Herah peaked out from the edge of a small clearing. Owen knelt in its center; his hat sat on the ground at his side. Before the binder’s bowed head, four silver statues the size of desk lamps stood in a line. All around Owen, dozens of spectral green circles within circles circled as his prayer filled the air.
“Lady Grey, I know these are not your subjects, but I beg that you allow their souls to rest within a lap as soft as yours. May they know love and care in arms as vast as yours. May they know safety and peace under eyes as sharp as yours. May they know joy and bliss in a paradise as great as what you’ve promised me. Or even greater. Especially greater.”
The circles surrounding Owen condensed into four dinner place sized rings. Each floated over to their own statue before sinking into the ground. Only moonlight illuminated the clearing now, a single shining upon the binder and silver figures. Then, each statue hummed, a divine choir resounding throughout the night as a green glow overtook the metal.
TIIIIIIING!
Semi-transparent green energy pulsed out and swept the forest. As the wave passed over the artist, Herah smelled the soothing scent of ash, felt her mother’s arms wrap around her back, and tasted silver. Touching her chest, the warmth of the artist’s flame resonated with Owen’s strange Science.
Interesting, to see another use it for worship. I only know Dad to still uses our Science for such a purpose.
Herah smiled at the thought and stood back a few moments more. The artist didn’t want to interrupt till the binder finished for sure.
Rising from his knees, Owen bowed to the statues.
“Excelsior.”
The binder took his hat from the ground and sat it back on his head. Turning from the silver figures, his eyes shut tight while his breathing slowed and deepened.
“Purpose of Study?”
Owen flinched before snapping his attention to Herah, who stepped into the clearing with Jeffery floating in after.
“H-Herah, I didn’t see you there.” The binder frowned then tilted his head to the side. “Study?”
“Your Science.”
“Oh, we call those rituals. And I performed a funeral rite.” Owen looked back at the statutes and sighed. “It’s to ensure the souls aren’t reinvoked against their will and keeps the bodies from rising in undeath.”
“Undeath?”
The binder faced the artist again, squinting now.
“You mentioned rebirth earlier explaining your flame. Is undeath not also an idea amongst your kind?”
The artist shook her head. Owen pursed his lips then shrugged.
“Undeath is when a body or soul or combination of the two exist in a functioning manner while being unwhole. A perversion of life so to speak. Like a malformed sword or helm. It’s a big problem back on my world.”
Herah tapped her foot a few times, thinking over the words. Perversions of life wasn’t a new concept, just an elusive one. The Cendreux as a whole only heard of it from other species but never really grasped it themselves.
To function is to be whole in some form or shape. Though, Stories of white flames surged up from the artist’s fire. That’s the closet we’ve got. Anyhow, I wonder—
“—what’s a soul?”
The binder’s scent shifted sharply, the soft repugnance of worry brushing Herah’s nose. Owen opened his mouth, paused, then spoke.
“Again, you mentioned rebirth earlier. But you don’t have a concept of a soul? What’s carried on between lives then?”
The artist’s nostrils flared, smoke shooting from them before a frown marked her face.
“My flame and my ashes. What’re you talking about? The ash is a soul?”
The worry disappeared, the oily smell of amazement replacing it within the binder’s scent.
“Uh, wow.” Owen squinted, then shrugged. “Do you want the in-depth explanation or the simple one?”
“In-depth.”
“Well, a soul is your spiritual self, what exist within the sheath of your body. Its the root of your identity and potential, what your mind and body conform to as you exist in life. It goes even deeper than your mind and holds the records of what you are and were and can be.”
A pause followed, the binder frowning. After a few seconds, Owen nodded and continued.
“I called the body a sheath for your soul, but that’s wrong. Your body is more the sword itself. Your soul is a combination of the diagrams or schematics of you and the metal forged into what ultimately becomes your entirety. It’s also your connection to a place greater than the four-dimensional plane we call reality, where all the potential that is to exist as life must first be created then returned once life is over. At least, that’s how it works in my world.”
Herah lost her frown, the binder’s description familiar in all but the mentions of a higher or larger plane or whatever the stuff about beyond the fourth dimension.
“Sounds a bit like my flame.”
But I feel like something isn’t lining up exactly. What could the difference be? Probably not too important though, separate realities, separate rules.
“Yeah, that reminds me, um,” Owen drew the artist’s attention, the binder staring up at Herah with twisted lips. “What happens to a Cendreux when you die?”
The artist shrugged.
“Our bodies turns to ash and our flame is made a part of La Flamme once again. From that ash, our next self is born and a part of our flame returns to spur on this new us.”
“So,” Owen looked Herah up and down. “You’re the reincarnation of someone else?”
The artist shook her head.
“I’m Cendre Fabriqué, Ash Made. I was made as a wholly new extension of La Flamme. My parents are Cendre Née, Ash Born. They are reincarnations of my grandparents.”
“Fascinating,” The binder turned towards the statues. “I wonder if they have something similar going on.”
Herah turned her eyes to the statues as well.
Each one appeared a recreation of the Oni slain at the hands of Herah and Alex. Two had blades at their hips, while the others had bows and quivers strung over their backs. All had light bumps marking their masks.
The masks are too symmetrical, and the folds in the cloth look more like ridges. The hands are balls instead of fists, and each feels like a copy of the last. Oh, the artist paused. You never saw the other Oni. You’re basing their appearances off the prisoner. Though, I wonder how you know what weapons each held? Clearly not your strong suit, but not bad.
Herah turned off her critic brain, then stepped up next to Owen before looking down at the binder.
“Why?”
“All but one of these graves is empty.”
The artist frowned. Graves weren’t a new concept, as the Cendre and many animals buried their dead and marked the location. But a grave with no dead wasn’t a grave.
At least, for us it isn’t. Maybe the gnomes enjoy that?
“Why?”
“I wanted them all together before I buried them, but the bodies were gone when Max and I went back. ”
Herah raised a brow.
“Picked up?”
“Maybe,” Owen shook his head, “But there were no signs anyone else had been by. Almost like they disappeared.”
The artist took a moment to think, turning over the possibility of Oni reincarnation.
It’d be… intriguing if they were reborn like us and the Suie. But, if Owen had enough time to bury one of them without the body disappearing then they have a delayed rebirth. And if they disappeared long before that one got buried then it seems even less likely the explanation.
“Maybe the Rot consumed them.” Herah offered.
“Maybe,” the binder frowned. “But something tells me there has to be more to it.”
“I’ll look later. See if I can sense something you two couldn’t.”
Owen smiled softly.
“Thanks.”
The artist nodded before pointing at the graves.
“Why statues?”
“In my village, we gift the dead with a model of themselves made by our sculptors. Sadly, I’m no sculptor.” The binder frowned, reaching up to his hat and crinkling it between his fist. “Nor do I know how they each looked.”
“Bothering you?” Herah asked, eyes still on the graves.
“Each of these Oni lived a complex life, a different one. The models are supposed to help illustrate that.” Owen gestured weakly towards his creations. “These don’t.”
The artist focused on the binder. Herah studied how his hand strangled his hat. How his eyes glared at the statues. How his lips parted in a sigh that never came then settled into the smallest of frowns. Something familiar existed in all these expressions. Something the artist experienced many times before, and would surely experience many times after. His scent, a mix of a familiar spice and soft heaviness, shouted to Herah exactly what her companion felt.
Disappointed in his work.
The lack of skill here isn’t the root of the problem, however.
“You caught the likeness of Noire well, but I can do better.” The artist said, causing the binder to turn. “For all of them. For you.”
“Really?” Owen said, his voice a hopeful whisper.
Herah grinned, baring her teeth.
“Sure. It’s important to do ones customs properly or as close to properly as possible.” The artist said, before letting her hand rest over her heart again. “‘Cause there’s meaning in every step.”
The binder’s expression shifted, a smile crossing his face and light coming to his eyes as they locked with Herah’s own. Something warm passed between the pair, more than just understanding and respect. What exactly, the artist didn’t know. Herah also didn’t care because only the pleasantness of the feeling mattered.
The artist moved her hand across her chest, reaching for her sling-bag, and found only the cloth of her shirt. Looking down, Herah realized her bag yet returned. The artist frowned and glanced towards Jeffery.
The pencil floated a foot above her head and slightly to her right. They spun in place, indulging in their past-time of defying gravity. But Herah cared not for her creation’s current action. Instead, her focus laid upon the bag strapped to their middle.
Jeffery, the artist thought towards the pencil. Float down?
The pencil gave Herah a vision of her nodding before lowering enough for the artist to pull her sling-bag off her creation and settle it around her chest. After a quick adjustment of the straps for a snug fit, Herah parted the hair lining the zipper of her red bag and unzipped it. Reaching inside with one hand, the artist thought of her sketchpad and pencil. Metal rings suddenly dug into her palm, while smooth painted wood rubbed into her thumb. Clutching firmly, Herah pulled out her tools.
Sitting down then flipping her sketchpad open, Herah began to sketch out a reference sheet for each of the slain Oni. Without thought, her pencil flowed across the page and constructed a front, side, back, top, bottom, and three-quarter angle view of the Oni in pink robes. Without color, the distinguishing features of this Oni existed in the tiny bugs dotting their mask and the sheathed blade at their hip.
The first one I killed. The artist thought, giving the sketches a once over. Herah didn’t build these up like her Rose piece earlier in the day. Instead, fast flat renders of all the needed angles sat upon the page. The true piece lies in the statues afterall.
With a few quick additions and subtractions, Herah felt satisfied enough to move onto the next Oni. And as the artist drew, her eyes floated over to Owen.
The binder watched silently, hat atop his head once more and his sight focused on Herah’s hands as they worked. Owen nibbled on his bottom lip, though not enough to draw blood. His scent maintained steady fluctuations all the while. The sight and attention reminded Herah of how her mother once studied her work. One part in genuine interest of anything her daughter did, another in desire to see what might be learned from another artist, and the final part in admiration of a creator at work. To have someone not her mother give similar such attention, it made something nice bubble in Herah’s stomach.
I’m in the company of another artist. How pleasant.
So pleasant, in fact, the artist began speaking to the binder.
“When a Cendreux or someone we respect from an alien species dies, we make a monument for them. It can be a statue, a headstone, anything really. It just has to be metal.”
Owen’s eyes didn’t rise from the page as Herah finished the reference sheet for the Oni with the green robes and a bow.
“Don’t you eat metal?”
“The point.” The artist said, flipping to another page and beginning her next reference sheet. “Metal is the best source of food for us, since it’s the most efficient at refueling our flames of our three general choices. To make something out of it isn’t uncommon, metal’s good for our mundane structures, weaponry, and tools as well. However, what makes monuments special is we’re not allowed to eat them.”
The binder lifted his eyes from Herah’s hands, lip chewing paused and brow raised. The artist stopped so Owen would miss nothing.
“You can eat your buildings?”
Herah shrugged.
“If you’re starving and it’s readily available, why stop you?”
“But you can’t eat monuments?”
The artist shook her head.
“Not even if you’d die otherwise. Our respect for each other and those we build monuments to runs so deep, we give up our fuel to ensure their legacy can burn that much longer.”
The binder frowned, unsurprising to the artist.
For someone who values life as you do, such a reason to die must appear petty.
But Owen said nothing. Instead the binder took a deep breath, nodded, then smiled at Herah. The artist smiled back before Owen dropped his eyes to the page.
“Will you build monuments to them?”
“These are my monuments. Part of the reason I’m helping you.” Herah’s hand danced across the page once more. “They were weak, but they faced me bravely.”
A few moments of silence passed as the artist completed the blue robed Oni’s reference sheet by adding one last star to their mask. Flipping to the next page, Herah began working on the final Oni’s, Noire’s, reference sheet. For a few moments, only the sound of lead against paper filled the quiet.
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Then, the artist spoke again.
“My Mistress would like you, Owen.”
The binder once again raised his eyes from the page, causing Herah to pause.
“Why?”
“La Flamme believes all life is equal and sacred, but we Cendreux have never fully agreed. Even her most faithful followers amongst my people. It saddens our goddess, but only a little by her own words.”
Owen knit his brows.
“Why?”
“Because while our Goddess believes in the sanctity of life, so too does La Flamme believe destruction must make way for creation. My Mistress hates to destroy and loves to create, yet her nature prevents her from doing the latter without the former. We call it La Malédiction du Feu.”
The binder said nothing for a little bit, the artist watching as the info worked its way through his mind.
“What does that mean?” Owen asked.
“The Curse of Fire.” Herah answered.
The binder winced, looking down towards his knees.
“I’m sorry to hear.”
“As am I.” The artist frowned and placed her pencil holding hand over her flame. The warmth comforted as always, but Herah wished to comfort it in this moment. “Amongst the three children races of La Flamme, we Cendreux have always inclined more towards her fire aspect, yet do not truly abandon her life one.”
The artist felt her flame warm without her command, bringing a smile to her lips and loosing a quick prayer of love for her goddess. Herah dropped her hand down and gave Owen a small poke, which brought his eyes back up to meet hers.
“So, when it comes to life, we hold respect for those that burn out fighting with all they got. We revere those that show the fires of their life to be strong even as they near their end. For me, to face death defiantly is to be strong. And the strong must be remembered.”
Once again, the artist saw the binder frown. Unsurprising.
“Why is that?” Owen asked, an edge to his question.
Herah’s smile widened.
“So the strong and weak to follow can be stronger.”
The binder’s eyes widened, the weak grease of surprise marking his scent. Then, Owen smiled at the artist again.
“I like the sound of that.”
“Figured.”
The pair returned their attention to the reference sheet, Herah resuming her drawing once the binder’s eyes hit the page. Noire’s sheet took no more than a minute to get done. Once complete, the artist flipped through all four sheets and began making the most minor of adjustments. A stronger curve here. A little extra star there. All small stuff. And with the final touch, Herah laid her pencil down in the grass and held her sketchpad out to Owen.
“Let me know if you think I can change anything. I know you didn’t see the others, but if you think proportions are off and won’t fit what’s needed to properly honor them that could help.”
The binder flinched away from the book, frowning at the artist while a smell sweet and pungent, like honey mustard, flavored his scent.
Embarrassment. The artist thought with her own frown, confused by her companion’s reaction.
“You’re willing to let me critique your work?” Owen asked, his face red and lips squeezed tight.
“Art doesn’t improve without critique.” Herah answered, still frowning.
“Yeah, but this is perverse.”
The artist’s eye twitched.
“What?”
The binder’s eyes dropped to the ground.
“Oh I’m so sorry. Back home, to offer your work to another for criticism is an intimate thing.”
Herah’s frown deepened.
“How do any get better?”
“Feedback from customers, critique from our family or teachers, assistance from a collaborator.”
“But if non-family offers—”
“It’s either a proposal for union or a request for intimacy.”
The artist physically recoiled.
“Oh, no. I mean neither.”
Owen laughed nervously, lifting his head and giving Herah a lopsided smile.
“Good, good. Because I’m not attracted to members of the opposite sex.”
The artist laughed as well, a lot less nervous.
“Why not consider us collaborators?”
The binder’s lip twisted together.
“Huh?”
“We’re working together to make the statues,” Herah waves towards the graves. “Since I’ll be taking your metal and reshaping it. So we’re collaborators.”
Owen frowned for a moment, lips held tight while twisting into different shapes as the thought visibly worked its way through his mind. Then, the binder smiled and nodded to the artist.
“Sure.”
Herah held her sketchpad out, and this time Owen took it. The artist watched with the smallest of grins as the binder silently mused over her work. His bottom lip retreated into his mouth, teeth nibbling again as his eyes scanned pages once, twice, thrice then more.
A knot formed in Herah’s chest.
Do they measure up to your standard? The artist flinched. Where’d that come from?
“Herah,” Owen said, causing the artist to focus back in on him. The binder leaned over, pointing at the reference sheet for the green robed Oni. They held their bow in hand, arrow nocked and set to release. “The capsules, the arrowheads were formed around them so you shouldn’t have space between the metal and glass.”
Herah blinked at Owen.
“How do you know? How’d you even know about the capsules?”
The binder blushed and tapped one of his ears.
“I could hear it.”
The artist raised a brow.
“Hear?”
“Yes,” Owen smiled looking down to his hands. “A blessing from Lady Walters once I achieved my status as Marvel. She gave me the ability to hear the structure of weapons and armor whenever they’re used.”
“That’s how you knew their weapons.”
“Yes.”
Herah grinned.
“Fascinating.”
The binder nodded in agreement.
“I enjoy it, every piece speaks beautifully.”
“Speaks?”
Owen turned to the artist and squinted. After a moment, the binder nodded.
“The words they say aren’t meant for me, so I don’t understand them. Instead, it’s how they speak that tells me how they’re built."
“A beautiful blessing.”
“Indeed.” Owen tapped the arrow again. “I think that’s all you really need to change.”
Herah nodded before taking her sketchpad back and making the needed changes. Once done, the artist took the binder’s statues and began refitting them to better depict their respective dead. Like Owen, Herah did it with her hands. Except fire engulfed both extremities as her fingers worked. The metal behaved like clay under the heat and her precise digits.
The artist worked in near silence, the bubble and plop of liquid metal as it heated, the slosh as it changed shape, and the hissing as it cooled the only sounds. Her eyes darted between her work and the diagrams that laid its foundation. The binder sat to her side, much like earlier, watching her work with wide eyes while chewing on his bottom lip. The process required little thought or attention from the artist thanks to her Gift and practice in the art of modeling. So, while her fingers worked, Herah let her mind wander.
I should ask about what happened while I was out. My defeat, Jeffery’s arrival, my dressing, and the food probably didn’t occur rapidly after each other. The artist frowned recalling in detail her fight with Alex. How pathetic. Another fight picked, another loss all within the same day. Gotta do better.
An image of Owen’s and Max’s face formed unprompted in Herah’s mind. Understanding the thought foreign, the artist glanced up to Jeffery.
I haven’t forgotten. But thanks for the reminder.
A responding vision of herself smiling got a grin from Herah just as the flames around her fingers dispersed.
“Done.” The artist said, before setting Noire’s statue where the binder originally had it.
Owen blinked, looking around for a moment while his scent gained the weak greasiness of surprise.
“Time got away?” Herah asked, a sheepish grin his answer.
“Yes.”
The binder and artist turned their sights to the completed statues.
Whereas before each statue stood as an impression of a singular Oni, a copy of a copy, now they stood as separate individuals rendered in silver. The pink robed Oni stood with their blade held up and pointed forward as if shouting a command. The blue robed Oni stood with blade raised over their head and set to fall and split any enemy that came before it. The green robed Oni stood tall with their bow aimed slightly up at a distant enemy. And Noire, the black robed Oni, crouched with their bow turned parallel to the ground and arrow nocked atop it. Like a hunter set to shoot unaware prey.
“Your work is beautiful, Herah.” Owen spoke in an awed whisper, a grin stretching across his face as tears dribbled from his eyes. “Thank you, not just for letting me witness this but also for letting me honor these poor souls properly.”
“Welcome.” Herah said, smiling at her craft and feeling a pleasant warmth settled in her gut. “And consider it part of my apology.”
The binder turned to the artist, wiping his eyes and blinking up at the taller figure.
“For what?”
“Alex fight.” Herah frowned, more for herself than Owen. “I didn’t respect your distaste for violence, and either way the battle ended you’d been forced to face your fears with little recourse. I swore to protect you, and so quickly turned to causing harm. Callous and cruel of me.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that—”
“I do.” The artist said, cutting the binder off. “As Max said, we’re equals. I must respect your boundaries, any less states otherwise.”
Owen scoffed and looked away.
“You wouldn’t have to protect an equal.”
Herah growled causing the binder to flinch.
“Strength takes many forms. You’ll find no Cendreux that doesn’t acknowledge this,” Herah bared her teeth. “It is up to the individual to determine what metric we measure the strength of others. The strength of your faith and status as an artisan makes us equals.”
“You called me weak earlier.” Owen said, eyes still on anything but the artist.
“Because you are weak.” Herah crouched to the binder’s level and stared. “Weakness takes many forms as well, and nothing says you can’t be weak and strong at the same time.”
Owen turned to the artist, lips pursed and brows knit.
“How mature of you?”
Herah frowned, still staring.
“La Malédiction du Feu doesn’t just describe the curse of my goddess, but reality itself.”
Owen nodded, though his scent made it clear the binder didn’t fully get the artist’s meaning.
“If you believe this, what did Norwe mean when they told you to broaden your horizons?”
Herah growled, green flames flaring from her nostrils.
“Bâtard sans Écailles mocked me.”
The binder frowned.
“You sure?”
The artist glared.
“Yes.”
Owen looked away again, this time turning from the statues and towards the direction of their’s teams other half.
“So, what makes Alex and Max your equals?”
Herah frowned then smiled, her answer easy to find.
“Max’s conviction.”
The binder titled his head.
“Her conviction?”
Again, the answer came easy for Herah.
“Max would die for Alex, but doesn’t obeys his every whim. Whatever her underlying beliefs or goals, they’ll be stuck to no matter the consequence.”
“How are you so sure of this?”
Bits of visions depicting a silver-scaled Cendreux emerged from the artist’s fire.
“I knew another like Max.”
“Oh,” Owen smiled up at Herah. “Who?”
“Cendreux by the name of Argentcend. Took lead much the same.”
“A friend?”
“My first.”
The binder’s smile widened.
“Hopefully, you’ll get to see Argentcend at the end of this.”
“Can’t, dead.”
Owen’s smile fell.
“I’m sorry.”
The artist smiled this time, shaking her head.
“Don’t be, died as her heart desired.”
“That’s good.”
Herah moved away from the statues, the binder following behind, before sitting down in the center of the clearing. The artist pat the spot to her left, which Owen took nodding.
“Catch me up.”
“Oh yes,” the binder’s hands sought out his hat and began squeezing it. “Well not a lot. I woke up by the time we were back in the meadow. Max and Alex were arguing but I don’t know exactly what about. I didn’t want to intrude, and I was more worried about you."
Owen paused for a moment, running his eyes up and down Herah’s form, searching. For what, the artist didn’t know just yet.
“I knew you were okay, but I didn’t know why I couldn’t rouse you. Your body is naturally resistant to magic, so my scans came back cloudy.”
Ah, that’s what you’re looking for. Herah thought, grinning and nodding.
“When our flame is at its weakest, a Cendreux’s body slows as the fire picks and chooses what it will cannibalize to get us back awake. As long as we’re not in imminent danger, it’ll take its time in choosing.”
“Cannibalize?”
The artist raised her hand to the binder and popped a scale off her palm with a thought, catching it between two fingers.
“While normally immune, I can burn parts of my body as fuel for my fire. Typically scales or vestigial organs like my liver, pancreas, intestines, uterus, etc.”
“You don’t need your liver?” Owen asked, looking at the spot right beneath Herah’s breast.
The artist flicked the scale into her mouth, the tiny, gem-like plate smooth on her tongue as fire crawled up her throat and consumed it. Another scale grew back in the empty spot on her palm.
“Don’t need most organs in my body. As the Cendreux have evolved, our flame has taken on more and more of the burden our organs once handled for efficiency. Last generation of my people to shit and piss was my father’s from billions of years ago.”
The binder shook his head and stared wide-eyed at Herah.
“I didn’t realize the Cendreux were that old.”
“We’re a young species.”
Owen smiled.
“Still, you must have many stories to share.”
The artist smiled as well.
“After you say all that happened, I’ll share some.”
The binder nodded.
“After the Hammer and Tongs stopped arguing, Max came by and I think she was checking in on me. I was so out of it I don’t really know, but she gave me a smile before walking away.” Owen let out a hum. “I think she likes to be alone when she’s angry.”
Herah raised a brow.
“Why?”
“I think she abhors arguments. She runs her hands through her hair and mumbles contradicting truths—” The binder paused, his scent rapidly shifting before settling again. “Probably lies now that I think about it. I assume its how she copes with it.”
The artist smirked at Owen.
“Perceptive.”
The binder smirked back.
“We artist have to be.”
The pair shared a laugh, small burst of red fire lighting up the night while the jingle of metal filled the air. It was all smiles for a little bit as the pair basked in one another’s presence. And as it continued, a strange realization struck Herah.
It’s been cycles since I’ve just enjoyed the presence of someone not my parents, La Flamme, or Jeffery. The artist looked at Owen, her smile widened till her cheeks connected. Its been cycles since I’ve made a new friend.
And with that thought, Herah felt her flame burn hot. It burnt so hot in fact, smoke poured from mouth, nose, ears, and eyes. And all the while, the artist kept smiling. The binder made no comment, his scent fidgeting for a moment before settling down into its normal fluctuations.
Once her smoke cleared, Herah’s curiosity took focus again.
“What next?
“Shortly after,” Owen started. “Jeffery appeared and nearly killed Alex.”
“Oh?”
“It was like he—”
“It or they.”
“Huh?”
The artist pointed at the pencil, still floating overhead lazily and minding their own business.
“Call Jeffery it or they. Jeffery cares little for my people’s belief in the usage of pronouns but also hates to have sex assigned to their being. Believes themselves above it.”
The binder finally gave attention proper to the floating pencil. His eyes focused in and ran all over Jeffery’s form. Herah recognized the way Owen studied her creation. Her father and her mother did the same so long ago when the artist first created Jeffery. Except, where the parents stunk of wariness and worry, the binder smelled of amazement and wonder.
“I didn’t realize Jeffery was so distinct in their identity.”
“My creation, but their own being.” The artist gave Owen a slight tap to his head. “Don’t forget.”
“Apologies, and understood.” The binder finally tore his eyes from the pencil and looked back at Herah. “It was like they just slipped into reality, suddenly appearing above you. Not two seconds after arriving they’re were slamming their eraser, is what I believe Max called it, into Alex.”
A vision played out unprompted in the artist’s mind, of Jeffery striking Alex’s chest with a satisfying CRACK following the soothsayer out of the meadow. Herah snorted, looking up to her creation and giving it a small pat.
“Thank you.”
The artist could feel Owen’s frown, but ignored it, instead gesturing for the binder to continue.
“Max talked them down, and Jeffery offered up your bag to her.”
“Really?” Herah raised a brow at her pencil. “Why?”
A vision of Orange, Rouge, Rose, and a dazzling vortex of multicolor fire surrounding all the others filled the artist’s mind. Herah frowned at the vision, her brain taking a moment to piece together the meaning.
People I trust?
The artist got a vision of herself nodding.
“If you say so.” Herah looked back to Owen. “Then?”
“Well, Max dug inside of it and started pulling out things.” The binder pointed at the artist’s bag. “Herah, is that connected to some type of subspace?”
Herah nodded.
“It’s a portal to my room, with a thought and reach inside I can grab anything there.”
Owen let out a breath and nodded in turn.
“Everything makes more sense then, because Max pulled out the clothes you’re wearing right now.”
“Answers that question, how’d I get dressed?”
“Max dressed you. Kicked Alex and I out of the clearing for privacy.”
The artist cheeks warmed and reddened further.
Clothed like a newborn Étincelle, ugh! Smoke flared from her nose and ears at the thought. There was something else there as well, something not so uncomfortable with the idea, but Herah gave that part little attention.
“Thanks is owed.” The artist murmured, before forcing herself to focus on something else. “Wasn’t bad being alone with Alex?”
Herah’s nose twitched, the rapid shifting of Owen’s scent matching the furrowing of his brows.
“It was strange. He’s scary, but while alone he was nothing but respectful towards me. Nice even. I was… a mess to say the least and he just talked with me. Told me about how his blades were made, and even shared a little story from his world. About how a goddess once bottled moonlight to gift a young boy afraid of the dark.”
The artist narrowed her eyes.
“Strange.”
The binder shrugged.
“It was soothing, helped calm me down and work through today.”
“Nice of Alex.”
twee!
Herah’s ears twitched, a short whistle snapping her eyes towards the meadow of the Donneur de Frene and finding Alex stood at its edge with a small grin on his face.
“Thanks for the compliment, Ashbrain.”
How the ash are you hearing us!?
“Fuck off!” The artist shouted, causing Owen to jump and fall over.
The soothsayer rolled his eyes and raised a hand, beckoning with his index finger.
“Can’t, plan to discuss. Meet at the tree.”
Herah growled, rising as the binder stood as well.
“What was that, Herah?”
“Alex called,” Smoke flared from the artist’s nostrils as a scowl settled on her face. “Planning over, time to work.”
Owen nodded, and the pair (and Jeffery) set off for the other half of their team. And as they headed back, a troubling thought came to mind.
What else have you listened in on?