“All I have to say,” Chestnut began, clapping the dust off her hands and crossing her arms (as if she had done any of the grunt work of digging and dragging), “Is that burying these bodies without headstones or names is a recipe for ghouls, and you know it.”
“Let them be ghouls then,” John spat back, placing a twig sigil of protection over the freshest of the graves and turning back to the furred body that lay next to him. Chess sighed, her sorrow blending into the air in waves of shimmer blue before alighting on Elma’s cold ear.
“What are you going to say to the Grand Master?” Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, flitting off Elma as John shooed her away with a sprinkle of pixie dust. John paused in his work, his chest heaving with the exertion of lifting and carrying, as he held Elma’s body close.
“I’ll tell him that they killed my dog.” It was a simple answer. John knew he’d receive a simple answer in return (whether directed at his indiscretion or elsewhere, that was for the fates to know and him to ponder).
Chesnut didn’t say anything as John buried his dog, shoveling black soil over gold fur, stopping the tears that threatened him with stings and using a dirty wrist to wipe whatever moisture did escape. He would not cry. He had cried enough that morning, and tears couldn’t help anyone.
“Do you want some food?” The fae asked, her slim body dancing towards the stove -- hands already ready to pour tea and cook eggs (with the help of spells, of course, her weight only totaling an ounce or two -- though reader, she was always remarking on how she had to lose some weight.)
“Yes.” Was the brusque answer, as John sat at the table and stared at the wall in front of him. The copper pots that hung there warped his reflection -- and he felt it was just that his image could hardly be made out in the age-old tools. He needed food to regain his strength. And after that?
He’d have to make a trip to Grand Master Philo.
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The halls of the Grand Master flickered with torchlight, a day’s journey ending as John shouldered his rucksack and answered the summons for his meeting. Philo was a busy man, despite all his silence. And John (though temporarily welcome) knew he was ultimately a trespasser. The halls ached with prayer and magic and monks brushed past him, their robes flowing in bright hues of orange and blue.
Hues perhaps gifted by the Fae Queen down the road. John sighed -- wondering briefly if the Grandmaster would send him there too for an audience of absolution, and whether or not Chestnut might speak up for him. The odds were not in his favor either way.
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“This way, Evryman.” The booming voice of the guard heralded the creak of great doors, a dark hall beyond suddenly yawning. John swallowed. He had not slept in his own bed since Elma’s death, not when there was too much digging and cleaning to be done.
But the darkness before him was too reminiscent of his hallway, the moments before the half-orc scum murdered his pet.
And he had to wonder, for the first time: Had he really done all those things?
Almost as if to protect itself, his heart had remained hard and unfeeling but seeing the darkness beyond forced him to confront his actions.
“Come in, John.”
The Grandmaster’s assistant, a wily cat-man from the east, peered at him with slitted green eyes. His voice, baritone and rolling, purred out the words with...amusement? Perhaps? John eyed Samir, obeying with suspicion, aware of the heavy thud as the doors closed behind him and the guard tromped away.
“What has brought you here?” The cat asked, tilting his head with coy precision -- the jewels that pierced his ear tinkling in blues and greens. Magic. Illusion magic. What would a cat from the east need with illusion magic?
“I’ve violated the hospitality treaty of Timberskeep. I’m here to make right with the Grand Master.”
“Violated?” Feigned surprise in the voice told John that news of his brutality had already reached the temple, and perhaps, had already reached Philo.
“How did you find out?” The halflings voice was flat, his eyes beady in the darkness. Samir did not reply, but brushed aside a final set of emerald green curtains and gestured for John to pass through.
John did not thank him as he passed through, aware of the way the cat’s eyes were fixed on the back of his neck. Intuition told him Samir was not displeased with the news, and whatever that meant -- John knew it couldn't be good.
A gong sounded in the darkness, light filtering down on a slumped figure. Shadows traced the leathery wrinkled skin of the Grand Master, accentuating its lifelessness. John grimaced. No wonder he only spoke one word a year, he couldn’t imagine what sustained him when the man looked more emaciated than a skeleton.
His eyes, though, were crystal clear and blue as the heavens -- fogged only by unearthly light from beyond. John sat down on the appropriate cushion, folding his legs under him and waiting for some acknowledgment from Philo.
It came with another sound of a gong, and suddenly pitch-black pupils were focused on him -- flaring and fading as the sage took in his visitor. A chill crept up John’s spine and his legs tensed, bundling as if to leap up and take him away from this thing’s presence.
“My lord, I have come today to confess and beg forgiveness.” His voice sounded so small in the darkness. He wondered how the syllables would hang in the judgemental air when he finally confessed.
Philo did not react. But it was clear that he’d heard.
He should’ve taken the peach pits that Chess was stuffing in his pockets. At least those wholesome things would’ve staved off some of the chill.
“I have murdered three half-orcs that begged hospitality of Timberskeep.” John bowed his head, before leaning onto his hands and pressing his head slowly to the ground. Approaching footsteps echoed in the silence, and he resisted every urge in his body to run. Then, fabric swept to a stop near his head and he dared to look up.
The Grandmaster towered over him for a moment, before kneeling down and placing a bony hand on the halfling's head. Then, taking a long rattling breath, he breathed out his one and only word of the year:
“Bro.”