Seventh I: The Mists of Dreams

The Twentieth Day of the Second Moon, 873 AD.

Anaria, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.

They'd been having the dreams again. Not dreams of prophecy or futures that may yet be, but of memories. Their own memories. Hazy, half formed images of mother and father danced across their waking mind, memories of two people that were so kind, so loving despite their nature, two people they could never truly know outside of places and features they had seen in dreams they'd had a lifetime ago. Even hazier were the memories of the man who had made them, who had granted them consciousness before giving them to the woman who was to be their mother, and the man who was to be their father.

They wished they could see them again, if only for a day. What would mother and father think of them for their abilities now? Would they shun him? Would they care? Would they see them any differently?

No. Of course not. Their faces were blurred by the weight of time, but their voices remained with them always. Their joyful proclamations at finally having a child of their own, mother's endless doting and proclamations of love as she rocked them in the cradle, of father's quiet but always reassuring and kind presence.

They missed them immensely these days, as all the mysteries and tricks of the man who they had once called their God all but mocked them for their lack of understanding. They felt like they were trying to read a language no man had ever learned before, or comprehend a colour no artist had ever yet seen. It was almost maddening, but they couldn't afford to lose themselves in what once was, not when there was still so much to do before them. A realm barely held together, tensions along the borders, and... and they had the oddest feeling that something cold was waking.

They shook their head and got back on track. Lykourgos was still asleep, but alive. Nasos had been the one to heal his Grace, or at least stabilise him. Most pressing, according to him, was the wound in his stomach. The young healer and priest had made sure that all his instruments were sterilised in boiled water, before washing his hands so vigorously Seventh had thought he meant to take the top layer of skin off. Afterwards he had, to Seventh's limited understanding, stitched the wound back together. The room had stank of shit and blood. It was no surprise; the open puncture in the prince's stomach meant that whatever was inside was... well, it was still in there, but it was now open to the world.

The young man had run himself completely ragged to heal the Prince. It had taken well over ten hours for the procedures to be completed, and even then he did not rest. Endlessly he went back and forwards taking notes on the prince's breathing, the pallor of his skin, if his body reacted to stimuli. For another six hours he had worked there, before finally being literally carried away by a worried and, unless his eyes were deceiving him, somewhat smitten Dreamwulf.

They could see those two working well. It would be funny to watch them obliviously dance around each other, at least.

Speaking of princes, Seventh suspected Rhema now knew what drove his brother to fight like a man possessed to rescue him during the Twilight Rebellion.

The attempt on his brothers life seemed to have... shaken Rhema, for a lack of a better word. Despite how close they had been, Seventh was never quite sure how much of Rhema's madness was true madness and how much was an act, a veneer to throw off those around him who may wish him harm. As he had said, after all, in order to fool your enemies you must first fool yourself.

As Lykourgos had been laid motionless in his royal bed, Rhema had changed in an instant. Perhaps the scene had snapped him back from the brink of insanity. Perhaps he had simply stopped pretending. Either way, the man who now sat the throne was a completely different person than the boy who had sat it a scant few months ago.

Nowadays he constantly hounded Ser Romanos and Marshal Crowe for tactics to be used in battles and skirmishes, well, whenever they were not off hunting down outlaw bands and Rose-Loyalist holdouts. Where possible he'd also speak to other knights and officers about anything and everything relating to war; he spoke to Lieutenant Marren of Carcass Shot and the proper usage of artillery, and a few of the others about logistics, of all things. He'd even been seen actually starting to learn the basics of stewardship from books that he would never have even touched three months ago.

When he dispensed justice in his brothers name, above all there seemed to be a single philosophy that he stuck to before anything else: "What would Lyk do?"

At some point in the second week of his brother's coma he had sent for some of the records of justice in Aenirhen so he could read Lykourgos' previous dispensations and reuse them on the petitioners that came to Anaria now. As a result, "What would Lyk do?" Had become, "What did Lyk do?"

He still had issues within his mind, Seventh knew that all too well, but now that he was both surrounded by actual support and presented with a situation as grave as this, he seemed determined to do his brother proud.

To say Rhema 'sat' the throne was not entirely true. Whilst his brother lay unmoving he could have sat it by all rights, but instead he dispensed justice whilst standing slightly to the right of the throne, where a trusted bodyguard might stand whilst the actual king sat the throne.

He was stood there, now, listening as a messenger relayed troop movements from within Owkrestos to him.

His left hand lay on the pommel of his sword, his face was grim and stern.

Yes, thought Seventh, he plays the jester no longer. Now he is a Prince.

They smiled a little. Lykourgos would be so proud of his brother when he awoke, and he would wake, Seventh would make sure of it. It may have been beyond their ability to shake the prince from his slumber, but that just meant they needed a little help. They would ask their kinsman tomorrow, for their Lord had to know something that could be done.

And yet, amidst all of this chaos and mystic musings, the gears of state still turned.

In the absence of the King, still technically a prince, the Inner Council had taken to ruling the realm in his stead. The Council of Five, as it had come to be known, consisted of Grandmaster Romanos as the Master of Steel, Crowe as the Mistress of Iron, Elikoidi as the Master of Silver and finally a man named 'Yzaldae', an exile from Sothettar, as the Master of Copper, finally rounded out by Prince Rhema, who acted as the figurehead of the extremely reduced council

Even if Seventh didn't know the new man in charge of the realms coffers, they at least knew that all four others were as true as could be, their intents never wavering.

"Sparrow for your thoughts?"

Seventh turned to see his Grace's cupbearer stood alongside them, a curious glint in their eyes. and a rather convincing relaxed air about them, but Seventh could see right through it even with the blindfold on.

"Nothing interesting, I'm afraid. Just thinking on the regency that runs the kingdom whilst his Grace rests."

The cupbearer nodded and leant on a low stone wall besides Seventh.

"Yeah, I think about them a lot as well. Well, probably in a completely different way to you. It's a part of my job to keep tabs on all of them, you see."

Seventh cocked an eyebrow, a playfully sarcastic tone to their voice.

"A spy? And here I thought you could be trusted."

Ilias' cheeks flushed slightly as he made to respond, and there was the slightest hint of a waver in their voice.

"No, of course not! I just... I'm an informant for his Grace, that's all! Someone's gonna need to bring him up to speed on what they've all been doing whilst running his kingdom when he wakes up."

Seventh nodded, conceding the point, and the two lapsed into silence. It was not awkward but it was far from comfortable, as the young serving-boy seemed to be trying to work up the courage to ask something. After a few minutes passed in silence Seventh decided to take pity on the boy and start the conversation himself.

"Are you here to ask a favour? Just a question, perhaps?"

Ilias gave a relieved nod, seemingly thankful for the opening.

"I... yes, I am. I know it might seem like stupidity or paranoia but... well, you're closer to his Highness than any other I know and you seem nice, and I just wanted someone to confirm that... to confirm that his Highness didn't do anything and won't do anything to his Grace. I know they're brothers and his Highness does genuinely seem to care, but I just... need to know for certain."

Seventh was silent for a moment before letting out a single huffed laugh.

"Is that what you're worried about? Don't worry, I can say with complete certainty that Rhema is not in any way responsible for what happened to his Grace. Please, trust me when I say that Rhema would be the last person who wants to see his Grace laid low as he is now."

Ilias nodded and let out a shaking breath before composing himself.

"Thank you. It means more than you know to hear that. I will leave you be now, I promise."

Seventh smiled at him as reassuring as they could before turning to leave.

"Worry not; your heart is in the right place. Feel free to ask me of any such things you need, anytime."

"Thank you, Se-"

There was a little gasp from the cupbearer as they turned to walk away, and Seventh realised that one of their wings was peeking through their robe. They carefully tucked it back in, and pressed a finger to their lips whilst smiling back at Ilias. The boy nodded, seemingly dazed, before they both went their separate ways. They sighed. There was still much to do today. Best to get it over with.

Odd. It was quite warm out for the time of year, and yet they still felt a shiver pass through them when they looked to the north. Ah well. It was probably nothing.

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They'd had the dream again last night. The dream of looking up at the world from their little cradle, of being rocked and gently shushed and lulled by the voice of their mother as she aged after father passed away. They'd been tricked, mother and father. Mother was barren, and could never conceive, but they wanted a child more than anything. One day their creator, one of Basileous' compatriots now recognised as the Angels of the Old-Church or the Corvid Gods in the north, stumbled across the couple. They begged the divine to grant them a bairn, and after a day and a night of arguing and pleading, their maker acquiesced. They weren't sure how they knew this, since they hadn't yet been made, but they'd remembered feeling like they were... floating? Hovering? Around the conversation. When the divine creature left in the morning, the household had another member.

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Them.

But of course, there was a catch. There was always a catch. Mother and father were so happy to have a child to call their own that it didn't strike them until four years later. Four years old, and they'd neither left the cradle nor grown an inch. Of course not. They'd begged and begged the Angel for a bairn, a baby, and so that was what they received. Mother had gone out one night, and father had explained to their young ears that she meant to ask the Angel to have them age as their mother and father did.

She never found him. He was long gone.

They wouldn't even take their first steps until mother was on her deathbed, but at the very least they'd been able to let her see them as they worked their way through those first clumsy steps. That was something.

But then they supposed that mother and father, despite having every reason to resent them for being a drain on their small family, for them not being what they had wanted, for being a changeling child out of myth no less, had loved them. They'd fed them and rocked them and loved them and they could do nothing to thank them for it now, and that made their eyes sting a little if they were truthful. For fifty years mother had rocked them in that cradle, half a century they had known lullabies and sweet nothings to calm them in rain and storms, and in that time they'd aged only about a year in truth.

They were fairly certain once that their abnormal upbringing had inspired a faetale or two, given that a child who remained a baby for half a century was bound to make a few tongues wag, and that feeling had been proven correct when they'd chanced past a travelling bard singing about changeling children and mothers who nursed babes for decades without their bairns growing an inch. It was an odd feeling, to know your person, your family, had inspired a faetale, but then they supposed that it was bound to happen at some point. The song had been mournful and at the time they'd tried to ignore it, but now they wished they'd paid more attention, if for no other reason than to see how much the singers had gotten right. Well, that and the fact that they'd probably be able to remember the name of the bloody song if they'd paid more attention. Oh well.

Father died two decades after they were bequeathed unto the little family in that beautiful dark-green shawl that had been some of their only clothes for decades, then mother had joined him in the quiet grave after about thirty years of living with only them in their cradle, with Seventh still barely able to walk. They'd stayed in the house for what must have been two centuries if the fifty years in the cradle was to be counted, and they stayed when the roof timbers rotted and the walls began to crumble. That's where Basileous had found them, and talked to them for a little while before leaving. That conversation was almost etched into their mind, but it hadn't mattered, since then he was gone. Then they'd walked down the path in the woods they'd lived in until they found a small chapel-come-monastery, and been taken in by the people who'd lived there. They were kindly folk, some around their age, some wizened and old like mother had been when she passed away, but no matter what they all tried they couldn't help seventh get to sleep. The young seer remembered feeling so scared that all of this would disappear when they woke up that they refused to sleep. Then, after two weeks of constant wakefulness, they'd been lulled to sleep by a draught purchased from a travelling apothecary.

They still remembered the numbness they'd felt when they next awoke to find nothing but the ruined remains of the little monastery they'd fallen asleep in, the feeling of briars and moss and mildew covering their body and the finger of a confused green-clad prince poking his face.

They'd slept for nearly eight-hundred and seventy years.

Not that anyone had known that, nor had they intended to tell anyone. The monastery had been a ruin, covered in the same plants that had grown over them, and the village nearby was completely gone save only a few stone walls and what was left of a little well. After that they'd immediately went to check on the house that had been already on its way to ruin by the time they'd left, the house that they'd been raised in, and found nothing more than a few scattered stones, the remains of a floor covered in tall grass, and amazingly one and two-half legs from the cradle they'd been rocked in, joined by the curved wood at the bottom.

It had taken everything they had not to weep at that sight. Then they'd left with Rhema and his retinue to Castelos, and had done their best to avoid thinking on what they'd lost to time.

But it didn't matter any more. They had a job to do now, and they were bloody well going to do it. All they needed to do was convince their obstinate kinsman to do this one thing for them. He owed it to them, after all. That and so much more.

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"Basileous, I am begging you!"

Seventh moved in front of him as the older divine tried to walk past, the younger Seer having spent the better part of the last hour trying to convince him to intervene.

"Infernal wingling! Don't use that name here, you should know better! Names have power, child!"

"It's the only way you'll pay any attention to what I say!"

The man curled his lip.

"That's because I have no interest in these affairs!"

"Come on! Please!"

The elder shrugged impassively and continued walking, bumping their shoulder as he went. Seventh shouted at the back of his retreating form.

"You know, this sort of thing is my choice anyway, not yours!"

The man stopped, and despite his clear bitterness he chuckled. He pointed his finger over his shoulder at the stained glass window behind them, on which the seven Angels were depicted surrounding the First Saint.

"I suppose so, if you go by their definitions of who we are."

The younger groaned in frustration, and the man snapped around and pointed a finger at him.

"Look, if you genuinely think this is your decision, then go and make it."

Seventh looked away, abashed.

"I can't."

"Why's that?"

"I don't know how."

The man snorted.

"Of course you don't. You're still a child."

The insinuation that their age had anything to do with their predicament genuinely struck a nerve in the seer, who gave themselves over to a brief and rare rage.

"No, it is not because I am 'just a child', and even if I was still a child, what would that have to do with it? You were supposed to teach me! And then you left! How many of us are left in the world? All I know of are me and you! When my progenitor died you promised you'd teach me what you could, and then you left. I learned what I could, but there wasn't a single being alive aside from me or you left, so there was no-one! Just me! I revered you as a borderline God, and you see fit to mock me now? I come to you, asking for aid, and you spurn me. It wouldn't even take you long to do!"

The man raised a hand, asking for silence, and used the other to rub his own face.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be there as I promised. But I am here now."

"You are. And you can start to make up for it by doing as I ask."

The man nodded.

"Okay. How's this for a debt then? You get three wishes from me. Three wishes, and we're even. Sound like a deal?"

The younger Seer blinked.

"Three wishes? How is that fair? What tasks would I even wish completed that could make up for centuries of lost time?"

The man smiled, holding out a pale hand for the younger to accept.

"We'll have to wait and see, won't we?"

Seventh grimaced and took his hand, shaking it firmly. The man smiled wider, and somewhere in the distance there was the sound of thunder from a cloudless sky.

The bargain was struck.

"Well, lets get to work, shall we?"

"When can you perform your work?"

"Tonight. That'll square away one of your wishes right away. I don't like being in the debt of others."

Seventh snorted.

"I don't think anyone does."

The man sighed.

"Trust me when I say I hate it more than most. Bad memories. A great many bad memories. Is there anything else you wish to speak of with me?"

"Yes, one more thing. I know how I'm to use the second of my wishes."

"Already?"

"Yes. You're going to teach me your ways, as you once promised me you would, and tell me about the others."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"The others?"

Seventh swallowed a little as they elaborated.

"Our kinsmen. The ones I never could meet. I would have you tell me of the last of our kind in this world, before they passed on."

There was silence for a moment, and a faint look of sorrow mixed with something approaching amusement crossed the face of their kinsman.

"That's technically two things."

Seventh started.

"I swear, if you try and say-"

"Don't worry. I'll train you in the ways of our angelic-magics, no need to worry about that. As for telling you of the others, you don't need to wish for that. Just ask. Any questions you have, and stories you'd like me to tell... it'll be nice to have someone to talk to about them."

Seventh stared at the man with a faint feeling of pity rising up in their chest.

"You miss them, don't you?"

The man nodded slowly.

"Aye, and I'm not ashamed to admit that. They were all good friends of mine. Family, if not by blood then by boundless friendship. They were good folk. I miss them dearly. Sometimes I find myself hoping that perhaps the one the Klironomeans call 'Anawroth' survived that great and terrible battle at the Aauta Pass, but it's little more than a chance hope. If he somehow survived and dragged himself from the field then he'd have still needed to survive the last thousand years in the tattered state would have been left in."

"Who made me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Seventh's features worked into a thinking expression as the thought came to the forefront of their mind.

"Who made me? Who gave me to my mother and father? If it wasn't you or Hre-"

"Anawroth. Our names have power, wingling. For now, we use the names these folk have given us."

Seventh nodded in understanding.

"Of course, my apologies. If it wasn't you or Anawroth, then who was it?"

Basileo- Hydran, gotta remember not to use the true names, Hydran looked at them and gave them a sad smile.

"I promise I'll tell you soon, but not just yet. I can't bring myself to think of them much more at the moment, especially not with the task you've already given me for tonight. I'll need to concentrate. Such tasks seem simple, but it all depends how close to the shadows he's gone. Besides, I'm quite rusty. The last time I attempted something like this was... well, it must have been during the Sixth Bastard's War."

Seventh blinked.

"But that would be... what, a thousand years ago?"

"Somewhere around that, I think. Don't worry though, there's little chance of me buggering this up, so don't look so worried. I'll have him awake come the small hours of the morning, for better or worse. Then we're a third of the way to even."

Despite themselves, Seventh grinned. It was nice to hear his kinsman's snarky tone be used in a more jovial way than the obstinate antagonism they had become used to over the last month.

"A third the way to even? If you say so. I still say you owe me a lot more than three wishes."

Their kinsman smiled down at them and ruffled their hair good-naturedly.

It was as if he'd never disappeared.

"Don't push your luck, wingling. Go, get some rest. I'll talk with you tomorrow."

Seventh nodded and left for their chambers. Rest sounded good right about now.

"Oh! One more thing!"

They turned around to see the form of their kinsman walking away.

"Be wary of the victim who grins, the shepherd eating mutton, and the vows that bind a king, else you may find the fate you think certain lost before your eyes."

Then he turned and carried on walking away.

Huh, Seventh thought, is that what I sound like when I give warnings?

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Their chambers were better than the ones they'd had at Castelos and the temporary room they'd been moved into whilst Rhema was at the capital in both the days leading up to the civil war and the civil war itself. It wasn't anything particularly special; there was only a little hearth, no great and opulent tapestries or carvings, nothing like that, but there was a little bit of ivy curling its way around the stone of the balcony opening.

They smiled a little as they looked at it. In time this room would look much like an indoor forest, minus the trees since that would just be unwieldy, allowing them to feel much more at home in their new residence. In short they very much liked their new chambers. Oh, and it was far away from the barracks, so they didn't need to worry about soldiers or knights trying anything stupid. They weren't overly fond of knights, not after what Ser Aenethar did.

They shook their head and broke that trail of thought. They'd not dignify that man with even the smallest thought, this they swore. They turned their mind away, leaning on their windowsill and gazing out into the skies above. It had been a nice day do far, mild but cloudless, and the air was still pleasantly warm. They were tired, it was nice out, and they had a large bed to sleep in. What more could they ask for at this moment than what they already had?

Still, they allowed themselves just a moment to watch the sunset before going to bed.

Seventh stared out of the balcony window of their new room as the last rays of sunshine dipped down and passed under the horizon.

Then they shivered.

Cold winds were rising.