Time slowly slid onwards, but it did little to heal the stress fractures that had begun to form in Onoelle’s life. Cassy still stayed over, being the usual ball of endless energy that she was. The teen managed to spend half her time being adorably endearing, and the other half insufferably irritating. Jane was… Being Jane. It took the promise of tea to lure her out and, barring that, some physical wrestling. The alternative was the woman locking herself up as Nightmare drip-fed her enough data to mesmerise an entire university worth of Historians. Part of her lamented that her husband was still not willing to open up to her friend about it.
Then she would remember the ease with which Mentuc contemplated murder, to say nothing of Nightmare. Her husband, for all the love she held for him, was still Genesis. His self-hatred, his belief that he had failed, the loss of everything he held dear… It had mutilated his psyche beyond what even his incredibly disciplined mind could bear. Before they had met, and wed, he had fought desperately to fulfil the final order he had received.
Live.
Every time she thought of that, it put things into perspective. Compared to what her husband had gone through, her own troubles with him were almost wholly inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
She wished she could fully believe that. Yet she knew well enough that the equation didn’t quite hold up psychologically.
She thought she had put it all behind her, sorted through it when he had first begun to reveal his horrendous past to her. She had known he had little choice in the matter. He was, quite literally, created to wage war. To fight, to kill, to destroy anything that threatened the things he was hardcoded to protect. And so she had managed to accept it.
It had helped that he was incredibly interesting, both as a person —and he definitely was a person, origin as a sentient weapon be damned— and as a being. And he was a source of ever-moving energy, creating stories as he went. He did not laze, did not linger. He continuously set himself tasks and moved to achieve them.
Falling in love with him had been frighteningly easy. And a telling lesson in psychology besides. Knowledge of the atrocities he had committed had warred with the reasons why. Combining the realisation that the very hands that protected her, shielded her, cared for her and made her feel the luckiest woman in the world, had been the same hands that ended countless lives, had been… interesting, for lack of a better word.
And she had fully believed she had come to terms with it all.
Now, there were cracks in a life that had been… Not perfect, but close enough. What his past, the discovery of the existence of an actual Artificial Intelligence (capitals fully deserved) and the arrival and consequential imprisonment of her best friend hadn’t managed, a combination of her mother’s meddling, her husband’s extravagant desire for planning and a bloody dance festival had. One that was looming terribly close, and she still ran into a damned wall when it came to getting him to come along.
She had tried, too. She had really opened up on him. Talking, reasoning, begging, commanding him. Hell, she even tried seduction. That had backfired spectacularly to the point her body still shivered whenever her mind even ventured close to the memory.
As a matter of fact, it had blown up in her face with such force that she knew something was up. As little as his face moved at the best of times, she could still read him quite handily after being married with the oaf for several years. She took a strange level of solace in knowing that the situation was eating at him just as much as it was with her.
These thoughts, and more besides, tumbled through her head as she was dealing with dinner, to be rudely interrupted when the towel slipped and her skin made direct contact with the pan. She hissed in pain, instinctively pulling back her hand, only to realise her mistake in the same instant as the pan went down. Her eyes went wide and she reached out for it in a panic, her brain once again realising a tad too slow that this was a horrible idea. Yet just as her hand was about to make contact with burning hot metal, a far larger one surpassed her and snatched the object of her torment away.
She spun around and found herself face to face with her husband, who put the pan back, his eyes never leaving her face. In the same instant she found her hurt hand caught in his free one, and saw two of his lenses darting down to it. His own skin was, naturally, unaffected by the heat.
How closely is he watching me to pull that off? she idly wondered. She gave him a quick kiss in response to the concern she saw in his eyes and whispered she was fine. He let go of her, nodded once, and returned to his latest work. He had taken up sewing of all things, and, as it was with anything he tried, he was impossibly good at it.
Except that his sense of fashion was… Absent. To put it diplomatically. She hadn’t given him any pointers, and as a result he was now halfway through a dress —of all the things he could have picked— that was beautifully patterned… For camouflage. Frills, pleats, blanket stitches and the scalloped edges notwithstanding.
“Do you expect me to go to the Festival in that?” she snapped, regretting the outburst even as the words left her mouth. “The purpose of being on the dancefloor is to be visible,” she added, trying to turn it into a jest.
One look into his eyes told her it hadn’t worked. There was pain in his eyes. And guilt. And sorrow. And a whole bunch of other emotions she really hated seeing in them. Another discrepancy, the analytical part of her mind noted. Cold hearted soldier, yet surprisingly sensitive.
“I’m sorry,” they said in unison, each blinking in surprise at the other.
“What are you sorry for?” she asked, beating him to the punch.
His response was an intensifying of emotions within his eyes. “Because I make you unhappy.”
She let out a deep sigh, moved the pan off the stove —taking great care the towel did not slip this time— and went over to him. She dropped herself in his lap, not caring that she interrupted his work. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave him a look that was equal parts exasperation and care. “Mentuc. We’ve had this discussion before. You can contribute to my happiness, and you do so in immense quantities, more than I had ever thought possible, but,” she insisted, “you are not the one who has the final say in the matter. That is me.”
She ignored the silent protest in his eyes and barged on. “And, as I have told you numerous fucking times, me getting increasingly pissed off over the situation is not something you can help, or amend. We stick to the plan, got it?” She gave him a kiss, and hopped off before his hands could ensnare her. She threw a glance over her shoulder at him, giving him a sly grin. “My fault for marrying a guy with a long enough lifespan to plan for years, I suppose.”
She saw his mouth move, before eventually nodding, resigning himself to her whims even though there was a tension in his body that spoke of his self-hatred that he was putting her through this. Her own annoyance at the situation was shattered along with her heart at the sight, and it took no minor feat of mental resilience to not turn around and throw herself in his arms again.
It’s his fault for being secretive, she reminded herself.
And yours for wanting him to keep the secret, her own mind shot back.
It’s good for his mental development.
Is that why he’s looking like a dejected puppy?
She mentally swore, stifling the argument her inner self was having. They were both adults. They had made their decisions. They’d have to stick with it.
She pointedly ignored the nearly inaudible voice that wondered if it was truly wise to put that much faith in a man-made weapon.
“What are you sorry for?” came his voice, shredding her thoughts.
She sighed deeply, her hands resting idly alongside her body. “Because I’m being unfair to you,” she finally confessed. “And I know it.” She turned to face him, sadness and frustration colouring her eyes. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
His fingers paused as well, before putting down the half-finished dress. Telling, for him. “Are these things normal for human relationships?”
A smile pulled at her lips, reaching her eyes despite herself. “They are, often.” Data flashed through her mind. “It depends on the relationship, though.”
He tilted his head, and she decided this needed a bigger explanation. She cleaned the stove of pans, then sat down beside him. “First thing you need to keep in mind,” she began, “is that there is no set template for what a relationship is, nor are there procedures for how one should behave in one. It is a thing without stone-clad rules.”
She smiled at seeing him frown at that, the idea anathema to him.
So many emotions running rampant within us. Tearing us one way or another. Me, human to my core, ultimately steered by those hormone-driven feelings. Him, the polar opposite, raw rationality and directives guiding him.
Now if only he fucking would go to the dance with me…
Leonne was beginning to crack.
Oh sure, the woman had hidden it well. Had they still been in uni, it would have escaped everyone’s attention, possibly even her own. But here? With so little external distractions, surrounded by people who knew her that well? No chance in hell.
It was a subtle change, hard to notice. A snappy comment here. A door slammed shut just a tad harder than normal there. Choice of subjects. The way her eyes flashed to her husband, or the direction in which he was when they talked about things.
Her friend kept it all close to her chest, however. And Jane knew the woman well enough that if it was beginning to show, opening that can of worms was going to explode in her face, which had kept her from commenting on it… So far. Given how rapidly Leonne’s mental state was deteriorating —doubly worrying given that the woman had a solid level of self-control— that conversation was going to be had sooner or later.
Jane made a point of not looking too obviously as her best friend did a good impression of a black widow post-copulation. It was hard not to feel a measure of pity for Mentuc. Even the memory of him being literal inches away from tearing her head off couldn’t quite beat that back. She remembered seeing new-born kittens mewling helplessly in the rain back in the city. There were a remarkable amount of similarities between the tiny animals and the human block of stone.
And like any husband in the average sitcom, he was utterly powerless against the tirade of the woman he loved. It was pitiable, really.
She shared a conspiratorial glance with Cassy. She had often been relegated to babysitting duties in the past months, or the girl simply barged into her house with the intent to “hang”. She hadn’t figured herself to be the type to get along with someone that much younger than herself, having no real siblings of her own, but Cassy was a chip of the old block, resembling her older sister in many ways. And they had bonded over their mutual fondness of nettling Leonne.
Now, however, they were both wary. An enraged Leonne was a dangerous creature, and the woman’s mood had made a rapid descent from annoyed to occasionally furious. Yet as she watched the situation unfold, with Leonne rapidly switching between anger and brief flashes of guilt, her sense of responsibility forced the issue.
“Mentuc, Cassy, out,” she said, pointedly slamming down her utensils and causing Leonne to pause mid-tirade.
Cassy responded in the manner of a drowning woman being granted a breath of fresh air, and the girl was out the door in a heartbeat. Mentuc, on the other hand, immediately abandoned his beaten-puppy look and exchanged it for curiosity mixed with something that was a hair’s width away from being openly hostile. And then he suddenly nodded, got up and left. Without any comment.
“What have you done to him?” Jane asked, aghast.
“I… I don’t know!” Leonne shouted, hands going high. “I… Mentuc!” she shouted, running to the door after him. “Mentuc!” she repeated, pulling the door open, only to find him gone.
“You are not going back for her?” Nightmare asked curiously. For all her knowledge and processing powers, she could still not fully predict the emotional side of her superior.
There was no reply, and she expected none. Not when he was carrying Cassy and running back to Agitana. Yet from the bio-signs the earpiece was picking up, she knew he was far from happy with his own actions.
“He’s gone!” Onoelle shouted in a panic. This was new. Mentuc never left her. Not like that. Not without ample warning and conversation. For a brief moment her mind submitted to panic, before it kicked itself two gears higher and she began to analytically dissect the situation. Her earlier thought wasn’t wrong. Mentuc never left her. That wasn’t a mere expression, it was a stone-cold fact. The arguments and her emotional outbursts would not have affected a man who had remained his stoic self for centuries.
The psychiatrist in her took over. Her experience with normal humans might be lacking and largely academic, but there was only one being who could contend with her when it came to Mentuc. Her surroundings disappeared as she paced, her earlier outburst forgotten.
“Mentuc leaves,” she muttered. “That is fact. Uncommon behaviour for him. He gave no warning. And left me alone with Jane.” She frowned in confusion. “Is he confident in shock device? Quite likely. Still, it’s uncommon. Hm.”
“Leonne?” came her friend’s voice.
“Shhhh!” she quieted the woman. “Thinking. Mentuc… Jane!” she suddenly snapped. “Check for Cassy!”
“But—” she began, before her shoulders sagged and she went out to search for the girl.
“If Cassy is gone, it means Mentuc left with her. A desire to spend time with Cassy?” A heart-warming thought. “Would be lovely if that was the case, but unlikely. He thinks in priorities. Did they conflict here? Or rather, did the order alter due to external circumstances?” A hiccup in her step. “Did my emotional outbursts cause that? Hm. My behaviour affecting him without him mentioning it to me? Now that is unlikely. Would be too human a thing to do. And we talked about how it was a human reaction, and he didn’t give a hoot then. Then why?” She broke her mind over that, barely noticing Jane’s return and her subsequent announcement that Cassy had disappeared as well.
“Leonne, stop,” Jane demanded, finally tearing the woman out of her revery. “How about you sit yourself down before you wear a trench in the floor?”
Eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. “I’m trying to understand his actions. There’s a logic to it. A reason why. I just need to figure out—”
“Stop!” she intoned again, her lips struggling to contain a smile. Her friend was just as bad as she was when it came to being obsessed with their respective professions. “Have you considered that he might have left because you were snapping his head off?”
Leonne made a dismissive gesture. “Impossible. We talked about that. My reaction is human and I told him that I struggle to control it. He doesn’t like it, but he said it doesn’t bother him.”
“Uh-uh,” Jane nodded. “And you take that at face value?”
“Of course,” came the instant reply, confusion edged on her face. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Have you considered that he might have spoken a bit too lightly in that regard?”
She let out a laugh. “No,” she smiled, shaking her head. “He said it doesn’t bother him, so it doesn’t.”
Jane felt her face contort in a mixture of disgust and disbelief. “Oh come on, you—”
“I can, do, and will. Mentuc is straightforward,” she said, stressing the word. “What he says, he means, and his actions…” she fell silent, her every feature going pensive.
“His actions what?”
Leonne didn’t reply, resuming her pacing.
“Leonne?”
“Ssshhhhh!”
“Don’t you shh me, talk to me, damn you.”
“In the months you’ve been with us, Jane, what have you noticed about Mentuc?”
She rolled her eyes. “Plenty. Be specific.”
“Have you ever seen any conflict between what he said and what he did?”
“I…”
“You haven’t. His handful of horrible jokes aside, everything he says is perfectly aligned with what he does. That is because he doesn’t separate the two. One is an extension of the other. What he says and what he does are on the same playing field for him. If he says he is not angry, then he is not. If he would be angry, he would never say he wasn’t. Same for annoyance, or if things are bothering for him.” She held up a finger. “Remember how I said that he doesn’t lie?”
“Yes, but I don’t see…” she trailed off, her eyes going wide.
“Yep. It’s not that he doesn’t. He is literally incapable of it. If I point to the grass and ask him to tell me it’s blue, he can’t, not even as a joke. That’s why sarcasm is so hard for him. He needs to transcribe the definition of sarcasm before he can say something that even remotely approaches a falsehood. It completely clashes with normal human behaviour.”
“Well that’s fucking terrifying. No wonder he doesn’t subscribe to social conventions. But how does that—”
“Extrapolate from that! His mind runs on rails, he doesn’t diverge from it, ever. It’s why his mind seems so separate from the baseline human line of thought and action. So, taking that into account, why would he suddenly diverge from it?”
“I… Don’t know?”
“Oh, but you do!” she grinned.
It clicked. “The surprise he’s planning.”
“Exactly! It’s why I keep encouraging him to keep it, even if it’s eating me alive.”
“The shitshow with your parents.”
“And more besides,” she affirmed. “He has never tried to surprise me before. He’s as straight as they come, utterly predictable once you know how he thinks. It is why I’d rather suffer a neural breakdown than make him break off from whatever it is he’s planning.”
“Which you are rapidly nearing.”
Bereft of any throwable object that would not cause significant damage, Leonne settled for raising a middle finger.
“So, to sum your rant up, he’s not bothered by you being an utter bitch to him, and he’s left because he’s up to his preparatory anticks related to whatever it is he’s cooking?”
“That’s what I believe, yeah.”
Jane closed her eyes as she pitched the bridge of her nose, trying to steer off the headache slowly bubbling to the surface. “Fair enough, I suppose. But,” her eyes opened and she glared at her friend. “Let’s talk about you for a change, hm?”
“I…” she dropped down on her chair. “I know. I’m being a bitch to him, and I know, and I’m trying to put a lid on it and I just can’t.” She put her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. “I feel so tired.” True to her words, the look Leonne gave her was one that spoke of profound exhaustion. “I don’t know what to do, Jane. I’m so happy he’s trying to surprise me. I’m so damned proud of how much progress he’s made that he got to that point. And yet, rather than celebrate it, I find myself increasingly irritated because it’s just staying in that phase. The hype’s died out and…” She sighed as Jane sat down beside her, wrapping an arm around her friend, her earlier annoyance forgotten in the face of honest heartache.
“I wish I could be happy for him, I really do. But the entire shitshow with my mother, the way he just doesn’t stop planning and preparing, how he won’t even accompany me to the fucking Festival. I mean, we’ll go to the city. How is a village with a few hundred people a problem then? And I’m not asking him to dance in the centre stage with me, just to be there. He can hide in the crowd for all I care! I just want him to be there with me.” A long, sad whine escaped her, her eyes far and wistful. “I’ve told him how much I love dancing. And I’ve not done it in years. I was really looking forward to it. And I just want to share it with him.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
There were tears visible in her eyes now, a lone snicker the sole indication of Leonne’s struggle to hold them back. Jane found herself struggling to keep her face straight as well.
As Leonne continued to pour her heart out, both women found the dam breaking as her friend found solace in the comforting embrace of the one person in her life who truly understood the situation.
“Hi dad!” Cassy happily chirped, delighting in the way the older man screamed and jumped at her sudden arrival. Well, not hers, per se. But she was sitting on top of Mentuc’s shoulders and she was the one who had said hi, so technically…
“Cassy!” he shouted, one hand on his heart. “And Mentuc. You oughtn’t do that. Not good for me ticker.” He gave the pair a critical look-over, parental instincts telling him something was up. That, and the way Cassy had a grin that ran from ear-to-ear kind of gave things away. Even Mentuc seemed nervous. Even more so than he had been when they had last met…
“What brings the pair of you ‘ere?”
“I—”
“Promise us you’ll keep it quiet! And keep it from mum!” Cassy shouted, slamming her feet down on her steed to make him shut up.
“Cassy…” Jon growled.
“No,” she shouted, meeting her father’s stern stare head on. “You have to promise. It’s important.”
Jon searched his daughter’s eyes for any sign of mischief, but found none. Instead he lowered his gaze towards the person likely at the centre of this storm. His son-in-law was perfectly immobile, his eyes eternally hidden by his sunglasses. “So, Mentuc. You need a promise?”
“I cannot demand it of you to keep your silence on what I wish to request, but I would greatly appreciate it.”
“And y’even want me to keep Nyna out of it?”
“Until the last moment, when I will require her. I do not trust her.”
The bluntness of that statement caused Jon to bristle. Had it been anyone else but Mentuc, he’d have taken a swing at the bastard. But it was Mentuc, and that gave him pause. For starters, the man wouldn’t break a sweat breaking him, which was a powerful deterrent on its own. Even so, he’d have risked it, honour demanding it, were it not for the man’s voice lacking any emotion.
And for the fact that the lad’s quite right after what she pulled…
“Right then.”
The tension seemed to rise as he mulled it over, giving it proper thought. In the end he decided to trust the people. Cassy was on board with whatever it was. Mentuc wasn’t a bad lad, despite the flak everyone gave him, and far smarter than he let on. And Leonne trusted and loved him. In the end he couldn’t quite go against all that now, could he?
“I give you my promise.”
Cassy let out a deep sigh of relieve, and even Mentuc seemed to soften a little.
“Now, will the two of you tell me what’s this all about?”
And as they did, he began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh, until tears were streaking down his face and he was struggling to breathe.
The day of the Festival had finally arrived. Despite Onoelle’s best efforts, joined in her attempts by Jane, Mentuc stubbornly held on to his earlier position. She had made one final attempt a day before as they walked through the nearby forest, pleading him desperately to just come with her, that it would mean so much to her. He had shouted at her. Shouted. And left an old oak in a precarious state.
The sudden bout of aggression from him had shocked them both. She knew that her husband was well aware that he was under emotional duress and that it was hampering his performance (as he would name it). He wouldn’t be able to directly connect it to guilt other than in the purest academical sense, and only then because she had told him so, but he did not shy away from the truth, though he utterly loathed his own weakness with a passion.
She had been secretly pleased about this very human reaction and had teased him relentlessly in turn that he was finally beginning to shed his steel skin of Genesis. He had looked terribly conflicted about that, only cheering up slightly as she reminded him that him veering away from a battle-bred soldier was the end goal.
In a way it had been of great relief to her to finally see him getting annoyed. It levelled the playing field substantially, and improved her mood considerably.
Still, now the day had arrived and while part of her heart wept at his still ongoing refusal to tag along, most of it was aflutter with expectation and eagerness.
Cassy and Jane had gone ahead, the former being too much of a ball of energy to handle and the latter had been given the all-clear from both Genesis, though the woman had been sternly reminded of what would happen should she break this trust. Onoelle had found it highly amusing. Jane was hopelessly addicted to the endless source of information that Nightmare provided her with. Her friend would rather cut off her legs than give that up.
And so it was that the pair of them were walking towards Agitana, hand in hand. She had decided to not waste her last few hours with him on ruining both their moods with hopeless attempts to convince him, instead happily chattering away with how much she looked forward to it, what she’d do, which types of music she hoped they’d play…
Mentuc enjoyed seeing Onoelle this elated. The past days had been wearing both of them down, and he knew that Jane had played a great role in alleviating his wife’s stress, or at least lowering the rate at which she accumulated the emotional unease his actions had caused.
He willed his hands still, a task that required constant oversight, lest they veer off to touch the small package hidden in his backpack. The culmination of his attempts to surprise her was nearing rapidly, and he was glad for it. He had been nervous before, trepidation and expectation warring within him as the start of an operation or high-risk mission neared. He had led his unit into battle countless times, knowing many would not return, knowing there was a chance he would not return. Yet all those experiences were locked in the context of the mission, of being part of something much greater.
Now there was just him and Onoelle. And Onoelle. Somehow, it felt as if the risks were much greater. Regardless, he knew well that after mission start, he would calm down again, his mind side-lining all emotional responses as it homed in on his objectives and the path to achieve them.
He listened to her with rapt attention, delighting in the way she almost danced along the path, the smooth, elegant movement of her limbs as she moved to an unseen rhythm. The way her hair waved around her head as it darted left and right, eyes taking in the sight or spotting patterns in the cloud. The way her eyes shone with expectation and happiness, or how they clouded over as she relived old memories. He recalled some of those with her, courtesy of Nightmare having thoroughly dug up her past and everything related to her. She laughed, the muscles in her cheeks tightening in response. He drank in her presence. Her every movement, her every scent and sound, burning the sight of her into his memories.
And then they were at the edge of the village and they faced each other, holding hands as a final piece of lament tried to hide itself in her gaze. They said nothing, but exchanged a brief kiss. He let go of her hands, surprising her, and slid down his backpack.
“I have something for you.”
She didn’t reply, not verbally at least.
Leaning forward. Eyes widening slightly. Pupils dilating extensively. Breath quickening. Heartbeat speeds up. Her lips tremble.
He took in her changing scent, the expectation. Her earlier excitement for the day seemed almost dull in comparison the raw energy that was now bubbling to the surface, barely contained. When he began opening the backpack, he heard her breath stop entirely. When he took out the large package, it returned. A fast, urgent pace. Her heartbeat was strong and quick, the muscle pounding in her chest.
“It’s for you,” he whispered softly. It was well protected from the elements, its delicate contents protected by a thick sheet of fabric, surrounded by a thinly woven cord to ensure it would not fall open by accident.
She looked up at him, words forming, fingers tightening around the cord, but he stopped her with a soft press on her hands. “Do not open it yet. Open it when you are at your parents’ house, before going to the dance. I…” he fumbled for words, too broad a vocabulary in his mind, not enough knowledge to pick the right one. In the end he was about to settle for letting his lips do the talking for her, but Onoelle beat him to it. A hand dug into his vest and she propelled herself towards him, lips colliding. The package lay in her hand, carefully kept out of the way so it would not get crumpled as she pulled him in for a deep kiss. He felt moisture slid past his face, tears streaking down from her eyes. He gingerly took it back, freeing up her arm so she could wrap it around him as well. He dropped it to the ground, trusting in its packaging to shield the contents from harm, and returned the loving gesture.
Weeks of emotional tension bled out of her as her lips refused to leave his, her body trembling as it expulsed the stress. It was not the first time he had given her a gift. Yet whenever he had done so, it had been because he had acquired the knowledge from social conventions. Birthdays, specific celebrations, holidays, … If she needed something else, he would give it to her without making it special. Now…
It was simple, so, so simple. So typically him. The secrecy, keeping it all hidden. Not telling her what he was up to. It wasn’t much, but she had never expected great leaps and strides from him. Baby steps in the right direction, but he had taken them. For her. For her. Stars, she couldn’t stop her tears. She understood, better than anyone in the universe, just how hard those steps were for him. How much he had clashed with his own mental programming to make this happen. And she loved him all the more for it.
It was a long time until the kiss was broken off. Even longer until any lingering actions of affections, such as gently wiping away her tears and smoothing out the creases in her clothes, came to a halt. He saw pure, unfiltered happiness in her eyes, and he felt his own heartbeat quicken at the sight of it. She was everything to him. The reason he could keep going. An unexplained miracle that had saved him from destruction. Rationality fell short for what he felt to her, and yet… He kissed her again, briefly. Forehead. Nose. Lips. Shared a long look with her, each of them falling in the pools of emotions that lay in their eyes.
And then they parted. He stayed still, eyes on her, for longer than he ever had. He watched her leave, clutching his gift tightly to her chest, throwing a longing, happy look back to him every few steps, well past the point where she could see him, knowing he would still see her.
Before she finally disappeared in the village.
And then he was gone, too.
Onoelle held her breath as she knocked on the door of her ancestral home. Alea iacta est, she thought to herself. Quick, rushed light steps announced her mother’s arrival and the door swung open a heartbeat later. “Hi mum,” she said neutrally, keeping Mentuc’s gift clutched to her chest as a barrier.
“Leonne, darling!” her mother exclaimed, a mélange of emotions filling her movements. Eagerness? Wariness? Sorrow? Her analysis of her mother was cut short as the woman hugged her, taking great care to not squish the package. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“Well, you know. Not a lot of other places I can change at,” she said defensively, sliding past her mother to enter the house.
“Darling, I… I’m sorry. I said it before, and I’ll keep saying it for months to come. I’m sorry for what I did. I know it was stupid of me, I see that now, but… No, I’ll not make excuses. I should have trusted you more.” There was genuine regret in her mother’s voice, but there was also an underlying layer of excitement. Moreso than the situation seemed to warrant.
It made her suspicious.
“What’s that you’re holding?” she asked, her mother’s voice faltering just enough for her to pick up on it.
Very suspicious.
“A gift from Mentuc. He gave it to me just before coming here.”
“He did, did he now?” her father asked, coming into the living room. He gave his daughter a hug, a broad smile on his face. “Go on then,” he encouraged her as he dropped down into the couch. “Open it.”
There was a tension in the room, and despite her distractions she picked up on it. She gave her mother a cursory glance, causing the woman to find something else to look at. Even so the eagerness in her eyes had been glaringly obvious. Her father, who received a far more scrutinising gaze, just had a gentle smile on his face, but his eyes glittered with ill-concealed glee.
In the end the desire to open up Mentuc’s surprise gift won out over her desire to figure out how far her parents were involved in the conspiracy. She would dig into that after, and do so with gusto. Another mystery to unravel.
For now, she unravelled the cord holding the fabric together, quickly plucking at the knot until it came undone. The fabric fell away shortly after, as did her awareness of what existed beyond the gift she held in her hands. She held it high, against the light, before lifting her fingers slightly. The piece of cloth fell open, letting the soft, durable fabric of the dress unfold itself fully. She sucked in a breath, didn’t hear her mother doing the same, nor the appreciative whistle her father let out.
Her attention was fully captivated on the dress she held. Her eyes ran over it as she looked it up and down. How has he made this? came the thought as she gazed upon it in pure wonder. It wasn’t like his usual works. It was delicate, thin, well made. The colours seemed to flicker in the light, cascading through everything from pearly white to sky-blue, as if it was uncertain which it truly wanted. There were pleats adorning the neck and waistline, as well as the sleeves, all intricately adorned with patterns. Scalloped edges were somehow worked into them, and where those fell short frills neatly slit into the pattern to complement it. He had used blanket stitches to add extra dimensions to it, hiding where he had sown in cinches around her waist and bust.
She stared at the dress, then, finally remembering there were others in the room with her, stared at them too, mouth agape in shock.
She had expected… Well, she didn’t really know what she had expected from the gift. But this blew whatever she had expected clear out of the water and straight into orbit. She looked back from her mum, who looked just as stunned as her, to her dad, who was shaking his head mutely. Then she let out a squeal of childish joy and sprinted into her old room.
She tore her clothes off, ripping a tear in her shirt in the process and not giving the slightest damn about it. She fought a brief and vicious battle with her jeans that refused to give, before getting free and kicking them into a corner. Then she slowed down, gingerly touching the fabric, before putting it on. It felt light, breathable, yet sturdy. Somehow it gave way as she stepped into it, before seemingly closing in on her until it was a snug fit. She shouted for her mum, who had been waiting patiently just outside the door just for that, and the woman came in, helping her put it on fully and zipping the back shut.
She felt her mother radiate approval, and she turned.
“He’s hidden the zipper under an overlapping fold. You can’t even see it,” the woman muttered appreciatively, before running a finger over the sleeve. “What is it made of? I don’t recognise the fabric at all.”
Onoelle hid a grin, having a suspicion that Nightmare had a hand in that part of the process.
“Oh, but what am I doing! Come on!” Nyna shouted, all but shoving her daughter out of the one room and into her and Jon’s bedroom, in front of the large, full-length mirror. “Look at you!” she whispered excitedly. “You’re stunning!”
Onoelle froze as she looked at her own reflection. She’d not worn a dress in years. And now…
She barely recognised the woman in the mirror. The dress didn’t just feel snug, it fitted her form down to every single curve. Frills and decorative bands of fabric ran rings around the centre pieces, starting just above her waist and running down a little. They were neatly incorporated in the rest of the skirt, while the boddice hid decorations that were only visible in the right tilt of light. Intricate patterns covered every broad surface, and subtle scalloping finished the rest.
Her mother was right. She looked stunning. The dress drew attention to her curves in pleasant ways, yet she remained fully covered. It hinted at, rather than directly revealed. The fabric breathed easily, and she tested it by moving. It gave way easily, not limiting her in the slightest. The light played with it, and the colours shifted, to a shocking extent. She extended an arm and leg, and found part of her dress light blue, another still white, with every colour needed to bridge the gap filling in the parts in between. She retracted her limbs, then began a spin. The outer part of the skirt lifted up slightly, revealing a secondary function of the folds, as they filled in the gap between her legs and the skirt.
She giggled. “I look like a damned princess.”
Her dad, attracted by all the noise and assuming enough time had passed for it to be safe to enter, let out a long, appreciative whistle. “Well I’ll be,” he said, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d see you in a dress again.”
“Da-haaaad!” she protested, before falling into his open arms. “He made this for me,” she said, giggling madly. “He made this for me.”
“He did, darling” her father said, choking back tears of raw emotion at seeing his daughter that happy. “He sure did.”
Onoelle lifted an arm and motioned her mother closer, and then the three of them were caught in a warm group hug.
“Oh darling, I’m so happy for you,” her mother whispered, just as emotional as her husband. “Will you let me do your hair?”
She responded with a muted mmmhm of assent. She pulled back a little and laughed, doing another twirl. “Stars, I still can’t believe he made this. He has zero fashion sense! Just look at it!” She was utterly ecstatic with it, and every time she took another look at it or at her reflection that feeling was renewed. Stars above, she loved it. This more than made up for the long wait. Part of her wanted to run home right now, and just jump into his arms and pepper him with kisses, but she sealed that desire away from now. There would be time for that, and more besides, after the dance. It would be a shame to not use it thoroughly first.
Still giddy with excitement, she did not put up much of a fight as her mother’s sense of timing and responsibility kicked in and pushed her towards the bathroom, simultaneously shoving Jon out of the door with the order to make himself useful. The man left laughing, a knowing glint in his eyes.
“You’ll have to sit still if you want me to get done with this, girl!” Nyna chastised her still giggling daughter, pushing down on her shoulders in a bid to get her to stop squirming in the chair. “Would be a shame if your hair didn’t measure up to the dress.” That got the trick done and the fool girl finally ceased her stationary dance moves.
Then she saw her daughter grinning at her through the mirror. “Say, mum, did he pass by here unannounced by any chance?”
“Cat’s out of the bag, isn’t it?” she smiled warmly. “He did.”
“Tell me about it.”
“He showed up here with a backpack stuffed to the brim with pieces of fabric, sewing tools, a dozen horrible dresses and pictures of many more besides.” She shook her head at the memory of him appearing, Cassy bouncing up and down his shoulders. Fool, fool of a man. Fool, fool of a woman she was, to have ever doubted him. “We went through designs together, to see what would fit you.” She gave her daughter a half-smile, the corner of her lips twitching upward. “He’s not exactly easy to talk to, but he worked it out in the end. He works fast, though, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” her daughter proudly agreed.
“No sense of fashion though,” Nyna dryly added, earning her a loud laugh. “Plenty of ideas, all so horribly wrong. Some of the things he made… You should’ve seen them. Horrible, mismatched things! Oh, the pointers I had to give that man… But look at the result!”
“Do you trust us more now?”
Nyna’s fingers froze in their task, but her daughter’s face was relaxed. A hand offered in peace then. “I do. And I should have trusted you from the beginning. I’m sorry.”
“Apologies accepted,” Leonne giggled. “You helped him with the dress. And you trust us now.”
She let out a soft, quiet laugh. “You married a strange one, dear. But he loves you, and that love is pure. That is plain to see.”
Her daughter purred happily, offering no protest as she took a dryer to her wet hair, before moving on to the finishing touches to her hair.
An hour later they left the house. Cassy and Jane having joined up with the Gyhads. It was a small, happy procession. Both Cassy and Jane admiring Onoelle’s new dress as the woman flaunted it for the world to see. All of them had put on their Sunday best, but even so she stood out, and she knew it.
As they walked through the streets towards the centre of Agitana, the festive decorations and mood increased exponentially. Flowers of all sorts and sizes, coloured garlands, bright lampoons dotted the street. They encountered more people, all dressed up and ready to party. They passed people with cargo vertigos, rolling up the final supplies for the Founding Festival. Soon the throngs became denser, the group waving hellos and greetings to people they knew. Onoelle quickly began to hide in the middle, where fewer folk could see her dress, or the way it danced around her body. Cassy tried to climb on her father’s back, but was shoved off with a hearty laugh, the teenager being far too old, tall and heavy for such shenanigans. Jon dragged Nyna along a couple of times, the woman stopping to chat. Onoelle had to do the same for Jane, lest her friend stop to sample something in every stall they passed. Only Cassy was unaffected by it all, darting in and out of sight, disappearing into side streets for a good while before popping up again in front of them. Just how her sister managed that was anyone’s guess, especially given that she was too short to look over the heads of the crowd.
It took a long while for everyone to reach the village’s broad marketplace, now cleaned up and replaced with a heightened platform for the band, two large tents filled with stalls and bars, and a large, central dance floor centred around a neatly crafted firepit. The place was filled, yet even with the entire village attending, it didn’t feel cramped. Agitana only had a scant few hundred inhabitants, and only a handful of them had invited family over.
Jane was one of the centres of attention. Despite having been here for a couple of months, many of the villagers still were attracted to the newcomer like moths to a flame. Especially the elderly, who wanted nothing more than to impart the history of their village and of the Founding Festival to her, refused to be shaken off easily. Her parents had to interfere to pull her out more than once.
Similarly, her own dress caused quite a stir. Everyone was dressed to the nines, but the quality of her clothes stood out and the way the colours danced in the fading sunlight, let alone that of the burning fires, was mesmerizing. Many of her old suitors, stirred to action by her husband’s absence and strengthened by the rumours, tried to make a move on her. Some older folks, concerned by the gossip that had spread like wildfire, tried to approach her as well, as did some of the younger women who had never quite liked the way her free spirit had attracted others. The rumour-hunters and would-be-suitors might have ruined her mood, were it not for Cassy rapidly rallying a relief force. Under the watchful eye of miss Olva the younger generations of Agitana crashed the party like a whirlwind, dragging Onoelle into their midst and forcing her to partake in wild, uncontrolled dances, shielding her from anyone trying to reach her.
The crowds briefly parted as Lady Helena flaunted her way through them. She was dressed as scandalously as always, for events as these. Enough skin covered to remain officially modest. And more than enough skin bare to draw the attention of many men, and a few women besides. Her every step was watched. With delight, disgust, desire or distrust, but watched nonetheless.
She moved like a huntress, eyes sharp. Coquettish smiles ensnared the hearts of many single men, and her lungs seemed to puff up her breasts with every breath. A wink here, a smile there. Bright red lips blew kisses and set tempers aflame. Girlfriends and wives glared angrily at her or their partners, ensuring they did not look too long or too closely. And she knew it. The woman delighted in the effects that rippled through the crowd where-ever she passed.
Then Lady Helena met her eyes, and the woman froze in her tracks. Her head darted from side to side, eyes frantically looking for something, before freezing again.
Aha. Onoelle smiled to herself, giving the woman a knowing nod. She hadn’t liked the woman at best of times. The wily seductress had always projected an air of superiority around herself, looking down on everyone else. The woman’s cocky attitude mixed with how she manipulated people into doing her bidding had put her directly at odds with Onoelle’s ideals. Now, however, she found herself embracing a darker side of her own heart as she grinned in response to Helena carefully studying —and being envious of— her dress. Their eyes met again, and her grin became vicious. That’s right, bitch, her eyes shot. Mentuc made this for me. And all your seduction, your skills, your pathetic attempts didn’t get you him. He’s mine.
The aristocratic woman nodded back, if slightly paler now. She recovered herself quickly, a spark of fire flaring to life in response to the unspoken slight. It faded in an instant, her husband clearly having put the fear of God into the would-be temptress. Her eyes scanned the surroundings again, causing Onoelle’s grin to turn victorious. That Helena’s famous temper didn’t even flare up at her provocations, spoke volumes. Instead the scantily dressed seductress eyed the dress for a moment longer, before disappearing. Onoelle noticed that she was allowing her suitors much closer now, and that she just happened to be chatting to people in all directions around her. She let out a laugh, and put the wily woman out of her mind, shifting her focus back to the Festival and answering the many questions older women asked about her dress and where she’d got it.
Hot pastries, candies, ales, ciders, soft drinks, hot chocolate, small sausages, fried vegetables and dozens of others drinks and snacks were liberally distributed. Rogue bands of musicians, some possessing skill, all possessing enthusiasm, played wherever they found enough space to display their instruments, engaging the speakers in a battle of volume.
The mood slowly shifted from happy to euphoric as the hours went by and the evening slowly turned into night. The youngest children were put to bed, the older ones fought tooth and nail to stay, the teenagers and younger generations snuck off to flirt in the dark, and the main band took to the centre stage.
Onoelle, Cassy and Jane leapt in from the get-go, as did everyone else. The first few dances were wild and uncontrolled as the band opened up with a myriad of songs that had rhyme nor reason to them. A quick, fast dance would be followed by a slow. Tear-jerkers would be cut-off mid song and replaced by rock and roll. Chords of classic and calm village songs would suddenly be replaced by hard, modern sounds. Mayhem ruled for the first dozen songs.
Onoelle danced her heart out, her dress swinging around her as she abandoned reason and allowed the music to guide her soul. She loved dancing, to sync her limbs with the beat, to feel the bass reverberate in her bones and to drown in the atmosphere of happy folk. Smiles were all around, laughter roiled through the crowds as the band performed a particularly unexpected change of theme, and everyone was happy.
It quieted down a little when the mayor took the scene. As was tradition, his speech was brief and to the point. The good and bad times of the year were mentioned, the former with a grin and a cheer, the latter with a joke and a smile. Any big events were briefly covered, and then the man cleared the floor with a cheer and the dancers rushed in place once again, though this time there was a strict order to the chaos.
The opening would be the classical village dances. People jostled and jockeyed for position, partners sliding smoothly in place, singles sticking strictly to their side of the dancefloor. Onoelle took hesitated a little, unsure of where to go, but her father went by her with a laugh and dragged her along. She protested weakly as he put her down next to her, but he just gave her a broad smile and returned his attention to his wife.
It wasn’t uncommon for a person to be alone on this side of the dancefloor. Widows and widowers were often present, and there were always a scant few who could not make it in time, forcing their partners to dance solo. It still made her feel uneasy, yet she knew that there would be plenty of people vying for a dance with her if she veered off to the other side. That left the children and youngsters…
She tried to subtly shift her position towards that area, while the musicians were still playing the opening notes that gave people time to get ready and get in place, but her father grabbed her arm and held her in place.
She gave him an annoyed glance, but he merely gave a broad smile. A very broad smile. And his eyes weren’t fixed on her.
Then she noticed everything else. The murmuring of the crowds. The way people stood slightly further apart from her than was usual. The way others were looking at something behind her. The way the wooden flooring creaked.
She whirled around, and for a moment she thought she was dreaming, or that her eyes were lying to her.
He stood there, rigid as stone, in the midst of a massive crowd. One hand extended for her, with a slight bow in his back.
“May I have this dance?”