Avishraa Reloaded

Demarath sat out in the common room. He'd remained in Ilirith's room for as long as he'd been allowed, but the healer, Shoss, had eventually resorted to politely but firmly ushering him out. Zadireth had been laid down in a second room, dozing while he waited to be attended to, and Ferleth, so far as he could tell, was lurking in a third, not comfortable around so many people.

He knew he should have tried sleeping himself, but something about the unusual situation kept him awake - some mixture of worry for Ilirith and fascination with his current surroundings. Certainly this place was fascinating, not just in its design and appearance, but in its scale. All his life, he'd lived in surroundings built for people bigger and taller than he was, but here, everything was sized for witches. He didn't have to sit on a pile of cushions to reach the table in front of him, though, truth be told, some cushions wouldn't have come amiss regardless.

The woman, who he'd learned was the mentalist Kurass, came out into the room bearing a pair of bowls. She set one down in front of Demarath; he didn't recognize most of the contents, but it smelled appetizing enough.

“If you're not going to rest,” she remarked with a faint smile, “you might as well eat.”

He squashed an instinct to protest – food would, in fact, be good for him, and his body quite readily said so in response to the scent. He remembered to say “thank you,” before he said “Do you think she'll be all right?” With the question asked, he poked his muzzle down into the bowl, giving its contents a tentative taste.

The stew was not intensely seasoned, but it was savory. And hot, an important consideration; the swamps outside had put a damp chill on him, and though it was warmer in here, it was not quite warm enough for his tastes.

“Oh, I think so,” Kurass replied, putting the other bowl on the table and then strolling around to the other side to sit. “I don't imagine you've come across any lifegivers before, but this is the sort of thing they're good at. It might take a few vigils of work to get her entirely healed, and she'll probably be miserable through most of it, but she should come out of it all right.”

She paused, her head cocked to one side, and then raised her voice slightly. “The other bowl is for you,” she said, “if you want it.”

Behind Demarath, Ferleth poked her head into the room; she looked, for once, less angry than frightened. She glanced at the bowl, but got no closer.

Demarath paused in his lapping of the contents, peering across at Ferleth. He smiled mildly, gesturing once to the food by way of an invitation, but without really expecting an effect from it. Still, he felt an obligation to at least try.

To Kurass, he said: “No lifegivers, no.” Having no idea what else to say, he let his ravenous hunger guide him into digging into the food instead. It was not raw fish, honestly making it the best thing he'd eaten in a while.

Ferleth crept into the room, but remained close to the wall, as if expecting to be attacked from an unexpected direction. She glanced at the bowl, then at Kurass, looking as if she wanted to say something; Kurass gave her a penetrating look, but said nothing, waiting for her to speak first.

Instead, she said to Demarath, “How are you finding traveling with Zadireth?”

The question was alarmingly precise. Not 'How are you finding traveling?', no, 'How are you finding traveling with Zadireth?', as though there was something about the witch that might come to dominate their travel experience. He mulled on the question as he ate more of his stew, trying both to puzzle out why someone would ask it, and how he might answer it.

“He has helped us a great deal in overcoming its dangers,” Demarath said. It was the polite answer, really, the one that didn't at all reflect on whether any of the dangers had been precipitated by Zadireth - though other than the Ferleth intervention, Demarath couldn't think of any that might fall in such a category. “But I don't fully understand where we are going, to be honest.”

Sanctuary, yes. 'Citadel', yes. But there was at least one other place out there that was safe for them, and they weren't heading that way, giving the matter, in the current context, a renewed taste of the arbitrary. And what of these refuges? How many had they passed?

Given that Kurass was a mentalist, she almost certainly saw more of Demarath's thought than he spoke aloud; but, again, she did not speak of it. She simply sighed a bit. “Yes, that sounds about right. I'm fairly sure he means well, but he's not the most forthcoming with information. There's some history there, I daresay - he came to the Citadel from outside, himself. Many who did likewise have had to live bad lives.

“The Citadel is a hidden country, tucked away in the mountains, where only Chosen live. It's not easy to get to, because if it was, it wouldn't stay hidden for very long, but it's possible. It's not the most comfortable environment, it's fairly cold, but there's been a lot of work put in to make it more enjoyable than it was at the start. And at least there no one's trying to kill or enslave you for being able to do magic tricks.”

She smiled wistfully. “Not that being stationed out here doesn't have its good points, but I think I'll be glad when it's time to go back.”

“Are you on a rotation?” Demarath asked between bites, reckoning that it was what she meant with 'time to go back'.

“Of a sort, yes. It's hard to find volunteers that would want to stay out here all the time, so depending on how far out a sanctuary is, they'll send someone out for a certain period of time. I've hung on for nearly a cycle at this point, but I should be getting a replacement in a few turns or so.” She smiled. “Shoss and Shemyl are decent enough fellows, but I'm ready to look at some other faces. Get better food than what I can make here. See how the family is doing, that kind of thing.”

Demarath considered his meal as much as the words. Then: “So Shoss and Shemyl are permanent residents?” But rather than wait for an answer, he squeezed another question in: “Are you Kaean and they're Srian?” It occurred to him a little too late that it might be a private question - he didn't understand the categories well enough yet to have a feel for that - and drooped a little in quiet apology.

Kurass looked amused. “I'm Kaean, yes. And so is Shoss, though Shemyl is Srian. And you don't have to look so apologetic. The question might've been worded better, but it's a good thing to know which one someone is, especially if you're going to be around them for any length of time. Keeps down the misunderstandings.”

She glanced through the door where Shoss was tending to Ilirith. “They're not permanent residents, no, not as such. But I suspect that being out here suits them for the time being. Gets them in the Oracle's good graces. She's got… views about men pairing as a couple.”

Ferleth did not seem to understand the conversation very well. As far as Demarath could remember, she'd never been willing enough to talk to Zadireth to have the concepts of Srian or Kaean explained to her; and it was anyone's guess what she thought about relationships. But the fact that no one seemed to be paying attention to her finally emboldened her to slink up to the table, and, after eyeing the stew suspiciously, to being slurping at it.

Demarath stole a glance and smile over to Ferleth at her approach, but - be it because he realised it would make her uncomfortable, or just because his interest currently lay elsewhere - shifted his attention back to Kurass. “Does she– hmm, what, then? Run the Citadel?” he mused, trying to square both his surprise at the revelation that Shoss and Shemyl were a couple - especially in light of the implied inherent incompatibility of Srian and Kaean habits - with his surprise that they would choose to be a couple in a swamp, and his surprise that it was one person's views that had in part inspired that choice.

“Oh, no,” Kurass replied, “not really. The Council is the highest authority there, though I understand they listen to her advice very carefully - I mean, when someone can see the future, they can give you some good advice. But she does lead the effort to help collect refugee Chosen and guide them to the Citadel. And because of that, she is our superior, in a sense.”

The woman scratched her head idly. “Just between us - she's a wonderful person, very dedicated, very selfless. But she's Srian, and she's… sort of… I mean, if you've ever been around a priestess, trying to keep others on the path of morality and such… she's something like that, if you ever meet her. Tends to sermonize on certain subjects.”

Demarath couldn't remember having 'been around a priestess' quite long enough for it to have left an impression, if at all - socialising had hardly been his strength the past couple of cycles, after all, and his memories were rather overwhelmed with playing refrigerator - but Kurass's description was evocative enough that he nodded anyway, although cautiously as not to give the impression he was pretending to know precisely what she meant.

“I don't understand,” he said, however. “What is her problem with their, ah– their arrangement?”

He didn't have much of an idea what it meant for 'men to pair as a couple', other than that they clearly could not have children, which, he reckoned, would likely sadden them both. In his mind's eye, it was rather more like an intense friendship than anything else, albeit strong enough to preclude the possibility of starting another relationship with anyone else.

Had someone stopped to explain it to him in greater detail, or had he himself paused to think about it more deeply, he might have formed a different hypothesis on this Oracle's opposition, albeit one he would have found deeply strange given the ways that Witches had to support each other - and it would have been quite wrong.

Fortunately, his harmless misconception lent itself to brevity, leading much more quickly into the real reasons, without getting distracted by irrelevant details that his Kaean mindset would otherwise have asked endless questions about.

Kurass made something of a face. “You have to understand,” she said, “that the Oracle has seen that there'll be a time when the Unchosen will make war on the Chosen. She wants the Chosen to be ready for that. And our biggest disadvantage is in numbers, you see. So she believes it's a kind of duty for Chosen who are of the right age to have plenty of children. And two men… well, neither of them will be bearing children, and neither will be a husband to a woman who will.”

Her expression suggested that she was uneasy with this, which she quickly confirmed. “It makes sense, I guess, in a calculated kind of way,” she said, “but it's not the only thing someone has to consider. Not everyone wants children. Some of the ones who want them aren't really cut out to be parents-”

There was a sudden, sharp sound, which both Kurass and Demarath were surprised to identify as a brief, bitter laugh from Ferleth. It was the first time Demarath had heard anything like that from her.

“And some don't get the choice,” she silver girl snarled. “This… Oracle of yours needs to mind her own business.”

Hmm, yes, that might be a problem. If this Oracle wanted people to have children and harassed Ferleth to produce any, it would certainly go badly. But Demarath found himself inwarldy mildly amused at the mental image of Ferleth scorching the Oracle's tail in response. To the outside, he nodded mildly, setting his now-empty bowl aside. “Agreed,” he concurred with Ferleth.

Kurass looked closely at Ferleth. Whether because of the latter's attitude or her own powers, she seemed to recognize that there was an extremely personal element to the response. “Oh,” she murmured. “I think I see. Yes, it's not always the most tactful position to take.”

Ferleth glared at her, not sure whether the older woman was looking into her mind, but finally snorted and stuck her muzzle into the bowl. After concluding that, if nothing else, there was no fast-acting poison in the stuff, she slurped some of it down before suddenly asking, “So what's-his-name is some kind of healer?”

“Shoss is, yes,” Kurass replied mildly. “He's what we call a lifegiver in the Citadel. They can manipulate life force. Healing isn't the only thing they can do, but it's the most common. He'll probably want to look the two of you over after he's finished with the others, if you're willing.”

Ferleth looked not entirely comfortable with this idea, but there was a faint, desperate longing in her eyes. “What kind of things can be fixed that way?”

“It's not quite my area of expertise, but I understand that most things can - given enough time and effort, and if the person being healed is strong enough. There is a bit of a cost to the body in being healed, you see. ”

Ferleth fidgeted, not certain how to take this information, and stuck her face into the bowl again, in what appeared to be an attempt to avoid fidgeting. Though she asked nothing further, given the extensive set of poorly-healed injuries she had, it wasn't too hard to guess the thrust of her question.

At that point, Shoss himself came in, looking tired. “The green girl is coming along well,” he murmured, wearily lowering himself to a sitting position next to the table. “It'll be another vigil or two before I can finish up with her, but the wound's clean now and not so deep, and the illness she picked up is receding.” He glanced at Kurass. “I'm guessing that there's still stew left?”

“Some for both you and her?” Shoss nodded, then Kurass got up and went into the room that apparently served as the kitchen.

Demarath glanced across at Shoss, allowing himself to feel some relief. Ilirith would be all right. “Thank you so much for your help,” he said to Shoss as Kurass meandered into the kitchen. “If you need rest, please take it,” he urged politely, not wanting the lifegiver to overwork himself if the immediate risk had passed.

Then two questions occurred to him, and he appended them in some disregard for that they weren't questions well-suited to following each other: “May I see her? And… can we do anything for you, in return?”

The red male laid his head on the table for a moment, laughing weakly. “Are you… Demarath, was it? You can take her her food, if you like. She was asking for you anyway, but during that stage of things having other people around might've been a little inconvenient. As for me, I need sleep and food, but just food will have to do for now. I need to see to Zadireth before I can heave myself into bed.”

Ferleth hesitated, then spoke up. “Will you be able to look at me?”

Shoss lifted his head from the table. “If it's not something that needs immediate attention, it may need to wait until tomorrow. Healing's a bit strenuous, especially if you're trying to hurry things along.” Ferleth looked a bit discontented, but, somewhat uncharacteristically, seemed to decide not to argue.

Kurass came out again with two bowls. One she put in front of Shoss, who grasped it like a lifeline; she turned as if to take the other one towards Ilirith's room, but Shoss waved vaguely at her. “Let him do it,” he said, jerking his head toward Demarath. “She wants to see him anyway.”

Demarath rose from his sit and extended his hands to receive the bowl, his posture conveying an offer, not a demand.

Kurass politely handed the bowl to Demarath with what, he thought, seemed like a rather knowing sort of look.

He took it into the chamber, which appeared to be a smallish and uncomplicated bedroom; there was a large niche in the wall, from which had been sculpted an elevated bowl-shaped depression for the bed and a flat surface next to it for use as a table. The bed had been lined with crude, lumpy-looking cushions and a blanket made of some unfamiliar material. And that, aside for a bit of floor space for moving around in, was all there was.

Ilirith was stretched out in the bed; the wound on her thigh had been freshly dressed. Her cloak and harness had been set aside on the table. She looked exhausted and rather grouchy, but brightened somewhat as Demarath came in, and even more when she saw that he was carrying a bowl.

Demarath mirrored the expression, carefully navigating as not to end up doing something silly like tripping over an unfamiliar obstacle and spilling the stew all over Ilirith. Instead, he arrived safely beside her and offered her the bowl at a distance that let her choose if she wanted to take it in her own perfectly capable hands or she wanted to lean over and eat directly, letting her tired limbs rest after their long journey through the marshes.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, softly, even knowing that it was a somewhat redundant question - 'well' was not in the cards, after all, and her body language was quite sufficient to convey most of the answer, even given her default mental shielding.

After a moment's battle with herself that pride won, she reached out and carefully took the bowl, though her hands were visibly trembling. She took a brief sip from it before answering. “I hurt less,” she said, “and this healing thing of theirs is marvelous, but it takes more out of you than I'd've thought. I feel like I haven't eaten or slept in vigils.” She sipped again.

She looked up at him. “You're looking a little ragged yourself. You didn't get a nap or something?”

“Not yet,” he confessed, feeling mildly but justly chided. “Just… too much on my mind,” he said, as though it needed saying. There was indeed much on his mind - it was a full-on Kaean mess of thoughts, engaged with the strange environment, Ilirith's wound, Ilirith's well-being in general, Ferleth's rattled and slow integration, the revelation of Citadel politics, and the fight they'd been drawn into, all across the background anxieties of being on the literal run for a while now, uprooted, and rather not used to rugged living. What maintained his sanity the most was the relentless march forward, the finite and obvious goal and the opportunity for self-discovery the Citadel and its culture represented… and Ilirith. Ilirith was brightening his outlook considerably.

There was a pause while Ilirith ate some of her stew - despite being dreadfully hungry, scarfing it all down an an instant was probably bad for her and definitely embarrassing, so she forced herself to take her time, occupying herself with a study of Demarath's mind. She wondered how anyone - including, apparently, an entire half of the Chosen population - could manage with such a tangled mess of thoughts, though in all fairness he was dealing with a lot - as was she, albeit in a very different fashion.

The feeling of dislocation was especially strong, to the point that even though she was lying here recovering from being wounded and crammed into a shelter with strangers with what seemed like surprisingly little to do, she was glad just for the temporary reprieve of having a place to stay, to stop moving, to feel at home. Under other circumstances, she might have considered asking to stay for longer than they would likely be permitted to. If nothing else, it was a nice, hidden, cozy place.

She was also surprised, and quietly pleased, that her presence seemed to be such a comfort to him - and, indeed, that she seemed to be occupying as large a proportion of his thoughts as she evidently was. She hoped to encourage that.

“Demarath,” she said finally, “have you ever thought about… well, what kind of life you'd want? In this Citadel of theirs?”

The question crinkled Demarath slightly. Had he ever thought about what kind of life he'd want at all? He'd dreamt about many back when he was 'employed' as a means of cooling supplies, but never with any real expectation that they might come true, and so never with any real attempt at making them at all realistic. When, then, in the time since his flight from there and the hardships they'd been stringing themselves through, was he supposed to have come up with some kind of aspiration?

The thought made him resentful - not of Ilirith, but of himself. Still only an escapee, then, now with blood on his hands. In his mind's eye, he remembered the battle, then Ilirith's wounds. The blood, soaking through the mud. The grimace deepened and he cast his gaze aside deliberately. “No, not really.”

Ilirith grimaced. That wasn't the direction she'd intended for him to go in. She shook her head and, reaching out a hand, put it on his arm. “Don't blame yourself,” she said, gently but firmly. “What happened was not your fault - you understand? It wasn't. Things happen in battle, and you weren't the one to start the battle.”

Right, mentalist. He wasn't embarrassed for the thoughts as much as frustrated that he was exposing her to them this way. He put a hand of his own on hers. “I understand,” he said. There was enough truth to it to not make it a lie. “But I hope we don't have to do that again. I don't want you getting hurt. Or Ferleth, or Zadireth, for that matter.” He smiled, but it was a somewhat scrunched expression all the same. “I guess that rules out border guard,” he joked without much passion. “How about you?”

She sighed ponderously. “Sometimes,” she said, “it's necessarily to kill, in self-defense or in defense of some other person or cause. I'll do it if I have to, and I'm good at it. But - yes, if I can manage it, I'd prefer not to have to.” Her eyes grew distant. “I've wondered, you know, what else I could do. I imagine I could make a good librarian or something - I can read and write, I'm good at spotting when things are out of place. I like books. I don't know if they have libraries there, of course, but if they do it might be worth a try.”

She took another sip of the stew, which by now was nearly gone, and added, “But in truth, I think I could put up with a lot of things, as long as it was enough to get me somewhere of my own, where I could settle in - a little cozy place, even. I had rooms before, but they were the Matriarch's to let me use - having some that no one can evict me from would suit me better.

The notion that Ilirith had lived in rooms that she could have been evicted from felt wrong to Demarath. It wasn't that the concept was foreign to him, or that he struggled to imagine Ilirith in such a situation, per se - it was that he'd spent enough time with her to think she deserved better, inherently, and it insulted him that others had disagreed.

He didn't raise the subject, though. Instead, realising that he wasn't sure, he asked: “What does a librarian do?”

Ilirith wondered how sheltered Demarath had been. He'd grown up in a noble house, hadn't he? Did it not have a library of its own, or just had it just been small enough that no one had needed to be around to manage it?

“Er, well,” she explained, “The more books there are lying around, the harder it becomes to find the one you want unless they're kept in some kind of order. A librarian's job is to know what books are there and where they ought to be kept, and to find them and make sure they're put back when not in use.”

There was a pause after she finished, the silence filling the void that Demarath had expected to be filled with something more. When nothing was forthcoming, his confusion resolved - it just wasn't a particularly interesting job, about as mentally engaging as his task as a glorified refrigerator. He couldn't imagine liking such a job - was this another one of those differences Zadireth had mentioned, or just an Ilirith idiosyncrasy? The thought of the latter brought a smile to his face. “Then I hope they have enough books for you,” he grinned encouragingly.

Ilirith got the feeling that Demarath wasn't entirely impressed with the idea. But at least he wasn't dismissive - and, in any case, being a spy and assassin had already given her enough excitement, which would undoubtedly only be added to during a trip across half a continent. She could do with some calmness in her life after all that.

“And if not,” she said aloud, “I'm sure there's something else. I could even fall back on herding, if I had to, like my parents did - I think I remember enough about how it was done.” She gave a wistful smile. “One of the things I've found out from watching peoples' heads is that most of them don't get to do jobs that are all that wonderful, you know. They have to find their fulfillment in their own time.”