Part 2, the Impending Storm

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Hardeep fell quiet at Irene's words, letting her help him.


"The men in finery have more power than you think," he muttered, raising a hand to scrub his face. "They built themselves on the backs of slaves, of the sacrifices of those that came before them." He paused. "The men in finery are too satisfied with the way things are to change them."


He glanced tiredly at Irene. "I do not play their games," he said, "though I won't deny that I've, in some capacity, been part of them." The burning fields, the conquering. They were what helped the men in power stay in power, through riches and slaves and fear. The dragons that soared through the sky may have belonged to the riders, but the riders belonged to the men, pushed on through the idea of wealth and victory and fame. He had once thought of the glory that came through bloodshed, of winning and conquering. He had once thought that the great red flames were for the enemies to quiver in terror in front of.


Then his mother died in the red flames and everything tilted sideways.


His father still played the games, still played the loyal pawn even with his kindness towards those that he had damned, in some part. He still played the part of conqueror and killer and the man that marched the others into slavery for his own ill-gotten glory. The men in gold knew their family name, after all. And it was Balin who ensured they did.


"I don't know if my mother was right," Hardeep confessed, staring at the opposite wall. "I want to believe she was. I want to believe she didn't die in vein and that somewhere, like you've said, her dream for them had come true."


He dragged a hand down his face again.


"My own father?" Hardeep asked lightly when Irene questioned him.


He paused.


"He was a rider," Hardeep said simply, "and a man." He turned to look at Irene fully, to stare at her face. "My mother saw the good in all of those slaves and the bad in all of those riders. He was human, beyond anything else, which meant that he was flawed. But for what I truly think of him..."


His voice trailed off and he stared down at Irene's hands, where they worked to get the straps off of him.


"Like I said," Hardeep said, his voice tinged with bitterness, "he was a man who was kind. I don't know if that made him good, compared to everything else he did." He glanced up at Irene's face again. "Suppose it is better than me, is it not?"

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene’s hands paused and she looked up at Hardeep, their eyes meeting for a moment before she returned her attention to the armguard. The straps were off and she pulled on the bracer, taking it off and putting it down beside her by the furs and the armour pieces that she’d already taken off.


“Perhaps.” His question might have been rhetorical, but she answered it quietly nonetheless. “Though I do not know you either. I suppose I should hate you for not freeing me from slavery or for not giving me warmer clothes and more food. Any slave hates their master to some extent. You’ve cut down innocents blocking your path to me the day we met. You did not believe me when I said that I was not involved in your father’s murder. Neither did you care for what I had to say.


“But I do not hate you. You’ve shown kindness to me when many wouldn’t. Compared to many people I’ve met you are one of the good ones.”


The chest-guard remained, though Irene did not reach for the straps tying it together on the sides. Instead, she sat back, looking at Hardeep, her eyes skirting over his features, and then lifted a hand to rub the back of her neck.


She really wasn’t good at emotional support. It was rusty.


Slaves at Hisraad’s household never required more than a silent embrace, while her previous life was too sporadic to make many friends or close relationships that’d make her support expected in times of need. Rael, her close friend, never needed more than her presence (uninjured, preferably) and an apology. And she’d never seen Ellenia upset over anything; that woman hid her emotions under a mask of anger and annoyance, pushing everyone away from her so she’d filter her emotions on her own.


Needless to say, Irene was at a loss for words for a long silent moment.


“Kindness doesn’t make us good. Neither does becoming our parents. In the end, we’d always be disappointed that we cannot be them.”


Would her words matter? Did Hardeep even care for them? She couldn’t even begin to guess as she refused to look him in the eyes as she spoke, not knowing if what she was saying was comforting or made the situation worse.


To keep her hands and eyes busy, Irene leaned in once more and began to pull on the straps over Hardeep’s sides, untying the knots.


“I was, at least,” she confessed, her voice quiet. “Disappointed in failing to become my parent. It was not my mother who I tried to be as. As a child I realize I was not like her. Neither as beautiful nor as smart. It was not my father, either. He had passed away when I was very young; I do not remember him. I was told he was kind and quiet, mellow. Content with who he was.


“It was my uncle who raised me. I tried to be like him and I succeeded. I spoke as he did. I worked as he did.” I fought as he did. “Leon was not kind, not in the usual sense. As a father he lacked. He had no idea how to properly raise a girl. So he locked me up with well-paid governesses and told me to study. When that did not work, he raised me as he would a son. It worked well.


“Leon was everything to me. It was no wonder I wished to be like him. I thought it’d make him proud. In the end, my obsession disappointed him. In turn, I caught a glimpse into the future that awaited me had I continued down the same path.”


The memory of an old, frail man flashed in her mind. Wrapped in layers of furs and fabrics, he lay on a thin straw mattress by a hearth in the centre of the room. She knew those fabrics. She was the one who’d sewn on the embroidery, depicting beautiful and intricate designs of animals and birds, of landscapes and towns. Everything retained the same elegant and simplistic appearance. They were supposed to bring happiness to one’s heart, make one remember those animals and birds and places of faraway lands.


Instead, they looked out of place, wrapped around a man whose blemished skin sagged to the floor.


The room stank of herbs and spices and sweat. All the windows were open and yet the air was hot and stuffy. The wheezing man in the fabrics gasped for each breath and sweat glistening in beads over his wrinkled forehead.


Irene’s lips thinned as her fingers tightened over the strap, pulling against it too harshly. It was a momentary change in her otherwise calm demeanour. She’d never intended to tell Hardeep of Leon, but once she began the words flowed and she felt…lighter, perhaps. In her words one could hear the immense respect she had for her uncle, her mentor, for they were not cold and distant. They were warm, if not tinted with mild sadness.


Letting go of the straps, Irene leaned back.


“What do you believe?” She asked, finally looking up at Hardeep and added, “Be honest.” It was said lightly, perhaps in a poor attempt to brighten the mood that seemed tense and full of unpleasant memories.





***





Warren took the bowl from Orien’s hands, eyed the broth gingerly and then drank it all in one go. His throat burned at first and then he could only feel numbness as he set down the dish into the water basin where Irene had set down the other dirty dishes a short while ago. It was done calmly, though on the inside Warren wished for nothing more than to drink a bucketful of icy cold water.


After the first sensation of numbness had passed, he realized how much his lips and mouth burnt. The moment the bowl was dunked into the water, Warren nodded to Orien and murmured, “Of course,” and quickly turned around towards the water basin on which he leaned on.


Gods, the water felt pleasant. It did not ease the burning lingering on his lips, and he considered dipping his head into the water, but ignored the urge.


For all its disgusting taste – or lack of it, for the spices were overpowering – the broth had done Warren a favour. No longer was he ashamed to look at Orien, his thoughts filled with the need for water instead.


After drinking another mouthful of water, which he kept in his mouth for a while, hopelessly thinking that it’d make a difference, he got to his feet and moved towards the basin that held the rest of the dirty bowls. He’d taken off his gloves already, though the long sleeved armour was uncomfortable when it came to washing up.


Without a word, Warren quickly washed the bowls and stacked them by the basin. Then, he got up and carried them over to where they were usually kept and looked at Orien.


“Should I throw the dirty water out and fetch more?” He asked, gesturing at the basin with dirty water.


It felt awkward speaking to Orien now. He looked so…tired. He sounded tired.


“Or should I do something else? I can sweep the floors. Or maybe chop some firewood?” After the words had left his lips did he realize how stupid the question was. It was raining outside. Any wood he’d chop would rendered be useless.


Warren ran a shaky hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. “Disregard that last bit,” he muttered in an attempt to save his face. “Should I bring some food for Har—“ Warren stared at the door to Hardeep’s room in horror. Hardeep, he wanted to say.  How dared he? “Sir Hardeep?”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Hardeep made a small hrumph, reaching to the straps still binding the last piece of armor onto his body and yanking it off, the last buckles clinking loudly as they let go before he tossed the piece of metal onto the ground, landing with a rather loud clatter. He shifted so that he could turn and fall back onto the bed, his head hitting the rather stiff pillow he turned to stare at the back of Irene's head, his fingertips reaching for the long, thick braid down her back and playing with the end of it, his fingers moving through the looser strands and feeling the coarse hair underneath his fingertips. He stroked it with one hand, thinking back to a time when his mother's hair reached her mid-back and she would let him sit there and braid it, fingers moving the strands over one another in a somewhat sloppy fashion before she would take it back, smile, and fix it. Like she could fix just about anything that Hardeep touched, gently prying it from his hands and repairing it with deft and strong fingers and a smile.


He eventually wrapped a hand around the braid, though he did not clench his fist and only allowed his palm to skim against one side. Irene's hair was not as soft as his mothers and felt far more brittle, far rougher than hers. Estzar took good care of her hair, combing oils through it every day and massaging in the smell of lavender. He doubted Irene was ever given the opportunity to do so.


He went back to what she had said minutes earlier, about his father buying her to be his bed mate. If she was to be his bed mate, part of him wanted to make sure her hair smelled nice, too, and that she had pleasant food and clothing so that she would feel soft under his hands. Another part of him reminded him of what had happened with Orien and the thoughts were chased away from his mind.


Besides, she wouldn't be able to carry any of his children, if that was Balin's goal as well, given the Mark.


He wouldn't have welcomed the idea, either in the first place.


He sighed and let his hand fall back onto the bed and turned his head to the ceiling, his fingers still stretching for the loose strands of her hair, feeling them. "There are many that have every right to hate me," Hardeep said calmly. "Kydoimos, for I never took up my mother's role in their defense; my father, for never giving him an heir or hope for one; my mother, for abandoning the lessons she tried to teach me; the slaves back home for how I am nothing like my father; Orien.. for being who I am, I suppose."


He paused after the name, tilting his head slightly and turning to face the back of Irene's head once more. "And countless others who I've slighted or insulted." He snorted lightly. "The world you have seen must truly be cruel if I am one of the nice ones. Of course," he added with a sigh escaping his lips, "I have little to say on the matter. Though to me, it sounds like you've met your own fair share of characters that you both wish to hate and cannot or should not."


The silence stretched on once more.


"I have no uncles," Hardeep offered Irene. "Only my mother and father. Perhaps I would be with a governess at this moment if I had any," he said, an attempted joke that he was sure fell flat the second it left his mouth and he sighed, his breath coming out in a frustrated huff.


He sat up again, shifting so that he could lean against Irene and press the side of his head against the top of hers, blinking blearily at the opposite wall, his arm resting close to her leg.


"What do I believe?" he asked, snorting. "I believe that I have a dragon. Power, bestowed by said dragon. I believe that I've disappointed both my parents and that they took secrets to the grave that I should have heard. I believe they were both taken from me not because I did not deserve them, but because the world does not give a damn what I want. I believe in a sword's weight and use and I believe that nothing is as it seems.


"I believe that datewine is a good drink for long days and flying on the back of a dragon is the greatest sensation in the world."


----


Galene watched Warren work quickly, one eyebrow quirked. Orien watched as well, his own hands moving as they usually did and the guard's at a much faster pace. The younger slave tilted her head, as if prepared to make a comment that she usually did but did not speak, instead only pursing her lips and continuing on.


Orien looked at the guard asking to aid him and reached out a hand to gently touch the top of the other's. "There is no need," he said calmly. "I asked you to lessen the burden of washing dishes, and you have. Thank you."


"Call Hardeep Hardeep," Kydoimos said, having begun to haul out the pelts from the night before, unbound from their sack. "We do not care here, and the title of sir is given too frequently these days."


Orien did not look at the other rider, wondering which half-drunk rider's words they were referencing. Orien opened his mouth to speak with Warren, to tell him that it was true that no one in the group would much care if Hardeep was not given the title that was bestowed to him by birth when there was a knock on the door.


His head snapped towards it and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kydoimos' hand dart towards their hip, where their dagger lay. Galene had risen as well, feet moving towards the door before Kydoimos moved in front of the slave, one arm outstretched to prevent her from pushing past them, though Orien knew that she could very well dart around them if she so wished.


Another knock came from the door before it was flung open and the sound of metal against a scabbard was heard as Kydoimos drew their dagger. A figure was framed in the doorway, tall and with a head covered in snow from the outdoors. A voice rang out, in broken Crubian with a thick and layered accent.


"Gift!" was the first word and Orien blinked, his gaze flickering downwards to spot a child, grinning at them all with a bundle in red wrapped in his arms. "Brought gift! From Lady Aza-- Aze--- Azar," the child said, stumbling over the name that seemed foreign.


"Gift Her-- Har-- Sir Hardeep!" the child added, blinking up at the stunned inhabitants of the cabin.


"He means that the gift is for Hardeep," a familiar blank voice said and Ming Xia's empty face came into view the next second. She spoke a few words in the foreign language and ushered the younger child, who simply glanced around enthusiastically at the others, grinning, a tooth missing. Ming Xia shut the door and straightened to glare at them.


"Who is that?" Galene said, a considerable amount of time given to each word and a look of pure bewilderment on her face.


"My younger brother," Ming Xia said, her tone somehow sharper than it was before as the little boy turned to Orien and shuffled over, drowning in the pelt that had fur tickling his ears.


"Gift!" he exclaimed again, showing it to Orien, lifting it up. "Sir Hardeep," he chirped.


Orien turned to stare at Warren before turning and bending down in front of the child. "Thank you," he said kindly. "I can give it to Sir Hardeep."


The boy shook his head, yanking the gift back towards his own chest. "No," he said, shaking his head harder. "Must give!"


Orien tilted his head, puzzled, glancing at Warren for support.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene turned her head to glance over her shoulder at Hardeep and stiffened, her shoulders squaring as she froze. There was tugging against her braid. It was slight, careful and she could feel it being moved ever so slightly as the man’s fingers stroked the end of it and then lift up to slide the palm of his hand over its side. She fought the urge to move the braid over her shoulder.


Hardeep’s touch was not painful, neither did he pull on the hair or shift to grab that knife from the belt on his hip. It felt uncomfortable nonetheless. One moment she was relaxed, immersed in thoughts and listening to Hardeep’s words quietly and wondering what support she could offer him if there was any. The next, she was as tense as a bowstring and suddenly all too aware of Hardeep’s movements.


There was a reason why Irene kept her hair pinned up during her stay at Hisraad’s estate. That man experienced intense rage fits ever he’d lost his wealth. Under the heavy influence of alcohol, he had episodes that slaves had troubles avoiding. Beatings were regular during those times, especially during the first months after the farmer lost his wealth. Many died. Hisraad wished to humiliate others as much as he was humiliated and afraid when the dragons burnt down his fields.


So Irene kept her hair out of the man’s sight. After years of wearing the it down in a braid, the absence its weight felt strange at first. But she endured. Same as she endured now. She never liked when people touched her hair. It was harsh to the touch, coarse and dry and weather beaten. Not at all like the hair of an Izmarian woman, that was always silky with perfumes and oils. But it was long and that mattered the most to her. Its length symbolised a great deal to a man of the Warrior caste, and Irene chose to follow the path that a man took instead of a woman’s. In a way, it symbolised her honour.


To have Hardeep touch it felt strange. She did not trust the man. He’d cut down innocent servants the day the two of them met. She thought he’d cut her down, and he probably would have had he not liked that poor explanation of events that led to Balin’s death. And she did not doubt for one second that he’d cut her down the moment her past was revealed. A mercenary sold into slavery had enough motive to kill a dragon rider.


The tension did not leave her muscles even as Hardeep spoke. She listened to him quietly, eyes skirting over his body sprawled over the bed, watching for signs that he wanted to reach for a knife at his hip.


Just a moment ago you’d said he was a good man.


She did. It didn’t matter. Good men did horrible things too. She never quite trusted others around her hair, anyway.


Only when his hand fell down onto the mattress did Irene’s shoulders relax and she turned to look at the man. At a loss for words, she watched him speak.


“I have,” Irene confirmed quietly, nodding ever so slightly to the comment that she’d met many whom she wished she hated and couldn’t bring herself to. She thought on the words, bringing forth a series of faces and names that had left a bad impression on her. And she didn’t feel hatred for any of them except for a select few. No. That was not hatred. “I do not hate,” she added, speaking more to herself than to Hardeep. “As a child I’ve realized it did not matter whom I hated. It never quite had an effect on those people, if they ever suspected my opinion of them. So I became disgusted with them, instead. In a world of cruelty, I suppose it is easier. There are only so many things that can truly disgust you.”


Hisraad disgusted her. Izmar and its rotten royalty disgusted her. Hatred was too common, too all-consuming. But it was easy to overcome and put behind her, so she did. It was easier to live that way, without being weighed down by negativity. She’d seen many succumb to it, Hisraad being one of the many. It disgusted her, too.


Though a part of her mind wondered if there’d be a person for whom she’d feel true hatred one day. She already dreaded that day.


Hardeep’s joke was dry at best though Irene still regarded the man with a faint half-smile. It was an attempt to brighten the mood and she welcomed it.


“You might have enjoyed it more than I did. I never could sit for a long time before a book. I’d rather visit the nations the politics of which I studied than memorize all the kings and queens and lords.” Her words were light, aimed to change the mood to something…less sad.


It helped little, for when Hardeep sat up and leaned against her (something she felt herself tense to, not daring to move as if Hardeep was some frightened animal), he spoke in a way that made the hint of a smile disappear from Irene’s lips and she could only listen.


Before Irene could think against it, consider that it would be unwelcomed and overstepping the invisible boundaries between the two of them, she reached behind her to put a hand over Hardeep’s. She shifted slightly to accommodate the movement and did not dare tilt her head to look at the man.


There was little she could say. What could she say?


The world was unfair and cruel. It was common sense. Only fools and naïve children thought otherwise. There was death and disease, there was poverty and famine, there was greed and corruption. She’d seen and experienced all of it. She killed before and watched her mentor die slowly from a disease; she rode through towns so poor and decrepit that corpses decomposed in the middle of the roads; she had her homeland taken from her by a greedy man who was corrupted to the core.


Hardeep must have seen or experienced it all too.


“I am sorry,” she said instead. It was said quietly but genuinely. She gave Hardeep’s hand a slight squeeze, her fingers too thin and her skin too hard in comparison to Hardeep’s.


Silence stretched on for a long moment before Irene spoke again, her voice distant as she stared at the wall opposite from her.


“I once believed that all happens for a reason,” she confessed. “That we have a spot to fill in this world. That some are meant for great deeds and others are not. That it was all directed by fate and we could only do so much against it. Now, I don’t know what to believe. What happened to us, our parents…if it happened for a reason, then the world has a bad sense of humour.” As much as the position allowed her, Irene shrugged. It was an awkward movement.


“There is still datewine in the other room,” Irene said, her voice tinted with a faint chuckle. Perhaps another attempt at brightening the mood wouldn’t be so foolish. “And your dragon must be nearby. I confess there is little I can—“


There were footsteps nearing the door. Heavy and marching, armour clanking. Irene had also heard faint sounds of someone talking.


A knock sounded on the door and Irene moved her hand away, tilting her head slightly to look at the door and leaned forward, away from Hardeep.


“Sir Hardeep,” Warren’s voice was hesitant on the other end, “Ming Xia’s brother is here to see you. He wishes to give you a gift from Lady Azar.”





***





Warren stood impatiently on the other side of the door, tapping on the floor with his foot and glancing from the door to the young boy. Thankfully Warren’s broad shoulders and height allowed him to block the entire doorway of Hardeep’s room, stopping any potential trespassers from entering. There was a problem, however. He’d never thought a child, who had no more than five years past his brow, to be a trespasser. It didn’t sit well with Warren and he had to keep his hand as far from the pommel of his sword as he was able to. It felt shameful to even wear a weapon in the presence of that young boy.


He reached towards his hand and itched the back of it. Orien’s touch lingered. Faint like a brush stroke it was, gentle and soft. That touch alone made Warren freeze and forget he could breathe.


He itched it again. He wished the reminder of that soft touch to vanish. It made his mind imagine what it was to be touched like that, to touch like that, without fear and hesitation, without the prying eyes and ears, without an ex-lover sitting in the other room.


To distract himself, Warren leaned in closer to the door. He’d heard voices coming from the other side, Irene’s voice in particular. She uttered words that did not make any sense. They made Warren frown, a crinkle to his brow as he stared at the crack between the frame and the door.


What were they doing?


He’d heard Hardeep’s voice, a faint sound in the background of howling winds and the commotion in the main room with the arrival of their new guest. No other sounds penetrated these walls. No sounds of struggle. It did not stop the guard from wondering if everything was alright with Hardeep. He and the slave woman were together in that room for a long while now.


In shame, Warren looked away. What was he thinking, listening in on a private conversation? Instead, he looked at the boy. He’d never intended to let the child to Hardeep’s room, so Warren offered a hand to take the supposed gift from the child. It was a little bundle wrapped in a deep brown cloth embroidered with the Sohrab crest. It could easily fit in Warren’s hand if he was allowed to take it. Which he wasn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to snatch the package away from the boy, so he said:


“Let me take you to Sir Hardeep’s room.”


Kydoimos had told Warren not to address Hardeep as Sir, but it felt wrong on Warren’s tongue. Like some foreign word that left a bad aftertaste in his mouth. He’d nodded to the rider’s suggestion, mostly out of respect than agreement. A dragon rider was a position worthy of respect, Warren thought, so they should be referred to appropriately. The Passis were Warren’s masters, and he was their guard. That was the way he expected to live until the end of his life, and he’d be proud to have served them as best to his ability.


Hardeep’s words and actions were hurtful. He’d shown his lack of…protectiveness, Warren supposed, the day when Kydoimos threatened him by the fire. Hardeep was no Balin, and as much as Warren wished that to not be true, he’d told himself to accept that fact. He was to serve the Passis.


It did not make his eyes narrow and lips thin at the memory of Orien’s blank expression and cold words as he told Irene to take Hardeep to his room.


Warren chose to focus on the child instead, pushing the disrespectful thoughts of his master to the far background of his mind. He’d tried to snake an arm behind the child’s shoulder and his hand spent a fraction of a moment on the child’s back before it was shrugged off and the boy did not follow Warren.


Well, he couldn’t outright pick the child up to carry him to Hardeep, could he?


Orien had silently asked for support and Warren tried to offer it, only to end up looking back at Orien, mirroring his expression.


“I will ask Sir Hardeep to see you, then,” Warren offered slowly in defeat to the child and turned around to head to Hardeep’s room before Ming Xia’s brother could dart to the door himself.


Now, Warren waited by the door after having knocked and explained himself. He’d been looking from Ming Xia and to her brother, confused at how different the two of them were. One was so full of life and the other was so blank, so lifeless.


“Sir Hardeep?” Warren called out again over his shoulder.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Hardeep hummed at Irene's response, snorting slightly at her joke. He briefly wondered where she came from if she had the ability to have a governess and yet had ended up a slave nonetheless. Perhaps her life had changed like Galene's, given that the younger slave was no doubt higher born.


Irene's hand was a surprise on his but he did not move away,instead allowing himself a moment to close his eyes and be close to another, the gentle touch welcomed. He had always liked quiet moments where he could simply be with someone else, their presence next to his and the air still between them.


The moment was interrupted however, by a certain guard that Hardeep knew could not be ignored.


His eyes snapped open and he sighed, sliding his hand from under Irene's and swinging his feet around so that they touched the ground once more. He glared at the door for a moment before standing and walking towards it, one hand on the doorknob before he yanked it open.


"Huh?" was his only response.


----


The boy glanced over at Warren when he spoke, offering to take him to Hardeep's room. The boy nodded, pressing the gift close to his chest and shuffled forward, the large pelt he was wearing dragging slightly on the floor and bound in the front by leather straps, no doubt due to the large size. His eyes stared up at Warren, half in wonder at the armor that he wore that clinked. Orien assumed that very few people on the mountain had ever seen such armor and that the boy, young as he was, was being given a treat with all the sights and sounds and people around. When Warren reached around to touch the boy, however, he got an elbow jabbed at him for his efforts and a furrowed brow. The boy spoke a few words that Orien couldn't understand but could probably assume were insulting, given the scrunched face and the sharp frown the boy had on.


Ming Xia remained by the door, arms folded and face blank, eyes staring at either the wall across from her or nothing. Orien couldn't really tell and he wasn't sure if he wanted to assess the girl at that moment. Her dullness was shocking, even more so now, compared to the child. He seemed bubbly and enthused, head turning to look at Orien and glance at the clothing he wore before running one hand across the fabric that he carried, clearly curious to see what was wrapped up as well.


When Warren called out to Hardeep, the boy's head turned to glance upwards, craning up at the taller man and staring and blinking, either interested in the man's actions or confused by them. When the door swung open, the boy gave a short gasp before peering up at the newcomer that came into view.


"Sir Har-dep?" he asked.


"Hardeep," the rider corrected, blinking down at the child, who thrust upwards his arms, the package still wrapped in red.


"Yours!" he said excitedly.


"Uh," the rider stuttered back, taking the package from the boy's hand.


"From Lady Azar," the boy added, rocking on his heels, hands clasped in front of himself, smile plastered on his face. "Gift for you!"


"Tell her my thanks," Hardeep said, still staring at the gift and child in confusion.


"Give Lady Azar your thanks," the boy repeated to himself, his face furrowing together in an effort to memorize the words that were no doubt foreign to him.


Hardeep glanced over at Warren, tilting his head slightly in almost confusion as to why the guard was there before glancing over at Orien, causing the slave to duck his head and focus once more on whatever menial task he had given himself.


"Thanks," Hardeep offered again.


The boy nodded.


"Is there anything else you need?" the rider asked, drawing the words out several beasts longer than they were usually spoken.


"No," the boy said.


"Oh-kay," Hardeep said, "are you going to leave then?"


The boy frowned before glancing up at Warren, still rocking back and forth, as if waiting for a command to be given.


"Perhaps Warren can lead you back," Hardeep said, glancing at the guard pointedly.


"No, I know where go," the boy said in his broken Crubian.


Hardeep only stared.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene followed Hardeep to the door, stopping behind him just as the child passed the small bundle of cloth into the rider’s hands. From over Hardeep’s shoulder she regarded the child with a quirked brow, the boy’s features reminding her of Ming Xia and yet telling her that these two were nothing alike.


Across from her, Warren stood beside and slightly behind the boy, his hands clasped behind his back though his stance was anything but confident. The guard looked awkward behind the young boy wrapped in such a large pelt that his frame was drowning in it. They all looked awkward and out of place. Warren and Hardeep the most.


When Irene lifted her eyes she met Warren’s and she raised her brows in a silent question. He mirrored her expression and parted his lips, taking a breath to say something but thought otherwise as he looked down at the child and noticed the boy staring up at him. Warren looked up at Irene again and tilted his head at the child, gesturing silently at him.


Irene mouthed an “Oh,” and peered down at the boy.


Did Warren expect her to send the boy away because she knew some of the mountain folk’s language?


“Uh,” Irene searched for the right words, as lost in the situation as the other men were. “I think he likes you,” she said to Warren.


“Great,” she heard Warren mumble in response and he raised a hand to run it through his messy crown of hair and then rested his palm on the back of his neck, rubbing at it absently. His other hand reached for the boy and halted abruptly, retreating back to its spot by the guard’s sword. He didn’t reach for the pommel as he always had.


<<Do you,>> Irene cleared her thought and used this moment to search her memory for the language, <<do you want stay?>> She looked at the child, fighting the urge to rub the back of her neck.


Warren, seemingly lost at what to do, turned his head to stare at Ming Xia. “He is your brother. What does he want?”


Huh. Warren had abandoned all respect he had for the guide, choosing to be rude to her as he had seen Hardeep and others to be.


Irene lifted her eyes from the boy to look at Hardeep, her gaze skirting over the bundle. There was a faint smell in the air, of sweet vanilla tinted with hints of cinnamon. Was that incense?


“Should I put this away?” Irene offered, lifting a hand palm side up.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


The young boy blinked up at Irene, tilting his head as if in surprise that Irene could speak his language. <<You speak Veneshian?>> he asked, blinking up at her. <<How do you know?>> He pointed at the collar on her neck. <<You are a slave. Slaves aren't taught anything. Did he teach you?>> he asked, pointing at Hardeep. He then turned to look at Warren, reaching out and gripping the edge of his breastplate and tugging on it. "Guard," he said, before tugging harder on it and peering up at Warren with curious and open eyes. His hand moved away from the breastplate and pointed at the sword. "So-or-duh," he said, struggling to pronounce the word but clearly wanting to communicate something across. He turned back to Irene.


<<Can he use his sword?>> he asked, pointing at the pommel of it and then at Warren. <<Mama says that there are guards here to defend the riders and they have big, big swords for cutting down monsters and dragons. Can he do that? I want to see him do that. Maybe he can kill the yaogu in the night. I want to see a yaogu pelt! Mama says that she slayed one and I want to kill one before I have to go on my finding walk so I can show mama and baba that I am stronger than Ming Xia!>>


The boy's face wrinkled as soon as Ming Xia was brought into the picture and he turned his face up to Warren. "Ming Xia is suffer and shame," the boy sniffed, making Orien lift his head up and stare before glancing at the girl in question, whose expression did not reflect the statement directed at her by the guard or the boy. "She here because she has sword, no other reason. She is boring and not good. No partner, no kids."


Hardeep stared down at the boy in half-alarm, surprised that he was speaking so boldly in such a negative way. Granted, Ming Xia's face did not move and her body language was the same throughout.


"Show me sword," the boy said, tugging once more at Warren's armor. "I want see sword!"


Hardeep glanced at Irene before slowly stepping back into the room, jerking his head towards the door and making a motion for the slave to shut it.


He hated kids.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


After not receiving an answer, Irene lowered her hand slowly and looked at the child when he spoke to her. Veneshian was still rusty for her and she struggled at grasping certain words and sounds. It was especially hard when the one who spoke to her spoke quickly. For this reason, she stared down at the child, her lips parted in words that she slowly pulled out of her memory. Bargaining with villagers was one thing, only certain words mattered to them the most and Irene was reminded of them quickly. Casual conversation, however?


<<Your mother teach me. Years ago.>> It was a half-truth, but she couldn’t remember the right words to explain that she’d picked up on the language during her stay here with Leon, when she memorized the phrases and sounds because there was no other choice. Hui Hua and her children helped by simply talking. In a way, that was teaching. <<Slaves are taught much. More than you.>>


There was a certain bite to her words. The child was as ignorant as Ming Xia and while Irene understood it, she did not agree with their closemindedness. Chances were that the child would disregard her words, anyway. As long as the leather hugged her neck, not a single word she’d say would be taken seriously by the mountain folk.


Warren raised a quizzical brow at the child when the boy tried to say a word. The guard did not so much as flinch at the tugging on his breastplate, though he did look at Hardeep, pleading the rider silently to send the child away.


Hardeep did no such thing.


<<He can,>> Irene replied to the child though she looked at Warren. He appeared very uncomfortable and kept moving his hand away from the pommel of his sword. She chose not to tell the child that she’d only meant that Warren can use a sword. <<Maybe he teach you.>>


Warren peered at the child from beneath thick brows and looked at Irene accusatorily. He seemed to have understood that the boy and the slave woman were talking about him. The guard’s eyes shifted from Irene to gaze at Ming Xia, his expression unreadable and the boy’s words did not shock the guard at all.


“You can say that again,” Warren grumped to himself as he looked at Ming Xia, who displayed no emotion. As usual.


Irene’s lips thinned. <<Watch what you say of your sister,>> she said coolly. <<She is your elder. Show respect.>> The words came out not as cold as she’d intended them to, the harsh accent of her Veneshian butchering any emotion that she laced into her voice. The child spoke a moment after, too, tugging at Warren and demanding to see his sword.


Warren this time bent slightly down to pry the child’s hand off his armour. “No,” the guard said, this time his hand found the pommel and he pressed against it in case the boy tried to take the sword.


“Let him,” Irene said and nodded hesitantly to Hardeep, her hand moving to the door to close it. “Take the weapon away if he takes it out of the scabbard.”


“He is a child.” Warren frowned deeply, gesturing at the boy. “He is going to injure himself, heaven forbid.”


“Then show him the sword. He thinks you slay dra—“ Maybe it was best not to mention dragon slaying in a cabin with two dragon riders. “Demons.”


Warren had crouched down before the child at that point, his eyes focused on Irene as he looked at her angrily and desperately. He was losing the only one who could understand Veneshian and who was not Ming Xia. Irene offered the guard a look that she hoped was comforting and glanced over her shoulder at Hardeep.


On the other side of the door Warren let out a long tired sigh, got to his feet and the sword hissed as he slid it out of the scabbard.


“No. Touch,” Warren said very slowly, holding the sword a good foot above the boy in case he tried to reach for the sharp blade. The guard turned his head to stare at Ming Xia just as Irene closed the door. “Are you going to tend to your brother?” He asked their guide angrily.


Irene turned on her heel and took a step from the door. Hardeep’s room did not appear as a better alternative to a child who wished to see a sword and spat out ignorant words no doubt influenced by the village folk.


“Not one to spend time with children?” She asked lightly, not quite sure what to do and say after the words they’d exchanged earlier. “Do you require anything? I could bring you something from the main room. You’ve barely eaten,” she offered.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


The boy stared up at the gleaming sword, his arms pinned to his side but his eyes mesmerized by the gleam. "Fight monsters?" he asked, pointing at Warren. "Fight big monsters? Fight monsters in desert? Fight monsters here?"


Orien sighed as Ming Xia continued to stare, not interested in aiding the flailing guard. He walked over instead, bending down so that he was eye level with the boy, drawing his attention away from the sword.


"My name is Orien," he said slowly. "What's yours?"


"Slave," the boy said in response, pointing at the collar around Orien's neck. "You slave."


"I am," Orien said, raising an eyebrow. "And you are a young boy, aren't you? A very strong young boy."


The boy puffed up at the remark, eyes gleaming, placing his fists by his side and presenting his chest. "Yes!" he declared. "Yes, I am strong!" He eyed Orien and said, "I am Qiu, last child of Li family and I will be strong to make up for sister!"


Orien glanced back at Ming Xia who still had not moved. Perhaps the boy was right; she was there simply in case a sword needed to be drawn. No more, no less. The boy's words were sharp though he did not seem to sense that. It drove home the idea that Ming Xia was blank, an empty shell that had nothing within.


"It's nice to see you, Qiu. I bet you'll grow up very strong and be able to save all of us," Orien said patiently, smiling slightly as the little boy nodded vigorously, eyes gleaming in some imagined future that Orien was spinning for him.


"So strong! Will topple all monsters, like mama did!"


"I'm sure you will," Orien chuckled. "Do you want me to pick you up? Lift you up so you can be tall and strong? Maybe look at the sword closer?"


Qiu's arms shot out, stretching towards Orien. "Yes!" he shouted. "Yes!"


Orien wrapped his arms around Qiu and with a grunt, lifted him upwards, straightening himself and allowing the little boy to stare at the sword, the firelight reflected in its blade and dancing in his own eyes. A soft sound of amazement escaped the boy in the language of the mountain people, one of his hands reaching towards it.


"Perhaps you should go back now," Orien said, stepping away so he wouldn't cut himself on the sharp edge. "Your mother and father will want to see you, they'd want to make sure their strong little boy is there to help defend them."


The boy turned back, tilting his head, a few of the words slipping from his understanding.


"Your mama and baba want their strong boy to help fight, don't they?"


The words seemed to click in his brain then, his head bobbing up and down in agreement and acknowledgment. "Put me down," the boy commanded, now wriggling in Orien's arms as he bent down to obey, watching him dart away towards the door, pushing past his sister and into the cold night. Orien smiled bitterly after him, remembering a time of young children and older adults, of staring down t those whose skin was as dark as his. He remembered being able to pick them up, swing them around in a garden full of fresh blooming flowers, and of a time when he had perhaps had a chance for his own family in a beautiful stone building, with a garden to call his own.


Ming Xia did not turn to see him run.


"Your brother's an interest individual," Galene offered, peering out to see the lone figure running across the darkened paths.


"He is a child," Ming Xia said, though the guide made no attempt to leave the cabin.


"Why are you still here?" Kydoimos asked, their voice accusatory.


The guide turned to stare at the rider before speaking as Galene closed the door, satisfied with the boy's disappearance.into the darkness and possible reentry into a cabin where his parents waited. "A warning," she said simply. "The storms will set in soon. At that time, beasts will be more eager to appear, to drag down those that are most vulnerable. It is said that the desert doesn't harbor the beasts that live in the trees here. As such, I am here to say that there is danger if you act too rash."


"Should we all strive to be you then, unfeeling?" Kydoimos shot at the girl, earning a glare from Galene. For some reason, the young slave still seemed to think there was something to their guide.


"Your anger and resentment are neither welcomed nor needed here," Ming Xia said, either ignoring or not caring for Kydoimos' words. "Be cautious of how you feel. There are beasts here that feed off of it."


----


Hardeep sat back on the edge of the bed, opening the package and seeing that he had received a bag of fine silk. Loosening the straps revealed tea leaves and dried flower petals.


"I never liked children," Hardeep said simply. "Or the concept of having them. Too noisy, too messy, too demanding."


He sighed and tightened the straps of the bag before messily wrapping the package back up and setting it on the ground, groaning as he kicked his feet back up onto the bed and began bundling himself up.


"I am not hungry," he told Irene. He paused. "Come here," he said, beckoning her forward. "Turn around," he added.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


The scent of vanilla and cinnamon had reached Irene, who continued to stand by the door, her hands folded before her as she waited for Hardeep to either dismiss her or ask something of her. From her spot she could see the tea and flower leaves in the bag as it was opened and she had to turn her face away slightly to not inhale the strong scent of spices. It was powerful but pleasant, both sweet and spicy, but it made her stomach churn nonetheless. She’d never quite enjoyed such sweet scents.


She’d hummed at Hardeep’s response, cocking her head as she regarded the man with a faint smile playing on the corner of her lips.


“They are,” she agreed. “There’s more to having children than that. Many’d rather have a legacy than none at all. To each their own.”


The idea of having a child always existed at the back of her mind and with years it became more apparent that she in a way wished for one. It was strange, for it contradicted her other desire. To be free of any ties, to move from nation to nation, without having a place to call home as that’d mean that she’d have somewhere to come back to. After Leon, she did not wish to come back to anywhere, except to pass through the towns where the two of her closest friends lived.


A child would tie her down, bind her to one place. How she lived with Leon was an exception, and a rare one. There was no telling that her own child would be as she was, wild and craving freedom.


There was more to it. Much more. She’d never dwelled too long on this dream. Was there a point? The Mark would be there all the same.


Perhaps she simply desired something that she was never fated to have.


Irene was about to turn on her heel to head for the door, seemingly under the impression that she was no longer needed, but was stopped by Hardeep’s command. Raising a quizzical brow, she neared the bed and stopped beside it. With slight hesitation Irene turned around, feeling her shoulders square and tense up at having someone behind her.


“Is something wrong?” She asked, glancing over her shoulder.





***





“No,” Warren said sternly to the child. “No. No monsters. We don’t fight monsters.” He kept his sword up in the air steadily as he regarded the child tiredly. A frown crinkled his brow and the child’s questions were silly and should have made Warren laugh, had Ming Xia not been in the same room. She seemed to drain all positivity from the cabin. Or maybe that was just him.


He didn’t know what he was thinking when he thought that Ming Xia would take responsibility and care for her brother. She did not take up the mantle of their guide in the first place, not completely at least. Expecting her to be a caring and loving sister was foolish and didn’t quite sit well in Warren’s imagination. He’d never seen the woman smile or display any sort of positive response. Had she suddenly becoming a caring woman who loved her brother, Warren might have dropped his sword in surprise.


It was Orien who came to Warren’s help and the guard sighed softly, lowering the sword after the child had been taken away by the slave. The blade was put away into the safety of the scabbard and Warren took a stop back. Just in case the child thought it a good idea to run over and take the sword. The sword itself was about the same height as the child, and probably weighted just as much, so it was doubtful Qiu would be able to pick it up, but Warren was cautious.


In surprise did the guard look at Orien, tension draining from his muscles as the slave dealt with Qiu as…well, as Orien. Kind, calm. Caring. Fatherhood would have suited Orien, Warren realized. While the others were confused by Qiu, Orien was not. It was a pleasant sight. At least something had gone right today, something positive and light.


The scene brightened his mood for another moment only and Warren caught himself watching Orien intently. Ming Xia’s voice snapped him out of the daze, pulling him away from the world where only Orien and the child in his arms existed.


Warren frowned bitterly and glared at Ming Xia.


“There are no beasts here,” Warren said coolly, his voice crisp. “We’ve been to your forests and encountered no beasts. Only those…” He waved an impatient hand at the rabbit furs strung by the fire to dry the skin. “Rabbits. Even if there are beasts, they are creatures of instinct.”


He’d remembered reading of wild animals in the books and scrolls his mother and father got for him when he was a child. All those texts offered the same information and Warren’s curious mind drank it all greedily. It was years ago and since then his priorities changed, but he could recall some bits and pieces of knowledge learnt long ago.


“No beast feeds off anger. That is superstition. Do you believe in monsters under your bed, too?” Warren’s voice grew colder and colder. Ming Xia’s presence irritated him, her lack of emotion irritated him. The way she ignored everyone but the riders irritated him. Most of all, her disrespectful attitude irritated him. It did not even occur to him that he was getting carried away, spitting words out at the guide while Kydoimos was nearby. “Barbaric people, you lot.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Hardeep reached out a hand and grasped Irene's braid once more, lightly and with barely a touch. "If I was a better man," he muttered, "perhaps I would have made you a guard." He let the braid go and said, mostly to himself, "There are men that keep their braid to symbolize strength and courage and winnings. Perhaps yours might have been able to mean that, too. It has been far too long since I have had the opportunity to create one myself and my father wouldn't let me grow my hair out, not after my mother died. I'd always wanted a braid like hers. It meant she would never bow or break."


He sighed and rolled over in his mound of pelts. "That is all," he muttered, before allowing exhaustion to take him.


----


Ming Xia viewed Warren with apathy, though Galene's gaze was far more accusatory. She moved towards the guard, eyes narrowed. "There are things," she said with a snap in her voice, "things that are worse than bears and wolves and maybe even men who sell others." She stopped a few feet from Warren, still glaring. Orien cautiously moved towards the pair, standing between the gap and keeping one eye on the younger slave. "Just because you haven't seen them doesn't mean they exist. Countless people have not seen the dragons until they come to burn their homes and their crops and their families yet they still fly the skies here."


"Galene," Orien said cautiously, sensing that the other girl was not going to stay civil for long. Kydoimos looked mildly surprised at Galene's actions in the back, though they made no attempt to reign in her.


There was a beat of silence before Galene backed off, turning and making her way to the furs and pelts, arranging them as they had been the previous night. Ming Xia stared down at Galene past the bridge of her own nose and Orien thought the mountain girl might have been smirking. Might have been, if she had any capacity for emotion.


"You've seen them?" the mountain girl asked lightly.


"Not here, but I've seen them. Things with claws and teeth and sometimes nothing at all."


A small "hmm" came from Ming Xia. "If it shows," she said, glancing up at Warren, "feed him to it first." She pointed briefly to Warren, causing Galene to glance up and stare as the other girl turned on her heel and left the room, the wooden door shutting behind her.


"What the fuck," Kydoimos offered.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


That night Irene slept little.


Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm, Irene leaned forward, propping her forearms on her lap, and frowned deeply at the exhaustion that weighted down her eyelids.


Smoke bit at her eyes making them water and sting, or maybe it was the lack of sleep. A crispy smoky scent of burning meat lingered in the air and Irene found herself inhaling it deeply more than she should have. It was mouth-watering. The rabbit was turning out quite nicely over the fire, propped there by a stick held by two similar to it twigs horizontally over the ground. Irene reached forward and turned the rabbit over the little campfire that she’d built when she and Galene parted ways.


After all, Irene had caught three rabbits that night.


It was a good catch. She barely managed to stop herself from pumping a fist into the air at the sight of a second rabbit caught in her snare, and then almost laughed out loud to herself at seeing the third rabbit a foot or so past the spot where she’d put the snare. It was a good sight. No, it was a joyous event. It almost made her forget the fact that the other four snares that she’d set up were empty and gone. Either they also caught a little animal that ran off, or they were carried away by the wind or something else. The twine she’d used on those snares was gone or cut. But she had three rabbits and enough twine to build at least four snares.


It was a good morning. Much better than the night, at least.


Warren was distant for the rest of the evening, his eyes skirting over Galene often. He even watched the door very intently, standing guard inside the cabin for the rest of the evening.


Their sleeping arrangement was different that night and Irene cared little for it at first. Warren slept with his back to her, wheezing and muttering in his sleep. It had not bothered her and Irene had fallen asleep quickly, her back turned to Galene. It was warm to be wedged between the young girl and the guard, the furs and the rugs keeping the floor soft. It smelled of firewood and damp air that seeped through the cracks in the cabin’s walls. Exhausted, Irene should have fallen into the sleep’s comforting embrace to wake up in the morning and begin the next day.


Instead, she’d woken up a few hours into the night, her arms bound by Warren’s embrace. She was facing him then, breathing heavily and sweating and panic in her eyes. Warren was calm and breathed evenly, though his arms were heavy and tight around her. It was then that Irene panicked. Nausea was overwhelming and her stomach threatened to reject the dinner from the night before. It was hot, too hot. Under the furs, pulled all the way to her cheeks, and with Warren holding her so tight and so close, Irene felt trapped. Trapped in a cocoon of hot air that tightened more and more around her, suffocating her.


She didn’t remember how she freed herself from Warren. Maybe she’d pushed him, maybe she’d gotten a hold of her senses briefly enough to wiggle out of his hold. She found herself propped against the nearby wall, where she’d spent the rest of the night, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms folded and forehead pressed against them as she stared down and fought to keep her breathing under control.


How long she’d stayed like that Irene could only guess. It was still dark when she’d reached with a shaky hand towards the jacket that she’d been broidering before and continued on its pattern. Quickly and maybe a bit sloppy the needle weaved through the fabric. It eased her mind. She wished she could go outside for a run.


Silence was comfortable and Irene lost herself in it, in the soft crackling of the firewood and the whistling wind blowing from beneath the covers over the windows. Sitting beside the hearth Irene absorbed its warmth and let the firelight help her hand find its way over the cloth. In that moment her mind was blank, free of planning of the escape and the words that Hardeep had told her the evening before.


At some point in the night, Warren had turned and his arms slid over the spot where Irene used to sleep. After having found an empty, and yet warm, space, he’d shifted there and his hands found Galene’s frame. He pressed himself to her and scooped the girl up in an embrace, muttering something into her hair.


Warren woke up just a bit before down, groggily sitting up and rubbing at his eyes with one hand, his other arm had fallen asleep. He’d given Irene the same look of confusion as he did the other night. Irene lifted her finger to her lips and gestured at the door and then at the two of them. A silent request to go on a run with him. Warren waved at her dismissively, shaking his head but allowed her to go with him nonetheless after he’d strapped a sword to his hip.


That morning no crows waited on the rooftop, though the two of them did come back to another sight. A dead crow on the porch. Warren unceremoniously kicked at it, prodding to check if it was alive. Irene threw the bird into the shrubbery beside the other cabin. She’d had enough of bad omens, knowing well enough how superstitious people jumped to conclusion. It was best not to have another villagers’ gathering around their cabin over yet another bird incident.


Warren didn’t stop her, thankfully, and did not mention to anyone that they’d found a dead animal at their doorstep. It was for the best.


Irene had enough time to fetch another jacket – the one she’d been broidering was left by the hearth in its usual spot – and drink some water before leaving for the forest with Galene. They went their separate ways shortly after, with Irene telling the younger girl to meet by the oak when she was ready to head back.


The entire morning Irene had avoided thinking of Hardeep’s words.


During the running session with Warren (who did not slow down to match her pace this time), all Irene could think of was the curses she’d sent to her legs and lungs. It was somewhat easier to run this time, or maybe she was just telling herself that to ease the shame of being so out of shape. Her lungs burnt, her legs burnt, her skin sleek with sweat that kept her warm up until she entered the forest with Galene.


Warren had not said a word during their run together and his eyes were half closed, as if the man was still in the land of slumber. So much unlike Irene, who was wide awake and struggling for breath.


Just as the other day, after having set down the new snares and traps, Irene trained. She’d hidden the spear beneath the oak’s roots where the wood wouldn’t get dampened by the rain, and she’d used it to do repeatable movements against an invisible dummy. It was boring, repetitive and it made her arms ache in protest. And yet, she’d enjoyed it. It kept her from thinking too much on the previous day’s events.


But the training session had ended when the sky turned a brighter colour of grey and the sun’s bleak disc shone through the cover of clouds above the forest. It was noon. The fire had become weaker and Irene had to break some dry branches off the oak to feed them to the flames. She sat down on the rock by which she’d made the campfire, the spear in her hand, its end just above the flames to harden the wood.


Nothing else to do but wait, Irene couldn’t stop herself from thinking of Hardeep’s words. Of his parents, of his life, his beliefs. Of his words about her braid. That morning she’d almost pinned it up again. Hardeep wasn’t awake when she came back with Warren and he hadn’t left his room before she’d left for hunting.


Running a hand through her hair, Irene let out a groan. If only Hardeep knew who she used to be, how many lives she’d taken and damned and crippled, he’d never even thought of a possibility of making her his guard. What a silly position. A guard. Warren was one and he was as loyal as a dog. The position of a guard seemed so much more of a cage, it even came with your personal bars in the form of an iron armour.


It was not a job she’d wish to have. Not with Hardeep. Not in Crubia.


“Never bow or break,” Irene snorted as she lowered her hand to her mouth and chuckled, resting her chin on her palm. “Must I cut it off if I give up then?..”


She lowered her face to rub her eyes again and suppressed a yawn. The rabbit was turned again, its meat almost done. With her other hand she turned the spear so its other side could be dried up and hardened, making it as strong as a blade. She’d sharpened it to make a canonical shape with Galene’s knife, the same knife Irene had used to skin the rabbit and prepare it. Now the pelt lay beside the fire, drying. The other two rabbits were strung with their hind paws on the oak’s branch.


Pulling herself to her feet once again, Irene left the spear perched against the rock and walked over to the oak to begin practicing high kicks. Yes, training was good. Much better than thoughts of a drunken (or tipsy, as Hardeep corrected the other night) rider and his confessions.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Galene had an awful night.


It had started out fine, having managed to squeeze Irene between herself and Warren. The guard seemed to keep his distance from her, which she chalked up to her outburst from earlier, angry and bitter over his unnecessary comments. Granted, Kydoimos was no better but a part of Galene knew that their anger was always rooted in something else and something deeper and that Warren was simply irritated. For Kydoimos, their anger stemmed from years of beat downs, verbal and sometimes physical, and that their rage leaked out in fists colliding with noses and swords meeting tree bark.


She woke up, however, to the suffocating feeling of Warren squeezing her. She attempted to hit him several times but the blows did nothing to loosen the guard's grip. She continued to squirm, confused as to where Irene had gone, until the man loosened himself just barely and Galene could breathe, eventually falling asleep again and waking up to see that the guard had left. Ming Xia had then appeared, presenting her bow and her arrows without so much as a word but a simple nod of the head. Galene tried to ask about her brother, about her mother and father, about whether or not she wanted to share the catch or perhaps eat with them but the mountain girl simply stared and shook her head before leaving again. Sighing and shrugging the bow on, Galene had left with Irene.


In the forest, the peace was louder than it had been the previous day. Perhaps it was the warning given by their almost silent guide that made Galene hyper aware of everything around, her eyes darting to every moving shadow, turning towards each crunch of the underbrush. She listened for the sounds of the birds chirping, the rustling of squirrels and rabbits. Catching another deer was unlikely; the last one was somewhat thin and no doubt was slow to join the rest in escaping to warmer climates. Small game, such as the squirrels digging for nuts, the singing birds, and the silent rabbits were far easier and more effective to find, saving her the time of trudging through the darkness and potentially dangerous forest. She used all five of her arrows to hone in on the woodland creatures, managing to make her mark each time.


Even though Galene was on edge, she still felt somewhat at peace. It had been so long since she had found the cooler weathers, trapped in the desert for the past three years. She missed the taste of snow on her tongue, the pelting rains that soaked the city streets. The heat wasn't even suffocating, not like it could be in Vanguard. It was always blisteringly dry and made her wish to shrivel up. It was always raw and grating, like the rough claws of a dragon trying to peel away her skin. She knew, however, that the snow would come as Ming Xia had said, fast and furious and bringing with it misery and with that, the creatures of the darkness that lingered far too close.


She eventually picked up her game, holding two birds, two rabbits, and a squirrel all by their feet or claws in the case of the birds, and headed back to the oak.


"Do you plan on doing that every time you're out here?" Galene asked, pausing to glance at the burning fire and the rabbit. She frowned but said nothing. "Did you use my knife at all?" she asked, almost in a whine. She had wanted to practice throwing it in the forest, perhaps nailing a beast with it as well. It had been a fun little game back in Vanguard when the arrows had been cleared up and the children were still eager to train. They'd collect the kitchen knives that were left behind and use them instead, hurling them at targets and laughing and jeering and booing throughout.


"You know how to make a fire?" Galene asked in surprise, kneeling down to stare at the flames. "I could never quite get one going. They always seemed to dry before ever truly starting to spark."

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene paused for a moment, her hands raised in fists and her chest falling up and down heavily as she kept her breathing even. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead and the wind felt cold on her damp neck. Her braid slapped her against the back with each movement she’d done, kicking against the tree as high as she could and as strongly as it was possible for her weak and light body. The part on her back against which the braid slapped ached. So did her foot, the already thin shoes that she was wearing becoming more worn. Perhaps she should ask for the boots given to Hardeep by that Azar woman. Or trade in the rabbit furs for a pair of warmer shoes.


That’d have to be taken care of when they returned to the cabin. For now, she had to deal with damp clothes and an aching body that required water and rest.


It was the rustling of shrubbery that made Irene pause and snap her head to the side, her body ready to dive behind the oak. But it was only Galene, and Irene relaxed, tilting her head to glance over her shoulder to follow Galene’s gaze.


“Yes,” Irene said simply. “It is for both of us.” She gave the oak a long look, debating if she should continue the training session or stop for the day. The rabbit was done, or nearly there. It was best they’d eat first before the meat got cold or overcooked.


Stepping back from the oak, Irene headed for the rabbit and sat down on the rock after picking up her makeshift spear to rest it over her lap.


“Only when I’ve caught more than one rabbit.” She pointed behind her at the two hares hanging below an oak’s branch. “The two of us need to reward ourselves for spending so much time in the cold.” She offered Galene a smile. The words were said as an attempt to joke, though she’d meant them as well. They did spend more than half a day outside, far from the safety of the village.


“Besides, I need to eat more than I do otherwise my training here is pointless. It won’t pay off.” She reached for the knife, looking down at it as she slid it out of the sash on her waist, and then regarded Galene with a raised brow. “Of course I used your knife. I had to skin the rabbit and,” she raised the spear, showing Galene the darkened sharp end, “sharpen this.”


The end of the branch was smooth and sharp, canonically shaped. The wood was blackened by the fire and when Irene presented the spear to Galene, she’d kept the sharp end low not to injure the girl. With her other hand she passed Galene her knife back.


“Galene,” Irene snorted, “you’re asking questions you know the answer to.”


The spear was set down and Irene reached for the cooked rabbit, ripping off its hind paw and handing it to Galene. It was hot and she had to wave her hand slightly to cool it off before she reached for the other paw for herself.


“My uncle taught me. I’ve used your knife to start it,” she said as she took a bite of the meat. It was warm and delicious, the rabbit still not scrawny from the cold weather. “It took me some time to get it going. The wind was blowing away the sparks and doused the flame before it was built. I can show you how to start it if you want.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Galene dropped her own catches down onto the ground gentle before taking the meat offered to her. She sniffed at it and touched her lips to it to test how hot it was before ripping a chunk out. It was gamey and not at all seasoned but it was food which meant her belly would be fuller than it had been all morning. The other could eat their oats and whatever broth that Orien somehow magically managed to whip up, she'd take the under seasoned meat caught fresh any day. It made her feel closer to the land of life rather than the blank, heated desert.


"Doesn't mean I can't ask them," Galene said through a mouthful of meat. "Besides," she added, ripping another strip off and chewing it, "I've been told that questions with answers are the best kind, even if I might already know them. Of course, sometimes its fun to ask the questions with no true answers, just to frustrate the irritable."


She swallowed her bite and said, "As for learning how to light a fire, I do know how," she said, taking the knife and flipping it in her hands. "You strike rock against tempered metal and sparks fly. My problem is figuring how to make the flames catch." Glancing over the knife, she made a mental note to sharpen it later, noting its dulling blade.


She chewed on her given piece for another moment before asking, "I'm willing to bet your uncle taught you how to use a spear, too, right? Did you ever find one made of gold and iron, mayeb gotten one as a reward? I've always heard tales of mercenaries that pillaged troves of treasure from great slumbering gods, and while I'm sure they are not quite true, there are troves of great weapons from times gone by, aren't there? Have you traveled to places with them, with golden winged carriages and birds that are also part cat?"

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


“Dry grass, strips of bark, some hay. And a lot of patience. In this weather, it is impossible to start a fire without a flint.” Irene paused, chewing on the meat and ripped off another piece before she continued. “There is a trick, you know. Hold a piece of cloth under the rock to direct the sparks better when the blade strikes it. A man under my care demonstrated it to me and set his robe on fire. He flailed around, the fire spreading quickly up his arm. You’d think his clothes were drenched in oil.” She cocked her head to the side, snorting and raised a hand to rub her eyes with the back of it, as her fingers greasy from the rabbit’s meat. “Perhaps they were. That cloth might have been oiled, and some spilled on his robe. It was impressive.”


The bones were thrown into the fire and shortly after Irene had added several twigs to the flames from the pile of kindling that was gathered shortly before the fire was started.


“He did,” Irene confirmed as she ripped another piece of meat from the rabbit, eating quickly as she always did. “It took some years of convincing and begging and annoying him to no end with my tantrums, but he did train me. He was great with the weapon, too. One of the best warriors I’ve met. Not the greatest teacher, though.” Exchanging holds on the piece of meat, Irene spared a hand to raise it in front of Galene. Chuckling as she still chewed on the meat, Irene waved her hand to stop the girl from asking more questions.


“Hold on,” she said, smiling. “Mercenaries that pillage troves of treasures? Best I’ve seen was some sell-swords raiding a mansion of a lord. Where I was the lord’s guard.”  She finished her share and threw the bones into the flames, rubbing her hands together over the fire to bring some warmth into her fingers.


“There are spears of gold and iron, yes. Most are beautifully crafted, too. With gilded shafts and blades, encrusted with jewels and large polished gems for the counterweight. Engraved and of Damascus steel. I’ve seen many, though never have been rewarded with one. Never wanted one, either. My own was a plain one of a wooden shaft and a long one-foot blade at the top. It was given to me by my uncle as a gift.” She leaned forward on her forearms, looking into the flames. “It was broken when I was sold into slavery. The blade was thinning, the wood uneven from having blocked one too many blows. Doesn’t matter now I suppose.” Irene looked at Galene, propping her chin on the palm of her hand and offered the girl a smile. “Maybe I should go and pillage troves of treasures from slumbering gods. It’d be more rewarding than this stick that I train with, no?” She moved the makeshift spear to hit the rock under her with its shaft.


Raising her brows at Galene, Irene regarded the girl with a look that she’d usually given to superstitious milkmaids who thought that a woman with a weapon was a bad omen. “Golden winged carriages and half-cat birds?” Irene deadpanned and then looked at the ground, her forehead on her palm, and laughed softly. “Where did you hear this nonsense? Griffins are real and rare, or long extinct as many claim, so I can understand your curiosity. But winged carriages? Surely I’ve been to all the wrong places as I’ve never seen one of those. Transpiration must be convenient in those parts.”


Chuckling softly to herself Irene fed several dry twigs to the flames.


“I have been to places where water glows blue at night and the waves shimmer like jewels. Places where trees are so tall and great that you feel like an insect. I have travelled through an area where waterfalls stretched across the horizon and you couldn’t hear yourself speak for the water was so loud. Briefly I passed through a village carved in stone, where houses were circular and small and they had no doors or windows. It was a long time ago. There was still so much to visit and I’ve never been overseas.” Irene spoked softly, a smile ghosting on her lips and her gaze focused on the flames. She looked at Galene, her chin resting on her hand. “Who taught you to use a bow? You spoke of the creatures in this forest. Have you seen them?”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Galene made a small "hmm" sound at Irene's suggestions, finishing her own meal and tossing it to the flames, watching them consume it for a moment. "Must have been entertaining for the moment," Galene mused to herself, though she didn't think so. She'd seen enough fire consume men and women and children and villages for a lifetime. "I don't suppose you have seen dragon fire or a dragon conquest before?" she asked, as lightly as possible though she doubted the answer, if it was a yes, would be said without heaviness. There was nothing that made dragons kind o gentle; they were beasts of flame that consumed until there was nothing left. Their riders were the same and the terrible combination could wrought destruction for everyone.


Her vision slide along the other woman as she described her spear, her capture, in a tone that Galene was sure she could not muster up for her own capture. It was a blight on her timeline, a burnt spot on the path she had taken to where she was.


"Griffins," Galene sighed. "I wonder if there are any that have managed to tame them, to fight back against the dragons." Her thoughts may have gotten her killed around riders, who believed their beasts unstoppable, but she herself had thought from time to time how they may be toppled. Of course, griffins were as much legend as dragons were throughout most of the land, if not more so. Their existance was a myth until proven not so and as such, she could not assume that there was any land where they were tamed.


"Winged carriages carrying women of steel and men of gold," Galene said in a singsong voice, remembering the tales. "In a far off land where dragons blew the sun into existence and the land grew dark when they went to sleep. Childhood tales, spun by the old to keep the young entertained," she said, turning to Irene. "But I suppose that I never quite believed that they were just tales." She gave Irene a half smile. "Perhaps winged carriages are carting around women of steel and men of gold, in some distant land where the sky is pink. Tell me if you've ever seen a land like that and I might be impressed."


She found a stick on the ground and picked it up, tracing patterns into the fresh snow. Intricate designs that had no true meaning except to look pretty, remembering the carvings she'd seen on the bows of those that lived in the mountains near her original home, the one they tried to burn. She did not know if they succeeded, the more she contemplated the thought, and usually abandoned the idea before it could fully take root.


"I learned to aim first," she said to Irene, looking up at the woman, half-smiling. "Me and the other children grew bored with the games of tossing sticks into drawn circles and instead hunted for more exciting games, finding knives left behind by the adults after meals and going to shooting ranges long abandoned by knights and such. We'd aim at them until we got chased off." She chuckled at the memory. "We believed ourselves to be funny or brave or whatever it was that we thought. I'm sure the knights wouldn't have cut down a gaggle of children running amok with kitchen knives in hand but you could never be too sure."


She paused, returning to her absent-minded drawing in the snow. "There were mountains that we lived close to," she said next, skipping over the lessons wheedled out of her sister, out of the guards of her home, out of her mother when she had time to rest and entertain her youngest. "I rode there sometimes, to trade," she continued, a half-lie. She had gone there with her brothers once, to trade information, to ensure that they were healthy and safe up where beasts of shadow and smoke and death lived, with gazes that could see through smoke and bodies that arrows and swords passed through. "They knew how to use bows and arrows, knew how to carve them actually. One of their rites to adulthood would be carving a bow. Each time they made a skilled kill, they would be given a special whittling knife to make a mark, a design. I made a few friends there, a few children my age who, like the ones in the city, could never quite get enough out of life. We played games with leftover arrows, stole bows from older brothers and sisters." She laughed quietly at a distant memory. "In the end, one boy got one stuck in his shoulder and the adults figured that they out to teach us before we killed each other."


She straightened, almost puffing out her chest. "I was good," Galene said. "Very good. But," she added, sighing and bending down, "While I could aim well, I could never fell the monsters."


She turned once more to look at Irene. "You probably know, they are hard to kill. Barely of our world, barely understand the rules we play by. They seem to choose not to, even if we are bound by them. Some were made of smoke and swallowed people whole. Some were more solid, creatures that we could kill cursed by... gods or witches or shaman or whatever story made the most sense that day." She waved her stick in the air dismissively. "They were all horrifying."


Galene paused. "The worst are always the ones you hear and never see."

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


There was a slight crinkle to Irene’s brow at Galene’s words, and she did not look at the girl as she spoke. That flicker of a wince lasted a fraction of a moment, easily mistaken to have been just shadows dancing across Irene’s thinned face.


“I have,” she said quietly, her eyes watching the flames dance over the kindling. The fire was dying, becoming less in size and warmth, though no more branches were thrown in. “A dragon’s fire. What happened that day was no conquest. It was pure destruction, a gleeful one. It was the day when my old master had lost his land to the dragons sent by some man.”


That day was a blur in Irene’s memory. Images flashed far too quickly in her mind, barely lasting long enough to convey a simple message – fire, it engulfed the land across the horizon, burning and destroying all the crops that the slaves had worked tirelessly to grow. That day was no time for fear for their own lives, for what mattered was the harvest. The harvest that was burning so intensely, that the first few who tried to bring water from the well to douse it got burnt down themselves or choked on the smoke.


“Hisraad had land once. Large fields of grains that were bright with green and gold. That land fed us all and kept our master happy. It was not hard to work then and I was...less weak than I am now. There was enough food for all of us, you see. No one died of hunger or disease. In a way, it kept us happy too.” Irene raised a hand, drawing a crescent moon shape before her to show how big Hisraad’s estate used to be. “Then came the dragons. I don’t know what Hisraad had done to get punished. A despicable man he is but not a fool. Doesn’t matter now, I suppose. Those fields got destroyed regardless of what he’d done.” She took off the rest of the meat from the stick and handed Galene half of it. “Some had died in the assault. Many more after it. Everyone blamed the dragons for their flames. They cursed them and feared them, more so after Hisraad changed for the worse. I did not curse the beasts. As any other I fear them, of course. There is no weapon I know of that can pierce that skin of theirs. It is their masters who direct the flames that should be cursed. The beasts are smart, but they are still beasts. Still follow the given orders.”


Irene shrugged slightly, turning the motion into rolling her shoulders and neck to loosen the muscles. She listened to Galene as she finished her share of meat, wishing there was more but still remaining content with what she had. It was food. It was not those oats that Orien tried his best to prepare. They’d still have those oats, but Galene and she would be full from the rabbit and it felt satisfying to have this secret shared between the two of them. No one else had to know that the meat they were supposed to bring back would be eaten by a stream near an old oak tree.


Galene’s words were the first insight that Irene had to the young girl’s past, so she listened intently and smiled or chuckled when it was appropriate. Not once did she look away from Galene or interrupted her story, used to listening to people share some parts of their lives or some tale or another. It was a good change from Hardeep’s words that felt heavy, each bringing forth some memory or confession that Irene never quite wished to think of. The rider needed to talk about his emotions, his thoughts, so she let him for she’d used him in a similar way the night they spent together in that hut of branches and moss by a large campfire.


But speaking to Galene was different. It was lighter. Welcomed. Perhaps it was because the two of them were not divided by invisible boundaries that they had to follow, even in a private conversation.


“It sounds like you enjoyed being there, spending time with them,” Irene said lightly, though the half-smile that she’d offered Galene was gone at the mention of the creatures. It was not a topic she preferred, or rather did not enjoy it being brought up. Rarely would it be bearing a positive vibe in a description of some otherworldly beautiful creature. More often than not, those stories would be about beings with talons and fangs and bright glowing eyes.


“Yes,” Irene confirmed, nodding. “It is why I avoid forests and swamps.” She threw in the rest of the bones into the fire and then held her hands over the flames, drinking in the warmth before she’d put the fire out. “They are attracted to nature, lack of human touch. Some claim it is our Gods that protect us through symbols or holy buildings. I believe those creatures to not be as stupid as most believe. They know where they shouldn’t go to avoid getting an arrow in the eye.”


Placing her hands on her knees, Irene got up and picked up the makeshift spear at the same time.


“I know a woman who’d slain every single vile creature she’d encountered. Even one without a solid shape. Do not think her for a fool who seeks adventures. I assure you she is far from it. Perhaps because she doesn’t have the time to go seek adventures. It is,” she frowned momentarily at the words, “was my fate. That woman is a guard in Riverside. I’d not seen her for several years, but it is doubtful she is anywhere else. Riverside would crumble without her.”


Irene walked towards the oak and was about to put the spear below the roots when she paused, straightening and turned to look at Galene.


“There is still some time before we must head back. I can begin teaching you if you wish.” Irene paused and added, a bit sternly, “Only self-defence.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Galene poked her stick back into the ground, drawing curves into the snow, delicate patterns that she remembered from hours of embroidery. She had wanted to make patterns of flames and fire, of the war god Enreus stealing Sapita away from her beloved sun, of Riagi in turn setting the world on fire, their bright light burning so hot that it melted the armor that Enreus wore and allowed Sapita to escape. She had wanted to make patterns of the great war that had soaked Vanguard's streets in the red blood of the fallen, of the greedy families that came before and had given way to the ones that now doted the landscape in towers made of marble, of the peasants that toiled until they wished to toil no more and rose up onto their feet and tore down the walls of her ancestors, brick by agonizing brick. But her mother said that those were not things that were to be embroidered, not things to be remembered on glittery dresses and swirling skirts but to be tiredly painted out onto sheets of thin cotton and remembered in books. They were events that had made Vanguard what it was and they could not simply be worn. History was to be studied, remembered, cherished. Embroidery was far too delicate for that.


So she drew swirls that looped in on themselves, leaves stretching out from imaginary branches, birds that twittered in the sky on wings of golden thread. They were times gone by, however, and she was currently sitting on an old tree root, painting what used to be colorful visions in the dull snow with a stick that had wilted as her life had so long ago.


"Dragons are interesting creatures," she offered Irene in as light a voice as possible. "They scorch the stones and melt them into liquid and consume without notice of what flesh they are eating.


"And of course, their masters are human and humans are greedy."


She listened to the fire crackle for a bit as Irene told her own story, tilting her head and imagining a field going up in flames. She could only remembered being hauled out by a maid or a cook or a servant or maybe someone who had come to visit, ripped from whatever task she had decided to take up that moment and being torn down the steps, out into the main hall before the rocks began tumbling down, the screams of the servants ringing throughout the halls and rooms. She could remember little but the stench of burning flesh, of metal melting, of coughing and choking and stumbling onto her hands and knees before bellowing of horns to symbolize attacks began, before they were stopped by the crashing of the walls. Before she managed to find her way out when the rubble had calmed, when the shaking had passed and she could crawl from her hiding spot and stumble outwards into the street, soot covered and coughing, her shirt torn and face bleeding.


Irene's redirection towards the happier days in the mountain caused her to push the first thoughts out of her head, to turn and grin at the slave woman. "It was great," she said through a toothy smile. "We hunted rabbits and cooked them, just like this," she added, pointing at their own campsite. "They taught me how to pluck the feathers out, how to disembowel them, everything." She sighed heavily. "I hope that the dragons are as averse to the cold as they seem to be now. Perhaps they would be safe, up there."


Galene hummed at Irene's assessment of the creatures. "Whatever they are," she said grimly, "it is for the best that we do not encourage them to come to us." She frowned sharply at Irene's mention of a woman who had slain every beast possible, wondering, for a moment, how.


"Had she special weapons?" she asked. "Or perhaps rituals to perform? She must be a god in the skin of a human, walking on our earth to amuse us and give us tales to frighten children with."


She stood up as Irene did, straightening and staring at the woman with bright eyes.


"Self-defense," she said with a smile. "Why the hell not?"

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene was setting down the spear against the oak’s roots when Galen spoke. A soft laugh was given to the young girl in response to her questions. They were not stupid questions of a dull mind of some village milkmaid. Neither were they out of the ordinary. Irene would have asked the same ones had she not known the woman Galene was asking about.


“No,” Irene said snorting. “No special weapons nor rituals. Mountain bury us all, that woman sneers at the only mention of a ritual. Not a god in a skin of a human, perhaps more of a devil if you listen to the platoon that she’s in charge of. They call her a demon so often that the nickname stuck.”


Turning, Irene beckoned Galene to follow her to the centre of the clearing. The fire continued to crackle beside them a couple of feet away and the stream flowed in its never-ending rush. It was a good place to train, to spend time at. Perhaps that is why Irene clung onto anything that’d allow her to stay by the oak, enjoying the false freedom that’d be taken from her the moment they entered the cabin. It was a selfish wish. There were still creatures of fang and claw, and sometimes no solid shape, prowling these woods. Staying here was dangerous and foolish.


But Irene allowed herself to be a fool just for a little while longer, so long as she was away from the life of a falsely obedient and quiet slave. The cabin was safe and yet dark and gloomy, chocking her with the weight of the collar and the man who owned her and the man who guarded him. This area by the oak was bright and free and spacious, despite hiding the apparent danger in the shadows by the trees.


“That woman is special. You see, she has these markings,” Irene lifted a hand to trace a finger down the side of her neck, along the length of her arm and to the tips of her fingers in a straight line. “They were put on her similar to how the Mark was put on me. Dents in the skin they are, bright blue like the sea. They cover her body from head to toe in these lines that she hides from the eyes of those who do not know their meaning. And the meaning is simple – they protect her, like wards that shamans engrave into the stone to protect thresholds. That protection allows her to be immune to the influence of the creatures that attack the minds of common people, like the vrees. I do not involve myself in magic, so do not ask me how it all works. All I know is that that woman is extraordinary, one of a kind. She was not born with those markings, and she refuses to tell me of who had given them. I do not pry, either. It is not my business. Perhaps you could—“


Irene stopped herself before she dared continue. She’d nearly offered to introduce Galene to Ellenia. Galene did not know that Irene was planning to escape, planning to return to Riverside where Ellenia, the woman from the story, and her best friend Rael lived. Merely mentioning that Galene could meet Ellenia would alert the young girl. She was not stupid, as Irene had realised long ago. Galene would immediately understand why Irene wished to hunt and train so eagerly.


Galene’s intellect was both admirable and not. It was certainly keeping Irene alert at all times, careful not to say something to give away more of her past. She did not even say Ellenia’s name.


“Perhaps you could be right,” Irene masked the sudden pause by clearing her throat, “it is a mark of her godhood,” she offered instead with a smile. “And she really is here to amuse us and frighten the young ones with tales of monsters and otherworldly powers.”


The two of them stood with a couple of feet between them. Irene was relaxed, standing in front of Galene with her arms down and did not take some sort of a defensive stance as one would be expected to in a lesson of self-defence.


“Attack me,” Irene said as she jerked her chin at Galene. “Punch me. You and I are about the same height, but you are heavier than me. Use that to your advantage. Put all your bodyweight behind the swing and hit me.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Galene's eyebrows raised as Irene spoke of the woman. She wanted to meet her, see what life was like being invincible, having found the secrets to being the world's greatest protector through means of potentially chemistry and alchemy and mathematics and whatever else long word with far too many syllables that she was supposed to be studying. The mention of the Mark made her glance at the dark symbol on the other woman's arm, watching it herself for a moment. It was a reminder that Irene had been marked (by humans or gods or an angry king or whatever story was spun that day) and that it did not come lightly. The decision to leave one's homeland was always hard but with a consequence of having a brand that touched deeply within the person who got it...


Distracted for a moment by thoughts of what Irene could do, she barely noticed that the other woman cut herself off sharply. Galene's eyes found her face again, silver eyes staring back at one another for a moment, a tense sort of cold in the air that seemed to rest between them. Thoughts and ideas of what the hell was happening swirled in Galene's mind as she tried to reach what had just been happening in her mind but could not recall where the conversation had disappeared to.


The cleared throat rang loudly in Galene's ear.


"Gods it will be," she said calmly. "At least for today, I suppose."


The next statement blanked Galene. "Punch?" she repeated. Sure, there had been moments where she wrestled with her siblings but her older ones were always gentle and Casimir, sickly and small as he was, was always far too delicate for Galene to play with, a hint and spark of jealousy that had been buried under stone some time ago when the tower went down, alongside the rest of her life. She grappled and flailed, she didn't punch. She could swing a sword in a certain direction, fire an arrow through a throat, but punching?


She shifted her feet so that she was standing sideways, as she had been when she would attempt to jab at another child with a stick in a mock of the soldiers training. She leaned back against her left foot and darted forward, shifting her wait onto her right one, clumsily and with far too much vigor. The other woman easily side-stepped it, a single well-placed blow to the leg tipping her over and causing her to overshoot (as if she had not already) and she landed on the ground, her one hand managing to prevent her from hitting the earth completely.


The next few minutes (hours, as if it was a lesson once more and she was stuck listening to the droning voice of a man in white robes wave his arms in circles for explanation or engagement, she never knew) were spent with Galene mostly falling over, always too eager or fast or enthusiastic. By the end, it had drained and she was sure that the places she had been hit, on the leg and occasionally on the arm to make her fall over onto her back, had bruises. She got up every time, irritated and grumbling and almost frustrated and tried again.


Irene was good at weaving and dodging, finding areas to hit to make her loose balance. She was good at coordinating where to hit the hardest and where to move as Galene came for her.


She wanted to stomp her foot and wail, like she was seven again and the numbers and words had begun melting together and were too difficult for her to discern. But she was not seven, this was not numbers and words, and she was not in Vanguard.


By the time they finished, dirt was on Galene's knees and she was grumpy. She sulked behind Irene, feet quiet as she held her catches and eyes burrowing into the back of the other woman's head. Self-defense had turned into Galene mostly falling onto her face or nearly getting punched and she was not happy about it.


They approached the village soon enough and a glance upwards told her that the sun had passed its noon peak.


"Shit," she hissed to herself.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


She’d never admit it, but Irene had absolutely no idea how to teach Galene.


How hard is it to show someone how to fight? Apparently, very.


With Leon there was no step by step training. There was no show of some moves that had to be repeated until a curt “Good,” was given. There was no light sparring where blows were soft or non-existent, all done with the purpose of remembering the response to the opponent’s attacks. That is how she’d always imagined training to go. It was certainly how she imagined herself to be trained by Leon before that sadist of a man broke the illusion.


No, with Leon it was always a real fight. Real bruises and real cuts. It was hard and painful. As a child Irene tolerated it, thought that if she complained then Leon would stop training her altogether, positive that women were not meant to be warriors. So she chocked down the cries that she was tired and needed a moment to catch her breath. Either she did what was told or the training session was over. It couldn’t even be called training as such, for there was no display of a move that had to be repeated. No, it was always a series of jabs and dodges and kicks that had to change depending on the spear that always flew straight and true in Leon’s hands.


Always a real fight with a real warrior. The only thing that wasn’t real were the training wooden spears they used. And even those were substituted for real ones soon enough.


Irene chose to go the same path with Galene. She thought that if the girl fell on the ground enough times she’d understand where she had gone wrong and fix that, improve in her balance or the direction where her fist flew or how her feet were positioned on the ground. In the end, Galene hadn’t managed to land a hit and Irene was walking towards the village feeling a mixture of happiness and confusion.


Despite not knowing how to teach Galene, in which direction she should go with a girl who wasn’t as adapted to melee combat as she was, Irene felt oddly happy. That training session was fun. She hadn’t even noticed the time go by, too busy watching Galene fall to the ground and then jump up, eager to land a hit with the next attempted punch.


It also amused her to feel the stare that Galene no doubt was giving her as they headed back for the village.


The rabbits slung over her shoulder and one of the furs left underneath the oak, wrapped around her training spear, Irene glanced at Galene.


“The bruises will heal,” Irene began lightly, not exactly sure what advice to give to Galene to make the girl feel less grumpy. Galene’s ego was bruised just as much as her knees. “You try to rely too much on brute strength and that offsets your balance. That is why you kept falling. Your emotions take over and slow down your body. It happens to everyone who is determined on hitting someone and cannot. The more I evaded, the angrier you got and it drained your energy. Use this against those who try to attack you. With your small frame it should be easy. Keep your eyes open at all times and—“


A flash of blue and someone’s gloved hand fell onto Galene’s shoulder. It was a gentle touch, one that lasted a moment only to stop the girl in her tracks.


“Ah,” the owner of the voice spoke in a smooth baritone that had it belonged to someone else Irene would not have minded listening to it, “Such a pleasure to see you again. I feared you’ve left.”


As Ammon spoke Irene had turned to face Galene and the rider behind the girl, who’d rounded her to stand by her side. He offered them both a smile, one that as usual did not quite transfer to his eyes. In response, Irene gaped at the man and tightened her hold on the rabbits and looked at Galene with clenched jaw.


It was past noon.


Shifting her attention from Galene, Irene scanned the crowd at the end of the road, where it flowed into the main street.


They’d entered the village through a narrow path that was lined with closely built cabins. This path was less crowded and even if no deer was being dragged behind them, a catch of several rabbits was bound to attract unwanted attention from villagers and riders alike. Their collars, thank the Mountain, were hidden from sight but Galene and Irene remained two thin foreign women that stood out vividly in the crowd with their darker skin and light clothing. So Irene chose to take this road, which was only used by the villagers as Irene had observed during her morning run with Warren. She’d hoped that no rider would take this road, preferring a more crowded and wider one to a narrow dirt path. It was too much to hope for.


As Irene searched the foreign faces for the coldest and most emotionless one that belonged to Ming Xia, Ammon continued.


“Forgive me for such a…sudden interruption to your day’s affairs. The village is small and yet I’ve seen no signs of you.” In the corner of her eye, Irene could see Ammon turning his gaze down to look at Galene’s knees and clothing. “Ah, have you fallen?”


Well, his guess was not far off from the truth. Though Galene looked like she’d fallen at least a dozen times.


“Yes,” Irene said sharply. “The forest ground is slippery. She wanted to go with me to check the traps.”


Ammon turned his head to rise a brow at Irene. “With a bow slung over her shoulder?”


“She enjoys hunting,” Irene said and looked at Galene, hoping her cold words and tight lips were enough to say that they should get moving.


The other day Ming Xia found them on the way to the cabin. It was past noon and the bow had to be returned. The longer they waited outside, the higher was the chance that Ming Xia would be looking for them. While Irene was positive that the guide would not care to see the two slaves conversing with a rider, Ammon would be interested to know why a guide of the Passi and Makhai riders was lending her bow to Galene.


“My current home is nearby,” Ammon said and raised his arm to gesture at the back of the road, where a small house was surrounded by rosebush and a fence of densely stacked birch branches. “I could offer a change of clothes, much warmer than your…current attire.” Ammon searched for a moment to find the right way to describe dirtied thin linens that Galene was wearing. “If I remember correctly you’ve come here to trade, yes? As it happens, I acquired several items that might interest you from the merchants who briefly visited. It was surprising that those items remained in their possession for I thought that you, traveling from Edone, would have bought them shortly after your arrival. Let me show you.” He offered Galene another smile.


Irene pressed her lips tightly together, waiting for Galene’s response. It was not the role of a bodyguard to command their charge. Hopefully Galene could lie herself out of this conversation too.


“Surely you are not in a hurry. The day has just begun. Do not deny me the pleasure of good company,” Ammon said, raising his arm to rest it gently over Galene’s shoulders and beckoned her towards the direction of his cabin.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Galene continued glowering at Irene until the hand fell on her shoulder, making her almost jerk and whip around, prepared to fight (however poorly she could). The voice made her pause in her actions and turn to see Ammon, lips thinning into a false smile and gripping the bear pelt tighter to wrap around herself, to hide any of the smudges that he had already seen. "A small secret I keep," Galene offered Ammon, "my father didn't ever like it when I went out to hunt so I did so myself. I was hoping to hone skills here, were the mountain folk might be able to teach me."


She glanced warily at Irene, who seemed to want out of the situation. But what was the point in giving up an offer? What excuse could they possibly use?


Ming Xia was a person of little emotion and little reaction, making her completely unreliable. Would she seek them out if her bow was not returned? There was not a doubt in Galene's mind that Ming Xia would not be willing to give her the bow again unless there was some gift or possibly a stipulation attached. The mountain guide needed a bow as much as she did, in order to hunt and feed for herself and while carving another one would no doubt be in the realm of possibility for Ming Xia, that was time and resources wasted when there was a perfectly good one elsewhere. Galene did not know the other girl's schedule but she did suspect that the reason why they had to be back at noon was so that the other girl would have time and light in order to hunt for her own meals, perhaps after trapping some of her breakfast or items of trade.


But Ammon was also highly unreliable and any extended time with the man increased the risk of being caught by Hardeep or Warren, both individuals who Galene could safely assume would not wish to cover for their lie. Kydoimos would be confused, surely, and a wild card themselves but their presence would be significantly less damning than the other two. Orien was a neutral party, one that Galene could faintly assume would aid them. He had no ill will against Galene or Irene and as far as she could tell, the silence between Hardeep and Orien cemented the idea that the slave would be eager to help them instead of tear them apart.


It was now the question of what was better; going with a man in an attempt to keep face and face the lack of a bow and arrow but also the potential consequence of being caught in a lie or leave the situation, sowing doubt into Ammon's mind and potentially garnering an enemy. Galene had, at the end of the day, nothing at face value to loose; Kydoimos would not kill or punish her in any fashion. It was simply not in their blood, not in their nature and lifeline to hurt her or any other slave. It was Irene and her boundless resources that she stood to loose at this time; her information about the world beyond as well as what little training she could offer Galene. Hardeep would be infinitely less patient, less kind if they were caught.


If.


The bigger problem at the moment, the most immediate one, was the lack of follow-up in her statement as a trader.


"The language of the mountains has still been lost to me," Galene said to Ammon. "My father knew it better and while I have learned, I am afraid it comes in fragments." She raised her catches higher. "Perhaps if I provided them with food, they'd be more willing to speak with me. As of now, they whisper among themselves, no doubt unwilling to work with one in my condition," she added, sweeping a hand across herself before pausing and tilting her head, contemplating Ammon's offer.


"A true gentleman," Galene said, a small smile making its way across her mouth, "to offer a young woman warmth and prosperity. Perhaps we have time for a moment or two, to gaze over what I have missed?"

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene was a picture of calm and composure. Grey eyes shifting over the crowd visible through the alleyways between the cabins. One hand hooked into the sash on her waist, the other holding the rabbits slug over her shoulder. Sweat had long dried over her skin and now the cool wind kissed her face in a frosty breeze.


Inwardly, Irene was chanting No franticly as she listened to Galene and Ammon speak.


Impatiently Irene tapped on the sash with her index finger and she urged herself not to press her lips into a tight line to show her displeasure with how the situation was unfolding. All she asked of Galene, albeit silently, was to lie that they had to leave. Surely Galene understood it.


Apparently, she did not.


Irene barely stopped herself from jabbing an elbow into Galene’s ribs to snap the girl back to reality.


Instead Irene only glared at Galene coldly, her lips now pressed tightly and her brow furrowed. What was Galene doing? Why was she smiling and borderline flirting with Ammon? How hard was it to lie that they had another engagement elsewhere? At the back of her mind Irene realized that they couldn’t possibly have any engagement in a village of a dozen cabins, but it did not matter. What mattered was that they had to leave.


“Ah, true enough. The villagers refuse to speak to me in Crubian, and I am afraid I know little of their language. The boy assigned to me as a guide proved to be quite useful in this field. He takes care of trade while I hunt.” Ammon turned towards his cabin and offered an arm to Galene. Irene’s brow twitched at the gesture and she cast a glance at their own cabin, expecting Warren to come marching over.


This time Warren did not come to their rescue. Had he, Irene wondered if he’d become their saviour or executioner.


“Follow me,” Ammon cooed and, noticing Irene stare at his arm, offered another for her to take. She raised a brow at it in response. Ammon chuckled softly, shrugged with one shoulder, and lowered his arm.


They headed in the direction of the rider’s cabin in silence, Galene and Ammon at the front and Irene falling a few steps behind. Unable to think of a good excuse to get them out of this situation, she scanned the disappearing from her sights crowd and then turned her head to look at Ammon’s cabin.


A thick rosebush surrounded the area, overlapping with a fence of thickly packed branches. A thatched cottage faced them with a blank wall, dark beneath the eaves that went down as low as to reach the fence. Irene couldn’t see the back of the house for it was surrounded with a dense batch of birches, their branches overlapping to form a natural wall that closed off the backyard from the prying eyes of the passersby.


Ammon stepped onto a path so narrow it could only fit one person at a time. Irene let Galene follow Ammon first and the three of them rounded the cabin. With her shoulder Irene brushed against the rosebush that went up the cabin’s wall and the droplets of morning dew absorbed into her already damp clothing.


“This cottage is not mine,” Ammon said over his shoulder as they passed the cabin to enter another narrow path that wound around the house and led into the backyard. “It belongs to the family of the boy-guide. That little house is what I currently call home. Very rustic.”


The backyard of the cottage was spacious and clear, ground barren of grass and weeds. It was about twenty feet wide and framed by batches of dry kindling and bags of what Irene assumed was grain and flour. Across the clearing stood a small shed, about two times smaller than the cabin given to Hardeep and Kydoimos. Its slate roof was falling in and the door was a bit too small for the frame.


Ammon pushed the door open with ease, revealing a small room covered in many rugs and pillows and furs. Irene felt a warm breeze brush against her skin as she stepped onto the threshold and stopped by the door, closing it behind her and waiting for Galene and Ammon to sit down before she did.


“Here,” Ammon gestured at the chest by the wall, “I’ve put the items here. Leave your rabbits by the hearth.”


The man knelt down by the small chest and opened it, his hand reached in and took out a long pelt of auburn fur, at the end decorated with a brooch of citrine and turquoise. He held out the fur for Galene to look at.


In the meantime, Irene scanned the room. It did not have any windows; the only opening was above the hearth in the ceiling. Fire was stoked and spread a comforting warmth through the small room. Chests and bundles lined the walls, several furs and blankets were put away into the corner. Everything was in a palette of browns and blues, and Irene noticed the lack of a deep maroon bundle. Either Lady Azar did not grace Ammon with her gifts, or Ammon refused them.


With the fur given to Galene, Ammon extracted another item from the chest and held it out on his palm. It was a small statuette of an owl carved from a large piece of amber.


“Adorable, isn’t it?” Ammon asked, a small smile playing on his lips as he turned his hand to let the light play on the amber’s carved surface. “My daughter adores owls. While Crubia lacks such trinkets, Riverside has plenty of figurines carved from amber. I was fortunate to have found such an item in the possession of one of the passing merchants.”


Irene wondered just how expensive this little owl figurine was. Riverside had plenty of amber, but such big pieces were never cheap.


Ammon’s eyes slid down Galene’s frame and he put away the amber figurine into the chest. “There is no female clothing that I could offer you,” Ammon began as he got to his feet and headed for a bundle of cloth by the wall. “Will this do?” He presented a long jacket to Galene made of leather with a soft woollen lining. It was of a man’s size and coloured in browns and blues, same as the rest of items in Ammon’s possession.


“You can keep it if you’re willing to part with your rabbits,” Ammon added, the empty smile never leaving his features.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Galene stared at the items presented to her with appropriate attention, cooing when it seemed logical and grazing a finger over their surfaces, lifting a few up and examining their sides and bottoms. Her fingers remembered the heavy furs that lined her winter cloaks and how to judge the warmth based on how deep she could bury herself in them by touch alone, the color and texture of the dried pelt underneath telling her how old, how durable it would be. She glanced up at Ammon at his suggestion of trading rabbits for the fur.


It would be illogical to refuse.


If she was a merchant, she would see that rabbits could be rehunted, regained without a second's thought (and Irene's own skill was no doubt evidence that those that she had placed by the fire weren't really needed by herself, at least not to a degree of desperation). The fur would appeal to any that had as thin a pelt as she had, as cold a temperature as it was, as quality as it was. She stared at it for a second more.


Ming Xia would have to be appeased, possibly by the rabbits and game that Irene had gotten. The deer was still in the cabin, still could be used as a meal and therefore they were not short on meat in the sense of foodstuffs but gods knew that there would be the need to trade, to stave off the stronger and angrier, to bargain later when the snows fell.


But of course, the more immediate problem rang out before her.


"Well," she said, giving him a cheeky smile, "you drive a hard bargain but I must say, your deal is quite appealing. You can take the rabbits in exchange for the fur you offer me," she said, reaching for it.


Briefly, she knew that Hardeep's wrath was close, too.


More immediate problem.