Part 2, the Impending Storm

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene had set down the rabbits by the hearth just as Ammon told them to and was on her way back to the door (which would not have taken her more than half a dozen of steps) when Galene agreed to the trade. The mid-step pause was momentary and during it Irene had given the younger girl a worried glance.


What is she thinking?


Shifting her gaze from Galene, Irene watched Ammon, whose smile flickered for a moment to turn into a toothy grin. The man was enjoying himself, she could see it from how his eyes lit up. Galene was playing into his hands, dancing to his honeyed words. She had been since the first time the two of them met and Irene blamed herself for it. They had to play their roles.


Even so, giving away the rabbits did not sit well with Irene. This jacket was of a man’s size and was very well made. Fur lined it on the inside, the collar a soft fur of a dark grey. It was sturdy and warm, just what the mountain weather demanded. And it would go to Hardeep, Kydoimos, or Warren.


A slave was not allowed to keep such prized possessions. A slave was not allowed to trade in the game that they caught for their masters.


Irene looked away from Galene and walked to the door, her lips pressed together tightly to stop herself from scowling or telling Galene to reconsider. A bodyguard wasn’t supposed to scold their charge.


So many roles to play. Slave. Bodyguard.


Once by the door, Irene let it stay open a crack and leaned against the doorframe to peer up at the sky. The sun was at its peak; it was past noon.


Ming Xia might not give them the bow back. Those rabbits were a week worth of food. Neither Kydoimos nor Hardeep go out into the cold often, if at all; the jacket was worthless.


Irene lifted a hand to rub the bridge of her nose and crossed her arms over her chest, her back against the wall. In the corner of her eye she watched Ammon straighten the jacket and drape it over Galene’s shoulder after he circled her to stand behind her. With the jacket on, Ammon patted Galene’s shoulder to either sneak in some physical contact or smooth the already unwrinkled leather.


“I must say,” Ammon began, leaning in towards Galene as he kept his hands on her shoulders, “blue suits you,” he said softly and rounded her to reach the hearth. He added some more firewood into the fire and then propped a kettle above the fire. “There is some tea I was given by my guide. It wards off the cold, so I’ve been told. Join me. Tell me about your travels and how you’ve met Irina.”


Ammon poured some water into the kettle from a nearby bucket and sat down onto a stack of pillows and rolled up rugs by the hearth. Despite the hovel where he lived and the tasks more suited to a slave or a servant that he had to perform, Ammon did not look out of place. He sat comfortably on the pillows, his legs crossed at the ankles and his elbows propped against the rug roll behind his back. The smile remained on his lips, as empty as ever, but his eyes gleamed. Orange firelight danced on his features, accentuating the fine lines at the corners of his eyes.


He looked confident, but not overbearingly vain like most dragon riders in the village did. His eyes were focused on Galene and he beckoned her to sit beside him by the fire. In this small house, they’d have to be sitting side by side not to bump into the chests and bundles by the walls. A hand fell onto a rug and slid over its surface, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle. Then the man’s eyes lifted and locked with Irene’s. Irene caught herself watching Ammon intently, mesmerized, and looked away too quickly. She’d noticed Ammon’s smile quiver in a lopsided smirk.


While the water was heating up, Ammon filled the silence with conversation. His questions were simple, asking Galene of where she’d met Irene and why she’d chosen a female bodyguard, and whenever Galene asked something he responded with vague answers that were barely enough to satisfy one’s curiosity. He watched Galene as they spoke, his gaze never leaving hers up until the water was ready and he poured the tea for them. Irene thought to refuse the brew at first but chosen to take it after feeling the cold seep into her bones from standing by the door the entire time.


She’d been sipping at the tea (it smelled and tasted as any other herb tea she’d had before) when Ammon asked yet another question of Galene. By that point Irene had tuned out their conversation. It was not her business to listen into conversation that did not involve her. She lowered the cup (it was made of thick clay and lacked a handle) and took a breath to tell Galene that they should leave when she’d heard a sound so familiar to her ears it made her forget the worries that it was well past noon and they had to return quickly not to raise questions from the riders or their guard. She turned her head towards the door again and shifted to peer into the crack to look into the backyard.


A figure moved on the bare black ground. It stepped here and there and air whistled at even intervals. Turning, Irene rested a shoulder against the frame and spared a hand to open the door wider to look at the boy with a training spear sparring with an invisible enemy.


<<You do it wrong,>> Irene called out to the boy after a moment of watching him.


The boy stopped and stared at her. The youth appeared to be no older than fifteen, but the grime marring his cheeks and forehead made it hard to pinpoint his age. Dark hair was short, save for a thin braid slapping him against the neck with each thrust of his short spear. Something glittered in the sunlight, tied to the end of the braid as a hairband. Pelts and furs were strapped tightly to his body and made his shoulders broader and waist slimmer. In the youth’s hand was a short spear, the blade dull and triangular, with a small amber ribbon tied just beneath the blade. The ribbon swayed from side to side, moved by the wind.


<<As if you’d know,>> the youth barked back, apparently offended, and then side stepped back into a defensive stance. Seconds later he continued moving the spear, swinging it here and there, spinning around. The straw stuffed sack before the youth protested in dull thumps as the spear’s shaft hit it.


<<Too pressure on your lower back. Weapon is extension of arms,>> Irene said after a moment of silence that was interrupted only by the occasional whistling of the weapon and the murmur of conversation between Ammon and Galene. <<Keep it simple. You’re not in a,>> she paused, searching for the right word translated into a language that she knew little, and chose to use the Crubian translation instead, “circus.”


<<What’s that?>> The boy gasped for air, the spear continued its dance.


<<Ah,>> she paused, dumbfounded by the question, <<Strange people showing tricks with animals.>>


<<I’m not showing tricks with animals,>> the youth grumbled.


<<I guess no,>> Irene snorted. <<Lean back. Left foot in front. More. Now swing with bodyweight in it.>>


The sack of hay thumped louder, the spear struck it where the neck of the imaginary opponent was supposed to be.


Behind her, Ammon cleared his throat loudly. Irene looked at the man from over her shoulder to spot him holding a cup with one hand and with the other beckoning Irene towards the backyard. “You can go train with him,” he said, a half-smile playing on his lips. He’d been leaning towards Galene slightly.


Irene did not reply and instead looked at Galene. Before Galene was given a chance to voice her opinion on the matter Ammon spoke again.


“Please, do entertain the child. He will be pleased to have someone trained in combat spar with him. He’d been pestering me for a while now and by the time we’d finished I sported half a dozen of blooming bruises.” Ammon shifted, leaning forward and waved at the door. Irene obeyed the silent command and opened the door to reveal the backyard and the boy, who had stopped and now leaned heavily against the training spear. “Manwe, do you mind?” Ammon called out into the backyard.


The boy, Manwe, regarded Irene with pursed lips and an inquisitorial stare. He looked at her from head to toe as he chewed on his bottom lip. “She looks weak,” he said in accented Crubian.


“Don’t let the looks fool you, child.” Ammon raised a hand to point to his scarred nose. “She was the one to decorate my face with this.”


It was too dim in the cabin to illuminate the thin line crossing Ammon’s nose but Manwe looked at Ammon nonetheless. He’d proceeded to chew on his lip and gave Irene another look.


“Fine,” Manwe said. “Don’t cry when I hit you too hard.”


Ammon laughed softly at the comment, leaned back and looked at Galene. “Surely you don’t mind. The boy needs some entertainment and Irene will have something to do while I steal you away from her. So,” he poured himself another cupful of tea from the kettle, “Have you an opinion on the prices of spices imported to Crubia? I heard Vanguard refuses to trade. It is all rumours. I do not have the resources within my household to provide any truthful information. A trader such as yourself must know more, surely.”


Instead of agreeing to the offer like Manwe had, Irene turned to enter the cabin and neared Galene. She’d noticed Manwe look at her with a slight frown, like a child who’d been excited for something that did not happen, and he grumped something under his breath. The spear did not resume its dance and instead Manwe waited in the backyard, the tip of his boot dug into the ground and pushing around a pebble.


Irene knelt down beside Galene and whispered quietly in Vanguardian, <<We can leave if you want.>> She ignored Ammon’s hand curling around Galene’s to bring it upwards so he could pour more hot tea into the cup she was holding.


They had to leave. It was well past noon. If Hardeep and Kydoimos did not notice their absence, Warren and Ming Xia must have. This cabin was hidden from the rest of the village and no one would think to come looking for them here.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Galene's gaze fell on the mountain boy, lips turning downwards in a brief frown. They did not have the time anymore and at this point, the problem of Kydoimos, Ming Xia, and Hardeep had overshadowed whatever potential threat Ammon might be in the future. The longer she stayed in the other man's presence, the more uncomfortable she grew. It felt as though he was trying to test her, try to see if there was a falsehood in her words. She could not risk being in his presence any longer and an escape seemed to present itself, even though his hand was still firm around her arm.


She sniffed and said, "I'd refer you not try to steal my guard away from me." She turned up her nose to the boy, hoping to give some semblance of a spoiled child before turning to Ammon and smiling sweetly, saying, "It has been a darling pleasure to chat with you, but I am afraid I must begin heading back to check up on my wares and see if there isn't anything I can manage to bargain for or with while I am out here." She slipped her arm out of Ammon's grasp and turned to Irene, nodding at the woman curtly before leaving the small cabin's premise. She kept her head forward and fingers laced into the warm jacket, pulling it closer to her body and walking in the direction of the village, pushing past the crowd that seemed to appear, the bow slung over her shoulder still and the arrows pressed tightly against her side.


As they reached the cabin, she made out the figure of Ming Xia, standing tall with no emotion carved on her face, as usual. When she spotted Galene, however, her mouth twitched downwards, eyebrows scrunching up closer together. She held her hand out expectantly. Before Galene could give the mountain girl all of her items, she spoke first.


"I know we are late," Galene said, passing her the arrows one by one and glancing behind her at Irene, "and I apologize. I know you must use the bow and arrow for hunting, so we can give you our catch instead, to make up for your lost time."


Ming Xia's eyes did not narrow in suspicion but her eyebrows did smooth out if only slightly.


Galene glanced once more at Irene and jerked her head towards Ming Xia, as if to say to pass her catch over to the guide.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene had been following Galene silently, her eyes scanning the crowd and the alleyways for familiar faces belonging to any members of their little group. They were heading from the direction of the forest, for Ammon’s cabin was on the village’s edge, but Irene wished not to pile more lies into the already large stack. No one followed them and no one came to greet them from the crowd wearing a scowl. Until they turned to spot Ming Xia by the cabin.


Bracing herself for the emotionless torrent of silent reprimanding, Irene halted beside Galene and glanced at the cabin. Warren wasn’t by the door at first but as Galene spoke up, the door opened moments after and the guard’s face peered out. He wore an expression of surprise that changed into anger as he took in Galene’s new jacket and the few rabbits draped over Irene’s shoulder.


Warren stepped outside, eyed Ming Xia with an irritated glare, and then opened his mouth to speak to Irene. Before he could Irene raised a hand and side stepped to circle Galene. It was better to handle Warren without Ming Xia being nearby, she thought. The presence of their guide seemed to put Warren on edge and she had some emplaning to do that the man surely wouldn’t like to hear.


Before Irene’s mind decided on the lies she’d tell Warren to quell his anger, Galene’s offer made Irene stop mid-step and gape at the girl. Warren did the same, his brows furrowing until they met in the middle, and he crossed his arms, waiting.


“What?” Irene asked dumbfounded though she knew that she didn’t mishear. “Are you serious?”


That question must have been on both Irene’s and Warren’s mind.


Galene sounded and looked serious, the silent command to give over the rabbits proved as much. Irene did no such thing. At first. She’d just stood there, looking at Galene coolly, and then finally shifted to swing the rabbits from her shoulder and silently handed them over to Ming Xia. The little animals were given a long look as Irene passed them over. She could have cured the meat and sewn the fur into a good warm coat. She could have traded some in for better shoes and sturdier clothing. She could have gotten Galene her own bow if Kydoimos and Hardeep allowed it.


Instead, half the rabbits were traded in for a fancy jacket and another to please their ever emotional guide.


Irene had to set her jaw not to scowl and once the rabbits were out of her hands she turned on her heel and headed into the cabin. It wasn’t Galene’s fault, she told herself as she passed Warren and ignored his suspicious stare. It was her lie she fed to Ammon originally. It was her idea to train Galene when they had so little time to spare.


Before self-pity and regret could swallow her mind whole, Irene crouched down before one of the water basins and washed her hands and face. The cabin was too warm and too confining and they’d only just returned. She wanted to leave and get fresh air to clear her mind. Instead Irene retreated to her spot by the hearth, picked up the jacket she’d been broidering for the past few days and continued the needlework.


Armor clanked as Warren stepped away from the door and peered down at Irene, his arms crossed over his chest and his face half-hidden by shadow.


“Where were you?” He demanded.


“Hunting,” Irene breathed after a moment. “We’ve gotten a good catch and went to trade some in for that coat.” She spared a hand to gesture at the jacket. “It took longer than expected so we got delayed.”


“I haven’t seen you in the market,” Warren said.


Irene willed herself not to stop the needlework at the man’s words. They made her heart leap to her throat in fear. Warren had gone out looking for them. “We met the trader on the way back.”


She didn’t see Warren scrunch up his nose but could hear it in his words. “You’re filthy,” he said and the way his words were muffled suggested that he’d been looking over his shoulder at Galene. “What were you two doing? Crawling after the rabbits?”


Irene raised her eyes to look at Galene expectedly. Out of the two of them, Galene was better at lying. Hopefully she didn’t need any more rabbits to get out of unfavourable situations. “She helped me set up snares,” Irene said, unable to come up with a better excuse. "There is a bathhouse in the village." 

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Ming Xia eyed the rabbits that were handed over to her, her eyes glancing downwards at them while the rest of her body remained rigid. Galene slowly took off the bow and presented it to the other girl.


"You needed this to hunt as much as the rest of us," she stated to the guide. "So, you gave it to us in the morning so we could hunt, while you used it in the afternoon. Since we've occupied your time, it's only fair that we give you the meal that you would have otherwise caught."


Ming Xia took the bow next, fingers wrapping around the hard wood for a moment, eyes turning to Galene's face, dark and unfeeling.


There was a silence that stretched on for a beat before the other girl spoke.


"Do not be late a second time," Ming Xia said, her voice as level as it always was.


There was another pause.


"I am glad that you have returned it in one piece," the guide added, face twisting almost as if she was struggling to remember something before she turned and disappeared into the crowd.


Galene counted it as a victory and walked into the cabin to see Warren and Irene speaking.


"As if you'd know anything about hunting or trading," Galene shot at Warren, frowning and folding her hands over her chest and staring down the guard without flinching. Before she could open her mouth again and speak, Hardeep appeared in the doorway of his room, walking smoothly across the floor to stand in front of Galene. She turned her head to glare up at Hardeep, who only gazed down at her with a sharp eye.


"Why did you want to trade for a jacket?" he asked.


"Have you been in this weather?" Galene exclaimed. "It's so cold, not that you would care or notice as you've been inside the whole time." She sniffed and pulled the jacket closer to her.


"Watch your tongue little girl," Hardeep challenged, towering over her. Galene drew herself up as tall as possible, peering back at him, his status not cowing her in the least. His hand moved to the hilt of a dagger or sword by his belt, to frighten or to use against her.


At that moment, a second pair of feet were heard and Orien appeared, carrying a pot filled to the brim with leaves.


"You have returned," the older slave said, his voice gentle in comparison to Hardeep's harsher one. He walked up the steps and offered Galene a smile. The slave did not back down but did offer Orien a nod of recognition before glancing down at the pot that he was carrying, frowning briefly at the contents. Hardeep's head tilted towards the pot as well before the rider backed down, turning on his heel and walking towards the fire instead of staying by the door, giving Galene an opportunity to enter as well. Orien followed suit, placing the pot next to the fire and pawing through, seemingly looking for something. Galene's head turned to gaze at the slave as Hardeep seemed to be pointedly ignoring Orien's presence a few feet away from him. The slave eventually found a small, red package made of what looked like silk that he quietly pocketed. Galene appeared prepared to ask what it was when Hardeep interjected.


"You should look for Kydoimos," the rider said sharply, eyes never tearing from the flames. "They left to search for you when noon came and went."


Galene's head turned slightly to stare at the other rider again before Orien spoke up.


"I know which direction they went," the slave said easily, "I can show you." He turned to Hardeep, almost with hesitation but he had spent years knowing how to hide it well. "And perhaps a bath would be good. It has been a while since we have had the opportunity to do so."


Hardeep paused for a second before standing up, groaning slightly with the effort and turned to Irene. "Fine," he said curtly. "Though I don't know where the bathhouses are."

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Warren shot Galene a stare and tilted his head back, his chest puffing out and his brows crinkled in a frown.


“I trade all the time at the market,” he said. “It doesn’t take hours. All you do is walk up to the merchant, say your price, and haggle for a bit. It’s not that hard. I trade.”


The guard appeared to be offended by Galene’s comment. From her spot by the hearth Irene could only see Warren’s back but his irritation reached her across the room. He did not mention hunting. Not surprising. The guard was confused when Irene set up a snare. He probably had never had to hunt in his life. He’d never lived outside Nuru, Irene guessed, so he didn’t need to learn how to track and hunt animals.


The rest of the conversation Irene had partially ignored, happy to be excluded from it. The accusations were shot at Galene and Irene had to set her jaw to stop herself from saying that it was her fault the rabbits were given away. She’d thought Galene to pick up on the story she’d spun and use that sharp wit of hers to ease everyone’s suspicions. It was a mistake. She’d forgotten Galene’s lack of respect (or care) to Hardeep.


When Hardeep reached for the hilt of whatever weapon he wanted to take, Irene set down the jacket and was about to stand up and get to the man before any blood was spilled. Thankfully, Orien appeared before the situation took a turn for the worse.


Warren reached for the door, mumbling that he was no boor who didn’t know basic necessities, and closed it after Orien entered the cabin. It was cold outside and the rain started to pat down lazily. He’d stood by the door, his hands behind his back and his eyes on the floor.


At first, Irene had not realized that Hardeep’s words were directed to her, and her eyes were lowered to her needlework. She’d only seen a flash of colour when he stood up and looked down at her, waiting for an answer or a direction. She’d been paying attention to Orien’s movements as well from the corner of her eye. It was a habit, one that saved her life before. She’d noticed the little package in Orien’s hand but didn’t give it any meaning. Maybe it was the tea that Lady Azar had sent to Hardeep. Irene wouldn’t be surprised to find Hardeep sought after by riders. Gifting expensive items was courting in the world of the rich.


“There is one by the pond,” Irene said as she looked up at Hardeep and searched her memory for the location of the bathhouse. She’d last been there many years ago but knew for certain that it was still across the village by the spring. “I will lead you to it,” she took the hint.


The needle was put into the fabric and the jacket was placed into its respective spot by the hearth. Irene stood up and looked at Hardeep, their eyes locking and them standing close to each other for the lack of space by the hearth. She didn’t hold his gaze for long and lowered her eyes as she rounded the man to head for the packs by the wall.


The events of the other day were hard to ignore. What Hardeep said and done was influenced by alcohol, Irene knew that. But it did not stop her from wondering if he’d truly meant what he said. The touch on her braid wouldn’t be forgotten for a while yet either. It was an uncomfortable feeling.


But there was nothing she could say or do now. Hardeep remained the man who owned her, and while she did not hate him for it, she did not like him either. Probably he didn’t care that he shared his memories and feelings with her the other day. To him she was nothing but a slave, one that he still suspected of murdering his father. Maybe he told many slaves of his dead parents.


At least she could breathe some fresh air while taking Hardeep to the bathhouse. The cabin was too small and stuffy. Too crowded.


“What items do you wish to bring?” Irene asked Hardeep as she knelt by one of the packages gifted to him the day before.


This mountain village lacked the boisterous privileges of Nuru. It wouldn’t be surprising to find out that each had to bring their own toiletries to the bathhouse. Maybe linens and soaps. Irene remembered seeing such items among the gifts. Perhaps Hardeep wanted to use some of those aromatic oils and soaps now.


Warren stirred by the door. “Should I escort them or stay and guard the cabin?” He asked.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Hardeep nodded silently at Irene before turning to Warren. "Whatever satisfies you," he said dully.


"You can come," Orien said, standing as well, Galene gathering the coat she had worn to stand as well, turning to glance at the other slave and back at the guard, some sort of mischievousness flickering behind them. "It would perhaps be the best; two slaves walking around town does not bode well for anyone, not particularly the slaves."


Galene glanced at Irene, her eyes moving when her head did not and her mouth tightened but she said nothing. Before, slaves walking across Nuru had been a common occurrence and the marks on their necks were a symbol of protection, almost. Violating or hurting a slave would bring the wrath of the household down on the perpetrator's head; the riders wanted to seem strong and just and that meant punishment when their property was harmed. Even if that property was another human being, stripped of name and dignity in the first place.


Here, it was more so a brand of shame. The mountain people did not look kindly upon them, their eyes narrowing at the leather and lips almost smirking. Ming Xia was one of them and her words about Orien could only be true, given the fact that the girl seemed to hold few views on practically anything that could potentially be her own anymore.


Orien glanced behind at Galene, who stared briefly, feeling as though she was supposed to be recognizing or understanding something before Orien moved out the cabin and she was forced to follow. They walked out onto the cobblestone, the village already alive with movement and talk. He made his way down a path closer to the treeline, the sound of the beating wings of dragons echoing in the air.


"There are occasional shipments from the dragons," Orien explained, as if they both did not know. "I think Kydoimos went by them, in hopes of finding their own dragon and... well, Galene you know best."


Hardeep turned to Irene and said, "Lead the way."

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


It had gotten colder outside. Or maybe Irene was imagining it. Each time she’d been outside she was always busy. Running in the morning with Warren. Training at noon by the oak. Helping around the cabin during the day. She always felt busy and didn’t focus on the crisp cold air as her body was straining under some physical activity or another.


Now, with Hardeep near and the crowd of villagers pressing from all sides, Irene couldn’t help but notice the air biting at her skin.


One hand holding the collar of her jacket tightly to her neck, Irene eased through the crowd, pushing through with one shoulder. It was midday and the village was busy with activity. Villagers went about their daily chores. Slaves hurried from one corner of the village and to another, shivering in their thin clothes and looking like scared and beaten animals. Walking side by side with Hardeep proved to be difficult and Irene had to lead most of the time through the crowd. She glanced at Hardeep from over her shoulder half-apologetically, checking if he was still following her.


They did not speak, and even if they tried to it would have been difficult. The crowd was loud. It became even louder when they reached the market where meat and fish and all sorts of items were being traded at the stalls. Coin clinked, knifes sliced through the produce. The village was filled with the hubbub of a busy day.


Pressed against her side Irene held a small basket that she’d fished out from one of the packages the group had brought with them. Inside, under the cover of a purple cloth, were all sorts of toiletries that Irene thought Hardeep might want in the bathhouse. Truthfully, only a clean sheet of linen was needed. Soaps and oils weren’t used in these parts. Thinking the transition to be too sudden from the comfortable Crubian baths, Irene chose the soaps and vials and balms at random. Each smelled like something sweet and fresh. There was lavender soap and some vial with a thick liquid that had a sickly sweet smell of honey that made Irene wince when she’d popped the cork to check on the contents.


On the way to the bathhouse, she wondered if she’d brought a food spice on accident. She wasn’t one to be knowledgeable of such pompous products. All her knowledge came from bits of conversation shared with men and women of noble and wealthy statures.


It did not take them long to reach their destination. The journey quickened once they left the main busy road and turned towards the edge of the village up north. Framed by a mountain and tall pines from one side, the bathhouse was nothing more but a small cabin of cheddar wood. It was located some distance from the other houses and the surrounding area was clear of trees and shrubbery. Cut grasses hid under the eaves of the bathhouse, and a wall of ivy crept up towards the roof. The path to the bathhouse was bare and black, devoid of grass and weeds. Faintly, Irene could hear running water from behind the little house.


No one was around the area but Irene turned her head to look around just in case. She’d been watching the streets on the way to the bathhouse too, but discretely, without turning her head to give away her strange behaviour. She didn’t want another encounter with Ammon.


“This should be the place,” Irene said as she looked at Hardeep from over her shoulder. “No one should be inside. Villagers bathe rarely and very early in the morning. No one will bother you, My Lord.”


She stepped towards the bathhouse and pushed the door open. It opened softly on well-oiled hinges, revealing a narrow hallway. Across from the main door was another closed one, and to the right was a small room with a large curtain blocking entry at the doorway. No sounds came from either of the rooms. Irene was right, the cabin was empty. It smelled of pine and the air was comfortably warm.


Irene headed inside the cabin, holding the door for Hardeep to enter as well, and then turned around to give him the basket and spared a hand to gesture at the curtain.


“You can undress there,” she said. “I’m going to prepare the coals.”


Without another word, Irene turned on her heel and disappeared behind the door leading to the main room. It did not take her long to find the tools necessary to heat up the coals. They sizzled from heat in the large basket woven of metal. Placed in the middle of the room, it was in a larger box made of dry logs. Short and narrow benches circled it. There was no other furniture in the room, only the collection of basins (some filled with water and some empty) at the far back decorated the wall.


While the coals were heating up and turning bright orange from the fire below, Irene carefully set down a bucket with water by the coals and headed outside into the hallway. Arms crossed over her chest, she rested her back against a wall and waited for Hardeep. She didn’t think he’d allow her to take a bath with him, so she didn’t follow him into the changing room.





***





Warren followed Orien and Galene as close as it was possible without bumping into either of them. Tall and broad shouldered, Warren marched behind the two slaves like a bodyguard given an important task. Chest forward, head held high and a hand resting on the pommel of his sword, Warren scanned the crowd with cold and narrowed eyes. He tried to go for the intimidating look. The look that many villagers had given him instead was that of half-amusement.


It was a blow to his ego, Warren had to admit that. His soft and warm features did little to help with intimidation, and no matter how much he tried to copy Irene’s calm posture or Ming Xia’s intimidating eyes, he ended up thinking himself to look like a jester instead. His eyes weren’t dark enough to be intimidating and his soldier’s march was not as soft and effortless as Irene’s movements.


Perhaps the look of a hardened soldier wasn’t for him, Warren decided. No one bothered Galene and Orien, so that was an accomplishment. Warren would never admit that it was his armour and the crest of a dragon rider woven into the leather that deterred the villagers from messing around with the slaves in front of him.


Cold and angry looks were thrown at Galene and Orien more often than not. It worried Warren and he caught himself holding the hilt of his sword tightly.


“Shipments from the dragons?” Warren asked as he looked down at Orien, his chest bumping into the slave with a soft clank of the guard’s armour. Stepping back, Warren looked away from Orien and pretended to scan the crowd for any imminent threats. If there was a crowd. The part of the village that they had entered wasn’t as busy as the main street and only a few passersby could be seen.


He needed to work on his acting skills too, it seemed.


“Ah. I mean. Shipments from Nuru, right? Do they bring supplies? Isn’t it dangerous?” Warren stuttered to start a conversation to distract himself from what a mess he seemed to be. The mask of an intimidating soldier slipped, revealing a stuttering guard instead. At least the frost biting at his cheeks hid the blush.


“What I mean to say is—“ He took a deep breath and mentally told himself to keep it together, “won’t we be discovered? I thought no one knew we were on this mountain.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


The first thing Hardeep realized about bathing in the mountains was that there appeared to be no actual bathing. It was a stark contrast from what he experienced at home as well as during the conquests that he had partaken in. At home, the sandy walls of the bathhouse would greet him first and then the sound of dripping water would come, follow shortly by the low murmurs of slaves, puttering about. They wiped down the tiled mosaic floor with rags and lit candles and incense to make the room smell pleasant. The light was always low and gentle, serene and peaceful. The water would never ripple until he slid into it, clear and warmed by the fires that were being stoked below. In times of conquest and battle, it would be much worse. cold water was splashed over hands and faces to wake up but that would be the extent of any preparations and cleaning and given that some lasted as long as they did, it was always a relief to go back and dip into the warmed water of home and fire.


The wooden structure that was the bathhouse where they were was jarring, true, but he had thought for a moment that there might be some form of a tub, metal or otherwise that he could sink into. As he ducked behind the curtain to change (and glanced down at the basket only to crinkle his nose at the "products" within) he did not hear the sound of water flowing in or out. Perhaps it had already been prepared? In that case, there was the very real possibility that someone had used it before and his nose wrinkled further at the idea of using someone's dirtied water.


He tugged off his armor and the linens that rested beneath, keeping his underclothes on in case someone was to wander through. He didn't trust anyone to look after his armor other than himself and those that he had brought with him and stuffed them in the basket.


Irene had brought along a bar of soap and some sweetened honey. Why, he had no clue; the soap was caustic and would be more useful to wash clothes and linens than the body and honey did not go well with cleaning. Ducking into the room that he had seen the slave dip into, he frowned at the set up. There really did not appear to be any large tubs of water that he could possibly use.


"So," he said, peering around, "how does this go?"


----


Galene turned around to look briefly irritated at the guard during his blubbering. Orien's face turned as well but his features were gentler. "Many do not believe so," he said. "You know how they can be; believing themselves unkillable even in the face of overwhelming evidence that yes, they can perish. It is both their greatest strength and most tragic weakness."


"You'd think," Galene said, turning to look at Orien. "They always think that a dragon makes them invincible."


"Hard to deny when felling a dragon is so hard," Orien said, with only a tinge of bitterness laced into his words, barely audible. Galene narrowed her eyes at the other slave briefly, wondering what it was that made him feel that way. But then again, he was a slave and there was no guarantee that he had been born that way. Being stripped of name and pride and dignity and justice would make anyone bitter, especially if you had to serve your captors and their pompous asses.


"Have there been any? Felled dragons, I mean," Galene said.


"None that I have heard. How about you Warren, have you heard of such?" Orien said, turning to incorporate the guard in the conversation once more, though Galene only arched an eyebrow at the guard, tilting her head in a somehow knowing way, almost mocking him and the inevitable stutter that seemed to arise whenever Orien spoke to him.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene stepped forward from the wall and followed Hardeep into the bathing chamber. ‘Bathing chamber’ was an overstatement. With darkened walls and polished and bent from constant use benches, the room wasn’t at all appealing to the eye. It also stank of dampness and mould, but the smell of pine clung to the air. The door leading to the pond was covered by a moth-eaten curtain of a thick fabric. Dozens of people went through this little room weekly and it was noticeable. What’s more, Irene could smell a faint scent of alcohol. The villagers did not only come here to bathe but also to drink.


While she did not frown at the room as Hardeep did, she understood his dislike. Even public Crubian bathhouses were in a better condition.


“You’ve never been to one before?” she asked before she realized the informality. Their talk last night had blurred the lines between them. With no other people nearby, Irene found herself gradually becoming less careful around Hardeep. In public they were a dragon rider and his slave. In private? She wasn’t quite sure.


Before Hardeep could respond, Irene lifted an arm and gestured at the benches.


“You sit there and sweat,” she said and inwardly snorted at her words. Sweating did not sound like a part of a bathing process. “Once you are done, or it gets too hot, go outside and take a swim in the pond. They don’t wash themselves here, not with soap. I’ve brought some in case you wanted to, My Lord.”


Even properly addressing Hardeep felt strange. Irene almost chocked out the words ‘My Lord’ and then felt silly for saying them. Perhaps she should switch to using ‘Sir’ as Warren and many others did.


Side-stepping, Irene rounded Hardeep and went to the brazier of coals in the middle. The coals had turned bright orange. She splashed some water over the brazier from the bucket and smoke lifted into the air instantly. Steam like a heavy mist filled the room. It had gotten hot and Irene felt heavy underneath her clothes. After the bucket was set down, Irene returned to Hardeep and was about to gesture at the benches once more but halted, her eyes lingering over the rider’s underclothes.


“You must also be naked. Or cover with a cloth, if you wish,” she said and added in her mind, Or shy. “I will watch over your amour, unless you want me here to help.”





***








“You make it sound poetic…” Warren grumbled under his breath and avoided Orien’s eyes as the latter turned to look at the guard. Heat built up in the guard’s cheeks and he wished that the frost biting at his skin hid that embarrassing blush.


Warren had been focusing so much on avoiding looking at Orien and, instead, peering into the shadows and forest that he’d completely missed the bitterness in the male slave’s words. Warren had caught it only when Galene looked at Orien in suspicion and Warren stared at Orien in confusion, wondering what had brought such a scrutinizing look from the young girl.


Maybe it’s because Sir Hardeep is a dragon rider.


It was possible, Warren supposed. A lover of a dragon rider did not sound at all perfect. Perhaps Orien held a grudge against Hardeep. No. A grudge was too harsh of a word. A dislike, perhaps. Even the thought of not liking a dragon rider for who they are and what they controlled sounded preposterous, so Warren let the thought fade.


It was Orien’s business, after all. All Warren could do was observe as he always had.


Warren had been so engrossed in his thoughts and speculations that he almost did not hear Orien’s question. When the slave’s words registered in his mind, it was Warren’s turn to narrow his eyes at Orien.


“Of course not,” Warren nearly spat. Now, the blush to his cheeks was not at all from embarrassment. “It is not possible. No one can injure a dragon. Do not speak of such things, lest someone overhears you. Dragons and their riders built our nation. They feed us and protect us. Had I heard someone talking of how a dragon died,” Warren turned his head to the side to spit on the ground, his mouth filling with the taste of bile at the idea of a lifeless dragon falling from above, “they’d speak of it no more. What is the point of speculating their deaths?”


Warren, who did not look at either Galene or Orien as he spoke, tilted his head to look down. Peering at the top of Orien’s and Galene’s heads, the guard shook his head in disapproval and a slight snarl curled his lip.


“I know they’ve done bad things to both of you,” Warren continued, his voice less laced with poisonous anger. “But it is not enough of a reason to badmouth them. Or gossip about their vulnerabilities.”


A hand curled around the hilt of his sword, Warren fell another step behind the two slaves to make some distance between them. “Go,” he said sternly. “Let us find Sir Kydoimos and return quickly.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


"What?" Hardeep asked, his teeth clicking on the t sharply. Sweating was not part of the bathing process. The bathing process was to remove sweat, to clean it off the body. Becoming nude was not something that he minded and stripping his underclothes in front of a slave was nothing new (he did it when he bathed back home anyways). He handed the armor to Irene to hold before removing his last piece of clothing and squinting at the benches that were presented to him before tossing his underclothes onto the pile.


"The soap is too caustic for skin," he said, running a hand across the wooden bench. It was uneven and the villagers probably didn't give enough of a damn about anything outside of the bare practicality of an item; no carvings, no elaborate designs were embedded in the wood. It did not feel rough enough for splinters but he still felt as though there was the possibility of scratches and grit his teeth as he sat down tentatively and stared at the coals, leaning slightly away from them as they burned, hot and red and too much like dragon fire.


"I take it you've come here before if you know how things go," Hardeep said, looking at Irene. The embers burned into his sight even after his eyes had left them.


"Strange. Its a far trek from Izmar."


----


The venom in Warren's words made Galene and Orien both turn to him, their faces twisting into something akin to surprise and for Galene, borderline anger, disgust, and somehow disappointment; for Orien, it was pity.


"Dragons don't live forever," Galene challenged, turning to Orien, who seemed more likely to be willing to offer information than a guard who would kiss the blood soaked blade of a rider, even if the blood was from his own neck.


"Nothing lives forever," Orien said lightly, almost too much so that Galene's mind began to wonder, what was Orien before this? He was not a simple slave; his language was too polished to be born a complete slave or even a plain farmer. She examined him with a more critical eye, mindful of Warren behind them and hoping the guard would be too interested in not embarrassing himself in front of his crush. Orien held himself straight; whether it was because of the power bestowed upon him because of his relationship with Hardeep (she did not really know what he was like before) or because he had been trained that way, she did not know. There had been rumors that he too had been a conquered people, or at the very least, a merchant that had snuffed by a dragon rider due to some slight, imagined or real.


"Orien," Galene asked in a low voice, glancing back at Warren, the movement catching the eye of the other slave, "do you truly believe that there is no way for dragons to be killed?"


"Of course," he said rapidly, before elongating his strides and jerking his head forward to encourage Galene to hurry as well. She stepped forward quicker and leaned in closer to the man, eyes wide and eager and childlike.


If she had been paying more attention, she would have seen the twinge of pity in his face, in the fact that her innocence was somehow still intact after years of trying to have it broken.


"There is a way to kill them," he breathed, the words pulled away from his mouth and tossed to the wind as he spoke them, low and dark. Galene's eyes widened and her pace nearly paused, causing Orien to fall at least three paces in front of her. She stretched her own legs out to once more put space between her and Warren.


"How do you know?" Galene asked. Orien straightened and turned his eyes forward, sliding slightly towards Galene before glancing at the merchants lining the streets.


"You've been here before?" Galene asked, confused. Had he heard from the mountain folk.


"Simply merchant talk and sometimes, proof," Orien said, at a normal volume.


"Proof?" Galene asked in her still-quiet voice.


Orien pursed his lips, head still trained forward, eyes not glancing at Warren behind them.


"Skins," Orien said simply and Galene frowned, turning her face forward again and trying to understand what he meant. Skins, skins, skins --


"Dragon skins," Orien said in his quiet voice and Galene almost stopped again but did not, her breath catching in her throat and excitement bubbling in her stomach.


"How did you --"


"A long time ago," Orien said in a tired voice, "I was almost like you."


Galene turned towards him once more, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, eyebrows pushed together and thoughts running through her head. Did he know? Had he always suspected.


"Brought by the ear here, stripped of everything sides my name, and beaten until broken."


She remained silent.


He lived with the Passis. They were good people.


Well, Balin was.


"A broken heart?" Galene joked.


There was heavy silence and she shrank slightly at it, staring straight ahead and not bringing up any more points until they made it to the fringes of the forest, listening to the sound of shouts of alarm.


Orien broke out into a sprint, causing Galene to take a step back in shock before running, too, seeing, just in time, a red dragon speed off with someone stationed on it.


"Kydoimos," Orien offered and Galene teetered back on her heels.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


A smile curled Irene’s lips slightly before she caught herself and flattened her lips in an attempt to hide the improper reaction to her master’s question. She lifted a shoulder in a shrug, a hand pointed at the benches. “The process clears the toxins from your body. Helps you stay healthy. It is also very refreshing. If this doesn’t suit your tastes, I can find a larger basin for you to soak in.” She doubted there would be a larger water basin anywhere nearby.


As Hardeep undressed, Irene politely looked away and waited for him to hand her the rest of his clothing. She felt her arms protest in a numb pain at the weight of the armour. Before, she wouldn’t have noticed the heaviness of the metals and leathers. Now, after forcing herself through rigorous and rushed morning training sessions, her body was in the process of recovery. The process was a painful one.


At the comment mentioning the harshness of the brought with soap, Irene looked up from the armour and quirked a brow at Hardeep. The soap was fine, wasn’t it? She’d have used it without a second thought. It was soap. Sometimes, even that little item was hard to come by.


“I apologize,” Irene said in a quiet monotone and lowered her eyes as any other obedient slave would. “The soap was part of the gifts.”


Thinking it was time to give Hardeep some privacy, Irene turned on her heel to exit the room. The armour had to be put away into the changing room. Before she could open the door, Hardeep spoke and Irene halted in her tracks, turning to look at the man, a hand resting on the door’s edge. Some cold air had crept inside the room from the outside hallway, breaking through the warm steam.


Through the light misty cover Irene could see Hardeep clearly. Her eyes skirted over his body quickly and inquisitorially, not lingering over the areas that one might be ashamed of showing to strangers. His physique did not surprise her. A dragon rider was a warrior, albeit raised and living in great wealthy estates. While muscles adorned his body now – Irene felt a pang of jealousy at the sight, missing her own strength and a healthy body – it was doubtful Hardeep would stay the same by the end of winter.


“A two month’s journey, I believe,” Irene nodded to Hardeep’s words. “These mountains were not the first I’ve visited. My uncle and I had left Izmar when I was eight. It was four years after that we’ve stopped here briefly.” She decided not to mention that she’d lived at Hui Hua’s house. Only Galene knew of it and Irene preferred to keep it that way.  


It was getting hot in the room. While for Hardeep it would have reached a comfortable temperature, Irene felt weighted down by her layers of clothing. A thin layer of perspiration coated her face. Crisp cold air kissed Irene’s skin as she opened the door and left the bathing chamber to head towards the changing room. Along with Hardeep’s armour, Irene had left her jacket, a large woollen shirt and her shoes there. Dressed only in a thin linen shirt and a pair of pants, Irene returned to the bathing chamber.


The main hallway felt cold. Cold air brushed her bare skin and feet and sent goose bumps up her bare arms. Quickly, Irene shut the cold air behind her as she closed the door the moment she’d entered the bathing chamber. The air had gotten warmer in her brief absence, a stark contrast to the cold outside. While it was hot, it was bearable. She only needed to splash some more water on the coals.


On the way to the brazier, Irene rolled up the sleeves of her shirt.


“Many places use such bath houses,” Irene began, her eyes purposefully focused on the brazier instead of nude Hardeep at her side. She reached down, picked up the bucket and splashed more water over the coals. They sizzled and turned darker and Irene backed away quickly from the brazier before the cloud of fresh hot steam could hit her. “Commoners in Riverside use them. In Izmar the public baths also have a steaming room. Though in Izmar, one gets a thorough massage during the session, here the visitors mostly get drunk.”


The bucket was set down and as Irene strengthened she wiped a droplet of sweat off her forehead. Despite it becoming hotter, it felt comfortable. Much better than being outside in the cold, at least. She wished she could kick off the rest of her clothing and sit on the bench as well. It’s been an eventful few days. Trekking through the forest, sleepless nights and rushed training sessions had made her feel filthy and in need of a good wash. Splashing some water over her arms and neck at the stream by the oak just wasn’t the same as a good sauna.


“Though after last night, I suppose getting drunk is the last thing you want to do,” Irene said and for the first time looked at Hardeep, alarm flashing through her eyes momentarily. They did not speak of what happened last night. Nothing happened, but a lot was said.


The steam became heavy and thick, making it impossible to see beyond two feet in the distance. Hardeep became a blur to her, the steam enveloping him completely.


“I apologize. I got ahead of myself.” Irene cleared her throat. Yes, the line between the two of them was as blurry as her distorted by steam vision. “I will go keep an eye on your armour, unless you wish me to stay here to watch the coals.”


***


Warren followed Galene and Orien silently, his armour and heavy marching footsteps the only indication that he was still behind the two slaves. He turned his head to the side and avoided looking at either of the slaves, choosing to focus his attention away from their whispers and hushed voices (that spoke of gossip, no doubt) to the forest and the crowded streets.


Despite his wish to ignore their conversation, some words floated to Warren’s ears. It was bits and pieces of conversation that he could not quite make any sense of. Something about skins, some words that made Galene stop in her tracks and nearly collide with Warren who wasn’t paying attention to the road. He frowned at her and rubbed the back of his neck, while his other hand focused on rubbing circles on sword’s pommel. Kydoimos was nearby. After their threat, Warren did not want to risk bumping into Galene’s thin frame and leaving a bruise. One icy smile from Kydoimos was more than enough. Warren didn’t think he’d be able to stomach another one any time soon.


After Galene was a safe distance from Warren, and Orien and her were from ear shot, Warren resumed his pace. This way, he’d be prepared in case either of the two stopped in their tracks and their hushed voices couldn’t reach him anymore. It was better this way. He hated gossip, especially one that bad mouthed dragon riders.


His thoughts pulled him into a daze. Warren followed Orien and Galene without looking at either of them. His mind was digesting the little snippets of their conversation. Preoccupied with the inner battle of trying to ignore the words or thinking on them, Warren didn’t realize they’d arrived to their destination until a heavy gust of wind hit him in the face.


The guard staggered back and lifted a protective arm over his face to stop the little pine needles, snow and dried leaves from scratching at his numb cheeks. He dared peek from beneath his arm and noticed the red scales flash past his vision, a great dragon flapping its wings to speed off into the sky.


Warren rested his hands on Galene’s shoulders to keep help her regain her balance.


“Sir Kydoimos?” Warren guessed, his eyes trying to see the rider’s shape through the tree foliage. “Should we go after them?” he asked, shifting his gaze from Orien to Galene. “Should we call for them?” He couldn’t do that, could he? It’d be improper and prude to yell after a dragon rider, especially when they were dragon riding.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Hardeep made a simple "humph" noise to Irene's comment, crossing his arms and leaning slightly against the wood. To him, the night had been fine. To him, it was what happened when he drank too much and he would simply have to deal with it. His father was dead and not there to stare at him with the air of disapproval that always seemed to surround him when it came to his drunken excursions. It was only Hardeep, and Hardeep figured that the slaves would have better things to do than to pick over a drunk man's gossip.


"Drink warms you in the frigid air, or at least makes you think you are warmed," Hardeep said, turning to glance at Irene. "I don't blame them for drinking either; if they are here, it is either they are the last and have lost too much or they are the weak and useless and the world is here to remind them of that."


The steam and heat wasn't unpleasant but Hardeep still would have liked the smell of soaps and the gentle washing of water over himself. The steam still felt sticky to him, clinging moreso than cleansing. Irene had mentioned a pond at one point but...


"You said the pond is outside," Hardeep said, turning to the slave woman. "Won't that be as cold as the air is out there?"


The words "freeze your balls off" came to mind but he figured, among slaves, that was highly inappropriate to say for him. Among other riders, perhaps they could joke about it but he had to uphold his facade of a decent rider as best he could.


Then again, he had gotten drunk the night before and slurred far too much. Perhaps it didn't matter, not at this point.


----


"What the hell do we do?" Galene asked, turning to stare at Orien who simply shrugged, watching the other rider disappear into the distance.


"Wait."


"Wait?!," Galene exclaimed. "You know there is no waiting when it comes to Kydoimos; you either act fast enough or you get burned."


"We are slaves and a guard," Orien said, voice hard and bitter, so much so that Galene was almost taken aback by it. The man's face was dark and narrow, with pinched brows and a thin mouth, turned sharply in a frown of clear distaste.


Something was wrong.


"And?" Galene challenged, taking a step forward, hackles rising.


"You are not their ally," Orien snapped, eyes hard. "You are not their equal, no matter how much you assume so."


"I am a close confident," Galene spat. "A friend."


It was the first time Galene had seen Orien sneer, lips turning upwards in mockery and not a smile and anger.


"They have no friends among slaves, child," he said, his mood turning on its heel. It was by far the most volatile Orien had been the entire time that Galene had known him.


The night before came to mind and she let her fists go, pulling the pelt she had managed to get closer around her and staring at her feet.


Orien breathed for a moment before speaking again, his voice softer and his face gentler.


"If they return, they will. If not, we will look after you."

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene had retreated to the far wall, her back pressed against it and hands clasped before her as she stood by the door. It was closed and the curtain was pulled over the darkened by moisture wood, but a soft draft seeped through the cracks and cooled Irene’s skin. She hadn’t been allowed to leave the room or strip and help Hardeep bathe, so enjoying this cool breeze was the best alternative to sweating in her clothing. She hadn’t asked Hardeep for a third time to give her an order. He probably didn’t care. He didn’t seem to care about anything or anyone but himself.


A quirked brow was Irene’s reaction to her master’s words. “Perhaps they drink because it brings them pleasure,” she began. “Because it pauses their otherwise harsh life.”


She wasn’t a drinker. Never had been and couldn’t see herself enjoying it. A few times had she been drunk and the aftereffects of a night in a tavern gave her enough a reason to stay clear of alcohol. It was not unpleasant to drink, she’d enjoyed the momentary freedom it gave her, but it was unhealthy. It also disappointed Leon, who only let some drops of offered by a host drink touch his lips to be polite.


Hardeep’s words did made her think of the other night. He was the last of his family, as far as she understood, but was he weak and useless and the world reminded him of it? Perhaps. She didn’t dwell too much on these thoughts. It wasn’t her business. Hardeep’s life was his, even if he did share some of it with her.


Realizing she’d been staring at Hardeep, Irene turned her gaze down when he spoke to her again.


Playing the obedient slave was not hard. Look away when spoke to, never voice your thoughts (here, she slipped a lot), stay hidden and silent and small. It was the best way to hide her intentions of running away when the time came. It also made her feel like she had the personality of a mindless sheep. Unpleasant thought, that.


“Yes,” Irene said in a monotone. “The pond is outside. It will…” She paused, an interesting thought entering her mind at the mention of the cold. “…be warm. The steam should have raised your temperature. You will scarcely feel the cold.”


That would have been the case had Hardeep been in the steam for maybe another half an hour. She’d seen men dive into piles of snow after having left the steam-rooms and emerge laughing for they were not cold. For what Hardeep said in front of Orien (one of few who remained kind and trusting to Irene), a dip in cold water seemed like a good punishment.


Stepping away from the wall, Irene headed for the brazier once more, reached for the bucket and dumped some of the water over the burning bright orange coals. Smell of pine overpowered the stench of dampness and the coals sizzled pleasantly as they dimmed. More steam entered the room in a pleasantly hot burst. Despite it not being like the burning hot dry air of the desert, Irene still winced as she inhaled. It reminded her too much of the work in the fields.


“My Lord,” Irene said, thought she wished she could call Hardeep by his name. Formally addressing him felt awkward ever since they spoke privately the other night. “Why did you choose to bring me here, to keep me, when you still suspect me of your father’s murder?” This thought had been pestering Irene for a while now. The intimate setting made her voice it. Who knew when they’d be alone again, away from Kydoimos and Galene and others. “You could have sold me to return the gold your father paid for me.” As Irene set the bucket by the brazier, she sat down on the bench across from Hardeep.





***





Warren regarded Orien silently, a crinkle to his brow and eyes narrowed in consideration and worry. He knew Orien for a long while, ever since he was brought up to Sir Balin by his father to begin working as a guard. Not always had he watched Orien with shameful and wistful curiosity, but he’d seen Orien enough times to understand his personality and quirks. They were bound to one household, after all. But then, as they watched Kydoimos fly away, Warren felt like it was the first time he’d seen Orien.


The thoughts of what to do and what he was allowed to do when it came down to calling after Kydoimos suddenly vanished. Orien’s personality had done a sudden 180. Warren wasn’t quite sure what to say or do or feel.


What was it that this mountain made those closest to him change? Hardeep, Orien. Even Irene, who Warren never considered close to him, was changing her colours.


“Enough,” Warren said coldly and raised a hand, slicing it through the air as he took a step forward. “Do not—“ He looked at Orien and fell silent, unable to command Orien to watch his words. Warren’s lips remained parted for a moment longer but his mind remained blank. He looked away, angry at himself for raising his voice in the first place.


“Let’s return to the cabin. Our masters’,” he shot a sharp glance at Galene but skirted over Orien, “belongings have been left unwatched long enough. I do not wish this conversation to go on. Sir Hardeep will decide what to do about finding Sir Kydoimos.”


Jerking his chin in the general direction of their cabin, Warren turned around and began walking back. This time, he did not march. His shoulders fell, his chin drooped to his chest and gaze skirted over the muddy snow covered ground.


Why was it that this place, this mountain, was bringing out the worst in people?  

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

@Lenaara


Hardeep made a small noise of satisfaction at Irene's response to the cold pond. He leaned more comfortably against the wooden beams lining the room and crossed his legs, preparing to close his eyes and perhaps try to enjoy the steam. He had been in a few steaming baths before in his time, after returning home from battles to relax the muscles and allow the tension to bleed away. However, the slave woman's question jolted him out of his prepared casualness.


The question ate at him for a moment. He didn't truly know either, why he had kept Irene along. Perhaps out of some sense of duty, which was the safest answer at the moment. As a rider, he was expected to treat everyone with respect (not that every rider did so, gods knew). A potential killer might be held in contempt and questioned but should never be beaten or killed themselves, slave or not. Hardeep had never figured why some riders did stray from the vows, Yulink being the most prominent and disgusting answer he could conjure up at a whim. True, Hardeep had been cruel at times, a drunken fool at others, and a poor son but he had never believed that he had truly tossed aside the title of dragon rider as some had. The ones that had killed his mother had, the ones that beat and violated their slaves had. He had not. He was sure of it.


It was his only claim to being a Passi, most days. His fear of fire, reluctance to find a wife or at least a mistress to carry for him a child and an heir made him far from a Passi.


"Duty," he said, shortly and curtly, knowing that he could control when the conversation was over. Despite the fact that over the nights, Hardeep had shown perhaps too much of himself to the slave woman in front of him, he was unwilling to speak at length about why he had chosen to bring her along a perilous journey where trust and loyalty were not just wanted, but needed. The reasons were lost to himself in some ways; even if Irene was beat to death by the slaves, it would not be his fault. He could not control all the slaves and a slave that was accused of murdering a respected rider would not be missed, not terribly.


But she had not killed him, not by the logic of the men in the white robes that had come by to examine the corpse and Hardeep had known, too, somehow, somewhere in his mind. That she was, indeed, too weak to kill him. That the gun, indeed, had been fired from afar, though how he was still not sure.


"It is my role to protect all those within the household. If I had left you behind, or sold you, you would have been beaten to death. An unjust death."


Part of him had thought about leaving her behind, of having her beaten to death or killed. To have it sate some sort of dark satisfaction within him to see a potential killer fall. But he also knew that he could not, that letting her die would not be the honorable thing to do, the right thing to do and to die for Balin's death...


Somehow, that did not fit either.


He was not prepared to examine why.


-----


Galene tread behind Orien, who hung back still, gazing at the back of Warren's head. She wondered if he felt guilty for snapping. She wondered if he felt guilty for being angry at her. She wondered if he felt shame at having his outburst or perhaps anxious at revealing a piece of himself he had had tucked away.


They said nothing the entire way back to the cabin, the silence heavy and filling the space. There was no need to talk, or perhaps there was need to talk, to unpack what had been exchanged and what still needed to in order to clear up the confusion, the questions that arose in the air because of it.


They entered the cabin without a fuss, turned to their tasks without one, either.


Except.


Galene did not know what her ask would be without her rider around, without either rider around. Hunting had been done (and the prizes lost). Cleaning needed to be done, yes, but there was little that they could do and there was no way to dry the items without having ice cling to them instead, the chill still apparent in the air. There could potentially be food that could be foraged for, stored up to ensure that it would remain fresh and there could be meat that needed to be salted.


She hovered anxiously near the piles of items, fingers crawling over them and eyes darting across their colors, trying to figure out what to do with herself, uncomfortable with the knot that had tied itself in her stomach.


"You worry that you are truly left behind," Orien said, his voice soft and warm, almost like one of the kind knights that spoke to her by the barracks back home when she was left behind and the rest of her family went off to fight.


The knot tightened.


"They would not," Orien said firmly and something flared in her stomach, angry and bitter and acidic.


"You spoke as if you thought that they would," she attempted to say but the words caught in her throat and came out like through a strain, slow and thick.


Orien's face, at least what part of it that she could see from where she was squatting churned with pity and sympathy and empathy and for a split second, her mind wondered why he seemed to know how she felt, why he seemed to be gazing into her and understanding. With a grunt, he sank next to her as well and picked at the items spread before them, fingers turning them over and eyes flickering over them as if he was actually doing some great task instead of just killing time.


"I was angry," Orien said. "Am I not allowed to be?"


"You are," Galene said, watching the other slave.


She paused.


"I suppose many expect you not to be."


"Warren expects me not to be," Orien said, an answer to her statement when she had asked no question. "Irene expects me to be, as does Hardeep and Kydoimos. I have dashed Warren's expectations of that."


"Good," Galene said.


Orien turned to look at her, eyebrows raised in a question.


"He has built you into something untouchable. It is good that he knows that you are as human as he is."


Orien's mouth twisted as if he was tasting something sour.


"You may not feel for him the way he feels for you--" she began.


"Kydoimos would never leave you because they care too much," Orien interrupted, gently but firmly, the way her siblings would cut off her excuses and flustered lies when she came back with torn dresses and muddy cheeks and knees. "They are full of rage from things you have not done and are conflicted in ways that are difficult to comprehend. They do not wish to direct their anger at you, and yet find the hatred they feel for their family, sometimes misplaced, not at all difficult to handle."


Galene stared at him.


"Are you reaching a point?" she asked.


"You do not need to fear what I've said," Orien said calmly, "out of anger and spite in my own conflicts as you know. What happened between me and Hardeep has... well, I am sure you may guess that the rift has never quite closed."


Galene winced in sympathy. "But he did love you once," she pointed out.


Orien's eyes grew sad. "Yes," Orien said sadly and for a second he seemed to have come across a realization and the sadness deepened to grief. "He did."


He stood up. "They do," he said mournfully.


"What?" Galene asked, standing up as well. "You did not finish your previous thought."


Orien shook his head and turned back to look at Galene. "They will not abandon you physically, leaving you here to freeze to death. They will come back for you because you have been their companion, a loyal slave and friend," he added quickly when she opened her mouth, "and they cannot abandon that at all."


Galene wanted to ask Orien more but he moved away, calling to Warren, possibly to apologize as well.


Something about the words that Orien had said nagged at her.


She only stared, the knot returning in her stomach and tightening her throat to the point where her breath halted.

 

[Lenaara]

Derpy derp derp. Real post will be up shortly.

 

[Lenaara]

@FloatingAroundSpace


Irene did not speak; did not move, either. She just sat there on the bench before the cooling coals, with her elbows on her lap and her knuckles just brushing against the rough callouses of her palms. It wasn’t lady-like, sitting with her knees spread and shoulders hunched, but she never considered herself to be feminine. Not in a sense that her homeland demanded women to be.


The mist was fading, revealing Hardeep and the myriad of scars acquired in battle criss-crossing strong muscles. She found herself thinking that he didn’t look strong. Lithe, maybe. He’d lose to Warren if it came down to brute strength alone. So, Irene looked away, not because of shame of having looked at a naked body (Mountain knew she’d seen her fair share of nudity) but because looking at Hardeep as she did, quizzically and inquisitorially, wondering how he’d be in battle was wrong.


I am stronger than I look, she wanted to say to him, laughing softly at his response.


But there were accusations in her mind, too. Dark thoughts. Thoughts she wasn’t proud of, thoughts that were born from suffering and hatred of the past years.


Where was your duty when you slaughtered your own servants, slashing and hacking at their unprotected backs, trying to get to me to end me?


Where was your concern when I scrubbed the cobblestones of your household, looking over my shoulder at every sound, expecting an attack?









It was unfair to accuse Hardeep like this even in her mind, so she stopped. Irene bit her lip and chewed on it for a moment.


Gods, she wanted to ask him these questions, wanted to demand answers to make the man realize that what he was doing wasn’t right. It was wrong, bringing her here. Bringing anyone here. This place was much worse than he thought.


But Irene said nothing. A drop of perspiration slid down her temple; she could feel her clothes clinging to her back and stomach. When she moved her arm to brush the water off her face, her clothes tugged against her body uncomfortably.


It was best to remain quiet around Hardeep. He was no fool, but even fools couldn’t remain blind to the obvious for long.


“What happens after we return then?” she whispered, a barely audible over the sizzling coals sound. “No, it doesn’t matter. Forgive me for asking. It is not in my place to question your decisions.”


Irene shrugged and gestured at the curtain over the back door. Caution or not, she’d never pass up on the chance of seeing Hardeep dive into cold water. It was for Orien’s sake, she told herself. It was worth it.


“The pond is there if you wish to freshen up,” Irene said and turned her head to look at Hardeep from over her shoulder. Ever the obedient servant. She wondered how long she could keep up the act and realized that it wasn’t an act at all. It was how she’d always acted around her charges.


It makes me tired still.


Strangely, she missed Galene. That girl was the only one around whom Irene didn’t have to pretend. Most of the time. She still didn’t know the planned escape.


Irene pushed herself off the bench. “If you don’t want to use the soap,” she began, nodding slightly in the direction of the small changing room, “there is a washcloth that you can use. Should I bring it?”





***





When they’d first entered the hut, Warren positioned himself by the door and avoided looking at either Galene or Orien. To give himself something to do, something to look at, he scanned the room. All it took was a quick glance to see that nothing was moved or stolen; no prints were on the floor; no tapestry was flung from the windows to allow entry into their little hut. Problem was, Warren’s eyes kept skirting over Orien and Galene.


They were always there, dark spots in his peripheral, each doing some task or another. It made his stomach turn uncomfortably each time his gaze lingered on Orien longer than Warren wanted it to. So, he looked away and stared at the far wall. His hands kept fidgeting with his sword-belt.


Then, Orien and Galene began talking and Warren turned around, shoulder against the wall, and his eyes narrowed as he concentrated in ignoring their conversation. It didn’t work, for his ears did the opposite and he could hear almost every single word. Even the rough winds outside didn’t do much to muffle their voices.


Angry at his own ears for not ignoring sounds on demand, Warren opened the door and stormed outside, slamming the door behind him harder than he should’ve and cringed at the way the hinges shook.


The wind was cold against Warren’s bare face, numbing the tip of his nose and colouring it bright red. It had begun snowing; little snowflakes drifted over the ground before melting quickly as they landed. His chest and shoulders soon were covered in miniature water droplets, remnants of the snowflakes, and his hair turned damp. He’d stood there, watching the snow drift about him and it calmed him.


For once he thought the village to be beautiful. Houses dark and damp beneath a soft cover of snow. The ground muddy and wet and covered with imprints of feet and hooves and cart wheels. Sky was grey and bright, the clouds a large blanket.


Then, he heard his name. Orien called for him from inside the hut. His voice made Warren flinch. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he breathed out he turned around and stepped back into the hut.


“Yes?” He asked, his voice thin. Ah, what a time to sound like an adolescent teenager. Warren cleared his throat and strengthened, his arms crossing over his chest to stop his hands from searching for something to touch or move.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Lenaara

Hardeep allowed the first question to slide between them. Returning to the desert was something that he wanted to do desperately; everywhere on the mountain reeked of conflict. Their guide was useless, the slaves were agitated, and he was in far too close quarters with those who he venomously disliked. He was not surrounded by the reassuring appearance of his family's crest and was instead trapped staring at colors and smells coming from the residents. But what they were supposed to do back down there was another question entirely. Was he supposed to pick up the pen where his father left off? Balin had been a warrior, a fighter, and Hardeep would be expected to be as well. He would also be expected to marry swiftly; it had been too long since there had been a child born with the Passi last name and time was dwindling for him as well. If he didn't produce an heir, there was no telling where his dragons, his estate, his slave would go. Probably sold to the highest bidder and the idea that the slimy head of the Makhai family could ever grasp anything that had gone through his own house made his skin crawl.

Hardeep gave an appreciative hum when Irene mentioned the waters out back. "I suppose I should take a dip then," he said, glancing out the door towards it. "Bring a washcloth that I can dry myself with once I've come back in."

He stood and hesitated as he glanced outside. It seemed far too chilly for anyone to think about swimming in the frozen lake. Granted, not all of the villagers smelled awful and they smelled much cleaner (or rather, there was a lack of smell) than the inhabitants within the city. They were like dragons, using handfuls of sand to scrape away at dirt crusting over their skin and moving on with life without so much as a second thought. Some had water that they poured over themselves on special occasions and holidays but most could not be bothered when the resource was so scarce for them.

If the rest of the mountain didn't reek, that meant there was something to the way they cleaned themselves.

He was going to count it as a victory.

Walking over to the rear pathway, where the lake stretched out, he allowed one foot to step out and finding that the air was not as cold as he remembered. Pleasantly surprised, he walked the rest of the way to the water and jumped in.

-----

Galene was sitting down near the fire, eyes trained on the flickering flames, brow furrowed. Orien was not sure if she was paying any attention to him at all or was too wrapped up in her own thoughts, lost in memories that she never seemed to want to reveal yet came dangerously close to spilling over and over again.

"I do not suppose you want to talk about how you feel," Orien said as lightly as possible. Guards were prideful, as far as he could tell. They carried those sigils on their chests with pride, chins up and eyes trained towards the sky. They didn't look down towards the slaves, unless there was commotion and their masters' precious property could be damaged in the ensuing chaos.

Hardeep cutting through at least three of them sprang to mind.

The guards hadn't moved then.

"Do you think me overly emotional?" Orien asked, turning to watch the ripples through the town, as villagers and slaves and riders made their way through. "You seemed upset by my outburst earlier. I didn't mean to make you so."

 

[Lenaara]

FloatingAroundSpace

Tired. So tired.

With a nod Irene left, leaving Hardeep alone in the steaming chamber. Sweat trickled down her spine and she pulled against the collar of her blouse, tugging the wet cloth against her skin.

So so tired.

The bathing house remained empty save for the two of them. Thank the Mountain for small miracles. She hadn’t heard anyone come in or leave but went through Hardeep’s belongings in case anything was stolen. Everything was just as she’d left it – folded and neat, placed on top of the dry linens she’d brought with to dry themselves with.

Themselves. What a joke. She’d poorly guessed he’d let her bathe herself and realized too late, with a pang of disappointment, that he couldn’t care less how much his slaves smelled. Or looked, for that matter, Irene thought bitterly as her fingers rested over the clean linens. The cloth was so white against her dark and dirty skin, making the dirt streaks, acquired over the past few days from training and scouring the forest floor for food, stand out even more.

Irene stepped back and covered her face with both her hands and took a deep, shaky breath.

I’m exhausted.

Just like that all energy left her limbs and she had to rest a shoulder against the nearby wall not to crumble completely to the floor. The feeling of uselessness flooded her, fluttered like a butterfly in her chest and she found herself gasping for air. Episodes like this hit her sometimes when memories of a past life hit her with all their intensity. It was so much better back then. So much simpler. Death was there, of course, as was pain. But happiness was there, too.

And now where was all of that, all those emotions and experiences? Half-forgotten, only to be remembered when she realized once again how low she’d fallen. Dirty, thin, so paranoid to speak her mind that she remained quiet more often than not.

Irene forced herself to pull her hands off her face and breathe. Just then, as she told herself that everything will be fine, that it will be alright, her eyes caught the bright gleam of metal buried under Hardeep’s belongings. A frown furrowed her brow and she stepped towards the basket, reached towards it with her hand and pushed aside the armour. It was a dagger, a small little thing, but a blade nonetheless.

It was not the blade’s existence that stunned her. It was the idea that came with the realization that a blade was there and what it meant. Hardeep was vulnerable, his armour stripped and far from his reach. No weapon was on his person, only brute strength that Irene remembered well how to defend against.

Before she could stop herself, Irene reached for the handle and took the dagger in her hand, turning it this way and that, looking at how soft afternoon light licked the blade through the window shutters.

More than ever she wanted to run and come back to a life when she could bathe when she wanted, eat when she wanted, wear what she wanted. Do what she wanted. Suddenly the idea that she was a slave was so foreign to her that Irene felt even more uncomfortable in the thin slave clothes given to her by a man who called himself her master. It was wrong.

Irene returned to the steaming room shortly after, her hands holding a clean sheet of linen, and pushed open the door to walk towards the lake. Hardeep had already jumped into the water and a part of her felt disappointed – she wanted to see his face freeze at the realization that the water was not at all warm. No matter. He’d still done as she asked and this revenge would remain her little secret.

As much as the dagger tucked safely under Hardeep’s armour remained her little secret. A shameful secret.

She had, after all, passed up the idea of killing Hardeep and escaping.

Leon would roll in his grave if he knew that she even thought about doing such a dishonourable thing.

Soft flakes of snow were drifting in the wind, melting before they fell onto the cold, wet earth. The view was breath-taking from where Irene was standing. The lake was dark, framed by deep green shrubbery and distant forest and snow-capped mountains dotted here and there with black specs of bare rock. The sky was a cool tone of bluish grey and on the horizon large thunderclouds were blooming, pregnant with rain and thunder that would reach them by the evening. In the distance birds chirped.

Oh, how Irene missed this scenery. It was so much more beautiful than bare land of sand

Resting a shoulder against the doorframe, Irene waited for Hardeep to leave the cold water and come inside to dry himself. Standing there, motionless, holding onto the linen, she felt like a coatrack. The idea made her snort softly.


***


“Ah, no. Not that. Maybe, but—“ Warren’s brows furrowed and his hand twitched, the urge to rub the back of his neck stronger than ever. Stupid hand. Stupid habit. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the hilt of his sword and stood up straight. He found himself unconsciously hunching when Orien was nearby, bringing himself closer to the slave’s height.

Everything was a blur when Orien was nearby. The town, the people, the commotion. The sounds were tuned out and while it wasn’t good for a guard to completely forget his duty when the object of his infatuation was near, Warren didn’t care. He’d spent so little time with Orien before, limiting their interactions to nothing more than mere glances. Was it bad to want more?

Yes. When it interferes with your duty, it is. The small voice at the back of Warren’s mind warned, voicing reason for not the first time that day. Maybe it was honour or loyalty. It was why he’d snapped at Orien earlier when they went out looking for Sir Kydoimos. Stupid loyalty.

“You are not emotional, no,” Warren said. “It is me, not you.” Great way to put it, Warren, he thought. Tell him it will never work out now, because you realized something you haven’t seen before. Make this look like a break up of your imaginary relationship. “Emotional is good. That is to say, it is not our position to speak of the Riders in the way you spoke. We are their servants and we— No, this is wrong.” He looked away from Orien, took a deep breath and let it out hard. “Listen. Let us put it behind us. It is not in my place to judge you or Sir Kydoimos or Har—Sir Hardeep. It is not your place, either. We are who we are, right? There are duties to do and I was doing mine, is all. Am I making any sense?” Warren looked back at Orien, searching for understanding in his eyes. “I’m not, am I?” He chuckled softly and his smile was forced, weak.

Too exhausted to find the right words and snap himself into a normal state of mind that wouldn’t make him feel like a love sick fool or an overly loyal guard, Warren nodded at the hut. “Go back inside, Orien. It is getting cold.” Then, knowing fully well what he was doing and what Orien will think of it, of him and his unwavering loyalty to the Riders, Warren added, “You should prepare the hut for Sir Kydoimos’ and Sir Hardeep’s return.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Lenaara

Galene

It has been a strange week. That much, she can attest to.

Not even strange because some great monster had erupted from the forest or that Ming Xia suddenly spoke with the wisdom of a thousand white cloaked or that Irene suddenly declared herself a princess in her own right. No, it was strange because for the first time in nearly five years, Kydoimos was not there.

It was strange because for the first time in nearly five years, she was allowed her own thoughts.

It was strange because for the first time in nearly five years, in five years of having a collar around her neck, of having a weight that she refused to acknowledge on her shoulders, she was in some way, free.

Not totally; Hardeep had not allowed that. But no one could truly command her anymore, the one who had technically owned her missing with no reason or explanation given to those behind. No one told her to do this or do that, though she was always required to return back to the hut at the end of the day. There was no one to tell her to clean this or clean that, that she had to do this in order to get that, et cetra.

For the first time in nearly five years, she was the closest thing to free.

Orien let her know that she was neither jealous nor pleased with this. He explained to her that she now hovered somewhere in between. Technically, only the Makhais could truly free her but since there was not one around, if she was to (hypothetically) cut off the collar and (hypothetically) leave the mountain on the next dragon back, no one would be the wiser. After all, no Makhai could be around to stop her. No one knew the face of one of the thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of slaves that wandered the city.

But the comments that the other slave had made about Kydoimos, about the silence walls that still existed between slave and master made Galene wait. She wanted to see Kydoimos once more, to ask why they had scrambled away without looking back even once.

The mountain itself was full of surprises, besides the half-freedom she had.

She was now covered in bruises and scratches because of Irene and her stupid "teachings", as she liked to call them even though they weren't teachings because teachings implied that there was something to learn. What Galene had learned was how to fall on her face, her ass, her side, her knees, et cetra. She had not learned to fight, not really learned how to balance. She had learned where the ends of her wits were, where the irritation ran into anger and venom.

She had learned (moreso noticed) that Irene disappeared from them for a few hours at a time, as did Orien. Hardeep didn't seem wholly interested in keeping them on a short leash, perhaps embarrassed by his drunken stupor, or perhaps realizing that the culture on the mountain was different. So long as the two returned with food for him, he didn't seem to care anymore or any less.

(Galene kept the knowledge of silk pouches in bright red colors and the weapons she thought she saw Irene carving to herself. Hardeep didn't need to know, just like he didn't need to know about the stories that Irene told her, the rabbits and birds that were cooked and eaten before he could see them, the stew that they sipped quietly around the fire in the late of night to warm up without a dragon rider nearby.)

(There were a lot of secrets Galene kept from Hardeep now. Minor ones, she promised.)

One day, however, as she sat across from Irene, chewing on a piece of weasel that she had managed to kill, she glanced up between the tree tops as Irene hit a lull in her story telling, hoping to stave off the lessons that would only make her more sore.

And saw a flash of red.

She was on her feet in a second, peering deeper into the leaves and seeing it once more; glinting red and a human on its -- her-- back.

"Cordath," she breathed and scrambled to get her pieces together, to seize the bow that she still dutifully got from Ming Xia every day.

"Hurry," she said without more explanation to Irene and peeled off from the other woman. Her freedom or half-freedom more like was fading away, but knowledge awaited her and that was more thrilling than anything else.

 

[Lenaara]

FloatingAroundSpace


To be free felt strange the first-time Irene set onto the streets without telling anyone about what she was doing. Not even Warren asked, only gave her a look that she read as Stay clear of trouble. So, as she went down the dirt path between the houses, weaving her way through the crowd with little effort, not attracting any attention, she felt a surge of adrenaline, excitement, the mere thought that she was alone gave her so much energy she might’ve run to her destination had the sane part in her mind not told her to walk as any other slave walked, slowly and sheepishly and cold in their thin linen clothes.

It felt like sneaking the middle of the night to visit some boy. Well, she certainly was visiting a boy, though half her age and their meeting spot was in a small clearing in the backyard of his house. It was Manwe, the boy whose family took in Ammon, and they’d agreed to train.

After the first time they met, watched closely by Ammon and Galene, Irene had not seen Manwe for a few days. He was rarely in the village, from what the villagers told her when she chatted away with them as they packed the goods she bartered for to bring back to Hardeep.

“Lets his sisters do everythin`. He hunts a lot. Strikes a squirrel through the eye, he does,” Irene was told.

The conversation wasn’t even about the child at first; they were talking about the hide Irene had seen at the stall and wanted to buy for herself. Hardeep had seen only half the things she acquired at the market. Not even Galene knew of the clothes Irene had made and stashed under the old tree at their meeting spot where they hunted and trained every morning. Neither did the girl knew of the food Irene preserved and dried. She did not even know of the small dagger that Irene had purloined from Hardeep’s belongings once; it was now hidden in the traveling bag she had made from a doe hide.

Manwe was just a boy she that knew lived in the village and helped Ammon settle in comfortably in his box house he called home. Irene never even spoke to Ammon after they left that day, with Galene giving him half their catch. The man had vanished into thin air, no one in the village knew where he was. So, Irene made it her business to ask the merchants in the square about the location of each dragon rider and what their habits were. She even asked the slaves from time to time, bribing them with some small scraps of food.

Oh, it was hard hiding all this from Galene and Warren. Galene was near Irene the most, especially in the mornings, and Irene took great care in doing as much as she could before their meeting time at noon when they trained. She hunted, she skinned, she trained.

During one such morning, before Galene had arrived at the clearing, Irene was dangling upside down from the oak’s branch, arms crossed over her chest, breathing steadily but hard, her stomach clenched from the strain on her muscles. Was it always so hard to train? She couldn’t remember the last time she was this tired. Her arms still hurt each day from having trained with her makeshift spear and she was now focusing on strengthening her core.

Galene would be doing the same soon. The girl was far too weak. Irene had to fix that, help her get stronger. Stamina building would do nicely. Perhaps the girl could join Warren and her at their morning runs. As Irene relaxed on the branch, feeling sweat trickle down her face and fall on the ground, she brushed the tips of her fingers over her abdomen and couldn’t supress a smile.

Once, there was skin and ribs there, with little muscle left. Now, after eating well and training regularly, there was muscle. It was strong and vivid against the skin of her stomach. Same muscle roped through her arms and legs now. It wasn’t visible through her clothes but sometimes when she reached for an item or another and the sleeve of her tunic pulled back, or when she changed her clothes at the hut, one could see how she’d changed. There was no bone anymore. It was muscle and it was strong and, Gods, she was happy with her progress.

Rustling in the shrubbery snapped her attention to the side and Irene swung down easily from the tree, landing softly and soundlessly on the ground, her body shifting in the direction of the noise, arms and legs changing into a defensive position automatically. It was well before noon. It couldn’t be Galene yet.

A boy emerged from the shadow of the trees, a bow in one hand and a string of rabbits in the other, and he was looking at Irene with such surprise that it stunned her into silence. It was Manwe and he was looking at her as if she was a maiden out of some bedtime story he’d heard as a child – there was awe and confusion and a strange innocent terror.

One moment he was standing there and the next, he dropped his bow and rabbits and ran up to Irene to grab her by the arms and demand that she trained him. Apparently, he’d been watching her train all morning.

That was how they met again, in private with only the forest to be their witness. Irene still laughed at him, remembering how excited he was and how distraught he was the next day after he’d failed to do some pirouette she’d showed him. The two of them decided to meet every day in the afternoon to train at his cottage, because Ammon had left and wouldn’t be back for a while.

That very first day they decided to meet, Irene felt like she was breaking some rule and it filled her with excitement and feeling of strange rebellious freedom. That day she tried not to attract too much attention and told Hardeep some odd excuse why she had to leave. He didn’t care. Warren didn’t care. Galene and Orien probably didn’t even notice. The next day she felt the same, excited and happy, and as the week gone by and she met Manwe each afternoon to train him and then eat together, talking about something trivial, Irene felt like she was becoming the person she used to be once.

It became easier to chat away with the villagers. It became much easier to train Galene, for Irene learned a new kind of patience from training Manwe. It was easier to be herself and focus on everything but hunger and weakness, for she ate with Galene in the mornings, at Manwe’s in the afternoon, and in the evenings, everyone at the hut ate together around the hearth. Hunger was but a memory and she couldn’t imagine the life when she starved in the desert for days at a time.

Days were filled with a certain happiness that Irene was looking forward to. It was best not to tell Galene of Manwe; the less people knew where she was during the day, the better. She’d already planned to escape during one such afternoon and everyone would assume she was doing some thing or another in the village and by the time the evening would come, and she would not return, she’d be long gone, treading the forest to cross the mountain.

Irene chose to fill Galene’s mind with stories of distant past when she was a bodyguard, instead. She was eating her share of the weasel, her hands warmed by the small campfire and the heat from the meat. A gust of wind passed, cold and menacing and promising snow soon. Irene had already decided to escape next week, after she’d gathered a bit more provisions and changed the spear-tip of her wooden spear to the blade of Hardeep’s dagger.

Galene suddenly jumping to her feet made Irene pause and she looked over her shoulder to see what Galene saw and saw nothing but the bare dark branches of trees and the small patches of snow that had fallen that morning.

“You alright?” Irene asked at the same time as Galene breathed Cordath. That could’ve meant a word she didn’t know or a name she couldn’t remember, but it tugged at her memory nonetheless. “What?” Irene threw the bones into the fire as Galene grabbed at her belongings. By the time Irene kicked some dirt over the firewood to douse the fire, Galene was already heading into the forest.

Irene glanced up at the sky, noting that it was well before their time to leave, and then looked at the oak with a frown. There, she’d hidden a bow she meant to gift Galene. It was a gift from Manwe, originally, but Irene couldn’t use the damn thing like Galene could. It was a strong and well-made bow of dark polished and lacquered wood, with a new bowstring and a small symbol etched into its side by Irene, a symbol of luck she usually broidered into clothes. It was a thank-you gift, actually. A thank you for bringing her back life, a sense of freedom; a thank you for not telling Hardeep of anything the two of them were doing in the forest. A thank you for being a friend and also a farewell gift.

Later, then, Irene thought as she followed Galene into the forest, keeping close. “What did you see?” Irene demanded as she caught up to the girl.


***


Warren signed through his nose heavily. Air lingered in front of his nose in frozen plumes. He pulled his shoulders up and buried his head further into the scarf around his neck. It was an obnoxious colour of bright blue and broidered with simple whorls of orange flowers; a feminine scarf but it was warm, so warm that he didn’t care how silly he looked, dressed in armour and bundled up in the scarf, his arms hidden at his sides and his breath making a miniature sauna for his nose.

Mini tropics, he called this small part of his scarf. It kept him warm and that’s all that mattered. He couldn’t even curse Irene anymore for giving him this wretched thing a few days ago, choosing to revel in the warmth it provided instead. She had bought some warm clothes for all of them at the market and Warren was foolish enough to be the last one to choose from the pile, giving Galene and Orien the opportunity to get something warm for themselves first. So, while they got clothes of dull greys of rough wool, Warren got a bright blue scarf a girl in her teen years wore to…he didn’t know, to attract attention?

It was still well before noon and Warren felt himself zone out, his body needing rest and sleep and warmth. Even the run in the morning didn’t wake him up entirely. Irene joined him every morning the past week and they ran in silence, through as time passed by, the two of them started talking and…it was fun.

“Fun,” Warren grumbled disapprovingly into his scarf.

They began to get along and he found himself looking forward to each morning when the two of them would run around the silent village as dawn came and come back to the hut where people were still asleep. It gave him some time to know her better and…he wasn’t quite sure what to think of it yet. She wasn’t all that interesting, only talking when he wanted to and never shared anything of her past, which he found strange, but he was content with this.

He wasn’t quite sure how to think of anything now. It unnerved him. He began regretting ever coming to the mountain. Everyone were not what they seemed to be, with Hardeep being not at all like his father and Orien being so antagonistic towards the riders and Irene being normal, just a slave who wanted to recover from an abusive master. It would’ve been better if he stayed back and remained living in ignorance. It sure as hell felt better.

Crunching ground snapped Warren out of his thoughts and he looked to the side, his eyes narrowing. He knew who it was by the smell of strong alcohol and lack of bathing. Stumbling towards the hut was a dragon rider, his armour and tunic muddy and covered in stains of all kinds. Alone, he was having troubles making his way towards the door and more than once rested a hand on a passer-by for support, muttering some profanities and apologies under his nose with a smug smirk, as if it all was a joke.

Warren found himself straightening, his arms falling from their shelter at his sides, and a hand found the pommel of his sword.

Not here. Don’t go here. Keep on walking.

The chant had no effect on the drunk for he veered towards the hut with intention to enter it without so much as stopping for a knock. Confusion washed over Warren as he stood there, stunned into silence, not knowing if he should bow – Mus’ad Karnel was a dragon rider – or demand that the drunk left, as Sir Hardeep commanded him to.

In the end, Warren could do neither for the door was smashed open and Mus’ad barged in with a loud, “Greetings!” and brushed a hand through the tangled mess of his wavy hair. His boots dragged a good trail of mud into the hut.

“Apologies, Sir Hardeep,” Warren began as he followed Mus’ad quickly and bowed, “I couldn’t stop—“

“Silence, boy,” Mus’ad hissed over his shoulder and Warren’s stomach clenched in nausea. Standing this close to Mus’ad, he could smell vomit and alcohol and sweat, a stark contrast to the warm smell of firewood inside the hut. It seemed to pollute the air around the drunk and Warren couldn’t remain close to him for long. Only his sense of duty stopped him from stepping outside into the cold fresh air to gulp it down greedily to clear his senses and lungs.

“Now, then,” Mus’ad brushed away his tunic as he sat down on the floor cross-legged. “Here on business, not pleasantries.” His ungloved hand reached inside the flap of his armour and he pulled out a metal flask shaped like two flat fish, their mouths serving as the flask’s neck, uncorked it, and poured a swallow into his mouth before offering it to Hardeep. “Oh. Apologies, I think it’s empty.” He shook the flask a bit, the leftover droplets of alcohol swishing around, and turned it over to let the drops fall onto the floor. “Pity. Good drink, let me tell you. Something they make on the mountain, nothing of the sort in Nuru.” He corked the flask, brushed a hand over his mouth, and put it back into the inside pocket of his tunic.

“You see, Hardeep,” Mus’ad began after a deep sigh, “I’ve lost my slave. She ran off into the forest, stupid girl, yesterday and no one’s heard from her since. Such a beauty she was, quiet in bed, a slap across the face enough to calm her womanly hysterics down.” He spoke in a slurred voice and a smile crept over his features, twisting his face in an unpleasant expression made worse by the scar. “I need another slave, you see. Most of us here have only a couple, all ugly and weak and mostly men. There are two slaves who wear your colours here. I want one of them.”

Warren felt a flash of cold anger burn through his veins and before he could stop himself, he snapped, “Orien won’t be going with you.”

“Who?” Mus’ad groaned and waved a dismissive hand. “Shut up, you cretin. I have no need for that male slave. It is the woman I am interested in, whatever her name is.” He snapped his fingers, searching for an answer. “The one with the long braid, the tall one? Not that beautiful, really. Nose is too straight, lips are full but too flat. Nice eyes, though, silver. Had she been eating more? Filled out quite well, I approve. How much is she? Name any price, don’t be greedy.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Lenaara

Galene

Galene turned her head to glance at the other slave scrambling to keep up with her. Her feet kept moving forward, pushing her towards the roaring red dragon that was surely landing now, bringing either news or supplies or, if the gods were good, Kydoimos.

Orien's voice and his sharp remarks entered her conscious again, reminding her that she was a slave, still a slave, always a slave. Slave first, girl second. Slave first, friend second. Slave first, mouth to feed second. She was a pair of hands to work the fields, to carry the supplies of the riders, to do their duty before her own survival.

She pushed him out of her mind; Orien had been strange the past few days, interacting with Hardeep less and less. In all fairness, they all tended to stay away from Hardeep, who either didn't care or wallowed in his own pity, she couldn't tell. Several riders had dropped by to speak with him at certain points and they had spoken to one another in quiet tones over the fire, with soups that Orien had crafted using meats that Galene and Irene had hunted down.

But the fact that they all tended to avoid Hardeep for various excuses didn't mean that Orien's silence wasn't strange. He tended to leave to go gathering and come back with bundles of edible plants to stew or crush up. But something told Galene that he didn't need nearly that long to go gathering and that he didn't simply gather. She hadn't gotten a glimpse of any little packages tucked away in the herbs that he gathered, but that did not mean more did not come.

She pushed her analysis of Orien out of her mind and kept moving towards where the dragons landed. "Cordath," she said again, twisting around to stare at the other woman with wide eyes, nearly tripping and colliding with another slave, who turned around and stared at her with a bewildered expression. "Cordath is theirs, it means something has come back," she continued as she turned around and shoved through the crowd. A few turned to stare at her, brows furrowed as she elbowed and pushed her way through the mob of people that appeared. A few grumbled as she jostled them, weaving her way through. She could hardly hear the curses thrown in her direction, or the shouts of indignation;
there were more important things to worry about.

Finally, she made it out, stumbling forward, carried by her momentum and nearly landing face first on the hard ground. She made her way towards the great red dragon who was twisting and turning, snorting and staring down at every individual that clamored over to view her.

As expected, Kydoimos slid off.

What was unexpected were the dark garbs that they wore, a simple robe, heavy and black, without a trace of the Makhai house sigil or the vibrant red that accompanied them. Their face was closed off, sullen in a way, with brows pinched together and lips pressed into a thin line. There was an air of quiet instead of anger, their eyes trained towards the ground as they walked forward, silence hanging over their entire being.

Galene had paused in her movements, realizing that something had changed.

Kydoimos glanced up and noticed her and jolted as if startled. Their brows smoothed out briefly and shot upwards, their mouth opening in an "o" and their shoulders hunching up.
In the next second, however, their mouth closed again, their eyebrows lowered, and they shrunk, hands closed into fists and hanging by their side.

Galene glanced behind to see where Irene was, suddenly unsure of how to proceed.

"Kydoimos?" she called out experimentally.

They sighed and moved again, a bag hanging off of their shoulders. It was leather and old, fraying at the edges but with their sigil stamped onto it. They shifted it so it rested against their hip and approached her cautiously, as if worried she would skitter away. The robe seemed practical for warmth on the mountain; it was simple to toss on and would probably block against most elements better than armor. The question was why they wore it.

Kydoimos paused in front of her, staring down as if to assess whether or not she could handle the information given.

"Zyrell is dead," they rasped, voice hoarse and broken from either disuse or tears.

Galene suspected it was some combination of both.

"Dead?" she repeated, staring at them in disbelief.

"Murdered," they corrected, eyes narrowing to slits and hands clenching tighter. "In his sleep."

Hardeep Passi

Hardeep recoiled from the drunken man, the stench of alcohol clogging his nose and making him gag even though the man was several feet away. The drink did smell strong, almost toxic, burning the hairs off his body. Hardeep turned to Warren and gave him an incredulous look; the man could hardly be labeled a dragon rider. Tossing him out on his ass would barely be considered a violation of any sacred rites.

But then again, always respect. Wasn't that what Balin wanted?

Hardeep lowered himself cautiously onto the floor, staring at the spot where Mus'ad had dumped the last droplets of his drink onto, wondering in what kind of family he had been raised to act like this. It took some more self control to avoid wanting to take the flask and smash it over the man's head when he began speaking, the language nearly causing him to bristle.

"The slaves are not here to fill your every whim and desire," Hardeep said in as much of a level voice as he could muster. "If you recall where we are, you'll realize that the air is cold and food is scarce. As such, the hardiest slaves have been brought with most and only a few have brought any that are close to heart.

"You should be more concerned that one of your own has left the village," he continued. "She'll no doubt freeze to death out there."

The possible intent, his brain supplied quietly. A man like Mus'ad keeps none close to heart.

"None of mine are for sale," he added, glaring at the other man. "They are here to do their duty to my house,
not to fill whatever void it is that you created for yourself."

 

[Lenaara]

FloatingAroundSpace


Warren stared at the back of Mus’ad’s head warily, chewing on the inside of his check and rubbed the pommel of his sword. Itching for a fight, he restrained himself the best he could; the sword suddenly felt so heavy, so sharp at his side. Such a great tool to kick someone like Mus’ad out into the streets.

Patience, he told himself. This is dragon rider business. Sir Hardeep would take care of it. He has this under control, I’m sure.

But Hardeep did not have the situation under control. He looked as repulsed as Warren was, all but grimacing at the other rider, and Warren felt a pang of sympathy mixed with slight anger. Why wasn’t Hardeep defensive of his slaves? It seemed as if the two of them spoke of items, things for sale or trade. Sturdy things, not worth the time to fuss over.

It was an overreaction on Warren’s part, he realized this, albeit with less shame than was expected. After spending time with the slaves over the past week, he’d grown fond of them. Even Irene, whom he trusted as much as he trusted a hungry bear not to make a meal of him. Still, she was good company, as Orien and Galene were. They were not things, not some hardy and sturdy items. They were people, friends even.

Perhaps Hardeep felt some sort of affection yet for Orien – the thought hurt Warren slightly, but he was used to this strange heartache – and felt a sense of duty to keep Irene around, but why was he not angry? Why did he not look even the least bit offended? Did he even care that someone was ogling at his slaves?

Would he care if someone offered a price for Warren?

In the meantime, Mus’ad waved a dismissive hand at Hardeep, nearly brushing the tips of his dirt covered fingers over Hardeep’s clothes. “Does it matter?” He asked impatiently. “She’s dead, of course. And if she isn’t, she will be soon; or lost. No one is going to go searching for her, least of all I. Should I scour the forest for some ninny whose name I cannot remember?” Mus’ad tilted his head back and laughed, his voice rasp and the sound was guttural, disgusting. The grip on Warren’s sword tightened.

“There is a price, Hardeep,” Mus’ad continued and pressed the palm of his hand against his thigh, bracing against it as he scrambled to his feet more skilfully than expected. Once up, he took a few steps back, hands raised palms up as he shrugged. “There always is one. Maybe jewels? Got plenty here. Mountain idiots here don’t like shiny things, not even the women. How about gold? Silks, food?” Mus’ad ran a hand through his dirty knot of hair and whirled around, grinned at Warren and stepped towards him. Warren had to bite the inside of his cheek harder not to involuntarily step back. The stench of alcohol was intoxicating; his stomach churned unpleasantly and the room swam like waves of an ocean as nausea flooded his senses.

“This bloke and that other slave of yours is enough, Hardeep. I know it, you know it, half the village knows it. How do you do it, eh? How do you feed all these hungry mouths? Do you do favours for that bitch Azar? Pretty thing, that one, like a rare, poisonous snake.”

Mus’ad knocked on the chest plate of Warren’s armour, looking up at the guard with a snarl curling his lip, and used his shoulder as support to turn around and start pacing around the room. There wasn’t much space to begin with, all their belongings put away into baskets and corners, stacked and stacked up the walls. The hut wasn’t big enough to house as many people as it did, but they made do and it was comfortable in its own way.

But while they sometimes kicked an item or two over, bumping into a basket or a stack of clothing on accident, the drunk Mus’ad could barely navigate around without cursing some profanities under his breath.

“There’s talk about that woman of yours. They say she is cursed, can you imagine? Hilarious, don’t you think so?” Mus’ad continued moments after, a hand braced on the wall as he opened a flap of some basket and sniffed at its contents, grimacing, and turned away and lifted an arm to press the sleeve of his shirt under his nose. “Hardeep?” He turned from the basket abruptly, coughed a laugh and wiped the sleeve over his mouth, revealing a wide disgusting smile, a terrible grin of yellowed teeth and bleeding gums. “Surely you’ve taken advantage of it yourself. Do not deny it, you’ve at least thought of it.”

For the life of him, Warren couldn’t understand what Mus’ad was going on about and glanced at Hardeep quizzically, though felt that it wasn’t his business to know.

Just then, the door behind Warren creaked open and he froze for a moment, ashamed for not standing outside where his post was. He hadn’t even heard the footsteps, only a murmur of voices. As he turned, he nearly bumped into Irene, who stopped short, looking up at Warren in slight confusion and then tilted her head, angling it to peer over his shoulder. Her nostrils flared and her lips thinned – she must’ve noticed the stink of whatever it was Mus’ad poisoned himself with.

“Ah, and there she is. Come here, woman.” His voice changed from that laced with easy laughter to a strict, cold one. It chilled Warren, made him feel uneasy, and he unconsciously stepped in front of Irene even as she stared at Mus’ad. “Step aside, child. This is none of your business, go back to your post.” Mus’ad grimaced, walking over and unceremoniously pushed against Warren’s shoulder once within arm’s reach. Warren didn’t budge at first and would’ve remained standing where he was, an immovable statue, had Mus’ad not reached for Irene himself.

He grabbed at her biceps and pulled, nearly toppling both of them over as he lost his balance, and Irene, confused and alert, tried to step back and break free. It kept the two of them standing, facing each other, with Mus’ad looking down at Irene from head to toe, the grip on her arm so strong she couldn’t pull back.

Then, he bent down and kissed her. Warren gaped at the rider, frozen, cold anger raging deep within his chest, and the hissing of metal at his side was suddenly such a pleasant sound. He’d reached for his sword and pulled it out halfway before stopping himself, realizing who it was in front of him and then shame washed over him like a great wave of the ocean.

He criticised Hardeep for talking of Irene and Orien as items, and there he was, standing still, unable to lift a weapon against a dragon rider.

Unlike Warren, however, Irene wasn’t frozen in shame or fear or obedience. Somehow, she’d managed to press her hands against the rider’s chest and push him away, looking as appalled and disgusted as Warren was, pale in the face and looking like she was about to be sick. Angry eyes bore daggers into Mus’ad and she tried to step back from him even as he yanked her towards him and hissed an angry, quiet, “Be still.”

Mus’ad reached for the high collar of Irene’s coat and pulled against the ties there, hard, trying to undo the knot even when his fingers wouldn’t cooperate with him and he scratched at her neck, leaving claw marks from long nails and streaks of dirt down her skin. With her free hand, she tried to keep the collar closed, pushed it closer to her skin, struggling against his grip though not frantically as Warren expected. She had tried to turn away, to side step and be out of Mus’ad’s reach, her other arm extended to keep the drunk as far away as she could, though his clammy fingers grabbed at it still and the longer he struggled, the angrier he became.

His cheeks had turned red, making his lips a pale line in comparison, and the scar burnt across his face was an ugly, disgusting thing, pulling on his skin, curling his upper lip into a snarl.

“Have you not been taught to submit to your masters?” Mus’ad snarled, spat the words out in anger. “Does Hardeep not teach his property manners?”

Property.

Breath caught in Warren’s throat, anger now boiling within him, though he remained still, conflicted. He looked at Hardeep then, a silent plead for help, and then turned his head to the door, which stood ajar, revealing Galene and Kydoimos. Had he not been furious with Mus’ad, he might’ve been more surprised at Kydoimos’ sudden arrival, but the stink of alcohol and dirt coming from the disgusting human being that continued to pull at Irene’s coat, trying to yank it open, occupied him fully.