What? Who? What one was, versus who one was?
These were things Sheeva hadn’t thought of in a long time, other than to justify her reasons for her pursuit, her years spent of training to death, and the occasional, accidental, suicide-by-bounty-hunter moments she’d had no other choice but to execute. Fighting to recall the last time she had truly thought of it, Sheeva’s eyes widened as the buzz of memory alighted her face.
It smacked her against the head like a beating of common-sense, and the crushing weight of thought made her knees threaten to buckle, legs already shaking. Not just her legs shook. Her whole body trembled as she felt herself taken back to the training fields, where tiny, happy, seven-year-old Sheeva had wept bitterly upon fully realizing that her birth-mother had treated her so horribly because of what she was, not who she was, unlike Rose, who seemed not to care about the “what,” and more of the “who.”
She took a knee to steady herself, then shifted to sit on the wooden steps, deaf to the creak of the old framework. The relief of the weight off her back as her baggage sat on the deck encouraged her to shift it off of her shoulders, and as she set it at her side to lean on it slightly, the drench of nervous sweat cooled her back at a gentle breeze.
She gave a huff of disbelief as her senses calmed, feeling that “hope” had turned into a broken crutch a while ago, and began to wonder what really kept her going. When she became aware of the terse expression on her face, she rubbed at it quickly and sucked in a breath, then groaned, unwilling to dive into it so deeply. In a forward slouch that stretched her back, Sheeva sighed, letting her gaze meander among the plants.
Not only was the struggling garden in need of desperate care, but…perhaps staying after all might yield unexpected satisfaction.
Sheeva inhaled sharply, held her breath, then let it out slowly in a calming “pshoo” before grabbing her gear and slinging it over her shoulders as she stood. As she crossed the threshold, she paused to close the door, then turned to face the entry hallway.
Across from a row of shoes lined neatly by the wall on the left, a kitchen with an island, wood-powered stove, sink, and decorative wooden countertops rested to her immediate right, and she admired the chandelier nailed carefully into the ceiling. It appeared to have been crafted from old iron shoes for Sleipnir, soldered together with a uniquely patterned finish. There were knicks in the doorframe, marking off the growth progression of two children, one labeled “T,” that stretched up along the frame and stopped about a head above her and the other “A,” stopping suddenly at an eighth marker.
Sheeva paused to eye the oil-paintings along the wall as she passed them. There were only a couple that contained a young girl, arranged to be a memorial. The rest showed a gradual timeline of the man she had bumped into—him as a young boy playing with a ship with a note that read: Tazaro, age 6, a little more matured child with a bridge made of matchsticks and a bright, happy smile as he showed off a blue ribbon, 14 years old, and last, him in a graduate cap and gown, hugging his mother with pride, Graduation, 19 years old. Aside from his maturation, the only constant was the chestnut brown hair, citrine eyes, and wide smile.
She scowled at the envy that manifested itself behind her eyes as she saw how happy they seemed to be in each picture. Llyud had robbed her of the opportunity.
“Sheeva, come here, please.” Mildred called, bringing her out of her thoughts. Sheeva obeyed and made her way further inside.
The living room awaited, with a couch facing a fireplace and a cozy, green, armchair tucked in the corner and a side table next to it. To the right and against the kitchen wall, an old piano rested, with a book of sheet music propped up, though upside down. Next to a sliding door that opened the house toward a backyard, a long, oakwood dinner table rested, with six chairs tucked in around it.
It was the fanciest home Sheeva had ever seen, considering she had only ever been in one other family home on the outside of Malfa Temple.
“This house is…very nice,” She complimented, not sure how it fared in comparison to other houses, but it didn’t matter; it offered more space than she believed it to judging by the outside.
Mildred smiled, and beckoned for her to sit. Feeling out-of-place in such a nice home, Sheeva hurried around the long couch, shed her baggage, went to take a seat…and nearly sank into the comfortable thing.
“Are you familiar with the gods of Sferra?” Mildred asked, to which Sheeva shook her head, then blurted out a “oh, uh…no, ma’am,” upon remembering that Mildred wouldn’t be able to see a shake or nod of her head.
“No, I thought not. That’s alright. In short, there are twelve; eleven that we praise, one that has been excommunicated. Roughly sixty years ago, there was a great, black fire that swept across Maizen, brought on by a most terrifying creature: that of a man, but with devilish features. A man with seven wings, with feathers as black as the abyss, talons as sharp as knives, an extra set of arms he could use to tear limb from foe, and a bladed tail he would swing like a whip to lob one’s head clean off.” She began.
Sheeva fought a look of disgust and failed as she prodded at her neck and gulped, wondering if the tail would sound like a whip as it cleaved a man’s head off his shoulders.
“My mother, a teenager then and a priestess of Goddess Alena, sent a plea to the gods for help. The plea was heard, and the from the forest emerged two more of the creatures, one with a claymore and golden armor, and the other with red robes and the ability to spit fire with a single word. Their fight raged through the town and into the skies, and as they warred over the mountain, a great, blue bubble formed to protect the town from their return.”
Sheeva’s eyebrows raised in surprise, having heard a similar story from the elders in Malfa Temple, though much different; the blue bubble Mildred spoke of happened to be the protective veil that covered Malfa Temple, cast by an elder to prevent the destruction of their sacred home from a great foe…who also summoned a consuming black fire. She kept quiet, and waited as Mildred began to speak.
“The cost for my mother’s plea was to be her first-born, but at the time of my birth, my mother offered another deal; her life, for mine. Disappointed, but yielding to my mother’s bargain, Goddess Alena agreed, with a caveat. I grew up without a mother, and at the age of eight, I became blind, though…not quite. I could see anger. I could see fear. I could see envy, sadness…pain.”
Mildred chuckled at something, and sat back.
“I cursed the gods for what they had done to me. I hated my status as ‘Maria’s Sacrifice.’ I hated feeling how others saw me. In my drowning and despair, I teetered on the edge of the bluff of the crystal cavern, and I threatened to launch myself off of it.”
Sheeva found herself grateful that she had never drowned so far in her childhood terrors, thanks to Rose, but feared what might have become of herself, had she not had a caring person to turn around her life at the age of six, as she had.
“I had one foot off of that ledge before Goddess Alena shoved me back onto it, a beautiful woman and an ethereal, glowing, pale yellow light–much like the light I saw from you, though yours is…” She trailed off in search of a description. “Such a vibrant, purple color–like…the purple snap dragons I used to see in the fields,” Mildred admitted with a fond smile, recalling the simpler times of playing in the farmer’s fields outside Maizen.
“Oh,” Sheeva said softly as she realized that the woman had actually attempted to throw herself off the ledge. “She sounds…nice?” Sheeva guessed.
Mildred laughed.
“Ha! She was furious, actually. Said words I’m embarrassed to repeat!”
She could only huff to hide a laugh, surprised that someone supposed to be graceful would show temperament and swear.
“I am not the only god-blessed, though, it seems. I’ve found two others in my lifetime; a young bard, given a gift from the Musician God, Lucassen. His aura was grey, though I’m told he enjoyed wearing polka-dot shirts and pinstripe pants, and could pull it off well! Heh, what a funny thing to imagine!” She chuckled with another smile, though this time it seemed sad.
“He’s no longer with us. He perished a few years ago in a carriage accident. Shame, too; he had his whole life ahead of him. Only twenty-seven.”
Sheeva sat back to digest the information, surprised to find an alternate story to the one she’d been told, and even more intrigued to find that they both connected, somehow.
“And, who is the other?” Sheeva asked, realizing that the other “blessed” remained unspoken of.
“Why, you, of course, dear,” Mildred stated with a cheery smile, seeming happy to have found someone of her caliber.
Sheeva frowned. The closest she felt she was to anything “blessed” was more “cursed,” seemingly doomed to suffer for something she couldn’t change. She crossed her arms and scowled freely.
Was the abuse she recieved from her birth-mother, simply because of what she was, a blessing? What of the filicide of her siblings, commited by said birth-mother? The drowning of her sister, and the stabbing of her brother? Were those to be considered a “blessing?” What of the constant hiding of her wings, for otherwise being persecuted and feared for them? Were those a blessing?
“You say ‘blessing,’ but it’s been nothing but a curse,” Sheeva decided, unbothered by the thoughtful and openly disappointed “hm,” Mildred sent her way.
“Perhaps someday, you’ll come to embrace your gift, whatever it may be,” Mildred suggested, hoping so.
Sheeva sucked in a sudden breath as a voice spoke up behind them, bringing her out of the dark subjects that the two of them had been talking about.
“Hey, room’s, uh, ready for you, if you’d like to settle in,” The man from earlier stated. Sheeva sat up and turned to look at him. He seemed aware of the fact that he’d wandered in on a heavy subject, avoiding her eyes with an embarrassed expression on his face. “Name’s Tazaro, by the way–if Mom didn’t already tell you.”
“Mm. Yes, I’d like to do that. Thank you, Tazaro.” Sheeva stated, eager to get away from the subject they had just been entertaining.
After Mildred stood from her chair, they wandered down the hallway at a slow pace, then up a flight of stairs, and paused at the second door they came to. It was covered from top to bottom with sketches of what Sheeva guessed to be the city’s architecture. When she recalled the picture of Tazaro holding a bridge of matchsticks, she turned to look at him.
“This is your room?” Sheeva asked, glancing back at the sketches.
“Yeah–well, it was.” He muttered, seeming upset to be giving up his room without being asked first.
“Thank you for allowing me a bed.” Sheeva replied as she turned the handle and stepped inside.
“You’re welcome, dearie. We’ll make something to eat and leave you to unpack.” Mildred stated, beckoning Tazaro to help her in the kitchen with a tip of her head. Hand curled around the crook of his elbow, they made their way along.
Sheeva nodded and closed the door gently. She waited until their voices carried away and pressed her palm to the back of the door and muttered an incantation. A red, circular sigil, with intricate layers and scrawled symbols, flashed, then faded. Feeling secure with an alarming ward placed on the door, she turned around to glance the room over.
The walls were teal blue and the ceiling an off-white. The contrast hurt her eyes as the bright evening sun gleamed off a nearby roof and illuminated the room. A twin bed rested in the corner, the wooden posts scratched and chipped into a rudimentary pattern, appearing to be Tazaro’s earliest works. Sheeva wondered if Tazaro did it out of boredom. As she looked from post to post, the gradual progression of a cute gnome with a tall cap could be seen, and she chuckled to herself–maybe, it was something similar to her building stacks of rocks while grounded in the few times Rose needed to scold her for something. A tattered-then-patched quilt donned the mattress, and a single pillow rested against the headboard.
Drawings and sketches of buildings, pages of notes, and a framed blueprint of Roussel littered the walls, faded-yellow parchment seeming to pop out amid the sea-blue color. An artist’s easel with an armrest stood in the opposite corner, with a red, four-legged stool to sit on while he worked.
There was a brown dresser decorated with various carved miniatures. She admired the work of a basilisk constricting an unknown hero wielding a sword in one hand as it grappled the snake’s head in the other. It had been carved in great detail. The fangs appeared so sharp, she wondered if she could accidentally prick her finger and draw blood. She clasped the lining of her pocket to prevent reaching and finding out.
An impish-looking creature sat off to the side, propped up to appear floating on a peg. It was an adorable thing, plump and fluffy, like a fresh loaf of bread. A pair of wooden wings protruded from the thing’s back, painted a navy blue. Unable to resist her curiosity, she pushed on the matching navy-blue marble attached to a spring on the top of its head, amused with the way it bobbled about. She stole a glance at the door, worried it might have opened in her moment of distraction, and stepped back, unwilling to be caught touching something she wasn't supposed to.
A ragora plant grew on the bedside table. It turned its bulb-like head around on its stalk as Sheeva walked up to it. “He,” noted by the defensive, spiny leaves and dark orange spots amid a red background mimicking a poisonous plant, jittered in happiness as she ran her finger along the cuticle of its green leaves. The purple veins were not as rigid as a well-watered plant would be, and the waxy leaves were too pliable. She tested the topsoil: dry. The poor creature wasn’t being well cared for.
She couldn’t blame Mildred, understanding that her being blind had to impede her ability to do certain things. She shrugged. While she was here, Sheeva decided it would be a pleasure to take care of the plants. Plants, most of them, anyway, could not hurt her. Even better, they would not waste her time with nonsensical chatter, limited to innocent squeaks and unintelligible chitters.
She grabbed her water pouch and sprinkled water on the soil, then held the pouch to the ragora’s mouth, letting the cabbage-related plant drink deeply. If it did not have its “teeth,” she would not have minded letting it suckle the water from her finger. Curious to know how old it was, she peeled back its lips carefully and pried open its mouth with the tip of a blade. The ragora was still young, perhaps a couple of years old; it did not yet contain the secondary layer of sharp, barbed incisors hidden behind its primary teeth.
Annoyed at her prodding, the ragora wrenched its head away from her hands and snapped at her. She drew her hand back sharply and held up a finger.
“Watch it, you bastard! I’ll flick you! I mean it!” She insisted. It seemed to frown and settled with a slight nod of submission.
She held the water-pouch to its mouth again, and it cooed as it finished its long drink and wiggled around cheerfully. It reached for her with its leaves, and Sheeva gave a soft smile, continuing to scratch away at the leaves. The cuticle was built up quite a bit, and she had to clear the wax from under her fingernails a few times.
After the ragora had the scratching of its life, Sheeva sat on the bed. The springs squeaked but compressed easily, and the mattress sunk deeply, and while others might complain, she found it to be–naturally–much more comfortable than both the firm mattress at the inn and the forest floor she'd spent the last couple of weeks on. Not used to such comforts, she did not care for that and stood, grabbed the nearby desk chair, and sat down in it.
She stared out of the window overlooking the backyard at the great view of the palace, though the palace seemed to have been abandoned long ago. The crumbling walls and dusty, barren rooftops made the place seem eerie. Still, the castle seemed to hide in the shadow of the clock tower, which chimed out the time. It was six in the afternoon.
Easily startled, Sheeva turned sharply toward the doorway as someone knocked on it, feeling a jolt run up her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stand. She dispelled the ward with a wave of her hand and opened the door.
“Oh, uh, it-it’s just me. May I come in?” Tazaro’s voice called out, unnerved at the way his face seemed to buzz from a warm wave that had spilled over him seconds before she had opened the door. Eager to convince himself it was simply his imagination, he contemplated if she was some kind of fugitive. But if that were so, he corrected himself, Tyler would not have brought her here in the first place. He shook his head at his thoughts. Maybe, he added as an afterthought.
Seeing no threat, she opened the door and allowed him in, stepping aside as he wandered in with a tray carrying glasses of water and a plate of grapes, cheese, and a couple of rolls. As he went to set the tray down on the desk in front of the window, the old ragora on the windowsill hissed at him, and Tazaro shot it a scowl, muttering to it to “shut up.” She raised an eyebrow. If he wanted to be on good terms with the ragora, telling the ragora to “shut up” was not the way to do it. She kept the thought to herself.
“Dinner might be a while, so we made you something small to tide you over.” He stated. "I just got off work, too, so I brought stuff for both of us."
She took a moment to survey the tray, mildly apprehensive, but dismissed her worries as Tazaro reached for a roll, himself, and bit into it. Pacified, she grabbed a clump of grapes, plucked a juicy-looking red one from the cluster, and popped it in her mouth.
“Thank you,” She voiced, pleased to have something to eat, since she had refused to purchase the expensive meal the inn had offered in the morning. She stole a glance at him through the corner of her eye, gauging his calm as he sat down on the old bed, scooted back, and leaned against the wall.
Faded, brown slacks that didn't match the weathered, tan vest over his white, button up shirt hiked up his leg, revealing one black sock and one white sock. She found a strange relief in the fact that his socks didn't match, and hoped he wouldn't care that hers didn't, either.
"Your socks don't match either," Sheeva blurted, then wished she'd had a mouthful of food to keep her from saying such a ridiculous, spur-of-the-moment thing.
Citrine eyes widened in response, and Tazaro looked down at his feet, shoved into the tattered shoes that he kept telling himself he would replace "once they no longer had a soul."
"Wha-oh. Yeah. Well, I, uh…" He mumbled, embarrassedly grabbing for a clump of grapes as well. He popped one in his mouth, then regretted it since he had never, and would never, like grapes; they popped weirdly and reminded him too much of bitter medicine.
Eager to save face, he volleyed back with his own discourse and alleviate the sudden, awkward airs.
"Alright, so they don't. Do yours? Is it a crime?"
Sheeva chuckled at herself.
While they did not match one bit, she had already made things weird and didn't want to exacerbate the growing sense of scrutiny she now faced…though the subject of mismatched socks would be easier to explain than a plucked feather stuck between the flaps in the shoulders of her jacket from the giant wings she kept hidden in her back.
"No. They don't," She put simply, crossing her arms. “And no, it’s not…though some might think so, I suppose.”
“Hm! What’s wrong with that?” He added, seeming pacified as he snickered to himself.
His short wavy hair was a deep, chestnut color and barely began to frame his ears, which were normal, compared to her own; while small, they came to a rounded point, rather than sharp and cat-like as the fabled creatures of legend. She had yet to find anyone that had also been born of a Sferran and a Ta'hal…but she also hadn't taken as long of a look at everyone she met, either. Tazaro's almond-shaped eyes were a glorious orange color, much like the citrus fruit, though light enough to appear honey-colored as the sunlight pierced through the window and illuminated his cream-colored face. The soft chin accompanied his heart shaped face, accentuated by the part in his wavy hair over his left eye.
"So, uh, I want to apologize for earlier; when I bumped into you, I didn’t mean to grab you like that. I just didn't want you to fall over," He apologized, amber irises dropping to the corners of his eyes in thought. He rolled up the sleeves of his button-up shirt to bare toned forearms, albeit scarred from burns, nicks, and what she assumed were spots he'd had to dig splinters from. Long, strong fingers with calloused fingertips and a stained thumb pressed his forearms where hers had met his when she bunted his hands off of her shoulders. While there were no bruises there, there would surely be some the next morning with the amount of force she had put behind it.
"I, I've never had someone do something like that before. It was, uh, kind of cool–if you don't mind my saying so," He added with an glint in his eye and an amused smirk that stretched into his cheeks, darkened by a five-o'-clock shadow.
"I must apologize, too–I find I am…easily startled.” She admitted reluctantly. “Did I hurt you?"
"No, not at all!" He insisted, waving his hands in denial. Truth be told, it had hurt a little, but he was too impressed to care; like a good roast he hadn't heard of himself before, the quick, defensive maneuver was something to be commended.
Taking his word at face value, Sheeva accepted the statement. She looked out of the window at the horizon, burning red from the setting sun.
"So, can I ask what brings you here?" He asked, sitting up and scooting to the edge of the bed to put his glass on the desk.
“I’m pursuing a murderer,” She put shortly, already tired of explaining herself.
If she were being honest with herself, she was more tired of chasing after Llyud; Tyler’s advice to take time in the little things seemed to prod at her thoughts like burrs that would pluck off on pant legs and prick like a thorn in the side.
“Oh. I, uh, briefly thought you were a runaway,” Tazaro admitted. "Are you?"
Sheeva controlled her immediate guilty sigh into a slow hum; the fact was somewhat true, considering she had runaway from the hellish orphanage she was abandoned to by her birth-mother. She figured that, after eighteen years, no one would remember or had even been really looking for her.
Unwilling to open the subject, Sheeva changed the current topic.
“If you don't mind my advice, you may want to consider being nicer to the ragora. They can understand us, you know.” She stated, ignoring the squint of his eyes.
Noticing that she hadn’t exactly answered his question but deciding not to acknowledge it, Tazaro frowned and looked at the ragora incredulously, wondering how it would even be possible to patch the botched relationship they shared. As the ragora stuck out a long purple tongue at him, Tazaro scowled at it and returned the childish gesture.
Be nice to the ragora? Pfft, fat chance. Tazaro thought to himself.
"Wow, he really doesn't like you," Sheeva said, honestly amazed–she had never known the sentient plants to hold such a disliking for someone before, let alone see it firsthand.
"Yeah, well, if the damn thing didn't bite me every time I try to water it or feed it, I might like it a little more, the bastard," He grunted.
Since her point had been completely missed, Sheeva felt as though her next suggestion would fall on deaf ears, so she held her tongue as she looked around the room once more.
"Thank you again for loaning me your room. I assume those pieces on the dresser are yours?" Sheeva asked, pointing towards the carvings.
Tazaro gave a sheepish smile, stood from the bed, and crossed the room to look at his earliest works. They were all done as projects to break boredom, and while he had the more meaningful, "marks-of-progress" carvings tucked away in his closet at home, he still felt just as proud of himself for these rugged few.
"Yeah, they are. I told Mom she didn't need to keep them and could sell them for petty cash instead, but she insisted on decorating the room with them, because they're 'nice to look at." He snickered, appreciative of his mother's sense of humour.
He picked up the roughly-chiseled piece labeled "Hassogtha versus The Great Basiliska" and turned it about, chuckling at his lesser-quality handiwork as he thumbed the rough, gem-cut crease of the shield. He hadn’t quite mastered smoothing out edges of curved objects yet, and it certainly showed here.
"This was my most frustrating piece. First, I couldn't get Hassogtha's shield right, then I kept breaking the Great Basiliska's tail. Finally decided to glue a rattlesnake's tail to it and call it 'good enough." He stated, shaking it. A smile cracked on his face from the sound before he put it back in its place.
"Who is Hassogtha?" Sheeva asked. Tazaro looked at her, surprised.
"You don't know who that is? He’s a legendary hero! How do you not–oh," He paused, noting her mulberry-colored eyes–rich and dark for a Pacemian. He hadn’t taken her to be so, since she lacked other, more obvious traits–the tight, curly hair, the generally taller stature, and the darker-pigmented skin. "Right–guess they don't have the same legends on Pacem, do they?"
Sheeva’s eyes widened as she stared back, confused, then remembered she had been consistently changing her eye color.
"Ah, right. Yes. We, uh, have our own traditions." She murmured, hoping he would take it at that as she shielded herself from scrutiny with crossed arms and a subconscious scratch of the back of her neck.
Tazaro had the nagging feeling she wasn’t telling him something, and as he looked her over once again, he noted features of Cruinians: sleek black hair, an oval-shaped face, and thin, pink lips, although her eyes didn't reflect the common shades of red. Rather, they were a deep, dark purple, and, if the sunlight hit them right, he supposed they could be a shade of red. After briefly thinking about how unusually pointed her ears were, he shook his head at himself and cleared his throat. She must have had parents from two different cultures.
“I’m sorry. Maybe, uh…you can tell me about your traditions on Pacem someday,” He suggested, hoping to smooth over any indignant feelings he may have caused by being so close-minded.
“Hm, perhaps,” She stated dismissively, almost so immediately that Tazaro doubted she had even thought about his offer. Unnerved and uncomfortable, he reached to return the carving to the dresser, then flinched as she spoke, somehow expecting harsh words of criticism–an old habit he’d picked up from the woman he’d suffered a five-year relationship through before finally putting his foot down.
“So, who is that?” Sheeva asked, tipping her head towards the carving in question, eager to get him on a topic he was apparently passionate about before he had the chance to think and ask any more questions…and also to satisfy her own curiosity, ever a fan of the epic tales Rose used to pacify her with.
Tazaro glanced at her, the uncertainty obvious.
“I, ah, genuinely want to know,” She stated to assure him.
“He’s only the greatest hero we’ve ever had!” He commented as his eyes lit up and cheeks curved with a confident smirk. “Well, honestly, he’s the only hero we’ve ever had, but, uh…” He snickered at himself, then waved it off with a hand. “Hassogtha was a hero chosen by the warrior-god, Valrigard, to aid them in their battle against the god of trickery, Abraxas, his army of Ta’hal, and the great, mythical beasts that wrecked havoc on Vivroa. But, that’s all part of a story, probably created to explain that mess of stars in the sky. I doubt any of that is actually true.”
Sheeva not only stole a glance at her unrelated, similarly-named weapon, but also tensed at the mention of Ta’hal, and wondered if Tazaro knew enough about the legendary beasts to put two-and-two together, but considering that there was such little information to be found other than a five-hundred-year glimpse in history two-thousand-years ago, she had a feeling he didn’t.
“Mm, there’s always a shred of truth to be found hiding in legends, I think.” Sheeva disagreed, uncomfortable with the idea that she could have never existed at all if there wasn’t a hint of truth to be found.
"You think so?" He asked.
Sheeva hid her guilty snicker behind the back of her hand.
"I do. Otherwise, where would the legends have originated from?"
"Some old loony guy, probably," Tazaro laughed.
Sheeva grew taciturn, crossed her arms, and directed her stare towards the corner of the four-post bed.
“Anyway…" Tazaro continued, "One such beast was called The Great Basiliska, a terrifying, land-devouring serpent said to petrify its foes with a mere glance," he stated, pausing for dramatic effect. "Sferrans couldn’t defeat it. The gods couldn’t defeat it. Hassogtha himself–
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
–was the only one to beat the monster?” Sheeva assumed, then gave him a weirded-out side-eye as he gave a hearty “Feh!” She hoped she hadn't offended him by interrupting.
“You would think so, but no!” He said as enthusiastically with a wide, beaming grin, personally enjoying the confused look on her face. His sarcastically confident way of saying “no” puzzled people everytime, and it seemed Sheeva was no different.
“O-oh. Um…” Sheeva paused, feeling sheepish. She collected herself, and looked at the miniature on the dresser. With how coiled the great beast was around the warrior, Sheeva doubted the man’s ability to break free or get a good, killing blow. “So, how did they–
–The gods blessed Hassogtha with immortality, launched them into the stars, and banished them there for eternity. If you look at the night sky, you can see the constellations Hassogtha and Basiliska, among others that were pawns in the War of the Gods: Behemoth Major, Couerl, Cacious, Impi. Along the horizon, you can see most of the god’s constellations: Hyles, king of the gods; Hyperia, goddess of the hunt; and Alena, goddess of purity–to name a few of the twelve,” He explained, finding it all too easy to go on a wild tangent.
He paused as he noticed how she seemed to hang on every word, and, while mildly embarrassed for "nerding out," he also felt pleased. Tazaro checked through the small pile of books he had on his shelf. Most of them were children’s books he favored growing up, and, like the miniatures, his mother had held on to the things.
“Here. You’re welcome to read this, if you want to learn about some of the legends we have on Vivroa.” He stated, handing her a book so worn, it reminded her of her tattered journal. “Hope all the pages are still there. It wasn’t this beat up last time I saw it,” He muttered, tsking at its state.
Apparently, it had been getting abused in his absence…or he had literally read the book to shreds as a young child.
“You…don’t live here?” She asked, bringing him out of reminiscent memory. “I assumed you still did.”
“Oh. Ah, no. I live closer to the Eastern Quarters–still in Southgate, though.” He replied, giving a second glance at the slight frown upon her lips as it took him by surprise. Her eyes burned in dislike.
“Who takes care of your mother? I couldn’t imagine leaving someone who’s blind to be by themself–especially if it were my own mother,” She stated haughtily.
“She’s not unable to take care of herself. She’s insistent, actually, and Tyler and I both tried to persuade her to accept a caretaker,” He defended, trying to ignore the flash of vindictiveness on his face. “She gave us both a very adamant ‘No!’, so…” He paused to take a clearing breath and relieve the tension on his face, feeling it no longer necessary as Sheeva immediately seemed remorseful. “To make up for it, Tyler lives here and I swing by pretty often, so she’s not alone.”
Tazaro studied her demeanor as she shifted around on her feet, seeming to wrestle with something as she crossed, uncrossed, then crossed her arms again. Her eyes squinted in distaste, then disappeared as she literally rubbed away the frown creasing her forehead.
That’s enough, Sheeva, you have no right to be so rude!
Acknowledging the fact that, indeed, she had no right to impose, Sheeva took a deep breath, held it, and sighed out the rest of her frustration as her shoulders relaxed and her hands dropped to the side.
“My apologies. I…I lost my adoptive mother at a young age. The bastard I’ve been pursuing for–” She paused to do the math, finding it being much longer than she’d noticed. “Five years, now–took her from me.”
“Oh,” Tazaro stated, then crossed his own arms in discomfiture, trying to shield from the sudden worry that the same thing could happen to him. He shook his head, and stared at something across the way, faintly aware it happened to be a poster of a draft he’d sketched for an architecture competition.
“Wait, five years? And you haven’t–
–He’s a conniving, manipulative bastard who keeps getting the upper-hand,” Sheeva growled, seeming to flare up in rage as her eyes hardened and her posture stiffened in a highly intimidating presence. He could almost feel the room darken with doom and gloom, and it made him shiver slightly in fear.
“I’m, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He apologized, then snapped his mouth shut as he thought of something to say to save face. As he glanced outside while thinking of a recovery, he sighed, seeting that a few clumps of clouds had blown over to block the sun–apparently, they would be in for a night or two of rain.
He gave her another glance-over as she took in a deep breath and sighed, appearing disappointed with something. Of herself, of him, or perhaps of her circumstance altogether, he wasn’t sure, but it was enough to lessen the tension in the room.
“So…that’s why the warrior get-up. I thought maybe you were a mercenary, at first.”
“Hmph. I have played the part before.” She admitted, turning her attention to the tattered book in her hand. “But that’s not the case here,” She assured. With a tired look, she set the book gently down on the desk by the bed to read at a later time. “Rather, I’m just sheltering somewhere while I continue my search,” She explained, staring out of the window at the darkening sky.
Tazaro nodded in acknowledgement.
“Hm,” He began, then chuckled with his thought, hoping to lighten the mood. “Well, the only really dangerous thing around here is Jax. He gets so excited for pets, the dumb thing will knock you over if you’re not careful. Best thing to do is just accept it,” He encouraged, grateful to find the curl of her lip.
“Yeah. Considering that dog even gave Tyler a hard time, I fear he might squish me as flat as a pancake,” She chuckled, amused with the image.
Tazaro chuckled, too, intrigued by the possibility of a hidden, childish side to the stoic, warrior-girl get-up. He looked her over again from head to toe, though the first thing he caught himself looking at were her shoes to see if she really did have mismatched socks.
He couldn’t tell, thanks to the black-dyed, form-fitting, hemp pants tucked into the brown, leather leg of her boots. The scabbard’s metal tip caught his eye as it moved in his vision, and as he examined the holster, appreciated the attention to detail as the etching of a thorny vine of some kind wrapped around the leather backing.
The leather jacket, apparently modified to include what Tazaro assumed were pockets in the shoulders, seemed well-worn, and as she raised her hands to tie back black hair that reached toward the small of her back with a red ribbon, her form seemed to stretch, lithe and limber, like a cat’s.
As she sat down and reached for the book, the Ragora on the desk snapped at her fingers, then chittered angrily as she immediately flicked it on the nose. It retreated into its soil with a soft flump, then stuck out its long purple tongue at her.
“Don’t you give me that,” She demanded. “I told you I would flick you, and I meant it, you fickle bastard!” She grunted, pointing at it accusingly.
Tazaro’s face lit up and his laughter flew from his mouth in an instant at her vulgarity.
“What?” She asked, appearing irritated that she was being laughed at. Her mauve eyes, now seeming darker and a little more reddish, directed a leer that struck a twinge of fear in his core. Tazaro held up his hands in surrender.
“No, nothing! I’m just, uh, surprised! I…I didn’t know you could–I mean, won’t he bite you?”
“I encourage him to try,” She invited, sneering at the thing hunkered down in its pot. "Perhaps he'll be better off in a vegetable stew," She threatened.
As the thing hunkered down even more, she settled into the chair, but not for long as a call for dinner rang out from the hallway.
Eager to eat more than just the snacks Tazaro brought, Sheeva and Tazaro filed out of the room, headed for the table, and sat down. Her eyes widened in splendor at the food before her: a simple baguette sandwich with salted meats, cheese, savory basil, and a vivid, green pesto spread, with a small bowl of soup to accompany the main entree.
“Thank you. This looks tasty!” She picked up her spoon and went to eat but paused as she noticed no one else had started yet. She wondered if she was missing something. Tyler stared at her as though she had insulted them. She set her spoon down.
“Did I do something wrong?” She asked.
“We pray before we eat.” He explained.
“Ah.” She muttered. She had never actually prayed before, but after spending a short amount of time with a family in the northeastern tundra, she likened the small act of gratitude for the same, as brief as possible moments of silence they would have during meals at Malfa Temple. After training all day, she was oftentimes too hungry to care–something that Rose would often agree with.
Mildred began to speak, thanking a being named "Alkurik" for the bountiful meal. Unfamiliar with the god or goddess, Sheeva nibbled on her lip, wondering if perhaps the book Tazaro suggested she read would have some information on the types of gods and goddesses they worshipped on Vivroa.
Finally, Mildred stopped, and Sheeva grabbed the spoon again, bringing it to her mouth and relishing in the earthly scent.
“It smells delicious,” Sheeva complimented, about to take a bite, but paused as Tazaro spoke up.
“I would still eat it if it were poisoned,” Tazaro pointed out as he took his own bite, pleased with the way it had come out, despite not having as much spicy meats as he would have liked. Sheeva’s eyes widened at the word “poisoned,” and she hesitated.
“Glory, glory, what a helluva way to die,” Tyler chimed with a grin and cheerful eyes, taking his own gigantic bite.
Sheeva set the spoonful down and stared at the food, warring with herself as she thought. It didn’t smell acrid, or like almonds, or look remotely like the Tomato Bisque that she still couldn’t stomach to this day. She poked around the stew, unable to find any bits of purple funguar–sentient, motile toadstools that could spew toxic fumes and spores into the air when startled.
Tazaro watched her poke at the food, then recalled how she had also been hesitant to eat from the snack tray he'd brought for the both of them. As his imagination began to run away with him, he opened his mouth to speak the question burning at the tip of his tongue.
“Have you been–” Tazaro began, face showing his growing suspicion. He cleared his throat, and gave a slight shake of his head. “Sorry, are you not a fan of meat? I should have asked. My apologies,” he stated, offering her an out if she needed it.
“Oh, no, I, I’m fine,” She managed, flustered. Her eyes burned in extreme embarrassment.
Tazaro’s face tightened, and he busied himself with his food, though stole a glance at Sheeva, who had thankfully begun to eat like a starving person, though managing some restraint. He fell silent as he began to wonder about the circumstance, if it were true, and drafted ways to elicit information without giving himself away.
Sheeva gobbled her food in wonder at the pleasant assault on her taste buds; sweet carrots and savory onions and celery, rich cluckatrice stock made creamy from milk, well-cooked red potatoes, and even a subtle, earthy bitterness of kale made her swoon.
“Good, isn’t it, dearie?” Mildred asked with a knowing smile. Sheeva paused, frowning once again at the name.
“Call me Sheeva.” She announced sternly, trying to collect herself in front of them as she finally noticed their staring. At Tyler’s mildly offended look, Sheeva cleared her throat.
“Please.” She added softly, humbled.
“Alright. Formality it is.” Mildred agreed, causing Sheeva to give a questioning look. “It must be hard for a Cruinian woman in Vivroa. How do you manage?” Mildred asked. Sheeva paused, felt an adrenaline rush as Tyler stared at her with a baffled look on his face, and realized that her spell had ended without her knowing it.
Glancing at her reflection in the mirror spanning the wall above the fireplace she sat across from, Sheeva saw her eyes had reverted to their ruby-red state.
Damn it! Sheeva thought. She swallowed and forced a drink of water to wash it down.
“I can take care of myself.” She forced, keeping her gaze fixed on the centerpiece. She hurried to eat her food, wondering if they were going to kick her out.
Tazaro glanced at Sheeva, found her eyes to be a deep, ruby-red, and wondered how the fact had slipped past him considering that, not only was eye-color the first thing people usually looked at, he'd also just been talking to her alone a little while ago, and they had been a deep, rich, plum. He shook his head at himself as he thought maybe he had imagined it–he wouldn't have taken her for a Pacemian otherwise, lacking the dark-skinned characteristic of the island’s denizens.
“Wait, weren’t your eyes...purple, before?” Tyler asked, confused.
Tazaro bit back his "ah-hah" moment, thankful for his stepfather's unintended affirmation that she had definitely had purple eyes before.
"Ah, sometimes the sunlight can, uh, make it look funny," She attempted.
Tazaro coughed to mask his huff of disbelief, though he couldn't help figure her for a terrible liar. His lip curled at what he would have said, if he knew her better–he always got a kick out of sarcastically saying “Right, and the sky is purple, too!” Instead, he held his tongue; rather than embarrass her further, he directed his skepticism towards a bird perched on the laundry line in the backyard instead, meanwhile musing on the anomaly.
If not “sunlight,” maybe, she had found one of the newly-discovered crystals allowing temporary magic and was in the habit of changing her appearance.
“Maybe you’re just tired, Tyler. You've been, uh, burning the midnight oil for a while.” Tazaro suggested. Maybe, she really was on the run, and the changes to her appearance were a way to keep her safe from the murderer she pursued.
Tyler's lips pressed together, mildly feeling called out, but he sighed in defeat as he felt how heavy his eyelids felt.
"Yeh…yeh, I know," He grumbled.
“It's ok, dear–ah, Sheeva.” Mildred corrected herself. “It doesn’t matter where you’re from. Everyone looks absolutely wonderful to me.” Mildred chuckled.
Sheeva opened her mouth to retort, then hid a small laugh behind another bite of the sandwich, much as she didn’t care for toasted bread. Still, the salted meats, cheese, and rogue tomato were a delight, and with the added olive oil and sharp, sweet, dark vinegar, she could care less about the unnecessary hardness of the crust.
“Looks shouldn’t matter anyway. We are where we are in life due to our choices, not our looks–well, some of us, anyway.” Mildred said.
Sheeva lowered her spoon, then set it down in her bowl, contemplating the wise advice. It felt like something “The Boss” would say. She made a mental note to share the information over a cup of tea if she ever returned to Malfa Temple.
“You...do not mind?” She asked. Mildred nodded.
“We are all Sferrans. Must we separate ourselves so? I am happy to lend a hand. It is what Goddess Alena would want.” She answered.
“Goddess Alena is the patron of physicians and apothecaries–one that we happen to all agree with.” Tazaro explained, recalling that she didn’t know anything about the celestial beings, though, with the new information of her hiding her ancestry, he wondered if her ignorance was just for show. He doubted so.
“Hm. Does she have a church here? I passed up the opportunity to step foot in one when I was in Raynak.”
Both Tazaro and Tyler looked up and over at her, each with their own protest.
“You were in Raynak, and you didn’t check out the churches? They're archaic!”
“Yeh never told me yeh’d already been to Raynak!”
Sheeva pursed her lips, trying not to feel foolish about the subject.
“Considering Llyud’s criminal tendencies, I did not take him for a righteous man–I doubt I would have found him praying in a church!” She defended.
Tyler sighed, gravelly, and Tazaro recognized it as a sigh of acceptance. It was one he’d often heard while growing up and particularly after voicing his desire to pursue building things and sketching blueprints rather than join the military. Of course, after learning how high up off the ground he would have to be while actually building the constructs he dreamed up, Tazaro quickly decided to keep his feet on the ground and focus on woodworking, instead.
“Even if yeh had, there’s not much the law can do if he stakes a claim of sanctuary–religious protection.” Tyler explained, biting into his sandwich. By the look on his face, Tazaro had the feeling they’d had someone get away from them by using such a ruse.
“Hm,” Sheeva hummed, forcing a bite of soup.
The law might not have done anything, but I still would have, she thought.
Judging by the expression and Sheeva’s suddenly forced bites, Tazaro had a feeling she couldn’t care less about the law and how it operated. He kept the thought to himself.
Sheeva finished her meal way before the others, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and stood to leave.
“Thank you for the meal.” She stated before picking up her dishes and carrying them to the kitchen to set them in the sink.
Tazaro traded glances with his stepfather across the way, curling an eyebrow and mildly confused as they heard the water run and the clattering of the dishes as Sheeva assumedly began to wash her own.
“Yeh don’t have to do that, yeh know.” Tyler called, pausing in eating his meal.
Sheeva paused, then appeared around the corner, an apologetic look on her face.
“In the community I grew up in, those who did not cook, cleaned up. I would not disrespect your hospitality by not doing the same here. But…” She paused, realizing how odd it might be to have someone else washing your dishes, especially if they looked as nice as the ones she’d just rinsed and set in the dishrack. “If you insist, then I will refrain from it next time.”
“I think you’ll be fine, Miss Sheeva. Your efforts are appreciated,” Mildred assured.
With that, Sheeva returned the towel she’d used to dry her hands with, then back around the corner to stand in the doorway, thinking of something else to say or do to show her gratitude.
“If it’s any consolation, at least you’re tidier than the last guy we had here,” Tazaro said with a grin.
“Funny! Weren’t you the last guy here, T?” Mildred snorted.
Sheeva even cracked a small smile at Tazaro’s joke, though from what she could tell of the old room, he likely carried himself in a neat manner. Feeling soothed and oddly comfortable, she decided to take a moment to reflect on the whirlwind of events and leave the family to go about their usual evening, whatever that may look like.
“May I…step out into the backyard for a moment?” Sheeva asked hesitantly, eager to get fresh air on her face. Sure, the room they loaned for the time being had a window that she could open, but the urge to pace lingered in her feet.
“Of course. Door’s unlocked.” Tyler waved, standing with a groan as he headed for the couch against the wall in the living room. Mildred followed and sat next to him with a smile, and as Tyler began to read to Mildred, Sheeva felt another pang of longing.
Rose teaching her to read was something Sheeva was ever grateful for, and, when she allowed herself the freedom to, Sheeva read anything that sparked her interests: the many plants and animals of Sferra, the epic tales woven by traveling caravans, and even the occasional recipe book if she wanted to gain new ideas for meals to cook in the field.
As Tazaro set to clearing the table and washing the rest of the dishes, Sheeva made her way through the hallway and to the backdoor, meanwhile fighting the sheepishness she felt, especially considering how rude she may have been in being hyper-vigilant. She sneered in distaste at her mistrust; surely, the family willing to foster her would have no reason to poison her unless they were working for Llyud, and although she hadn’t known Tyler for long enough, there had been no tell when she had shown him his picture or disclosed some of the things that they had done to each other.
She shook her head at herself. She recognized she was being overly cautious, and it wasn’t fair to their generosity.
“You’re an asshole, Sheeva,” She grunted, crossing her arms in a pout and thudding the toe of her boot on the brick inlay of the backyard patio, where another table, with an outdoor brick oven rested.
“Weird, sure, but an asshole? Gimme time to decide on that one.” Tazaro’s voice said in the doorway, causing her to wheel around in alarm and instinctively grab for the handle of her sword. He noticed the quickness to defend, and raised his arms in immediate surrender, though his hands held two glasses of water. “Whoa, sorry–didn’t mean to spook you,” He immediately apologized.
Sheeva relaxed, shifting around to alleviate the sting of adrenaline up her spine. The sap of rapid-fire nerves drained her, and she felt it on her face.
“It’s–It is alright. I am just…flighty, and unnecessarily so.”
Tazaro tipped his head, holding back the sassy comment he had for that.
She watched as he took a sip of the glass in his right hand before holding it out for her to take, and before she had the chance to wonder if that had been a mistake, he was already halfway done downing the other glass. Stunned, she reached for the glass he offered her.
"You, uh…" Sheeva paused, processing what he had done as she stared at the glass in her hand. "Are…perceptive," She commented, taking an awkward sip, grateful for his show of proof that the water had not been tampered with. "Or…can you read minds like your mother?" She asked, too tired to try to figure it out for herself. Dealing with one person that could read her would be exhausting enough.
“Mno, not a mind-reader." He answered. "I don’t have any abilities–I’m just an average guy, nothing special.”
Tazaro sighed, and leaned against the doorway, eyeing the horizon, now an eventide glimmer as the sky darkened and the stars began to sprinkle the sky. The burning question lingered on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it, terrified by the reality that such a terrible thing had actually happened.
Sheeva frowned for a moment, discontent with the nagging feeling that he had wanted to ask about something else, entirely. Determined to dismiss it, she focused on his claim that he was “average.” It didn’t seem to fit–not with the efforts he’d apparently put in to his chosen profession.
“You say ‘average’…yet you have become a craftsman? If those miniatures on your dresser and those blueprints on the wall are your earlier works, I am interested to see what you can create now. I would say that is commendable–to start with nothing and make something of yourself,” Sheeva mused. “It seems a freedom that anyone who’s ‘blessed’ does not have. You can become anything; anyone.”
The joking statement he was going to make fell to the back of his mind and died, surprised by her own, genuine compliment. Skeptical, he tried to clear away the tightness of disbelief in his chest.
“Oh? You, uh, think so, huh?”
“Yes, I do,” She insisted sassily, complete with a head nod, as though to imply the unspoken: “are you fucking deaf?”
The silence dragged on between them as Tazaro tried to decide whether or not she was being serious. He supposed, when he thought about it, that he was assuming she wasn’t being sincere because of the social norm to “say someone was ok” or pretending to “be nice,”--the commonplace "good!" When asking a near stranger how they were doing or how their day happened to be going.
“If I did not, I would not have said so,” She firmly stated, perhaps a little too firmly as she noticed the heaviness in her voice. She rubbed at the tire of her eyes.
“Correct me if I am wrong, but…I believe you wanted to ask me about whether or not I have been poisoned.” She forced, tired of feeling the discomfort associated with people “tiptoeing around the lake,” preferring to face things head-on. Assumptions only festered anxious thoughts.
Tazaro couldn’t believe how straightfoward she was with the question, and felt relieved that she had brought it to light, though he still swung the glass around as he tried to find a better way to phrase it.
The shock on his face told her her answer.
“I wanted to, but that would be rude,” he admitted.
Sheeva shook her head.
“I don’t think so. With how…ridiculous I was being, you had reason to believe so. Asking now is better than skirting around the issue, isn’t it?” She insisted, annoyed with the implication that she would have considered it rude.
“Uh. Yeah, I, I guess so,” He agreed, taking a drink of his water.
“So…what happened there?” He asked.
Sheeva stared at her cup, then set it on the table and slumped into a chair. He copied her, back still aching from pouring over a repair project all day.
“I was heading to a mining town to look for Llyud, tucked in the southeastern crags of Vivroa. Along the way, I had survived an encounter with a behemoth, and just barely escaped, but I was severely wounded–those bastardly creatures have tails like whips. I found Midna’s Overlook and sought help from the local doctor in patching up the wounds I couldn’t mend.” She stated, feeling a shiver crawl along the scar creeping along her back. She shifted around uncomfortably and used the back of the chair to scratch the itch.
“They gave me a meal: Tomato Bisque, a toasted cheese sandwich, and some tea. I devoured it; hadn’t eaten much in a couple days while trying to get to the town. I didn’t realize something was wrong until I went to move and found I couldn’t. They then injected me with something that made me sleep,” She explained, shivering as she recalled the icyness of the drug coursing through her veins.
“By the gods! What did they do to you?” He asked, feeling his fingers go numb with haunted chill.
Sheeva stared at him, wondering how to explain without giving away too many secrets. They’d pinned her down, pushed an elbow at her back, wrestled her wings from their covers, and plucked them bare. They’d forced her eyes open to sketch the beveled pupils she had that other Sferrans did not. They’d draw vial, after vial, after vial of blood, eager to determine what she was.
As her distance grew, Tazaro’s mind began to go rampant to fill in the gaps, imagination cursed by things he’d heard Micah speak of while raiding underground markets or liberating criminal encampments. Disgusting acts of torture. Violence, drugging. Dogfighting. Even sexual assault.
“Sorry–I shouldn’t have asked. Um…How did you get out?” Tazaro asked in a ghost of a whisper, horrified.
Sheeva dropped her gaze to the firepit as the horrifying stench of seared skin and singed hairs lingered, then leered at something else, further avoiding Tazaro’s eyes and aware of the heat of embarrassment on her face. Though she preferred to be blunt, this was different; something she was not, and might never, be able to say without guilt for having taken many lives in her blind, desperate escape.
Noticing her extreme defensiveness and the guilty look on her face, Tazaro tried to wave the matter off, though he wasn't able to prevent himself from drawing conclusions, considering how dark and frightening her steeled, fierce glare was.
“You, uh, don’t have to answer that, ei–
–I fought for my life and forced my way to freedom," She answered, holding back a mass amount of explicit details that might have had the city-dwelling man hurling up the fantastic dinner they'd just had. Still, she cringed as the echoes of screams and the roaring of flame resounded in her ears, and began to fidget with the pommel-stone forged into Abraxas's handle. The hardness of steel in her palm anchored her, and, like she had learned under Rose's healing care, began to breathe herself calm.
The first breath was the shakiest and most uneven, but as she continued, each successive breath became more and more fresh and liberating. She leaned back in the chair and stared blankly at the sky, exhausted as she mused to herself.
She supposed that–as long as it was after Llyud's final breath–if she were to meet her demise, it would be a fair price to pay for her sin of blind manslaughter, unable to reconcile her wrongs or justify her reasons other than extreme hatred for her captors.
“Hm, look at that. Idriss is back in Cassius, again,” Tazaro commented, also leaned back in his chair and staring at the darkening night sky.
Sheeva looked down from the stars that she hadn’t been paying attention to and over to the man, seeming pleasantly distracted considering all that she had just revealed.
“What?” She asked, not having a clue of what he was on about–the statement was so out of left field, she wondered if he had even been listening.
“Yeah, Idriss will bounce back and forth between Couerl and Cassius. It becomes the tag on Cassius’s Collar if it’s not the jewel of Couerl’s Eye. See that red spot, way out there?” He asked, pointing in the direction he was looking. Sheeva followed the trajectory of his finger, and, lo and behold, there was the red dot in the bright sky, though she didn’t seem to think it resembled the jewel of a collar.
“Oh,” She hummed, finding herself pondering the fact. “Does…that have any special meaning?”
Tazaro smirked. It had nothing to do with anything “special” besides the changing of the seasons, being a pattern that alternated every two seasons or so.
“Suppose so–if you want it to. Up to you,” He offered, propping his head in his hand to hide the giveaway smile. Sheeva noticed the curling grin and scoffed, realizing he’d been pulling her leg. Still, the lack of seriousness was refreshing, and she did, indeed, feel better if that had been his intent.
“I wonder what it looks like up close,” She mused, thinking she might check it out during a night-time flight.
“Hm! That makes two of us!” Tazaro stated, relieved at the small commonality. He made to take a drink of water, forgetting he had already downed his glass, then tsked and set the glass down on the table. “You know–speaking of red–you’ll have to tell me how you changed your eye color–because I know they were purple before. Hmph. ‘Tell me about your Pacemian traditions someday,’ indeed!” He scoffed. Sheeva pursed her lips, embarrassed.
“I’ve been turned away because of my eye color before,” Sheeva justified. “I didn’t want it to be the same here.”
Tazaro looked over at her, then slouched back in his chair.
“Can’t say I blame you; considering the things that have been done in Vivroan history, we’re not exactly paragons of perfection, but damn if we don’t brag like we are!” He stated sarcastically, with a roll of his eyes and a cynical whoop-de-fuckin’-doo motion with his index finger. The gesture didn’t seem appreciated as she pursed her lips into a thin line.
“If there’s one thing I can say about this family, it’s certainly that you’re not gonna find that here. Like mom said, looks don’t matter. It’s what you do.”
Sheeva relaxed, feeling assured by his words and also hoped he had forgotten about the changing of eye color altogether. At the quizzical look on his face and the drumming of his fingers on the table in thought, Sheeva braced herself.
“But seriously how did you do that? And, please don’t tell me it’s because of crystals the military’s been mining for. There's no way that can be true.” Tazaro asked.
Sheeva paused, unsure of what Tazaro was talking about. Her capacity for magic had always been something inherent, though she chalked it up to her Ta’hal side, and whatever magic the community had seemed linked to the ancient deities they would speak of. Surprisingly, the beings in question were the same as the ones Mildred described in her story, and Sheeva found herself thinking that such a connection couldn’t be pure coincidence. When she returned, she would have to ask the leader for clarification on the events that had occurred.
“Um…” She trailed off, digging her nails into her palms to scratch the itch from wanting to reveal the truth with a clever cast of a ball of light. She couldn’t do that to herself.
Tazaro stared at her, mildly amazed at the fact that Micah might not have been joking, after all, and the military had really found crystals that they planned to power machines with. Not sure if she was about to confess to stealing from the military, Tazaro shook his hand to wave it off, unwilling to become guilty by proxy, should the incident lead to Micah somehow.
“Heh, knew Micah was pulling my leg. Nevermind–forget I asked. Guess it really was just a trick of the light.” He dismissed, though still incredibly curious. Maybe, he would press on the issue at a later time.
“Hm. Perhaps I’ll show you the trick sometime,” She half-promised, relieved to find he was willing to let it go…for the time being.
With the reason that she was “tired and finally wanted to get some rest,” Sheeva dismissed herself, pausing to refill her glass in the kitchen before making her way up to the room. After letting the ragora drink to its content once more, Sheeva locked the door, stripped herself of her clothes, and bared her wings, gasping in satisfaction as her back finally popped the way she’d been wanting it to all afternoon.
She took a moment to flex and stretch, essentially ruffling the feathers in order to access the natural oils the glands in her skin released. With her fingers, and as tenderly as she could, Sheeva worked the oils across the vanes to relock any unzipped feathers in place, then stared at herself in the body-length mirror hanging on the backside of the closet door.
The white, then silvery grey wings were as long as she was tall. The longest feathers of the three layers rested on the outermost edge, and curled around her calves as she tucked her wings back in a comfortable rest. The arch of their first and second limb, covered with finer, smaller feathers, cupped her shoulders, and as she angled a wing in front to run her fingers through the down in search of any missed spots, a bright, oily sheen reflected from the light in the oil-lamp secured to the wall.
As she caught eyes with herself, she couldn’t hold the gaze for long, embarrassed and ashamed, for she didn’t know what she truly wanted beyond Llyud’s death.
And, she was full of hope? Hope for what?
Acceptance, she told herself, in desperate, honest measure for an answer–a better answer, than just Llyud’s death.
She glanced at herself again, finding disappointment.
She wanted the acceptance she’d found of the woman who’d adopted her, who couldn’t bear children of her own, and who’d also been shunned from the outside world. She wanted the acceptance of her mentor, who’d hadn’t been afraid of her when she bared her wings, and taught her that she was worthy, and more than a devil-child. She wanted the caregiver that had lulled her to sleep and soothed her fears following nightmares, and shared in wondrous moments of watching the “colorful lights in the sky” as they popped and echoed across the mountainside in the middle of summer.
However, she would never have such acceptance from Rose again, and, frankly, didn’t want it from anyone but Rose. She became aware of how selfish it was, but didn’t care, and pouted like a child.
And what of the others here? Mildred surely seems capable, considering.
It was still hard to believe, but with the affirmation that both Mildred and Tazaro gave that the “what” mattered less than the “who,” Sheeva found herself oddly optimistic about her outcome. She huffed at the budding warmth in her chest and closed the closet door. Searching for her night clothes, she raised her wings to fold the metacarpus and ulnare against the radius and ulna, then shuffled the wings back into their mysterious casings.
After donning the pair of sleepwear, Sheeva pulled herself into the bed, curling up on her side. She perused the sketches on the wall, finding that among many of the architectural drawings, outlines of the constellations Tazaro had spoke of lay hidden in the crowd.
Perhaps, if she studied them enough, the next time she took flight at nighttime, she could fly among the billions of stars with a greater appreciation and pick out the constellations as they came into view.
Sleep came quickly since the night was quiet, her stomach was full, and she felt finally relaxed for the first time in a while.