For the most part, one had been a solid warm-up. Octavia had declined to do more tolls the same day, although she’d kicked herself somewhat for not packing her own schedule more. The constant reassurance from all observing parties as to her leisure was worthless in the face of her drive. She was emboldened, somewhat, riding the high of the most successful toll she’d ever borne witness to.
She knew, logically, not to get her hopes up, nor to to delude herself into believing every single one would be quite so simple. Still, the smile she’d finally stolen at the end was still burned into her mind. It was worth it. She wondered if she’d get the same from every unwilling Maestro freed from their shackles, and the thought was making it difficult to sleep.
“Do you think there’s people who regret it?”
“I doubt it. They probably wouldn’t give them up in the first place if they did.”
“But like…later, I mean.”
Viola shook her head. “They’ve had a lot of time to think about it. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. They’d have to let them go. It isn’t really their choice.”
Octavia let one arm dangle lazily over the side of the couch, her fingertips brushing against the carpet. “I know, but I still wonder if they might think differently years down the road. I know I’m gonna miss Stradivaria when he’s gone.”
She smirked. “I don’t think I’m gonna miss Brava that much.”
The thin smile Octavia adopted faded quickly. “Sometimes, I…wonder about Domino. I don’t think he was ready yet, and I took Breileneth away from him. I think in his case, I hurt him even more than usual. It feels bad to think about.”
Viola’s head flopped in her direction, her sprawled-out body too comfortable to follow suit. “He was really young. You saw him, he barely knew what he was doing. He ended up with a dangerous legacy that could’ve gotten him seriously hurt.”
Octavia scoffed. “I think Harper was more of a hazard to him, really.”
“You know what I mean,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes. “With that…whole thing the Muses said about dispersing the Dissonance little by little, he still got something positive out of losing Breileneth. You would’ve had to do it eventually, and you weren’t doing it to hurt him. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
Kind words or not, the thought was still uncomfortable. Octavia sighed. “I just don’t want to make anyone upset. I feel like that kind of defeats the whole point of being the Ambassador.”
“You’re a miracle worker, not a miracle worker.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means your job isn’t to make everyone happy, and you’re never gonna be able to make everyone happy. You make others happy just by doing what you do already. Don’t overthink it. You’re…already making people here happy, you know, and you haven’t even been here that long. Be proud of what you do accomplish and stop kicking yourself over what you don’t.”
Octavia had her turn with a smirk from across the room. “Surprisingly deep of you.”
Viola pursed her lips. “I happen to be a wellspring of spectacular advice.”
“Enlighten me, oh she of the Soulful,” Octavia teased.
“Do not start talking like them,” Viola hissed, one pointed finger serving as enough of a threat to garner a snicker. “My newest tidbit of wisdom and guidance is that you should shut up and go to bed if you’re gonna get sassy with me.”
“I’m not really tired yet, truthfully,” Octavia admitted, still content to delicately rub the carpet. “I’ll probably stay up for a bit.”
Viola pushed herself into a sitting position, her hair growing somewhat frazzled along the way. Octavia didn’t dare point it out, amusing as it was. “Do you care if I call it a night? I feel bad leaving you here.”
Octavia shook her head with a smile, the motion dragging her braids back and forth uncomfortably against the cushions. “I’ll be fine. It’s actually really nice out here. I might even just sleep here tonight.”
Viola returning much the same smile was equally as warm as the dying fire upon the hearth--a coincidental luxury straight from Silver Ridge that she’d missed severely. “Don’t stay up too late. At least try to get some sleep, especially if you’re gonna start doing tolls pretty routinely. See you in the morning, okay?”
Octavia nodded half-heartedly. “Sleep tight. See you in the morning," she echoed.
She didn’t need to watch Viola climb the steps to come to terms with her solitude, already somewhat preoccupied with the urge to start another cozy fire. She wondered if it was River who’d made sure the abode of the Ambassador had come pre-stocked with an ample amount of firewood. Octavia highly doubted he would’ve been able to guess how joyous the simple sight of a little flame warming her tiny home away from home would’ve made her. Even so, sleeping next to dying firelight was a comfort in and of itself, the residual crackling of charred wood as embers flickered and passed a pleasant sound to behold. Between the heavenly nighttime interior and the moonbeams that slipped through the sheer curtains, she typically would’ve had no trouble sleeping.
Octavia rolled onto her back, resting her head atop her palms as she drank in the creamy ceiling. Doing mental math over and over accomplished nothing, and yet it was slowly becoming an impulse. She ran through a mental list of every Maestro she knew--by name, mostly. She’d already met six since coming to Selbright, not including the young girl she’d liberated from the weight of a frosted legacy.
Per River, that child had been one of the Selbright residents he’d mentioned, temporarily borrowed from her true home for the sake of achieving peace. That still, ultimately, left forty-seven Maestros in Tacell, with her long-distance counter now shrinking to twenty-two. It wasn’t as though counting was going to make her task go any faster. It wasn't as though she could witness tolls right here on the couch.
She blinked slowly, torn somewhere between an urge for productivity and a desire for rest in the face of what was to come. Octavia wondered if there were any nocturnal Muses who may have wished for guidance in the dead of night. In the worst case scenario, she could indulge in wood carving. She didn’t particularly want to get up. The idea of restarting the fire and letting the glow of the flames accompany her into unconsciousness was tempting. Still, if she burnt down the cottage, she feared Viola’s wrath far, far more than River’s.
Help me.
Initially, she’d thought she’d fallen asleep, taking along with her words stolen from a dream as she jolted into consciousness once more. Octavia wasn’t sure exactly when she’d closed her eyes, although the faint crackle in the hearth had never ceased. It couldn’t have been long. She rubbed her eyelids regardless, her dilating pupils recapturing the ceiling in silence once more.
Help me.
The second time was even clearer, if not still quiet and reserved. Her excuse was no longer viable. Octavia pushed herself up, peering over the couch cushions for any signs of life downstairs. If one of her housemates had gotten up, their presence should've been accompanied by more than a singular sentence--footsteps, a creaking door, or anything further. She knew five voices by heart. Two syllables matched none of them.
Octavia sighed. She was tired, and gradually growing more so at last. There was a very good chance it was simply in her head.
Help me.
It was in her head. The third time, that much was unmistakable.
It was soft and pleading, with words so meek that Octavia couldn’t quite label them with immediate masculinity or femininity. The two words that called to her were barely above a whisper as they grazed her mind thrice. She rose to her feet, ignoring the slightest squeak of the couch cushions along the way.
Ambassador.
The perceived safety of Tacell was irrelevant. She knew better than to go anywhere without him at this point. There was an extremely unsettling discrepancy between how softly Octavia struggled to reach her bedroom and how clearly she was begged for again and again. She’d mostly been joking about doing tolls at midnight. She supposed this was her retribution.
----------------------------------------
She’d be damned if someone were to catch the Ambassador wandering aimlessly beneath the moonlight in nothing but boots and a nightgown. As much as Octavia had disliked dressing up once more, it was for the best, given the evening chill that otherwise would’ve pricked at her skin. She’d been correct in her original, very reasonable assumption that Tacell did not consist of Maestros out and about at all hours of the night.
It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable to be alone in the dark of such a haven, given the twinkling stars overhead guiding her way peacefully. Under normal circumstances, she likely would’ve enjoyed a midnight walk, and made a mental note to take one at some point purely for fun. Under her current circumstances, her walk was neither aimless nor tranquil.
Help me.
It almost seemed to get stronger as she moved, and she followed the voice that haunted her without question. She clung to Stradivaria’s straps on her shoulders. The ambience of the evening and the soft shuffle of her boots rustling through the grass were all that offset the same two repeating words.
Help me.
Help me.
It wasn’t an urge, nor a feeling that she could compare to her understanding of the gift of the Soulful. Whatever she was following was only the slightest bit tangible, a voice that rang somewhat directional as it called for her. Octavia loathed the way she couldn’t share it.
You seriously don’t hear that? It’s getting louder.
What does it say? Stradivaria asked anyway.
It’s just saying ‘help me’ over and over. I’m…hearing it in my head, so I’m assuming it’s a Muse.
A strange manner of capturing their voice, regardless. To hear our own from afar is unusual, even by the grace of the Ambassador. An Apex, perhaps.
She cast her eyes over her shoulder. They can do that?
An Apex is not bound by the distance of their vessel. Their voice travels far to their own, so long as the bond is true. For you, Ambassador, perhaps an exception could be made.
Octavia shrugged. There’s a lot of perks that come with being the Ambassador, huh?
Help me.
It was interrupting. At least momentarily, it was unwelcome.
To be the Ambassador is to carry a great burden, indeed. However, it is also to serve as a bridge between realms, such that you are privy to enviable abilities.
Octavia winced. I don’t think a whole lot of this is enviable.
To know all truths, to some, is worthy of such envy. You, who can conquer death and hear that which is unspoken, wield power that goes far beyond what others could hope to attain.
Again, I don’t think a lot of people would get much out of dying over and over.
Help me.
It was most definitely getting louder. It kept her charted along a course at least tinged with a population. She was closer to the assorted cottages than the far-flung meadows that threatened to disorient her in the dead of night. With the stars above as her secondary guide, Octavia pressed on.
Are you fearful of the task that awaits you? Stratos pressed softly.
She shook her head. Not really. Maybe I will be, eventually. Everyone’s been really supportive, and the first one went really well. I know I still have a lot more to go, but I think I can do it.
You will surely succeed.
You think so?
I know it to be true.
Octavia smiled. I…thank you. If you believe in me, too, then that helps.
I always will.
Help me.
It was in front of one such cottage that she came to a stop. It wasn’t simply loud--it was ever present, perfectly clear. It had dragged her, lured like a moth to a flame. Octavia eyed the quaint little house up and down. On further inspection, it was more or less no different than those which otherwise speckled the landscape of Tacell. Colors, materials, and exterior notwithstanding, it was unremarkable by comparison.
It was distant, somewhat, a ways away from the next visible cottage at least a three minute walk from her current position. It was almost lonely in nature. The isolation wasn’t foreboding so much as it was solemn, a testament to her perception of the safety of Tacell. Still, the depths of the night were doing a spectacular job at painting a far more ominous scene than was necessary. Octavia sighed.
Help me.
She had half a mind to roll her eyes. She was working on it. If it really was an Apex, it certainly didn’t sound like those she’d met thus far. To her understanding, those she hadn’t met were nowhere to be found within the borders of the settlement. If nothing else, Octavia could at least do the Muse the favor of companionship.
Do you mind being a mediator? You’re good at that.
For what purpose?
They sound upset. You’re…nice. You’re good at smoothing stuff over.
I am flattered that you think so.
Octavia giggled as she drew him into her arms, his opened home settling into the grass with a soft thud. You can’t expect me to do all the work. You’re supposed to be the partner of the Ambassador. You’ve gotta do your part, too.
His soft hum brought a smile to her face. As you wish, then.
Octavia felt somewhat bad about waking up whichever Maestro was unfortunate enough to have such a desperate partner at their side. Still, she doubted they would compose themselves any time soon, continuously pleading for her help as they were. Against her better judgment, Octavia knocked, just barely loud enough not to echo into the evening air.
She found nothing. She knocked again. Nothing. She raised an eyebrow.
Ambassador, please.
With the door still shut in her face, it wasn’t as though she had many options. It was with her worst possible judgment that Octavia even made the effort to turn the handle, the chilled metal stinging her palm in the process. It gave way with such ease that she jumped. Now she was pushing it.
She didn’t enter immediately, letting the door creak slowly open of its own accord. The darkened abode challenged the blackness outside, not dissimilar to her own cottage in the way only moonbeams offered their aid within. Out of sheer courtesy, she knocked on the wood of the opened door regardless--loudly.
“Hello?” she called. Still, even now, no response came to her.
Octavia sighed. She dreaded outright breaking into someone’s home, even if it was for a good cause--and if it was possibly vacant, anyway. With the tip of her boot inches from the threshold, she awaited the inevitable catalyst that would surely grant her permission.
Please, help me.
She stepped inside, against her better judgment.
Octavia pulled the door shut behind her, for whatever that was worth. The sudden absence of the evening breeze left only stagnant warmth in its place, once more crowned by seeping moonlight alone. The interior, too, was fairly predictable relative to what she’d seen in both her cottage and River’s alike.
With forty-seven Maestros in Tacell, considering the quantity of housing units available across the landscape, each likely necessitated multiple residents in the interest of space. For a single Muse, should her assumption of vacancy be incorrect, Octavia would surely be disturbing far more than she would be assisting. That, too, left a sour taste in her mouth. It was definitely a great look for the Ambassador.
Help me.
She would, if she had absolutely any indication of who she was supposed to be helping in an abode so silent. The delicate taps of her boots against the hardwood as she stepped into the salon were the only contrast to an ever-pleading voice.
Help me.
Help me.
“Where are you?” Octavia finally asked aloud, pulling Stradivaria close to her chest as she walked. Even with moonbeams bleeding through sheer curtains, her pupils were struggling to dilate in full. Scanning the house like this was difficult.
Ambassador, please, help me.
“What do you need?” she questioned with slight aggravation. “Where are you?”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Ambassador.
Ambassador.
Help me.
Help me.
Help me.
It was as frustrating as it was desperate. Octavia exhaled sharply. “I can’t help you if I don’t know where you are, or who you are. Give me something to work with, here.”
Help me.
She took a deep breath, both hands wrapped around either portion of Stradivaria as she spread her arms in defeat. “How can I help you? Tell me!”
Why did you bring him here?
The panic that replaced the pleading was the least of it. The light made her scream. [♪]
It was an absolute miracle that whatever had aimed for her had missed, a ripple of radiance far from her own smashing into the wall behind her. The resulting boom as it bit sharply into the wood was terrifying, and pulling Stradivaria onto her shoulder was a distant second reaction to crying out in surprise. The second time it happened, Octavia was still no more ready, nor any more oriented. Her pupils hated her, besieged by the sudden flood of brilliance as they were.
She’d never seen her beloved rays in the hands of another, let alone hands she couldn’t see in the first place. All she knew was that they were there, they were overhead, and they were again catapulted into the place she’d been standing moments ago. Where her boots had taken flight seconds before disaster now laid crisp, blackened patches of hardwood, assailed by radiance as they'd been.
Octavia couldn’t see. She could barely fight back, try as she might. Again and again, they shot past her head, her arms, her legs. They zeroed in, missing her by inches as their searing heat kissed her skin in passing. Every bang behind and adjacent to her was another reminder of a close call. Glass shattering and wood breaking served as the only accents to the onslaught.
The flute, she figured, was an accent, too. Octavia couldn’t see it, nor could she even fully prove it was a flute. It was shrill, high, more immature than the smooth and silky notes she’d grown to expect from Silver Brevada. She could hardly hear it above the sounds of violence, far more preoccupied with not being blasted to a crisp by light she normally would’ve treasured.
It was fast, pulsing, and horrifically accurate to the point that she could’ve sworn it was following her. It took a split second’s effort to send the kitchen table toppling, diving behind its feeble protection as it crashed to the floor with a hefty bang. It was the only opportunity she was going to get.
Octavia struggled with all she had to outplay her unseen assailant, her fingers flying across the strings with such ferocity that her muscles burned. They burned in the way she preferred, too, her own warmth bubbling to a scathing peak as she found her counterattack. There was still the tiniest jealousy that came with bursts of brilliance she’d thought she’d claimed as her own beyond the touch--or in the notes--of another.
She summoned the sun in her blood, holding her breath as she let her light sail well above the table that pitifully shielded her. As to what she was firing at, Octavia was still unsure even now. She, too, could hear the damage she was doing, earning auditory signs in the form of items toppling and walls crying out.
Octavia chanced a peek on the tail end of a beam set free. Her heart pounded as she peered over the edge of the table, her pupils still struggling to adjust to anything besides blinding flashes of light traded so violently in the dark. If she squinted hard enough, she could swear she saw movement. It was small, brief, and fleeting as the light that ricocheted in her direction changed places of origin. Her obscured assailant was mobile, confined as the space was.
She cursed her inability to make out a silhouette. The shrill notes of the same suspected flute were her only compensation, blessed by vicious radiance as they were. Again, luminous rays slammed into the mahogany that just barely guarded her head. Octavia yelped at bang after bang of impact at her back, not immune to the audible sizzle that alluded to the danger in the dark.
She gritted her teeth. If she couldn’t see, there was a very, very simple solution for that. It was maintaining it that was going to be her downfall.
Octavia threw her eyes upwards, not daring to look directly at Stradivaria for the blast she was about to produce. With the copper strings burrowing deep into her fingertips, she tensed her muscles hard as the warmth in her blood practically exploded through her skin. It was with swift slashes of the bow that she sent it spiraling, blossoming rapidly in every direction like lightning she couldn’t truly emulate.
It was enough, white-hot and blinding to a degree that Octavia had to struggle to keep her eyes open. In her hands, he was a beacon, piercing the threatening darkness with such radiance that nothing could escape her sight. The moon was useless, provided her screaming pupils could adjust fast enough to the flash. When she peered over the table once more, she made startling progress, return fire be damned.
She couldn’t hold her little solar flare forever, forced to let it burst with the visage of a shattering sun as she fell onto the defensive again. It was all she could do to counter rays with rays. One hastily-woven blast of brilliance on her bow was just barely quick enough to collide with that not of her own song. The result was almost beautiful, exploding into a shimmering mess that crackled like fireworks all the way into oblivion. She had to do it at least three more times, stumbling in the process.
Her efforts hadn’t been in vain, her brief full scan of the small first floor enough to land her eyes on the flute in question. It was enough to trace its Heartful song down each key, down each slender finger, up the arms of the boy who made it sing songs of violence to the Ambassador. For the most fleeting moment, his eyes had been razor-sharp. Back in the dark, they were all Octavia had to remember.
“What are you doing?” she cried, still deep in the midst of her self-defensive melody. Even if Octavia couldn’t pin down his position with accuracy, she could aim for what she heard, his swift footsteps more than audible as he darted between her beams. She followed his path with her ears as best as she could, firing again and again with the bubbling light that shot from Stradivaria’s bridge into the open air.
He didn’t respond. She could swear she could still see him moving, the luminescent rays he returned to her arching downwards as they chased her residual shadow in turn. Both of them were shooting at afterimages, literal shots in the dark taken time and time again. It was only their overlapping legacies that offered sporadic, blinding snippets of clarity. Once more, Octavia couldn’t make him out--not with the way her eyes had so thoroughly and repeatedly been blighted by whites and golds. There was no time to adjust, nor time for her pupils to reacclimate to the gentle glow of the moon. He wouldn’t let her. He wouldn’t even let her stand still.
“Talk to me! What are you doing? I’m trying to help!” Octavia shouted desperately, her pleas drowned beneath the wails of the flute screaming well above her. The light that poured down upon her in earnest was angled, somewhat diagonal in a way that spoke to vantage. Even if the layouts were similar, this wasn’t her cottage. She wouldn’t find many opportunities to cling to the same.
Again came no response. Octavia growled in frustration, settling on the conscious choice to aim skyward. She knelt low, well aware of the momentary vulnerability that came with sending her light high. With an arch of the bow, she stilled her rays like an arrow, steeling their path before launching them square at the ceiling above. She was dead-on, although missing would’ve been just about impossible.
Clumped as they were, they scattered, sparkles of brilliance fizzling as her starlight burst brightly overhead. The rain of radiance that followed was just as illuminating as she’d hoped, unavoidable and not warranting the maintenance she’d feared. It was enough, the darkness pierced for a far longer period of time before sinking into blackness again.
His eyes hadn’t softened in the slightest. In fact, they were perhaps sharper, if not deadlier. He was young, shockingly so. He was small, lithe, somehow agile enough to have fully steadied his weight atop the salon table without his hands. Those hands, she observed, were tethered almost ruthlessly to the small flute on his lips, unwavering as he glared daggers into her soul. He didn’t speak, nor did he move with Octavia’s eyes upon him. He was a child, vicious as he was. The sight was stunning, and she, too, was stunned in equal measure.
As slowly as she could, Octavia broke her posture, parting the bow from the violin as she slid both ends away from her shoulder. Gradually, she raised them aloft, arms apart in a gesture of peaceful surrender. She knew she was playing with fire, if his prowess and unprompted aggression had been any indicators. When he didn’t move, still as stone and well-prepared to strike at her in an instant once more, she was only semi-grateful.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Octavia said firmly, doing what she could to ignore her racing heartbeat. “Please, talk to me. Help me understand what’s going on.”
Even now, he was dead silent, her words lost on him. She grimaced, tensing beneath his piercing gaze. Something about that look on such a young child was getting to her.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” she insisted, somewhat sharper.
He was wordless. His eyes flickered quickly to the left, then back to her own. The second time around, Octavia followed that ruthless gaze to Stradivaria. She offered her confusion in return, her own eyes only loaded with befuddlement and residual adrenaline.
The door crashing open with a bang nearly killed her, for how startled she was in the wake of their intense silence. With it came the rush of evening air, a cool breeze that gladly besieged the stagnant room. It was only now that she realized how hot the cottage had become, the byproduct of their radiant quarrel still staining the sizzling atmosphere with such fervor that it made her sweat. Her lungs were thankful. Octavia was, just the same, thankful for the striking waves that came with her blessed reprieve.
“Octavia!” he cried, stilled in the doorway. His hands were already traveling in the direction of the case on his back, the fear on her face enough of a catalyst.
Even so, his presence was more confusing than comforting. “River?” Octavia murmured.
He blinked, drinking in the sight of her arms still more than aloft. So, too, did he find the same deadly gaze, now snapped to himself instead of an Ambassador so violently assaulted moments ago. He recoiled somewhat.
“What happened?” River asked quickly, lowering his hands.
Octavia shook her head. “I have no idea. I-I think it was my fault. I came in without asking, but someone was calling me here, and no one answered! And then, I…”
Only now, with the respite she’d been given, was she privy to the exact damage that had occurred. The first floor was largely thrashed, shelves and tables overturned in excess. Plates, bowls, and glassware had shattered all about, sharp shards littering the hardwood like hail throughout the cottage. Walls and flooring were sporadically blackened, victimized as they'd been by two different flavors of light. She felt awful for whichever Maestros collectively lived here. She was even more embarrassed relative to River finding her on the tail end of catastrophic breaking and entering--as feared.
His attention wasn’t on her. It was on the boy who still perched precariously on the table, still clung desperately to his instrument, and still fixed him with what Octavia could only perceive as sheer hostility. For a moment, she was terrified he’d change targets entirely.
River ended up forsaking his partner altogether. Instead, his hands found one another. They moved quickly, skillfully, motions Octavia couldn’t understand nor decipher the intent of. All the while, their eye contact was unbending.
At last, ever so slowly, the boy lowered his guard, slipping the small flute beneath the crook of his arm as he pressed it close to his body. His balance was still incredibly impressive as he repeated much the same motions, moving his hands with equal speed and precision for River alone. How he wasn’t falling clean off the table while doing so was beyond Octavia. His sharp eyes never dulled for a moment.
River repeated his motions, different in essence and gesture. Still, he was wordless, opting only to communicate in a way Octavia couldn’t make out in the slightest. The boy offered him the same right back, swift and firm.
At some point, River recoiled beneath the weight of one presumed response. “What?” he spat aloud, the first sound to pierce the silence in what felt like quite some time.
Even so, he made yet more motions with his hands again and again, finding them reciprocated in turn. If Octavia squinted, she could’ve sworn the boy was responding to River’s silent inquiries even faster, teeth gritted and eyes narrow.
“What are you even--” River began, cutting himself off abruptly with a sharp sigh.
“Uh,” Octavia mumbled, still somewhat hesitant to lower her arms, “what’s…going on?”
River, at least, gave her permission with a wave of his own. She obliged, letting Stradivaria’s weight finally fall to her side. He gestured to one of his ears. “He can’t hear. This is how we talk.”
Octavia winced. That would explain a lot. Suddenly, she felt infinitely worse. “Who is this?”
River gestured to the boy with one extended hand, still balanced atop the table as he was. “This is Theo. He’s a Maestro, as you probably figured out the hard way.”
Octavia didn’t know whether to wave, beg for forgiveness, or start an argument. Instead, she stared uncomfortably--most likely not her greatest choice of an answer. Still, it was the reflexive response she fell to first. Again, the boy’s razor-edged glare had settled upon her instead, bringing with it a chill that seized her spine. Once more, his eyes flickered to Stradivaria for the briefest moment, so rapid that she nearly didn’t catch it. Octavia pursed her lips. She wasn’t quite sure how to communicate her lack of intent to retaliate.
“He’s…young,” Octavia observed aloud. “How old is he?”
“Ten,” River answered plainly.
Octavia’s eyes widened. That made him even younger than Domino, somewhat, if memory served. It still left him older than the poor child for whom she’d performed the Witnessing that morning, although the revelation was no less jarring. Domino had by no means been a poor Maestro. Regardless, this boy surpassed his skill by leaps and bounds at such an age. It was terrifying, in a way.
“He’s really strong, though,” Octavia said.
“Yeah,” River agreed, just as plain.
“It’s…not a flute, right? Viola already has one.”
“It’s a piccolo. There’s a difference.”
Reasonable, in context--it was more shrill, and it was smaller, on closer inspection. To be fair, so was the boy, when compared to the Ambassador's Soulful companion. “And he’s…Heartful?”
“Yes. What are you…doing here, exactly?”
River’s words weren’t sharp, but they were at least mildly surprising relative to the course of their conversation. Octavia offered him the full truth, albeit with more composure than her initial attempt. “I was trying to sleep, and I heard a voice. It was calling out to me. I…followed it here, and he attacked me. I don’t know what’s going on, honestly.”
It was Theo who took the initiative with motions of his hands. Once more, he signed swiftly at River, pinning the Spirited boy with the same harsh eyes. River scowled beneath whatever was said, signing back with just as much aggravation. He groaned quietly.
“He’s not a bad kid, I promise,” River insisted. “I don’t know what’s up with him, either. He’s not usually this…abrasive.”
A slight shift of her body weight left glass crunching beneath Octavia’s boots, and she lamented the damage to the cottage yet again. “Do other people live here?”
River shook his head. “He lives alone. He…chooses to be isolated, kind of. And the…”
When he trailed off, Octavia was somewhat distressed by the way he averted his eyes. She couldn’t leave it be. “And what?”
River crossed his arms. “The Muses tell us to stay away from him. We’re not really certain why. We don’t listen, so if we’re bad Maestros for it, then we’re bad Maestros. He’s ten, for God’s sake. You’re the Ambassador. Maybe they’ll leave you be about it.”
Octavia winced. “Why? That’s cruel. He’s a Maestro, too, and he’s just a kid.”
River shrugged. “Again, we don’t know. We have our guesses. We think maybe it’s because he’s Heartful.”
“Is there a problem with being Heartful?”
It was River’s turn to wince. “Not necessarily. Again, it’s just a guess. It’s a…long story.”
“Does he…want to be a Maestro?” Octavia asked tentatively. “Or is he one of the ones that--”
River shook his head. “He wants to, I think. We don’t really press him on it. We just…leave him alone. He likes it that way. If you want to cross that barrier, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
She didn’t particularly like the idea, given the fact that the child was attempting to seriously harm her several minutes ago. Still, a Maestro was a Maestro. The Ambassador didn’t exactly have a say in the matter, and the Witnessing was going to have to occur eventually. Octavia eyed him warily once more, doing what she could to avoid his actual gaze. It didn’t matter, the razors in his eyes slicing into River’s instead.
He signed. River signed back. Whatever it was wasn’t positive, apparently, given River’s low growl of aggravation that followed.
“I can try,” Octavia pledged anyway, holding Stradivaria close. She was pleasantly surprised when the motion didn’t trigger hostilities, even if it did draw Theo’s eyes back to her almost instantly. “Can you…introduce me?”
River nodded. He raised one hand, making slow and cautious movements with his fingers. “This is how you spell your name. Do you think you can remember it?”
She tucked Stradivaria’s bow under her arm, doing her best to emulate his motions. “Like this?”
River smiled gently at her efforts. “Correct. If you forget, let me know and I’ll show you again.”
More than likely, she would. Still, she did what she could in the moment, offering whatever genuine smile she could find to a boy who very clearly did not enjoy her presence. She gestured to herself, repeating the motion once more. “I’m Octavia,” she spoke aloud anyway.
He didn’t return her introduction, whether through similar signs or otherwise. She tensed.
“How do you say ‘Ambassador’?” Octavia whispered.
The single motion River made was fluid, touching faintly upon his closed eyelids and brushing his fingertips skywards against the air. That one, at least, she could remember more easily.
Octavia emulated it without difficulty for the boy. It didn’t seem to elicit any more interest. He was still on the table.
“He already knows, anyway,” River clarified. “Apparently, it doesn’t make much of a difference.”
That was a shock, somewhat. The child was the first person to pay no heed to her title since she’d arrived in Tacell. In the strangest way, it was almost a welcome feeling. “Can you ask him about the voice I was hearing? It was…coming from this place.”
River side-eyed her, but did so regardless. He signed accordingly, his expression somewhat softer versus the annoyance he’d worn previously. Whatever he got back was enough to get him to sigh, albeit with far less frustration this time.
“He doesn’t know. He just keeps saying that you need to leave.”
Octavia cringed. That was fair. “Please tell him I’m sorry for intruding. I…really wasn’t trying to cause a problem.”
“It’s okay, really,” River reassured. “I know your intentions were pure. Were it anyone else here, I’m sure they’d think the same.”
He signed her apology regardless, passing her regrets along in silence. Theo signed back instantly, motioning with such fervor that Octavia could physically hear his hands hitting one another. River’s eyes widened, pinned by the boy’s killing gaze as he was.
“What? Why would I do that?” he asked aloud incredulously.
“What’d he say?” Octavia pressed.
“‘Don’t touch her’. I assure you, I had no intentions of hurting the Ambassador in any capacity,” he clarified. “Or…whatever that means.”
Octavia rolled her eyes. “If he’s that worried, the least he can do is say sorry. He’s the one who attacked me.”
“Let’s just…go,” River muttered, gesturing for her to follow him past the threshold of the door. The evening chill was starting to get to her. “Are you hurt?”
Octavia knew what would happen if she said yes--in which case, she wouldn’t dare. Thankfully, her denial was true, at least this time. “I’m alright.”
He nodded solemnly. “Good. I don’t…know how I’d feel if he hurt you.”
Even traipsing back into the night, her skin finally freed of the oppressive warmth of her confined battlefield, Octavia couldn’t help but eye the child one last time over her shoulder. He still refused to put his feet firmly on the floor even as River pulled the door shut behind him, his pointed glare following her threateningly all the way out of sight. There was a simultaneous relief and immense dissatisfaction that came with his visage finally disappearing from view. This had definitely been one way of getting tired enough to sleep, unproductive or otherwise.
“How’d you find me?” Octavia asked, tugging Stradivaria’s case back onto her shoulders.
“All of the Ensemble take turns patrolling at night. Tonight was my turn. There was a whole lot of light and noise coming out of that little cottage, muffled or not. I just…didn’t expect you to be there. Then again, there’s only so many Heartful Maestros it could’ve been.”
Octavia averted her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
River shook his head with another gentle smile. “You didn’t. This is what I’m here for. I’ll take you home, okay?”
Octavia returned his smile with one of her own. Hearing Tacell referred to as her “home” in any capacity made her heart skip a beat. She didn’t object to his company in any way. “Okay.”
Octavia.
There was a split second where she feared that the same voice would be tormenting her once more, pleading for her help yet again. Thankfully, the smooth tones that eased into her mind were far more familiar and far more welcome. She exhaled with relief at the sound of Stradivaria’s voice instead.
What’s up?
Do not go back to that place again.
Octavia blinked. I’m okay, I promise. It was my fault. I didn’t know he couldn’t hear. I probably scared him.
Do not go back to that place again. Heed my words.
The words in question were sharp--sharper than the gentle tone she typically received and enjoyed. She didn’t like it much. What do you mean? I really am fine. He’s not a bad kid, supposedly.
Octavia, listen to me carefully. Do not return to that place. Under no circumstances should you go there again. Do you understand?
In fact, it was the sharpest he’d spoken to her in a very, very long time. She really didn’t like it. Why? Octavia asked simply.
Please…trust in my words. I ask this of you.
She didn’t dignify Stradivaria's plea with an answer. Truthfully, she couldn’t give him an affirmative. She would have to, eventually. A Maestro was a Maestro, after all. She wasn’t a fan of his ambiguity, nor was she a fan of his tone. She did what she could to shake the bite of his echoing words out of her mind.
She indulged in River’s voice instead, intentionally joking where applicable. Getting him to laugh wasn’t hard at all. The soft, crystalline laugh she liked was a fantastic mental reset. Octavia made a silent note to add it to her emotional toolkit. She hoped he wouldn’t mind.