[https://i.imgur.com/XrmkwTG.jpg]

THE FIRST MOVEMENT

IN THE PERSPECTIVE OF:

ILLEARA

AUTUMN 297I, WEEK 1, DAY 6, BRIGHTENING

CHÂTEAU ILLEARA, STORMWATCH, MIANA, THE ELTHEIRI EMPIRE

I feel it.

I feel it like taste, touch, or sound…

Definite…

Real…

Yet it is none of those things. It is not something where experience might aid in interpreting it—nor are there even words to help describe it… even my thoughts prove useless.

There just isn’t enough context to use…

It is so damned unfamiliar.

A gust catches my hair and I readjust my shawl at the cold. The fresh, autumn, coastal air does something, but also nothing. Lacking needed sleep as I am, the chill and a favorite shawl help regulate skin that keeps fluctuating between feeling too hot and too cold. Why is it that a lack of sleep makes the body incapable of keeping a regular, comfortable temperature?

No matter.

I close my eyes and lose myself to the breeze as it tussles my hair, soothing in its wild, gentle unpredictability. I take a deep breath and it spreads waves of icy prickles in my lungs, a sense of aliveness coming with every breath. Yet persisting… reminding me despite the others senses’ distraction… I feel it…

I feel it while standing outside—exposed…

This place—this place with a cool breeze promising a bit of comfort—lies outside the magically warded protection of my château’s walls. It was a trade: comfort for unease—freedom for exposure…

Feelings beyond feelings—senses devoid of sense… they reach out and present themselves to me—I detect them… but don’t know how. Even working with gon as I do—spiritualism routine to me—I… I just don’t…

I feel it.

Damn, I feel it…

I should have merely opened a window for my coveted breeze—opened several to create a draft, even. I could have—

But… n-no.

When Rhone, my well-intentioned and honest protector, gently suggested that rest might better suit me than venturing out and into the markets… I just had to jump right into leaving the château even earlier—exposing myself. I had to traipse out into whatever haunts this city a little early so I could watch Gon’Kar bring out the agitopede—make a pretense at being strong.

It’s—it’s… not for stage—damn, but I hate that vile colloquialism.

That vile toad Fontassa and her self-serving, self-spoiling turns of phrase meant only to—!

“Some nightmare consumes this city and you… still… wish to visit the markets?” Rhone asks—verbally nudges—again, coming up beside me.

I stand for a moment, letting the words draw me away… calm me…

He is here—I am safe.

But reassurance…

It doesn’t come…

Even though I know it should—know I’m safe in the midst of Rhone and Gon’Kar—it doesn’t come…

I turn my head a little, looking at him but not wholly committing—not in such a way as to indicate I want him to look back. No, I… I just want to appreciate him for a moment… lose myself in the distraction of someone I…

He stands, strong—actually strong—and stares out on the now relatively desolate city. He is unmoving in the way only a soldier or machine can be. It radiates a sense of confidence and safety, but I know the truth… he told me the truth…

It is hours and hours of military drilling and parading.

Nevertheless, real or not, the impression shines though.

I draw on it.

It… strengthens me because I know, despite hours and hours of drilling and parading, he is strong.

He is confident.

He is… safety.

Even if I can’t feel it—even if whatever this darkness is prevents me from drawing upon what should give me comfort—I know I am safe with him.

I face forward once more, following his gaze. Most Stormwatchers must be doing the sensible thing—that which I reject: keeping to the spiritual protection of their houses.

I have a good reason to do otherwise, of course.

The money from my coffers is needed by those who sell their goods. They depend on it. It is economics.

Nevertheless, there is more to it. The assurance offered in going out amidst a mystical crisis is needed for the morale of the people, as I am known to be amongst those who speak to spirits.

The example set by…

Yet… deepest down… I know in the secret room of my heart that it, as much as any benevolent aim, is just as much about my need to do that which others have insisted I do not. It is a flaw of mine… a prepossessing rebellion against anyone’s any directive—anyone’s mere suggestion—before I even weigh the merit, rationale, or intention.

Yet I am powerless against myself. It is as childish as it is automatic and, at almost thirty years old, I shouldn’t—

“Something has stolen your thoughts, I dare say,” Rhone murmurs, interrupting my journey into utterly self-absorbed distraction. His words are measured and warm, hinting of his genuine, amused interest… his care.

I have always loved the way he does that—woven intent with a tone so subtle that—

No.

Must focus.

I take pause to dissect the words—need to, because my mind is… it is less acute and more achy than I would like, the beginnings of a migraine coming on—at least a full migraine isn’t complicating my life right now… at least not yet.

I really need sleep.

But the words—

The words are more than just their plain meaning.

Before mentioning my distraction—my utterly obvious distraction, evidently—he said something about the city and its state… yes, my desire to go to the markets—my insistence on venturing out.

That is the point—that is the fulcrum.

He only casually masked his disapproval—enough to make his opinion known, but not be forceful about it. Coming from anyone else, I would, of course, find myself interpreting that as a manipulation—a calculated subtlety aimed at circumventing my little predisposition for defiance. …but with him?

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Concern…

Concern that manages to overpower his own enduring willingness to not control…

Warrior’s skill, trade, and history aside, I sometimes dabble with the notion that he has a greater skill for words than swords. Perhaps it is just me fancying his particular choice of rhetoric again. I—

“Indeed, something has stolen you away most effectively,” he says, this time with a detectable grin in the tone. I turn a little, fixing him with a sidelong glare. It isn’t the words, as I know they are true, but the way that his annoying little smile twists the sound of them—the way it betrays a growing amusement.

“Quite,” I reply through clenched teeth, looking back to the city.

I can almost hear his smile grow.

I cross my arms, annoyed at the way only he can simultaneously irritate and endear me.

Yes, his particular finesse with words is like a favorite author, but of the spoken, conversational craft, rather than text. It is, in essence, due to his aims. He uses a skillset of methodical vocabulary and enunciation like many, but without that misleading persuasion or pompous bluster. Indeed, I find myself charmed to be met with… with… let’s call it communicative inducement that lacks aggressive deception—something based in genuine concern.

Oh, for a world where disagreements are made plain, tailored with respectful, earnest concerns, rather than bitter selfishness concealed in the sweet trappings of verbal maneuver.

Yet such is not the language of the world.

Rhone is special.

“They have not yet located the source of…” Rhone trails off, re-centering my attention with a tone devoid of the previous amusement.

The words draw me back to the whole crux of the moment: the thing—the nightmare that haunts the city.

I notice him holding his hand aloft, twirling his wrist as if to conjure the proper term or description. Like me, he finds this present circumstance hard to describe.

“It?” I offer, unintentionally letting the “t” bite a little and finding myself enjoying the way it changes the word—adds a little harmless rebellion against the haunting nightmare or somesuch.

“It,” he replies, turning to regard me. The way he intones the single syllable manages to convey his lack of amusement with the state of the city, but also… also a small glimmer of amusement… with… me. But I don’t need to dissect the pronunciation of his word to get the message. His grey eyes carry a familiar… a belovedly familiar… twinkle of approval.

It makes the girl in me—

“What?” I ask and something in the way I say it makes his subtle approval shift into a more overt smile. “What?”

He sighs, staring out on the city; the sky is beginning to brighten with color, dawn approaching. “It amazes me that you find yourself so vivacious and full of energy, sleep-deprived as you are.” A grin catches me, his smile apparently contagious. As his broadens and I begin to summon words to explain precisely how vivacious and full of energy I am not, he continues. “Normally—rent by such weariness, I should amend—you are fierce and unforgiving as a storm—mood as ugly as the grey—”

“Alright, Commander,” I say, glaring at him sidelong a little as I find my intent to playfully argue bested by a far more irresistible twinge of annoyance. “If I knew your comparison would meander into something altogether this— this—”

“—accurate?”

“Objectionable…,” I correct, immediately pouncing on the word, “…I might have roused a bit of stormy petulance.”

“Also like a storm,” he says, blithely ignoring my quip with irritating indifference, “such a display is refreshing, when so many other women act like dolls with their true emotions, proclaiming façades in gauche declarations best suited for stage.”

“I hate that phrase,” I blurt, unable to stop myself.

He looks over at me, expression questioning.

“For stage,” I repeat, disgust in the words. Realizing I owe a measure of context, I continue: “Fontassa says it—minted it, if she can be believed.”

“Fontassa is for stage,” he replies as he returns his attention to the city, somehow managing to make that “is” an absolute, epitomizing comparator. Coupled with the satisfaction of his unimpressed disregard, I find myself beaming, so utterly pleased. “You, however, are better suited for parlor rooms and studies—something treasured, genuine, and liable to endure.”

I shake my head, fighting a smile. “Do not presume I do not know the games you play with your words, Rhone,” I reply, amused and not.

“Oh?”

Though I certainly possess the power to return the conversation to its proper course, I find his compliments… I shift my jaw, smiling now and absurd for it. “Why do I find your words charming, when I should be seeing them for the wily manipulations they are?” I ask, allowing my annoyed heat to cool into a more appreciative warmth.

“Why are you like lightning, your beauty liable to blind?”

It is too much.

“Oh, hush, you! See here…” I shift my jaw again, annoyed with myself for not being able to come up with a retort. “Rhone!” I mutter, the name a moment’s curse.

He chuckles.

For my part, I raise my fan and use its motion to conceal a broadening smile; I doubt the effectiveness, air chill as it is. Even so, in my own well-pondered opinion, every lady is benefitted by the presence of a pleasant man inclined to praise her, even if the words are largely flattery. And should that man be so effective as to tempt one into believing that the words come not from a conniver’s mind, but a gentleman’s heart… well…

It…

It has a way of …

No.

Indeed, no.

I will not permit his silver-tongued distraction its purchase.

I force my mind to regain my aim. I give him a withering, overt sidelong glance. “So… to the markets?”

He sighs once more, a flavor of knowing defeat to it. “And I had dared to believe you were effectively diverted.”

“Storms are ponderous, Commander, but tend to keep to their ponderous courses.” I grin, wicked, the gears in my mind finally seeming to get their stride with conversation. “Tell me, how might one toil to alter a tempest’s course and find anything beyond vain action?”

“Indeed.”

“I—” I roll my eyes. “You are trying to distract me again—letting me distract myself, I should say.”

“Perhaps.”

I let my turn in the repartee lapse as I peer at him, appreciative for all his attempts to dissuade me—I would hate that in anyone else.

He will accompany me, of course. One should think he would, being my bodyguard. Yet ours is something of a special relationship, lady and bodyguard: the bodyguard rarely outranks his charge. Even so, he is well contented to let me do as I wish, so long as I don’t put myself in any real danger.

But there is a danger about. There is a danger so mysterious, deadly, and illusory that the entirety of the city senses it like a storm on the air.

And yet… I go to the markets.

Given Rhone’s hesitation, my safety must be in question—albeit a question so insignificant as to merely give him pause, rather than coax out an overt confession of his fears or a more forceful protest. He is very honest that way, when the weight of it truly pulls on him.

I like that.

I feel the thought ripening my amused smile into something more genuine… something deeper.

I expect he knows that if he were to voice a real concern, I would heed his words.

I do trust him, after all.

He looks down, thoughtful. “Why do you persist in this, given…?” He lifts his hand, once more to attempting to summon the idea with aimless twirls of the wrist.

“It?” I ask, giving the word the same biting “t.”

“It,” he confirms, this time the amusement outweighing the stern drudgery.

“I don’t know. Why must Gon’Kar tarry so in conveying the agitopede from the garage?” I ask with false innocence. “It has never taken so long to—”

“Your point is made,” he says, giving me a knowing look. “I suppose your mind is not as sleep-dulled as it had seemed to be.”

Smiling at my little victory, I think for a moment for an answer to his question. Why must I go to the markets? Though my purpose is thoroughly reasoned, I nevertheless find my tired mind unable to give the ideas enough concise cohesion for a proper explanation.

My moment of clarity has spent itself, it would seem.

I muster what focus I can and wade in. “I have a comfortable life in many respects. Chief among them—in the context of this waking ‘nightmare’ you so aptly named—is a sense of stability and safety. My château has stores and security and whatnot, but the people in the markets rely on people like me for their livelihoods, and not going to the market—even in such an inconvenient time—might have far weightier emotional consequences for them than any risk to me. When it only costs me the trivial sacrifice of a mere hassle, how could I not go?”

“I can certainly see your logic in that,” he says, putting thumb and index finger to chin in a somewhat overdramatic gesture of thought, “but I fail to see why you must go.”

“I train spirits for my craft, Rhone,” I reply, raising an eyebrow to match his little for stage gesture—damn, but I need to stop using that damned phrase. “If I am held up in my abode, that indicates a certain level of fear on my part—or, scenario at its best, perhaps merely neutral endorsement of the fear and everyone else’s actions. Yet if I go out…”

“I do suppose that might serve as a model of hope,” he replies, pensive.

Having gained ground, I take the risk of addressing the matter directly, content with revealing my ignorance. “How dangerous do you suspect it is—in naked assessment?”

He thinks for a moment. “Very, I should say… but only under specific circumstances, it would seem.”

“What sort of circumstances?” I ask, argumentative drive replaced with curiosity. “—anything we are liable to encounter?”

“I doubt it, no. From the reports I have read, the victims of… well, let us not get into details on the matter…” he amends, tone filled with a concoction of different variations of concern. “I should say, with myself and Gon’Kar—mostly Gon’Kar, given the nature of this so-called nightmare—you should be secure. As a gon of the first order and protecting you as he is, I suspect there are few in this city more well-defended than yourself.” He takes a pensive breath. “Even so…”

“Even so?”

“Even so, I should like to bring along more guardsmen,” he says with a deliberate slowness to the words. I open my mouth, but he continues, “though I suspect… that would sour the intent of hope you most magnanimously wish to sow, fields of optimism barren as they are.”

I roll my eyes.

He just shakes his head, clearly won over despite his little jest.

“So, it’s settled, then?” I ask through a clenched smile as the agitopede finally lumbers up the drive. I try not to savor my little victory too overtly.

He sighs once more, amusement flavored by the barest hint of the anticipatory annoyance. I am so very skilled at earning that response.

“Tired as you were, I merely wished to ensure your course was reasoned,” he says as he holds out a hand, gesturing to the vehicle. If it was anyone else, I would expect the words to be an attempt to save face. With Rhone, I know that he is earnest. “Stubborn as you are, when is your mind even swayed?”

I roll my eyes, giving him a lighthearted scowl. “Oh, ha-ha.”

He offers a mocking bow.

I return with an equally derisive curtsey.