the room was upon him, boring into his being, no doubt judging his sudden display of weakness. Absolon choked, and the pain which had only just settled wrapped around his throat. No, he had to stay strong. Stay focused.

He lifted up the book, closing his eyes as the agony pushed against its pages and the sea-green colour that he had come to associate with its touch erupted over his eyes once again. As quickly as he could, he deposited it on to a nearby table, cutting off the source of the pressure.

“Ivar has told you why I asked you to be here?” the Dux called over.

Absolon nodded hurriedly, shutting his eyes again to guard against the man’s voice. “A prayer. I can do that,” he swallowed, lightly flicking through the Book of Woo to a passage that seemed appropriate. The pressure building inside him was maddening. Would he even be able to focus long enough to translate?

“Lord Woo, guide us through this time of hardship and lead us out to glory. We are here to celebrate your glory and your power which you generously bestow...grant upon us. To you, our souls...umm...” he paused, racking his brain for a good other word. The colour was growing more intense, obscuring his thoughts from him. “Hearts cry out and ask you to give us this day the strength and serenity...peace needed to carry on. Let our tasks be light and our burdens...weights removed from our shoulders-” here, he swallowed, desperately hoping the Woo would hear him in that in particular. “- so that we may serve you to our fullest potential- no, ableness. Hear our words.... and accept them now... for we are your servants...and in you lies our... faith.”

As soon as it was done, he gasped and closed his eyes, pressing down hard on his chest in order to contain the ache that had risen along with the bronze layer that now covered his eyes. He drew in breath as quietly and rapidly as he could as though ice water had been poured over him.

“Then here’s the Woo, and to you for enabling us to have this magnificent feast!” somebody across the hall shouted. His stagnant green voice bored into Absolon’s skull, forcing a pained wheeze out of his mouth.

The cry spread around the hall like an infection. A myriad voices cheered in his honour, their sounds and colour blending in his eye sockets, materialising an agonising kaleidoscope that burned his eyes as the deafening roar of the crowd swept through him The pressure, stirred up by the sudden storm from where it had settled, exploded in a blaze, pressing against his ribs and spreading through his muscles.

Absolon clenched his hands to his ears. A scream forced itself out of his mouth at the sudden agony that consumed him. Before he was even aware of it, his feet carried him out of the great hall and down a corridor.

The colours of the din he had left behind lingered in his eyes, blocking his vision, yet he continued to run as quickly as he could despite the pain that had spread through his limbs. He did not even know if this was the corridor leading to his room, nor did he care. All he wanted was to be away from that noise. If he was away from it-

A hard surface slammed into him at full force. Agony suddenly surged all the way down his front, a thousand needles stabbing into him all at once. A blood red burst across his vision, layering thickly across all the other colours, consuming him and his entire world. Absolon screamed and fell back down, only to have the same sensation flare down his back. A scream emerged from his mouth and he curled his arms around himself, shutting his eyes tightly and blocking off every sensation except the ones that had been thrust upon him.

He had failed. Even the prayer had been uncomfortable, but all it had taken was one stray drunk to send him bolting out of the room into further hurt. Normal, healthy people could stand to be cheered, but not Absolon. He was broken without repair.

Tears began to prickle at his eyes and the young man did not stop them. Woo, why me? Tell me what I’ve done wrong and I’ll fix it, just please, stop this.

He just barely heard and saw the soft grey footsteps next to him. “Absolon!” came a loud, indigo cry, making him flinch. He peered up, narrowing his eyes as if it would help him see through the murk of colours only to find Ivar looking down at him, his face twisted into an expression of horror. In one hand he clutched the Book but his other was stretched out towards Absolon, just barely restraining from touching him.

“Oh Woo, what happened?” the blond man gasped.

“I...” Absolon blinked. His gaze was drawn to the wall in front of him: no doubt what he had ran into in his blind panic. Carefully, he ran a hand over himself but aside from the prickles of the ache that had pushed back against the wall, he seemed unhurt. “I’m okay.”

Ivar’s face softened and his shoulders drooped with relief. Carefully, the placed the Book of Woo by Absolon’s side and stood up.

“Shall I go?” he whispered.

Absolon shook his head and slowly, letting the cloth of his clothes settle and careful not to push too hard, got up on to his knees. Ivar sat down beside him, as close as he could manage without making the former uncomfortable. For some time, the two sat in complete silence.

“You’re suffering. You can’t hide it,” Ivar finally spoke up, his tone leaden. “I can see it and it breaks my heart.”

The younger man glanced sideways at his companion. Locks of his blond hair hung down from his head where it had been knocked out of his ponytail. His eyes had an odd hollowness to them and while it might have just been the faint light of the candles, he certainly seemed thinner.

Absolon felt a stab of guilt as he realised how blind he had been to his friend’s suffering. Woo, he had no idea how much this was affecting Ivar too. Why did he have to endure this along with him, he was far too good and kind of a man to deserve it.

He wondered if perhaps...tentative as a wild animal coming out of hiding, he reached his hand out towards his. Maybe, just maybe, he might be able to comfort him without overload. Woo knew how much he wanted to, to be able to touch or speak to him without this infernal agony driving him insane.

His fingers brushed against Ivar’s skin. Immediately, pain flared beneath him as though the other man was fire that he had he just stuck his hand into. Giving off a moan of pain, Absolon snatched his hand away, holding it to his chest. Ivar turned to him, startled by the unexpected contact, before looking away, stroking the place where he had been touched.

“I’m sorry,” Absolon murmured, curling his knees to his chest; a gesture which, along with the others, barely did much good anymore. “I wish I could do something about it.”

“It’s not your fault,” the blond sighed.

“It...it is, I think,” he swallowed. “I must have done something. Angered the Lord Woo. And in return He...He is punishing me.”

Ivar blinked, staring at him momentarily before his face was darkened by a frown. “But you have done nothing wrong. Nothing,” he growled. “In fact, you’ve done more for Him this summer than I’m sure most will ever do in their lifetime.”

“I must have done something. The Lord Woo does not punish in vain. I just have to figure out what to do...to win His favour back,” Absolon winced. Tears continued to roll down his cheeks and he buried his face in his knees, hiding from Ivar and trying to get the hues of their voices out of his vision.

The blond fell into silence, giving Absolon time to recover. His eyes were dark, deep in thought.

“When I first heard your message, I had faith and hope. But watching you like this...” he scowled. “I increasingly wonder if I’ve traded one evil for another.”

Absolon whipped his head up, staring at Ivar. “N-no!” he gasped. “Lord Woo is...He’s nothing like that. He-”

“-Is hurting you for some reason only He understands,” Ivar turned to him a scowl forming across his face. “I made the mistake of serving one god who did that. I never want to make that mistake again.”

“No. My suffering is...it’s nothing,” Absolon begged. He pressed down on his chest, just above the wooden feather, trying to hold back the ache. “This is a test. He’s preparing me for something greater. It has to be.”

The blond man’s shoulders drooped. “You can barely function. How could this be preparation?”

“I...I don’t know. But I’m sure He knows,” he shook his head. “Please, Ivar, don’t lose faith. I swear, the Woo is nothing like her. It’s not a mistake to serve Him.”

Ivar turned away from him, staring down at the floor in front of his feet. He waited a few moments, glancing occasionally at Absolon to gauge his tolerance for sound. “I want to believe that, Absolon. But I can’t when you’re in so much pain.”

“Please, Ivar,” he murmured, staring at him like a dog begging for scraps. “I need you to keep helping me.”

“And I will,” Ivar replied with a nod. “But it will be for you. Not for Him.”

Absolon hugged his knees tighter to himself. He had wished that Ivar would help both him and the Woo, but there was no convincing his companion, especially not in his condition. At least he could be secure in the knowledge that he would not be abandoned. Life was already unbearable, without Ivar, it would be even worse.

He shuddered and closed his eyes against the red biting to his skin. Woo, it was cold here. Absolon felt for the fur and was relieved to discover it was still pinned around his shoulders. Slowly, so the sudden shift did not irritate him, he hugged it around himself.

The blond bit his lip again and stood up, turning around. “Come on. I’ll take you back to your room.”

Absolon nodded and got up shakily, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around himself. It was going to get better. The Woo would not abandon them now.

Lord Woo, let it get better by spring. It has to.

Part 21- Warning for some suicidal thoughts

SPOILER: Click to show

He did not attend the rest of the Woomas celebrations. In fact, he barely strayed out of his room all winter, but even there, Absolon could not find salvation. He had to remain perfectly still to prevent the furs shifting and irritating him further but as winter wore on, even the thick furs proved inadequate against the cold. Some days, he could barely think due to the red prickling at his skin and the biting of the chill on his limbs. Warming charms, when he could summon the concentration to cast them, gave some relief, staving off the freezing winter air. But even in these ideal conditions, the pressure inside him gnawed at his bones and tore at his sinews, trying to find some way to escape from the prison that was his body.

Every day dragged on. It began when the howling wind or the cold seeping into his room woke him with a stab of agony and ended when at last he was too exhausted to mind the pain as he fell asleep. On good days, he managed to play with Snowflake or have a short, broken up conversation with Ivar, who had taken up a vigil in his room. The cat and the blond man both provided some comfort, even if he could only stomach both of them for a short while.

But on bad days, Absolon curled up in bed alone, his knees against his chest and his hands to his ears, mentally reciting passages from the Book of Woo. Then, when the agony got too much for him to remember them, he prayed. But when he could barely focus on keeping his brain together, Absolon lay there, his mind blank save for one, blasphemous thought. The first time he thought it, he almost bit his tongue to chase it out of his mind but it kept coming, again and again, unbidden and unwanted but inescapable until he could no longer deny it.

He wanted to die.

The Woo opposed suicide: the words he had said to Ivar in that clearing rang through his head loud and clear every time he felt that way. But if death wanted to come naturally for him, either through sickness or injury, Absolon would have welcomed it with open arms. Anything was better than this seemingly unending agony that had become his entire world.

Only when the Dux came into his room one day with an expression as dark as the winter nights did he become aware that something was wrong beyond his own suffering.

“Sire,” Ivar bowed his head, getting up from where he was sat beside Absolon’s bed. “Is something wrong?”

“The snows have not melted,” Ragnarr growled.

Absolon’s body shot up suddenly, causing the furs to fall off him and the fabric of his clothes to shift. Dark green and smooth purple flared across his eyes and he bit his lip, trying not to cry out before they settled into their new positions. Once he had recovered, he stared at the Dux with the expression of a terrified rabbit. His heart fell and the pain began to rise up. “But...but...it should have. The Woo-”

“Has done nothing. It is planting season and yet, it is like the middle of winter,” the older man’s hazel eyes met his, barely containing the fury. “You promised me this would not happen.”

Absolon silently gasped doubling over. Ivar’s gaze was also upon him and the accusing glint in his eyes was impossible to miss. He was panting now, ivory passing over his eyes with each intake of breath, his heart racing and the pressure inside him began to press against his ribs again.

“We need more time. The Lord Woo could not have abandoned us. He-”

“I hate to break it to you, lad, but I have seen the evidence with my own eyes,” Ragnarr sighed. “Your Woo has failed us.”

He opened his mouth to argue and immediately closed it again. There was no way Lord Woo would ever abandon His people. He knew that in his heart and yet his mind, distracted by overwhelming thought and colour, refused to knot those thoughts together into coherent words to give to the Dux as evidence.

Through the colours obscuring his vision, Absolon stared pleadingly at Ivar to help him, to make the argument for him. But the blond looked back at him impassively, his eyes hardening.

“He’s right, Absolon,” Ivar finally spoke. “Between your suffering and this unending winter...I’m having trouble believing He was ever with us.”

“You..you can’t say that,” the younger man’s eyes began to fill with tears. “Ivar...what about my magic? What about the fact that Woocifixes repel unseelie? What about Crom?”

He winced and covered his eyes as the bronze continued to layer over Ivar’s indigo and Ragnarr’s dark brown, becoming unbearable. The two other men gazed at him with deep pity.

“All that was well and good, but I have to focus on what is in front of me now,” the Dux finally replied, shaking his head. “You’ve given a lot of people hope, Absolon, but now I have the task of dashing it.”

His stomach gave a sickening lurch, agitating the pain to an almost unbearable level. Memories of the end of the last long winter flooded unbidden into his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to suppress them. “You...you can’t!”

“That was the agreement: if your Lord Woo did not protect us, a sacrifice is to be given,” Ragnarr replied.

Absolon opened his eyes and looked up, feeling the sting of tears beginning to form. “But-”

“I don’t want to do this either. But that is how it is,” the Dux turned to Ivar. “You are the closest we have to a Priest. Will you deliver it to Her?”

Ivar froze in place, glancing between Absolon and Ragnarr. The younger man opened his mouth to speak but immediately closed it again, curling in on himself.

“There has to be another way,” he murmured. “A way that does not require the death of another child.”

“What way?” the Dux asked, turning back to him. “If you have any ideas, say them.”

Absolon gripped his head in his hands, trying desperately to think through the muddle of colours and sensations that had invaded his mind. What would the Woo do? What could he, Absolon, a former monk and mage from Corvus, do?

“Let me go into the forest. I’ll...I’ll use my magic to do...something,” he stammered.

Ragnarr raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Your magic is strong but what can you do against Her?”

“Something. I have to try,” Absolon winced. “As long as a child doesn’t die...”

“So will you go into the forest and fight her?” Ivar asked. There was an unmistakable waver to his voice.

Absolon pondered this for a few moments. The memory of that day in the clearing flashed through his mind again: the way he had been trapped, Greta’s screams and his own helplessness flashed into his mind unbidden. To fight a creature like that back then was impossible. To do it with the pressure inside him building up to intolerable levels, reducing him to a screaming wreck at the slightest provocation, was suicide.

But maybe that was what he needed.

He nodded once, singularly and definitively. Ivar’s eyes widened and he dropped down on to the edge of the bed beside Absolon.

“Are you insane?” he gasped. “You’ll die.”

“I don’t care,” Absolon replied flatly and smiled at Ivar. “Maybe this was my purpose...maybe this is what the Woo has in mind for me.”

The blond’s face twisted into a scowl and he turned back to Ragnarr. “With all due respect, Sire, may I speak to him alone?”

The Dux glanced between the two and nodded, stepping out of the room. Once he was safely gone, Ivar turned back to Absolon.

“You don’t intend to go into the forest to fight her, do you?” he gasped. His hands reached towards Absolon, stopping just short of grabbing the younger man.

In response, Absolon only nodded.

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. The Woo reducing him to such a state and then letting him die at her hands in order to bring back the spring. Then the people would accept the Word and he would be cured of his pain, forever.

Ivar weakly shook his head, swallowing a sob. “No...no...you can’t,” he whimpered. “Absolon, you can’t!”

Absolon winced at the sharpness of his indigo tone, dyed yellow by fear. He closed his eyes, trying to guard against it. “If this is what the Woo wants of me, then I shall.”

But more he was shocked at the sudden change in Ivar. The blond never lost his composure so why was he suddenly so panicked?

“So the Woo...wants you to die?!” Ivar cried, forcing a gasp of pain out of Absolon. He threw his arms around himself and the blond winced, gritting his teeth as he realised what he had just done.

“I don’t know, Ivar. But either way, I don’t mind it,” Absolon smiled back at him.

Ivar’s shoulders slumped. Tears poured out of his cheeks and he fell backwards on to Absolon’s bed, perching on its edge. “How could you? How could He let you?”

“I am His servant, I’ve always been. Whatever He wants of me, I shall do it. And now, the Woo is telling me to fight her,” the younger man bowed his head too. “Or would you rather have to kill another child?”

“No, no...I swore I’d never do that,” Ivar shook his head, wiping his eyes. “But I also...don’t want you to die.”

Absolon curled in on himself, putting his hands over his ears, letting the colour pass. After a while, he sighed and hugged himself tighter. “Better than living like this.”

“What about His Word?” Ivar stared at him, his eyes rimmed with red. “Why do you have to die, Absolon? Why can’t you live to spread His Word? Isn’t that what He wants?”

“I don’t know. I can only do what I think He wants,” the younger man shook his head. “And what I want.”

The blond remained silent for a few moments before his face twisted into a scowl. “I said earlier that I did not want to serve another evil. You told me then that He was not evil...and yet He wants you to die, like she wants us to die.”

Absolon flinched. He opened his mouth and closed it again. The Woo’s will was unknowable, and he knew that He always had a greater purpose, far more than that hungry revenant that had taken Greta’s life. But Ivar’s doubt and misery still cut him deeper than a knife.

“Trust in me, and trust in Him. I beg you,” Absolon smiled weakly. “It will be for the best.”

Ivar thought about this, his head bowed. “You really want to do this?” he looked up at Absolon. “Is there nothing I can say that can stop you?”

Absolon shook his head.

“Not even that I love you?”

It was like being submerged into cold water. For a single moment, those words even drowned out the pain inside his chest. He wondered if he had misheard.

Ivar bit his tongue. “I’m sorry...that slipped out,” he turned back to him, his blue eyes meeting Absolon’s brown. “But it’s true.” His gaze and his ragged breath spoke for him: every part of him was waiting for a reply.

Absolon stared at the blond man opposite him, his voice stolen, even after the colour of what he had said had long faded. Love. Ivar loved him. Despite the freezing cold air, that thought filled him with inexplicable warmth. The same warmth he felt after the Woomas feast, when he wanted to comfort him. No, he had felt it even before the Woomas feast. The increase of his heartbeat whenever Ivar smiled, the joy of his company, the desire to be near him, to touch him...was all that love? Did he really love him back?

Yes, he did. It could not be anything else.

Shaking, he lifted up his hands to Ivar, stopping just short of his face. How he wished he could reach out just a little further, touch his skin, stroke his blond hair...but even the slightest brush would bring with it unbearable agony.

Barely restraining his tears, he drew back. “You’ll find somebody else, Ivar.”

“But I want you,” the blond leaned forward. “You saved my life, you gave me purpose. You’re kind, determined and...” he choked.

“I can’t be with you anyway. I’m...” he swallowed. Men of the Woo should not fall in love anyway but he had given up being a monk. Even if he still felt like one, he was not bound by their rules anymore.

If only that was all that stood between them.

“You deserve someone...who you can touch, who you can speak to normally, not a cripple like me. And you’ll find them,” Absolon pressed down on his sternum. His heart was still racing from the revelation, driving the pain to almost unbearable levels. “This is for the best. It is what the Lord Woo wants. I beg you, let me go.”

He had expected Ivar to argue, to say something to try to convince him otherwise. But the blond remained silent before pushing himself up off the floor.

“If you die, I won’t care what the Woo wants,” he said darkly. “I will serve no god that lets the one I love die.”

“Perhaps...I won’t die,” Absolon murmured. He did not fully believe it but neither did he wish to see Ivar in so much pain. “Perhaps Lord Woo will grant me the strength to beat her.”

Ivar ground his teeth together. “I pray He will. For His sake as much as yours.”

“Have faith, please. It will work out for the best,” the younger man replied, closing his eyes and bowing his head. “I know it.”

The blond man stood still for a moment before heading out of the door, closing it behind him softly. Absolon swallowed, wrapping his arms around himself. He closed his eyes, bowing his head. Tears began to flow out of his eyes.

Lord Woo, I beg you, give me strength. I don’t care how it comes, just please, don’t let another child die. And...no matter what comes to pass, let Ivar find happiness too.

***

The next day, the gates of the fort opened to let out a small, grim procession. The Dux of Roan rode at its head, followed on foot by Absolon, then Ivar trailing behind him and several of the Dux’s men bringing up the rear. They picked their way through the deep snows, each footstep sending a crimson stab through Absolon’s eyes, forcing him to stop sometimes and close his eyes in order to purge the intrusive colours. But in doing so, he let the cold creep in between the layers of his clothes, penetrating into his body and prickling at his skin, red too, so much so that the hues mingled, growing deep and intense in colour, so much so that he could barely focus. Often, he had to bite his tongue in order not to cry out as the pain of the chill mingled with the agony that pressed itself against his ribs. All he could do to stop himself collapsing was to divert all his focus into putting one foot in front of the other.

In a way, it was a mercy. The pain and the strength he had to pull on to overcome it distracted him from what lay at the end of the road. Ivar, however, was clearly not so lucky. Every step he took was listless and mechanical. His blue eyes stared out from their red rim, dull and blank, and the few times he managed to turn to look at Absolon, the yearning in them was enough to send a fresh stab of pain through the younger man’s body, not all of it coming from the pressure.

Woo, he wished he could do this without hurting Ivar: he did not deserve this. Sometimes, Absolon considered turning back, just so the blond would not be in such agony. Except, there was nothing back there for him.

Ivar was strong, stronger than anybody he knew, he deserved somebody far better than him and he would cope with the pain of his loss. And Absolon prayed he would not lose faith in the Woo after this either, just so they could finally be together on the other side. Unless, he thought with despair, even this action would not cleanse him of his sins.

Finally, the Dux halted his horse. Through the red haze across his vision, Absolon could see they were on the edge of the forest. He swallowed, bringing his hand around to touch the wand hanging off his left side before stopping himself. Considering what he was about to do, he did not need the distraction of the wand’s coloured texture layered on to his vision.

“Up ahead, lad, if you go straight on, you shall find the altar stones,” Ragnarr murmured quietly. “If you still want to do this.”

The younger man winced, bringing his hand to press on his chest. He glanced down at himself, spotting the wooden feather hanging off his chest.

“I have no choice,” he murmured. “But the Woo will be with me. One way or another, spring will come.”

The Dux nodded and, without another word, performed the triple feather gesture, exactly as he had been taught. “Good luck, Absolon.”

He smiled weakly, acknowledging the gesture, and turned around.

“Absolon,” Ivar called out suddenly, making him wince and turn around. The blond man was staring up at him, his eyes glistening. He swallowed, forcing himself to look up. “Blood calls her. Bleed into the tree carving and she shall appear.”

He nodded, wincing internally at that information. Blood...he would have to cut himself somehow. A part of him wanted to ask for a knife but thought against it. Magic would have to suffice, and no doubt it would less painful, if just so he would not have to feel the steel of the knife slice open his skin.

“Thank you,” Absolon replied, closing his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ivar sighed, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. “Must you go?”

His heart sank. “I must,” a smile spread across his face. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Ivar.”

Ivar scowled. “He better bring you back to me,” he cried. “I’ll be praying, and He better answer my prayer.”

Absolon closed his eyes, bowing his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ivar reaching forward towards him with his hand. He wanted to reach back to him but with the Dux’s men around them...he was not sure if he should.

But this was most likely the last time they would see each other. He could not deprive Ivar of that. So, carefully, Absolon reached back out to him. Their fingers stopped within a fraction of each other, not daring to touch, knowing what it would cause.

It was Ivar who pulled away first, turning away from Absolon. “Go,” he murmured. “No matter what...be happy.”

“And you too,” the young man whispered, smiling at him before he turned away. Closing his eyes, waiting for the colours to drain away, he directed his thoughts to what he had to do.

He was going to face her: the being that killed Greta, the one that had so easily overpowered him. Even thinking about seeing her again made the pain inside him spike and push against his chest as though whatever force that was there wanted to flee. Except, for better or for worse, he and the pressure were going to face her together.

Absolon drew in several shaking breaths and took his first step into the forest, then another, and another, going deeper into the trees.

Part 22

SPOILER: Click to show

Snow began to fall lightly around Absolon as he walked through the forest, brushing against his face and settled. He winced as the cold traced its icy finger along his cheek, flaring red in his vision. The snow crunched under his feet, spreading another, agonising layer of scarlet over his eyes. Above him, a magpie chattered, its laughing call stabbing at his concentration with the colour of dried out moss.

Despite the cold prickling at him, he clasped his hands together. Praying would focus him, draw his attention away from the colours of the noise and the ache in his chest, and it would give him the strength needed for the eventual confrontation. Lord Woo, help me. The people of the north are good people; they deserve to live without fear. I ask not for myself but for them: give me your strength and power to defeat her. Be my protection and let my magic fire true.

So focused was he on the prayer that he did not even notice as the trees parted around him, opening up into a clearing similar to the one that he had seen back in Eo. In its centre, the sacrificial stone stood, cold and harsh, peppered with a thin white layer, awaiting the offerings.

Absolon doubled over, clutching his chest as the pain surged inside him. There was no going back and yet, the sight of that altar, impassive, waiting for him like a spider in its web, was a painful reminder of what he was here to fight.

How much blood had flowed over it in the long years past? Too much, and he was here to stop it. No matter how much pain was pushing up from within him, this was something greater than himself. He had to do this.

The Woo will be with him. All he had to do was step forward and fight, no matter how impossible the odds seemed.

Absolon’s hand swept over his wand, letting his fingers get used to the familiar texture before taking it in his hand. He stepped forward towards the altar, standing over it. Lifting up his left hand, he held his wand’s tip to his palm, sucking in breath and bracing himself for the inevitable pain of the cut. Ivar did not say anything about how much blood he needed. It would be just a cut. Nothing more.

Through the falling snow, he caught a flicker of motion. Absolon lifted his eyes up and immediately met the emotionless, golden gaze of the goddess standing opposite him.

At the mere sight of her, the pain surged, scrambling at his chest and his limbs for a way out, away from her. His heart began to race, bashing violently at his ribs, each beat a grown man striking at his sternum. Absolon gasped, throwing the hand with his wand out in front of him a desperate attempt to protect himself.

She tilted her head at him slightly, her eyes disappearing for a second as she blinked, oblivious to his fear. Something like confusion passed across her face, or perhaps it was recognition. It was difficult to think through the pain.

Magic! He had to cast something but what? Protection or cutting or fire or anything! What were the incantations for them again?! Oh Woo, he had been a mage since he was four years old and he could not remember! All he registered was the pain that had spread like a disease to every fibre of his being and the tree deity in front of him.

She extended one root-like foot, taking a step forward towards him and then another and another, walking over the stone and towards him. Absolon’s eyes widened. He desperately wanted to run, but his legs were leaden and his lungs refused to work. Oh Woo, the pain, the pain was too much! He felt like he was drowning.

Woo, she was barely a few feet in front of him! Every instinct was screaming at Absolon to fight. He had to fight, he had to do something!!

Absolon held up his wand, trying to aim despite his shaking hand. “Dwoofindo!” he yelled the first spell that came into his head. A ray of spring green light shot towards the creature, cutting one of her branches of her head at its base. It fell down on to the ground, the snow around it melting as it fell.

Immediately, he realised it was a mistake. The deity stopped in her tracks and the bark of her face twisted aside into a snarl. His heart and his chest were going to explode and his feet felt as though they were frozen into the snow. Woo, it was just like before, in the clearing with Greta.

She dashed forward towards him. Or at least, that was what it looked like: one minute she was by the altar and the next right beside him. He screamed, reddish bronze flaring in his eyes, as her roots wrapped around his leg, gripping tightly before she began to climb right up his body. Agony exploded beneath the spots where she touched him, tearing him between the forces of the goddess and the pressure inside his torso. The darkest green covered his vision as his world became only the tree wrapped around him.

He just barely had enough presence of mind to point his wand at her but in response, she simply removed one of her branch-like arms from him and waved it. For a second, nothing happened, and then the wand rotted in his hand, disintegrating into dust. It swirled out of his hand and scattered across the snow, the creamy flakes disappearing against the white background.

Absolon gave off a terrified moan. His wand! No...no...this could not be happening!

Her roots were around his chest and wound around his arms, holding him in place, tying him down like an animal for slaughter. She was going to take him as her sacrifice!

Absolon screamed, and as he did, his voice changed in pitch, becoming throatier and scratchier. His skin stretched and wilted, acquiring grooves and wrinkles that should have taken years in the span of a few seconds. Inside him, his bones began to crack and buckle under the pressure of age. His entire body was in agony as the ache in his chest exploded through every fibre of his being.

And then came the glow.

For a moment the light was soft, glowing like a candle before suddenly erupting in a great burst of radiance. His entire vision filled with white, as pure as the Woo’s wing. The oppressive grip of Cebeline’s roots disappeared, along with the pain was devouring his entire body. For a moment, he felt nothing at all.

Absolon closed his eyes, letting the glow wash over him. There was no pain, no colour, no deity eating him. He was dead.

Except he soon realised he could still feel the cold and the snow beneath his feet. His eyes snapped open. No, he was still alive and in the glade.

He lifted up his hand. It was as smooth as ever, without a trace of aging. Gasping, his voice still sounded the same as ever, except the bronze was a mere tickle against his vision, not the overwhelming, oppressive force it had been just that morning.

But even better, there was no pain in his body at all.

Absolon smiled widely. It was gone. The ache was gone! Somehow, the light had taken it away!

A white sliver fell across his eyes. Thinking it was snow, Absolon brought a hand up to wipe it away, only to discover it was hair. His hair; it had been dyed completely white.

He could have cried tears of joy. Woo, you’ve been with me all this time.

There came an angry snarl from behind him. Cebeline was picking herself up off the ground, her golden eyes shining with raw hatred.

But despite it, Absolon got to his feet not afraid but smiling widely. Hope sprung up in him for the first time that winter. Lord Woo was on his side. There was no way he was going to lose.

Except he had no wand: she had destroyed it. But why did it matter? The Woo had blessed him with power. He had to be able to use it somehow, wand or not.

She screeched with a violent yellow shriek and Absolon felt his heart jump inside his ribs. He had to act fast. But at least now he could think without the pain and the colours.

Cutting spells wouldn’t help if she could simply regrow her limbs. But fire...fire burned wood. If he could produce fire...

Without his wand, he could only summon lights from his hands. It was unheard of for a mage to be able to do anything except call up this most basic of spells, but with the Woo’s power, perhaps-

The creature lifted up her branch and, acting on instinct, he did the same with his right hand. He focused, doing his best to imagine the flames coming out like the lights had done, running over the runes again and again as quickly as his thoughts would let him.

“Incendiwoo!” Absolon cried.

The black roar of the fire that burst forth from it was only matched by the intensity of his scream as green flames erupted from his palm, arcing through the air towards the deity. She cried out in shock and fear, her voice acquiring an even brighter yellow tint. In a flash, she had moved away from the fire, backing up against the altar stone and leaping behind it like a fox into its hole.

Pain swept up his arm and Absolon gasped, clutching it to his side. Glancing down, he just barely made out an ugly, bloody redness all across his forearm, turning black near his palm. He could feel the pull too, tracking through his hands and beating against the bones of his wrists like blood trying to squeeze through arteries that were far too small. Woo, the pain, and the pull...it was not as bad as the pressure in his chest had been but nevertheless, it hurt. He had barely used any magic too!

Absolon stumbled forward, gasping, his heart pounding against his ribs. Out of the corner of his vision, he just barely saw the deity behind the stone wave her arm. His heart skipping a beat, he sent the command to his limbs to move but they refused. It was not even the slowness that she had locked him into the last time they met. No, now his muscles were completely frozen solid, his shape frozen into a hunched position as the pull and the agony of his burn continued to course through his arm. His hearing and mercifully, his breath seemed to be at normal but that was of little help when he was as good as trapped.

In front of him, the creature stepped out from behind the altar. In her vicious smile he could have sworn he saw rows of tiny thorn-like teeth. Small trickles of smoke poured from a few of her leaves and there were black spots scattered across her bark but otherwise she seemed unscathed: his aim had not been good enough. She took a step forward, not hurrying now, knowing her prey was not going anywhere.

Absolon tried to struggle and fight, to make any part of him move but the frozen time around him was total and complete. The creature was barely a few feet away from him now and getting closer. Woo, no, no, it could not be like this! He had been cured and blessed; it could not end just like that! Fire. If he could just free himself to cast fire-

As if hearing his wish, a column of fire erupted in front of him. Steam rose from the suddenly evaporated snow around it with a deep red hiss. Absolon fell forward, released from her grip. The Woo had heard his prayers but he could not rely on Him to save him all the time.

He raised up his hand again, fighting back the feeling of the pull which had now coursed its way past his wrist. “Protegwoo!” he said. Fresh burning swept up his arm as green light flew out of his palm, condensing into a shield in front of him. The pull too, pulsed up all the way past his elbows, biting deep into the muscles of his upper arms. Reflexively, he tried to flex his fingers, only to cry out from the pain that flared up in his burned right hand at the slightest movement.

Absolon was going to run out of strength far quicker than she ever would, and fire was useless if she could just escape it. But if he could trap her...

He threw his burned hand up into the air, biting down on his tongue to keep himself crying out from the agony of his burn. Cold wind slapped against the damaged tissue as he swept his elbow around, sending streaks of red through his vision. “Incendiwoo circuli.”

Fire flew out of his palm but this time, it did not come out in a straight line. Rather, it followed the path of his hand, coming down around him and the deity in a shimmering border. More steam curled up from the snow that was touched by the fire, though the accompanying hiss barely fluttered a dark crimson at the edge of his vision.

The pull coursed like a rapid into his chest and there was a distinct smell of burned flesh in the air. Woo, it hurt, it hurt so much. The only reason Absolon did not faint from the agony was because his heart was racing too much to let him.

The column of fire had disappeared just as the circle of flame had come down around them. She hissed loudly and her head dashed back and forth as she assessed her new situation. Absolon panted, bringing his hand down as he finished the incantation just as she charged at him, only to encounter the shield he had cast. She stared, surprised as the sudden obstacle and struck it again, trying to break though.

This was his chance. He held his hand up again, suppressing the churning of his stomach at how it looked. Woo, he wished he could heal it but there was no time. This had to end quickly, while the ward was still up.

He took a step forward and immediately, his feet gave way under him. His burned hand plunged into the snow and the cold seeped into it, seeming to soothe it, or at least that those parts could still feel pain. His palm had gone completely numb, but that only emphasised the agony in his arm and the pull that was gnawing at the flesh beneath his collarbones. Black spots were fading in and out of his vision, not connected to any external sound whatsoever. He tried to push himself up with his left hand but it buckled beneath him, sending him sprawling out into the snow again.

Except his fingers brushed not against snow but grass. Grass! Absolon looked up and his eyes alighted on to the branch he had severed earlier, lying unassuming in its nest, oblivious to the chaos going on around it. Reaching out, he grabbed it in his left hand and propped it against the ground, leaning on it.

Somehow, with its help, he got up to his feet, just as the deity smashed the ward that had been defending him. Woo, he had to restore it! He could not leave himself exposed.

Leaning on the branch with his left, Absolon held his right hand out. “Protegwoo,” he murmured. Green light flickered in the corner of his vision and a fractured shield rose not in front of his palm but above him. The pull progressed deeper into his chest, but no longer at the rapid pace as before. He started, first at it and then down at the branch that was pointed up to the sky. Somehow, it had conducted his magic. Which meant he could use it as a wand!

He barely had time to think about that before Cebeline’s roots suddenly wound around him. Absolon gasped, fully expecting the agony that had spread through his body last time. His pulled limbs screamed beneath her touch but in his mind, there was no distraction, nothing but the sharp clarity that told him he needed to get her off him. Without even thinking, he lifted up the branch and pointed it down at one of her roots that were around his torso.

“Dwoofindo!” he cried. Magic spiralled from its tips, one of the slices chopping at her root, sending it falling down on to the ground. Before she could grow it, however, Absolon pointed the branch at the creature he knew was clinging to his back. “Everte Statum.”

He felt parts of the spell strike his head but most hit her, hammering down on multiple points at the creature. Having lost her grip, she was unable to hold on against the spell. Her few remaining branches tore at his clothes as she flew back, leaving black marks where the charred wood scraped him. Absolon gasped, drawing in breath and shakily turning himself around, keeping a death grip on the branch in case he fell. If he had not been used to the pain and pressure that had plagued him all winter, he would have collapsed, screaming. Instinctively, he pressed his upper arms against his chest, fighting the pressure of the pull as it tracked deeper into his chest.

She gave off another scarlet hiss as she got up out of the snow. The deity’s crown of branches had been whittled down to half of its original size and one of her arms had been severed at what appeared to be the elbow. He had sliced off one of the roots growing from her hip but those that passed as her legs were still intact. She could still charge at him. He could not let that happen

“Sectwoosempra,” he cried, pointing the branch at her legs. Several bolts of bright green erupted from its many points, most spiralling off into the distance beyond the border of fire but a few impacted into her, leaving sharp slashes all over her roots, severing some clean off. Unable to keep her balance, she toppled down into the snow.

Absolon stumbled forward, also falling, the blackness beginning to spread across his eyes, the pain still pulsing through his burned arm and the pull digging itself into his ribs. Looking up, he saw her trying to get to her feet, a new root growing out of where the old one had been severed. No, he was not going to give her the opportunity. It had to end here.

Fire was too slow but it suddenly occurred to him he did not need it. There was a reason that all Corvids knew not to stand under trees during storms.

“Astra incutio,” he cried. Lighting forked out of every branch on his makeshift wand. Black thunder tore the air around him. Most of the points struck the trees around him but one surged directly into her. There was a bloody amber scream and a sharp dark brown crack of wood. Absolon fell down on to the ground, overcome by the noise, but instead of lingering, it faded almost as soon as the noise did. His ribs felt like they were being pried over and instinctively, he tried to press his right arm against it. This was a mistake: a flare of agony spread outwards from where he had touched the burn against the fabric of his clothes. Absolon screamed crimson, throwing his burned arm into the snow, breathing a deep gasp of relief as the cold swept into his injury. When the pain was numbed sufficiently, he somehow found the strength to look up at where the deity was.

Like him, she lay on the ground, barely moving, with black smoke curling in whips from her. Her branches, which before had been covered in either leaves or snow, were now singed and almost barren. The deity moaned and tried to struggle up but her body seemed to fly apart. Looking closer, it became immediately obvious why: the lightning had cloven her in two and only a few fibres remaining by her “hips” were now holding her today.

He thought the lighting would have killed her, but of course a deity would be harder to kill. It did not matter; it was all over for her. Absolon raised the branch again and as he did, she stared up at him.

There was no rage in her eyes but a plea, the plea of any living creature which knows it was beaten: have mercy.

She did not deserve mercy. She deserved to die for the thousands of children that she had mindlessly consumed over the years, for the people who starved because they had to appease her, for Greta’s death. Yet to murder her now would be vengeance. Her life, like all lives, was the Lord Woo’s to take, not Absolon’s.

He lifted up his head to meet her gaze, panting from the effort. “Leave...the people of the Woo alone...He is stronger than you...do not terrorise them again,” he shakily pointed the branch at her as though to remind her of his power.

Without a moment of hesitation, she nodded. Beneath them, the snows melted. Above the dark red crackling of the fire that still burned around them, he just barely heard the silver thrill of birdsong. Spring had come.

“Endium,” Absolon whispered. The ring of fire that he had cast sputtered and died. Beyond it, the trees had burst into new growth. Above, instead of snow clouds, the sun blazed, scattering warmth across the landscape.

She disappeared, fleeing to wherever she came from. He collapsed, gasping for breath. His heart was pounding in his chest, striking against his ribs like a hammer. The strain of the pull tugged at every single fibre in his arms and his ribs, threatening to break open his bones and tear out his insides. Compounding this, the agony of the burn in his right arm pulsed violently, too hot and too cold at the same time. The exception to this was his hand; there was no feeling in it whatsoever, but Absolon did not dare peek down and find out why. Last time he looked, it had made him queasy enough.

But the unbearable pressure that had been a mainstay of his life all winter had disappeared. Colour still played in his eyes but it was no longer as agonising as it had been before, and without the source of the sound, it did not linger but disappeared.

The Woo had won, He had proven stronger than Cebeline, and what was more, He had granted Absolon his pardon. Best of all, he had earned it without sacrificing his life.

Somehow, the young man stumbled to his feet, using the branch as a walking stick to help him up. He did not remember which direction he had come from, only that there was a path leading somewhere. Trying to ignoring the pain of the burns, the smell of charred flesh and the pull that was digging into him, he took a step forward. Black patches swam in his vision but he refused to faint, forcing himself to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. First the left, than the right, and then the left again, over and over, concentrating only on keeping up the rhythm.

Woo, he had never used so much magic in his life. Remembering his rstlirt lesson, Absolon pressed his left arm against his chest, only using the top part of the right to put pressure on his ribs in order to stop the pull ripping them apart. Every joint in his body arthritically screamed at him to take the weight off them, to give them some rest. If it had not been for the fact that he had spent his winter in a similar state of agony, he felt that he would have collapsed there and then.

The forest began to break up. Up ahead, through the gathering darkness, he saw figures of people. As he got closer, he realised he recognised their faces; Ragnarr and Ivar! Absolon hurried towards them with only muscle memory to propel his shaking legs along.

He stepped out of the forest. Ragnarr’s hazel eyes widened as he saw him and the Dux placed his hand on Ivar’s shoulder. The blond looked up from where he had been kneeling in prayer and stared up at him, disbelief written clearly all over his face.

Somehow, Absolon managed to smile back at him. “I did it,” he murmured. “I...”

Whatever he was going to say next was stolen by the sudden weakness that overcame his body. His knees buckled out under him and he collapsed on to the ground, not even fighting the blackness as it closed in.

[Celestial]

("The Bringer of Spring" continued)

Part 23

SPOILER: Click to show

Absolon had no idea how long he was out for. Fever dreams, patches of reality and scraps of memory all blended together into one barely coherent narrative. He was briefly aware of heat, then cold, then heat again, both sensations rapidly switching back and forth. Various voices buzzed in his ears and his vision, some of which he recognised and some that he did not. Once, he even heard the silvery ripple of running water. All the while, images floated in front of his eyes: Greta, Ivar, Elijah, Ragnarr, Greta’s parents, even Cebeline. But the last thing he remembered was a searing black and red agony in his right arm accompanied by reddish-bronze screaming before the world returned to darkness once again.

Finally, his eyelids fluttered opened and he returned to some kind of awareness. The spring sun poured in from the hatch in the roof above, which had been opened to light up the room he was in. It took him a moment to recognise it as the same room that he had occupied all winter.

The inside of his mouth felt as though it was stuffed with sand and each heartbeat sent a throb of pain down his right arm. Somewhere far away, a bird sang and he could hear the vague, muffled cries of people getting on with their daily lives. But while Absolon saw those sounds, they were not loud or overwhelming like any sound had been this past winter. Instead, they faded into the background, with their colours barely flashing across his vision. He could feel the blankets on him too, it was impossible not to, but nothing pushed against them from the inside. No pain, no pressure, no sensations except the ones a normal human would feel. Even the unbearable pull of before had more or less reduced itself to a faint tingle in his fingers.

Carefully, Absolon brought his left hand up to his chest. The single wooden feather lay on it, rising and falling in time with his breathing. So he really was not dead. He ran a finger across its barbs, feeling tears well up in his eyes along with the very faint jade colour of its texture. He was well and truly cured of his sins.

“Absolon?”

Indigo flashed across his vision. He turned his head to the side, meeting the familiar bright blue eyes that were looking down at him. A smile crept across his face.

“Ivar,” he murmured, his throat rasping.

The blond man grinned widely back at him, lifting up his hand from where it had been stroking Snowflake and wiping his eyes. “You’re finally awake, thank Woo.”

The cat mewled and leapt up on to his bed, curling up by his feet. Absolon glanced down at him, smiling, before turning back to Ivar. “How long was I asleep?”

“About a week, but you kept drifting in and out, so it was hard to tell how long it was exactly,” Ivar lowered his eyes, glancing down, before looking back up. “How do you feel?”

His smile grew even wider and he closed his eyes. “Wonderful,” he sighed. “The pain is gone. Lord Woo took it away from me.”

Ivar stared at him, eyes widened before they acquired a look of deep joy. “That’s...that’s good,” he nodded. “So He finally deemed you worthy of curing you?”

“Yes. But that’s not all,” Absolon’s eyes flickered upwards. “The Woo blessed me with power, power unlike anything I had before. It’s how I defeated her.”

“I...see,” the blond’s face fell for a second before the smile returned again. He leaned forward, stretching his hand out before he stopped. “Does touch... still hurt you?”

His heart quickened as he realised what Ivar wanted to do. Absolon hesitated. The pressure was gone, and he did not feel any pain from the blankets, but another person’s touch had always been one of the worst sensations. And yet, if there was a chance it would not be such agony, he realised he was craving this.

“I don’t know but...you can try,” he smiled at Ivar. “I want this touch.”

The blond smiled and closed the tiny distance between them, stroking Absolon’s hair with his fingers. Inwardly, the younger man steeled himself for the pain and colour but there was none. Only faint beige tones tickled at the edge of his vision, nowhere near the discomfort that he would have felt before. Satisfied he was not going to be overwhelmed, he closed his eyes, enjoying the weight and feeling of Ivar’s hand running across his head. His heart beat quicker and he could not help but smile at the tenderness he was being granted.

Seeing no sign of the overload that had earlier plagued his companion, Ivar’s strokes grew bolder and he dug his fingers into Absolon’s hair, adding a grey rustle to the beige of his touch. “Your hair is beautiful, like fresh snow,” he murmured.

“The Woo’s gift,” Absolon replied quietly, not wanting to disturb the sensations rolling over him. After a while though, he opened his eyes again, looking up at Ivar. “Do you have water?”

“Oh, yes,” Ivar nodded, taking his hand away and getting up, returning within a few moments with a cup that had stood nearby. “You must be parched.”

Absolon nodded and lifted up his head, trying to prop himself up into a sitting position with his hands. A stab of pain came from his right and he gave of a cry of pain, gritting his teeth together. Ivar’s eyes widened. “Be careful, you-”

He lifted up his arm to take the cup and as he did, Absolon’s eyes settled on his right hand. Or rather, they saw what remained of it. His forearm was swaddled in bandages but where his hand should have been, there was nothing but a stump. It seemed like it was right there, except his eyes told him otherwise. Carefully, he brought his left hand up to touch the space above the stump of his wrist and as expected, he felt nothing but air.

“What...what happened?” he gasped, turning to Ivar. “I had it when I came out of the forest. It was badly burned, but I had it...right?”

The blond sat down in his chair, holding the cup in his lap. “It had been burned down to the bone. The healer said there was nothing she could do. It was either cut it off or lose you to infection. So that’s what was done.”

“I..I could have healed it,” Absolon murmured, still staring in disbelief at the stump. “Ivar, why didn’t you-”

He gritted his teeth. “I tried to argue with her, I told her you could heal it with magic. She said you would not wake up to do so before the infection took you, and when you began to get feverish...I believed it,” the blond looked back up at Absolon. “Thinking back...I don’t know if even your magic could have healed it. It was...horrid to look at when we brought you in.”

“But with this new power, I could have...” he collapsed back on to the bed as tears began to well up in his eyes. Woo, nobody used magic without a wand beyond the simple light and colour changing so why had he thought it was ever a good idea? What was he going to do now, as a cripple?

A sob escaped from his throat and then another. A breeze brushed against his cheeks, ruffling his hair.

“Absolon,” Ivar called out but he barely heard it, continuing to cry. The breeze picked up, turning into a bluster. Grey began to assault his ears.

“Absolon!” his companion called out again, the indigo piercing through the howl of the wind. He gasped, opening his eyes but it continued to blow, tugging at his blankets and his clothes as it hit against the roof, trying to escape. Snowflake leapt up, startled by the sudden interruption of his sleep and ran into Absolon’s lap, his back arched and his scarred muzzle curled in the face of this unseen enemy.

The young man closed his eyes, burying his left hand in Snowflake’s white fur and running his palm down the cat’s spine to calm himself down as much as Snowflake. He forced himself to focus only on the cat, on the lavender texture of his fur and the purrs, on the warmth emanating from him. Ignore the wind; ignore the phantom feeling of his right hand. There was only the cat.

Soon, the wind settled back into a breeze and then faded completely. Only when the air was completely still did Absolon gather enough courage to look up. “What...what was that?” he gasped.

“I’m not sure. But it’s definitely connected to you,” Ivar replied, looking back at him. “When you were feverish, ice formed around you. When you were crying out for water in your sleep, water began pouring from the walls. And your hand...” he sighed. “I left the room but allegedly, the first time, some force knocked the healer off her feet when she came to cut it off. They had to...get a woodsman.”

“I did all that?” Absolon stared at him. Magic without a wand that he could not control, like the column of fire that rose up unbidden when Cebeline was attacking him, that was somehow reacting to his...distress? It seemed to be triggered by negative emotions, judging by what he had seen and what Ivar had described.

No doubt this was yet another test. Lord Woo had blessed him with this power to help him overcome the evils of the deity plaguing these people but if Absolon wanted to keep it, he had to prove himself worthy of controlling it. He had to use this power wisely and well, which meant mastering it and himself. But for what purpose?

Absolon smiled. He already knew the answer to that question: to keep spreading the Woo’s word. With his magic-

Magic that was useless without a wand to direct it. Absolon gasped, his back stiffening.

“Ivar, the branch. When I came out of the forest, I was holding a tree branch. Where is it?” his head snapped back and forth as he frantically searched the room. If it had been thrown away...

Ivar stood up off his chair and picked something up lying in the corner. He deposited it down in Absolon’s lap and immediately wiped his hand as if he wanted to get rid of the sensation of holding it. Snowflake leapt off Absolon’s knees, acting like he had been stung by a bee, his back arching and his fur standing up on end. A carmine hiss escaped from his mouth as he stared at the tree branch lying unassuming on the bed, spring flowers blooming on some of its tips as though it was still attached to its parent tree.

“You had a death grip on it when we brought you in. We did not think much of it until...” the blond pointed to the cat before sitting down on his chair, his eyes fixating on the branch. “That was hers, wasn’t it?”

Absolon nodded, wrapping his left hand around the branch. “She disintegrated my wand. I cut this off her and when I picked it up I found that I could use it to cast spells. So unless I go south and go to a wand maker, this is all I have.”

“You don’t want to go south?” Ivar asked, surprised.

He sighed and shook his head, pushing the branch off to the side. “There are people I wish I could see, but my purpose is here, Ivar. To continue spreading the Woo’s word to the people of the north, to eliminate the sacrifices, to keep fighting here...this is what I have been given this power to do.”

The blond bowed his head, pausing for a few moments. “So if you’re staying here...” he looked up at Absolon. “What about us?”

His heart sped up in his chest. “Well...I want you to come with me, obviously. Especially with...with that,” he gestured sadly down at his stump. “Between this and needing to control my magic, I’m going to need you.”

“And what about what I said?” Ivar swallowed. “That I...love you?”

Absolon bit his lip, turning his gaze away from Ivar. He could have sworn he felt his cheeks get hotter.

“You said I could find somebody better than you, but...” the blond got up off his chair and sat down on the side of the bed. “You never said whether you felt the same way, Absolon. So...do you?”

The younger man’s heart was beating so hard it seemed like it would burst, especially at having Ivar so close. He knew how he felt; there was no question about how he felt. Nor was he ever going to return south to take up the monastic order of life again. Perhaps the Woo would not approve of him being distracted from his purpose, but this was Ivar, his first convert, the man who had encouraged him, the man who helped him every step of the way as he spread the Woo’s word across the north. Without him, he could not do this task, nor did he want to.

Maybe this was why Lord Woo had driven them together, and why He made them feel this way. And he had preached to the people here many times that the Woo was a loving god; He would not disapprove of love.

With his remaining hand, Absolon reached out to Ivar, hesitating for a moment before touching his shoulder. The rough fabric of the blond man’s clothes created a slight dark green fuzz around the edge of his vision. “I do,” he murmured, smiling. “I love you, Ivar.”

Ivar’s eyes lit up and a smile enveloped his face. He leaned closer, reaching towards Absolon before freezing in place. “Are you sure you don’t mind touch now?”

He nodded, drawing his arm tighter around the blond man’s shoulders to prove it. Ivar hugged him, pulling him closer before leaning forward and pressing his lips against his. Absolon closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of this man so near him and soaking in the orange colour of his warmth, the dark beige of the texture of his skin; colours he never thought he would find pleasant but now could hardly drink in enough of.

After a while, they both pulled away. Absolon smiled widely and leaned into Ivar’s chest, still not wishing to let go, and judging by the blond man’s arms around him, he did not want to either. He pressed one ear against Ivar, picking up the burgundy beat of his heart, a heart that was racing just like his was. Woo, could there be a more soothing sound? He wished he could stay like this forever, but his parched throat forced him to realise he had other priorities.

“I’d like that water now, please,” he murmured. With a nod, Ivar let him go and handed the wooden cup to him, letting Absolon take a drink.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked.

Absolon lowered the cup before smiling up at him. “Food, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Ivar smiled back, kissed his cheek and stood up, heading for the door. “Get some rest for now.”

He did not need to be told twice as he sank back down on the bed and closed his eyes. Despite the loss of his hand, despite the lack of control over his magic, physically and mentally, he never felt better.

***

Slowly but surely, Absolon began to recover. It took several days before he felt strong enough to walk around even with help and even more before the healer allowed him to. Despite this, he never strayed far from his room so his encounters with other inhabitants of the fort were rare. The few people he did meet, however, gazed at him in a completely new light. Whereas before most had ignored him, treating him as just another person, they now stared at him with awe and reverence unlike any he had previously encountered. Smiles and bows followed him everywhere he went, and even the healer working on his injury did not bother to disguise the high admiration she had for her patient.

But it finally culminated when the Dux himself visited him in his room. Ivar had gone away to get him clean bandages and Absolon had occupied himself by reading the Book of Woo. He looked up as dark maroon alerted him to the door opening, just in time to see the older man smile and bow. The leader of the Roan clan, submitting to him.

Absolon swallowed, biting his lip and closing the Book of Woo which he had been rereading. Woo, what was he supposed to say?

“H-hello, Sire,” he finally managed to stammer out, bowing his head back. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I wanted to see how you were feeling,” Ragnarr replied, approaching him. “And to thank you.”

“For what?” Absolon asked even though he knew what the answer was already.

The Dux laughed. “For saving us all from the winter, and from her,” he gazed down at Absolon. “You don’t know how thankful we all are.”

“Oh...you’re welcome, Sire,” Absolon trailed off, bowing his head again. “I did ask you to have faith in the Woo.”

“Indeed you did, and He did not disappoint,” the Dux’s smile grew wider. “But as far as I am concerned, it was you who did not disappoint either, Absolon.”

He glanced downwards at his hands. “It was the Lord Woo working through me who defeated her, not me, Sire,” he sighed. “I would have been nothing without the Woo’s help.”

Ragnarr laughed. “You are far too modest, lad, but you are wrong: you went in there, you defeated her and...” he gestured at Absolon’s hand. “You paid the price for it.”

The young man bit his tongue, unsure of what to say to that. There was no question the Dux had a point but it still felt wrong, attributing the victory to himself. If it had not been for that surge of power, he would have been dead, and it was through his own stupidity, not anything Cebeline did, that his hand was now gone.

“Cheer up, Absolon,” the Dux smiled widely at him. “There’s no shame in being a hero.”

Absolon’s head shot up. “I’m...I’m...” he trailed off. A hero!?

“Of course you are!” Ragnarr laughed. “Word of your deed is already spreading. Has your friend Ivar told you what they are calling you?”

“No,” he shook his head.

“The Bringer of Spring,” the older man said those words like a prayer. “Not a bad title, I must say.”

The Bringer of Spring. Those words fluttered around his mind like disturbed birds trying to find a place to settle. He was being spoken of, not by name but by deed, like he was something more than human.

His left hand clenched over the blanket. As long as people knew what had happened here, as long as they knew that Cebeline could be beaten by the Lord Woo’s power, perhaps this was not such a bad thing. He would learn to cope with this new fame. It did not seem like he had much choice in the matter.

Ragnarr coughed, bringing him suddenly out of his thoughts. “So, Absolon, what will you do now?” he shot a glance down at his hand. “The healer tells me you still have a while to go, and I will be happy to host you as long as you need but...”

“I won’t be a burden to you long, Sire. I know what I must do,” Absolon replied and looked up at the Dux. “May I ask something?”

The older man nodded. “You may.”

“How many clans are there? Besides Roan?”

He put a hand to his beard. “Sixteen,” Ragnarr tilted his head slightly. “Why?”

Sixteen clans, no doubt of varying sizes. Absolon swallowed nervously.

“I want to keep spreading the word of the Woo to them as I did to you. I want to make sure no more children die to satisfy her, ever,” he replied. The steel in his voice surprised even him.

The Dux blinked. “That will be...quite a feat,” a sly smile spread across his face. “But not impossible for one with power such as yours, especially if this story keeps circulating.”

Absolon nodded, gripping the blanket tighter. “The Woo never gives us easy tasks,” he murmured. “But this is what I must do.”

“Do whatever you must do, Absolon,” Ragnarr stood up off the chair. “And if there is anything you wish that I can provide you with,” he bowed. “I am at your service.”

“Thank you,” the younger man bowed back. “And I am in your debt, Sire.”

“No, I am in yours,” the Dux smiled. “You’ve saved my people and you have given us all hope. I pray the other clans will see it as beneficial to them to accept the Lord Woo and you as I did.”

“So do I,” Absolon whispered.

“Recover first,” Ragnarr turned around, heading for the door. “I best let you to do that now.”

He exited just as Ivar returned. The blond bowed to the leader of his clan, watching him go briefly for a moment before turning back to Absolon.

“What was that about?” he asked, closing the door behind him.

“He simply wanted to check on me and ask me some questions, don’t worry,” the younger man smiled widely up at him. “Did you get what you needed?”

Ivar nodded and took something out of his pocket, holding it out to show to Absolon: a small, short-bladed knife with a large handle.

“Are you sure it will be alright?” he carefully approached the chair and sat down in it, looking back up at the young man. “There’s no...residual power there to hurt me?”

“It shouldn’t, it’s been separate from her long enough and it channelled the Woo’s magic so that had to have cleansed it,” Absolon replied and gestured at the tree branch lying by his bed. “Don’t be afraid of it. She won’t hurt you anymore.”

A grin spread across the blond’s face. “No, she wouldn’t dare, not with you around,” he picked the branch up, trying to hide the slight glint of fear in his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the knife into the wood and began to whittle it away.

Washed out red scraped across his eyes with each stroke. Absolon winced and his discomfort did not escape Ivar’s attention.

“I thought sound did not upset you anymore?” he asked, frowning.

“It’s still unpleasant. But if you could drown it out...” the younger man turned his head to the blond, an idea forming in his head. “Do you sing, Ivar?”

“Well, in a way. I’ve never been taught or anything but I do sing when I work,” a sly smile crept across Ivar’s face. “You don’t want to hear me sing, Absolon, it will be even worse than the scrape of wood.”

“Please?” Absolon returned his expression with a sincere one. “I love the colour of your voice. I’m sure your singing voice will be just as pleasant.”

“As you wish.”

The blond smiled back before returning to his work, opening his mouth and singing a simple, melodic song. Indigo dyed with purple washed over Absolon and like a contented cat, he closed his eyes, savouring each note.

***

Though he had been hesitant to use it at first, habit had made him use magic to take care of the worst of his burns. Nevertheless, a while passed before the healer had let Absolon go outside the fort. The forest he walked through now was unrecognisable as the same one he had stumbled through at the end of that winter. Greenery coated the trees around them and it rustled faintly in the soft breeze that touched his skin. A thick undergrowth of bluebells had burst into flower, carpeting the entire forest floor with their brilliant colour. But even that brilliance could not keep all of his attention: occasionally, his gaze faltered and flickered over to Ivar.

The blond man turned to him, meeting making eye contact, and a smile spread across his face. He squeezed Absolon’s left hand tighter, making the colour in his eyes more intense for a split second. Absolon smiled back, savouring his company. The beige of his touch and the orange of his warmth combined with the silvery trills of birdsong around them and the grey-green rustle of the plant life around them would have been so unpleasant for him in the past. It was without a doubt still distracting, stealing his attention in ways a normal person would not have to experience, but now, he could cope, and perhaps even enjoy some of it. Yes, he thought as he leaned on Ivar’s shoulder, feeling the rough green of his clothes against his skin, he could definitely enjoy this.

After a while, however, the two stopped and Ivar tapped his shoulder.

“Absolon,” he said. “We’re here. Will this place do?”

Absolon opened his eyes and looked around. They had come to a clearing, not too different from where the altar stone stood, except this one was smaller and instead of stones, was dominated by one birch tree. Its ancient trunk stood thick and gnarled as its branches spread to drink in the light of the sun above it. It occurred to Absolon that this tree would have been worshipped alongside Cebeline, but now, despite a set of recent human tracks, there was no sign that anybody had stopped to give it so much as a glance.

A birch...the white tree of the north, the tree of the survivor; things his old wand embodied. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had received it. Now, he felt so much older, physically and mentally. This whole trip north, and especially his fight with Cebeline, had changed him just as much as he was changing the people around him.

Pushing the thought out of his head, he turned and nodded to Ivar. “It will do,” he replied and pulled himself away from the blond, heading out into the centre of the clearing.

Save for the spell to heal his burn, he had been reluctant to practice his magic in the fort, where he could get distracted by a sound or his spell backfiring could potentially harm somebody. But out here, there was only him, Ivar and the forest. He would be fine.

Absolon reached around for his wand holster on his left side but there was nothing but empty space there. It took him a second to remember why. His shoulders slumped as he brought up the stump of his right arm to examine it. The injury had been allowed to heal normally for too long and as a result long, pinkish scars criss-crossed half of his forearm; a reminder of what had happened. It would not have been so bad if he could not still feel his hand.

He lowered his arm, sighing before gritting his teeth. No, he could not be upset. He had to accept this, accept his fate and control his emotions. If he did not, the magic would go insane again. He needed to master his magic! He-

Ivar’s hands wrapped softly and gently around his waist as the blond man nuzzled into his shoulder.

“Don’t think about that,” he murmured into his ear. “Just focus on your magic and on me”

Absolon closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the beige mixing with the indigo of Ivar’s voice. A smile spread over his face as he leaned into his beloved’s grip.

With his left hand, he reached over to the repositioned wand holster on his right side and took out his new wand. It was thinner and far lighter than his old one, with the grain of the wood tinted red, a fact that Absolon tried not give much thought to the cause of. The handle fit easily in his grip thanks to Ivar’s masterful carving and unlike the rough bark of the branch that had encased it before, the texture of the heartwood had a pleasant light blue smoothness to it. Looking at it, it was impossible to tell this wand had ever been part of the bloodthirsty deity that had been his enemy.

Absolon wondered where she was now. He had not told anybody, not even Ivar, that in his mercy he had let her go. Even if he still knew her life was not his to take, he wondered if perhaps he should have killed her, delivered the finishing blow for good. But another part wondered if a deity like that could even be killed by fire or lightning. She would not have survived so long if she could.

But regardless of whether she lived or died, her worship could not continue. Children would not be slaughtered at her altars and food which could have been used to feed the hungry of this land would not be given to her. Lord Woo would prove stronger, and Absolon would spread His word to the people who still needed to hear it. Even if she survived, she would never win.

He had a hard task ahead of him, but with his magic and with Ivar’s love and support, it was far from impossible.

Absolon turned, smiling back at the blond man. “I’m ready now. Please let me go so I can focus.”

Ivar grinned and planted a kiss on his cheek before releasing him from his embrace. He stepped back, giving Absolon some space and sat down beneath a nearby tree, watching.

Absolon turned around, closing his eyes to filter out any distractions, and lifted his wand up. Start things off nice and simple.

“Woomos,” he murmured. The tip of the red wand began to glow with spring green light.

***

There was a knock on Elijah’s door. Opening it had yielded the presence of one of the brothers, who upon seeing his fellow monk, bowed his head.

“Brother Elijah,” he said. “A trader came by, bearing a message for you.”

Elijah frowned. “Are you sure it was for me?”

“He seemed insistent. He didn’t speak much of our language, just this odd lilting tongue, but he definitely said the message was to be delivered here, to a Brother Elijah,” the other monk held out a rough parchment, creamy-white aside from black dashes that decorated it as though somebody’s shaky hand stained it while writing.

First the lilting language and now birch bark paper: it could not be from any other place. Elijah took the scroll carefully from the monk’s grip, gave him a nod of acknowledgement and closed the door to his room. Who could be writing to him from the north? There had been no communication between it and him all these years and he did not know anybody who was literate enough to-

Absolon.

His heart sped up at the realisation. With shaking hands, the monk undid the string binding it and opened up the letter, beginning to read.

By the time he had finished, tears poured down his cheeks, only diverted by the wide smile that had stretched them out. Still sobbing, he curled it back up and turned his head skyward.

“Woo, thank you,” Elijah murmured. “Thank you.”

Epilogue

SPOILER: Click to show

Bern, March 752

The forests of the north, while thick, dangerous and untraversable, nevertheless usually had some signs of life in them no matter where you went. But the forest they walked through right now was empty. Not a bird called in the thick canopy above them nor did deer tracks interrupt the mantle of bluebells that coated the ground. With a little imagination, it could easily be mistaken for a very shallow sea.

Absolon did not let himself imagine that. Over the years, he had gotten very good at keeping his fear under control but that hardly meant he should provoke it, especially with what he was going to do now.

“Woo, a forest isn’t supposed to be this quiet,” Ivar spat beside him, though even he kept his voice muffled. “You’d think with so many flowers there would at least be insects around, or something.”

“It isn’t the season for them. This isn’t natural,” Absolon flicked his wand, making sure the shimmering green thread still extended out behind them. With the bluebell carpet and the thick maze of trees around them, it would have been far too easy to get lost.

“You should have killed her,” the blond muttered. “Seventeen years ago, you should have killed her.”

“It was not my decision to make, Ivar, even if she could be killed,” he replied, staring up ahead. “But I can do this at least. For all the people who have listened to me, who have taken the Woo’s word, I must do this.”

“I still don’t understand why,” Ivar remarked. “She’s already lost her followers and her sacrifices. Nobody fears her anymore,” he smirked. “Not thanks to the Bringer of Spring.”

Absolon laughed, his voice breaking through the heavy silence of the forest. “Everyone calls me that, don’t you start now either.”

“Who am I to deny what happened?” Ivar grinned, moving closer to put his hand around Absolon’s waist.

He smiled back. “You don’t have to say it in such majestic terms; you know I don’t like it.”

“Like it or not, that’s what you are now,” the blond squeezed his side. “Even if you couldn’t do half of those things without me.”

“I couldn’t,” Absolon nodded, turning his head around to rest on Ivar’s shoulder. “You’ll help me with the abbey too, once this is done?”

Ivar snorted. “I’ve already agreed to it. Besides,” he brushed a lock of Absolon’s white hair aside. “Where you go I go. I’ve come too far with you to abandon you now,” he grinned. “Unless, of course, you’ve suddenly decided after all these years that you don’t want me.”

“Never,” Absolon shook his head and lifted his head up to Ivar, to which the blond responded with a smile.

“I’d kiss you but,” he glanced back at the thread. “I don’t want you to get us lost.”

“I’ve mastered my magic. This is a simple spell, I could do it in my sleep,” Absolon remarked, giving the thread of light a small tug, making it glow a little brighter. “Please? It won’t hurt.”

“As you say,” The blond grinned and leaned down, kissing him.

Woo, he could always count on Ivar to bring his spirits up. Even the oppressive air of the forest was lightened by his presence.

The light above them began to fade as more leaves stood between them and the sunlight of the sky above. The trees here were clustered together even more like guards around their charge. Beneath their feet, however, the bluebells grew thicker, broken up now by enormous ferns and shrubs that clustered around them. Autumn leaves trickled down, coming to rest softly on vegetation which should not have been there to cushion its fall. They were close. Only she could have such an unnatural effect on the seasons.

Absolon separated himself from Ivar’s grip. The blond reached a hand out after him but he did not protest. “Come back safe,” he murmured. “And come back whole this time.”

“I will,” Absolon replied, walking into the grove. “This time, I know what I am doing.”

“I have faith in you,” Ivar smiled and sat down beneath a tree, in view of the green thread. “I’ll be here when you return.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” he called back to him before tugging at the thread, making it follow him. Though it was dark as dusk, the undergrowth here was as abundant as ever. Under his feet, the plant life rustled with a faint, grey-green sound, the only sound from the outside world. Sound seemed to be magnified here. Even his burgundy heartbeat and his grey breath, which usually he barely noticed, seemed loud.

At last, the trees parted, letting him see the clearing ahead. A wide beam of light streamed down above, illuminating an enormous boulder that made every single altar stone seem like a pale imitation to its grandeur. It was surrounded by four smaller stone satellites; the nearest one to him had the crude carving of a swallow, while another was decorated with a finely pointed snowflake: spring and winter. No doubt the other stones would be decorated with symbols of summer and autumn.

But his gaze did not linger on them long. Instead, he stared straight ahead, at the tree whose roots were wound around the central boulder, as though trying to squeeze it dry. In perfect symmetry to them, its branches were spread out above it, catching whatever sunlight trickled down through the layers of leaves above. Every twig carried the sign of a different season: pale pink flowers grew on one while deep green foliage clung to another, turning into the red and gold leaves of autumn on the next even though its neighbour was decorated by a fine layer of snow and ice. Exactly as the legends of the clans said and exactly as it had been on her all those years ago.

This was her sanctuary. He had found it just as it had been indicated to him by the clan of Chestnut and, to his relief, there was a tree. Everything relied on the tree.

Absolon flicked his wand separating the green thread from it and with a looping motion, tied it around a nearby tree. He closing his eyes, fighting back the sudden tiredness he felt in his limbs, and mentally recited the chain of runes that he had studied and memorised over the years.

There had been nobody to teach him how to use the Woo’s gift except himself. At first he had done with the spells that he had learned during the first twelve years of his life but they hardly covered his needs when it came to doing the Woo’s work. The few spell books that he had asked to make their way up north could also only provide him with so much. That was when he had tried constructing his own incantations. After all, magic was merely runes placed into a certain order. Each rune was the note of a song that made a certain sound and did a certain thing. If you took a rune from one spell and grafted it on to another, it was possible to create something new, something better and stronger, deconstructing and reconstructing the rune chains until they did exactly as you needed. He seemed to have a knack for it, and he had been working on these particular spells since he had decided to do this many years ago. Of course, these new spells had no known incantations, but as long as the rune chain was sound, he found he could work with saying the closest one that seemed to match.

“Protegwoo totalum,”Absolon waved his wand, casting the ward around him, except strengthened and enhanced, designed to block out all magic, no matter how strong it was. A warm green glow pressed against his skin, flashing once as though to reassure him that it was there before fading.

This was the easy part; he had used this type of incantation before. The long, complex spell, or rather series of spells, that he was running through his mind, checking for last minute flaws, that was something else. He had tested elements of it on unseelie beings and other creatures but it did not have as many parts back then, nor was it as tailored to something so strong.

There was a drawn out citrine creak ahead of him, though the sound bore traces of charcoal-grey and even ruby. Absolon’s eyes snapped open.

Cebeline stood in front of her tree, her golden gaze fixed directly on him. Her root had grown back and so had the crown of branches, but parts of her were stained black and there was still a visible seam where she had knotted herself together after the lightning strike. She seemed smaller and leaner too. Her golden eyes betrayed the hunger that lurked within, and the fear at the sight of the one who had defeated her seventeen years ago.

Absolon closed his eyes again, steadying himself. She could not hurt him, not with the ward around him. Now, if only his modified spells would work...

Lord Woo, grant me your protection and your strength one final time. I have carried out your task and now, this is the final part he prayed and as he prayed, he thought of other things. Of Ivar waiting for him outside, of his warmth and touch and his voice, of Greta, long dead but not forgotten with her sky-blue voice and sweetness, of the kindness of the people of the north who had received him, of the Woo’s white and gold voice that had guided him here, of the Book of Woo and its infinite wisdom.

He would have no fear. As long as he remained in full control of his magic, he had no fear, and without his fear, he would not lose control.

Opening his eyes and looking directly at her, he felt at peace. Absolon bowed his head, pointing the tip of his wand upwards and bringing the stump of his right arm in to touch the exposed palm of his left hand: the gesture he used ever since he had lost his hand to pray.

He took a deep breath and began. “Carpe Wootractum Woormiliarbus.”

Green ropes poured out of his wand and wound around the tree. Cebeline’s head snapped back and she screeched, her entire body rattling. She stretched out her hands. Red sparks flashed against his shield before being deflected by the green ward. They leapt on to a nearby tree and in a moment, it grew thicker as though aged a century. Absolon, however, did not pay it much heed. He held his wand out again, preparing the next spell: a modified version of binding magic to objects.

“Ligawoo ad hoc.”

More green ropes bound around the tree and stretched out towards her now. She hissed as the first wound around her root, gripping her tightly. Flicking out a branch did nothing but create more reddish light around the edges of his ward, nor did it stop the magic that was working its way up her body.

The deity glared at Absolon, her gaze almost boring through him. She screamed and again he forced himself to close his eyes in order to guard against that horrible crimson sound, to not think of anything but the next chain of runes he had to recite. She could not hurt him. Even as the red magic continued to arc over his shield, he showed no fear. Lord Woo was on his side.

A spell to preserve objects.“Conserwoo eternum.”

The green ropes tying her down continued to tug her closer into the tree. Cebeline struggled and fought like a fish caught in a net, occasionally hissing and spitting with a dark red sound. Though he could not see it, Absolon could nevertheless feel his shield straining and struggling under the pressure of her magic. The green was fainter now, more washed out, more tired.

Now the locks spell. “Colloportus..”

He could feel his heart pounding and the fear begin to rise up in his chest like bile. No, no, not yet. Ivar would be furious if he did not come back in one piece. “Incarcerous.”

There was the same citrine creak again and Absolon blinked his eyes open. The tree was glowing bright green as Cebeline slowly sank into it. Her roots had already been absorbed and so had the branches being passed for arms, leaving only her head and her crown.

Almost there. So close.

She screeched again and Absolon flinched, stepping back. He threw his wand out, pointing it directly at the tree. “Protegwoo totalum!” he cried even louder, trying to get his bronze voice to overpower the red screams of the deity.

Suddenly, she went completely silent, glaring straight ahead, right at the tip of his wand. The red crackling intensified and the green rose up to meet the challenge in one heroic blast before both colours vanished. His stomach lurched She had broken through.

Absolon would have screamed had his self-control not forced him to keep speaking. A few more words. He could manage that before she began to age him.

Except...there was nothing. She continued to stare right ahead, a scowl forming on her face even as her crown of branches melded with the tree. What was wrong?

His wand. She was targeting his wand, like she did last time. Except of course, this wood was like her: it would not age.

Absolon grinned widely and swished his left hand. The deity gave one final scream before she was pulled into her tree. The green light pulsed across it, coalescing into thick ropes that bound around it.

“Iwoobulus! Durwoo Maxima.”

The light sunk into the tree and disappeared. Absolon collapsed on to the ground, panting, suddenly feeling very tired. A dark grey wind rushed through the grove, making the surrounding trees rustle dark green. He closed his eyes, covering his left ear and pressing his right against the ground. It was done. She was trapped inside her tree, forever, with the Woo’s power. He would keep her bound so that she may never terrorise His people ever again.

Once his heartbeat had settled, he opened his eyes again and sat up. A leaf fell down in front of him but it was an ordinary green leaf, shaken lose by the wind, not an abnormal autumn leaf caused by her power. Ahead of him, the tree was still, rendered impotent by his spell.

Absolon flexed his fingers, wishing he could rub his hand to alleviate the feeling of the pull that had manifested itself in him. He holstered his wand and pressed his left palm to the stump of his right to remove some of the discomfort, at least until he could get back to Ivar and he could massage it. Perhaps he could also get some rest. Right now, he felt like he could sleep forever if the opportunity presented itself to him.

The green thread still hung attached to its tree, shimmering brightly, signalling him that it was time to go home. Absolon smiled. Back to where it all started, the Roan lands, to oversee the inauguration of the abbey, an abbey exactly like the one he grew up in, except this one would be the first of its kind up here. Woo, he never imagined in all his years he would grow up to become an abbot.

He turned around and walked out of the grove, leaving the goddess trapped where she was. Able to hear and see but not use her power or get out of her tree, attached to her body forever, she remained perched on her rock. That was, until the Woo deemed her time had come and sent the fire and axes of Grand Duke Lachlan Stallion’s men, against which, thanks to the archmage saint’s power, she could not fight back.

[Celestial]

So, remember what I said about my plans post-Ambrose death here, specifically about Alain's rage? Well, me and PFA wrote that AU. ^^ Enjoy.

A Storm Brewing

SPOILER: Click to show

The last thing that the Jade servant expected on the other side of the door of Marson Manor was the icy gaze of Alain Stallion boring right into his skull.

“Hello,” the Grand Duke said in a cold, serene voice that was reminiscent of a grave. There was a relaxed smile on his face but there was no reflection of it in his icy blue eyes. “I am here to speak to Lord Everett Jade.”

“Oh, uh-” the servant swallowed, lowering his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. I...I didn’t know you wer-”

He broke off as Alain pushed him aside with his cane and swept past him, his crimson cloak fanning out as he entered the Manor. The soles of his boots clicked against the floor as he strode inside, announcing his presence.

There was a nervous gasp from the servant. “Your Grace, please-”

The Stallion’s head whipped around to face him, his glare making the man flinch. “You don’t understand; that was not a request,” he stated. “My business is with Lord Everett and I will see him.”

“H-his Lordship does not w-want to see you,” the other man just managed to stammer out. This, however, only earned a humourless smirk from the Grand Duke.

“Too bad. For once, he’s going to have to cope,” he said with a distinctive steely edge to his words, lowering his gaze to glower directly at the servant. “Now, where is he?”

“In his office,” the servant whimpered. For a moment, Alain seemed to process the information before folding his hands across his cane, meeting the man’s gaze once again. Ever so slowly, he nodded his head, clearly expecting more. The servant felt his blood run cold and he took a few steps away. “Down the right-hand corridor, up the stairs, first door on the left. You can’t miss it.”

That seemed to satisfy the Grand Duke. He smiled and turned on his heel, striking his cane against the floor. “Thank you,” his voice had returned to its normal serenity. With that, he headed in the direction that he had been shown, utterly impassive save for the cold fury that burned in his eyes.

Alain did not even bother to knock on the door once he had found it, instead turning the handle and walking directly inside. Folding his hands over his cane, the Grand Duke shot his fellow lord a wolfish smile.

“Hello, Everett,” he purred. “I assume you know why I’m here.”

Everett glanced up from his work to meet Alain’s gaze. At this point, one might have expected him to be confused, even annoyed at the Grand Duke’s entrance, but for the moment, his expression conveyed no emotion at all.

“I heard about the assassin,” the Jade Lord replied cooly. “I assume that’s what you mean?”

“There’s not much it could be, is there?” Alain took a few steps towards Everett’s desk. “To think, my only brother, harmless and politically insignificant, could fall prey to an assassin. I have to wonder what the motive was behind it.”

“It’s hard to say. Though clearly someone found one,” Everett told him. “I am sorry for your loss, however.”

“Why, thank you,” the Grand Duke replied, though his tone of voice suggested he was anything but thankful. “You’re an intelligent man, Everett,” he lifted up his cane, seeming to inspect the hilt. “Can you think of any reason why my brother, who was insane and no threat to anyone, would have been a target?”

Everett raised an eyebrow. “You would say that of your own brother?”

“It’s the truth,” Alain lifted his eyes up to the Jade Lord. “Or is there something you know that I don’t, Everett? Maybe that knowledge is what got my brother killed?”

“It’s highly unlikely that I would know your brother better than you,” Everett told him. “Though clearly whoever did this saw him as something more than what you claim he is.”

“Was, Everett, let’s not mince words,” the Grand Duke’s voice carried more than a passing air of menace. “But you are right: there was a lot more. My brother was, in fact, a very talented engineer and craftsman. An inventor, you might say.”

He gave off a small humourless chuckle and glanced down at his cane. “So the question becomes this: who had the most to gain from killing someone like that?” Alain smirked and turned his attention back to the Jade Lord. “Any thoughts?”

“I would say anyone who considered such talents to be a threat.” Everett locked eyes with Alain, his stoic expression showing no signs of wavering. “Given our history, that would make House Jade the most likely candidate, wouldn’t it? That’s why you came here.”

“Very perceptive, as always,” the Grand Duke purred, his gaze growing even steelier. “I know you’ve been spying on us, Everett, so only your House could have known of my brother’s abilities. And certainly, only you had the motive and the resources to carry this out.”

Alain stepped even closer, leaning on Everett’s desk and standing over the Jade Lord, glaring down at him. “So, what do you have to say in your defence?” he asked, every word a peal of thunder.

Everett set down the quill he was holding, tenting his fingers as he looked up at the Grand Duke. “As much as I appreciate your confidence in House Jade, what makes you so certain that no one else could have done this?”

“I don’t have hard evidence, but as I said, there’s no-one else,” Alain smiled, though it was an expression as hollow as old bones. “I was very fond of my brother, you know. So rest assured, I will find out who did this.”

His smile turned into a wolfish smirk as he looked the Jade Lord squarely in the eye. “Perhaps, if you want to maintain your innocence, you could help me?”

“Surely you owe it to your brother to make more than prejudiced accusations,” Everett replied. “You do realize that this town is rife with rebels, I assume? How do you know that it wasn’t them that did this?”

“The rebels would not waste their resources on my brother: you or I are the bigger threats. They’d kill us first,” Alain stated, still smirking. He lowered his head, though he did not break eye contact. “But if you really do think it was them, it means they are more dangerous than we thought. So it would be in your best interest to help me hunt down my brother’s murderers.”

“At this point, I would not dare risk underestimating them,” Everett said. “That said, I would gladly help put a stop to them as soon as possible.”

“How very kind of you, and it would be a joy to work with you,” the Grand Duke purred, leaning closer. “But before we enter into any pacts, Everett, I want proof that it was them and not you who killed Ambrose. Just so I know I’m not wasting my time chasing false leads.”

“Oh, of course. I only mean to suggest that you should do your research before you cast my House into a bad light,” Everett told him. “Maybe I don’t have proof that the rebels killed your brother, but do you have proof that House Jade did?”

Alain chuckled, a gesture that was devoid of any humour. “Nothing but circumstantial evidence,” he traced a finger along the details of the horsehead that made up the top of his cane. “It seems that we are at an impasse, Everett. Neither of us can prove anything...for now.”

“So it would seem,” Everett agreed. “I’m sorry I could not be of more help.”

“Are you really?” the Stallion’s voice carried with it an edge of skepticism. He smirked and stepped away from the Jade Lord’s desk, folding his hands over his cane. “For the sake of old times, I’ll give you a chance. But only if you do one thing.”

His icy eyes met Everett’s, letting the Jade see the burning anger in them. “If you find proof the Shadows killed Ambrose, only then shall I help you wipe them from the face of the earth. But if I find proof that you did it,” his voice fell low, almost to a growl. “Then pray to the Woo to spare you, because I will not.”

Everett didn’t respond, only continuing to stare back at Alain with an emotionless gaze. Alain held it for a few moments before smirking and turned away. He turned on his heel and struck his cane against the floor with a sharp click.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again, Everett,” the Grand Duke said, his voice suddenly as serene as a summer day before he stalked towards the door and left office of the Lord of Embers.