Chapter 8: The Cure for Solitude

"Give me something to do," Haegrid begged Stanislas. "Or I will lose my sodding mind."

It was late in the evening—it had taken the entire day to cleanse and burn all the corpses and potentially contaminated items: bedrolls, blankets, clothes, and even furniture. A blazing fire sprung from the town's main square, the skeleton of broken chairs and upturned table legs outlined in the flickering flames. The smoke coursed up, dark and wispy, its warmth a small consolation for the downtrodden villagers.

They had followed Leah back to the blacksmith's cottage after they emptied the cellars. Stanislas could not articulate why they had all been compelled to remain together once they had finished their ordeal. Leah, he could understand. She and Cain had befriended Haegrid and Mira—she spoke to Haegrid with the familiarity of a friend.

"Come back to the inn with us. You need to eat something."

Haegrid had said very little the entire day. Instead, Stansilas noted, he appeared to be focused on every task given. He moved with an intense, nervous energy, evincing a restlessness that made him uncomfortable.

"How about you? Does your armor need repairs?" the smith turned and addressed Kormac.

"Haegrid," Leah uttered in a softer tone. "You need to rest. It has been a trying day and you'll need your strength. If you'd like, I'll come back tomorrow and help you with—"

"No need," he interrupted her briskly. "No need for any of that."

They all fell into a pained, heavy silence.

Stanislas knew grief well. He understood that grief manifested itself in strange ways. He saw it in Haegrid's trembling hands as he gripped the back of his chair when he spoke to them. He saw it in his vacant stares. The cottage still breathed of the close, settled domesticity with Mira: a small clay vase filled with dry, crackled wild flowers, the crumpled needlepoint dishtowel on the ground, and two modest place settings that had been mindlessly shoved to the corner of the kitchen table: all vestiges of a life gradually expiring. He could tell the man's mind was racing, desperately trying to outrun what would inevitably snatch him: the unfamiliar future he would be treading... by himself. Stanislas was seized by the impulse to leave immediately; the man's stoic sorrow hinted at its terrible depth, its profound pain. He had recognized it much like one recognizes the symptoms of a shared ailment.

Miserable day. I need a drink, Stanislas decided, rising. "I could use some armor. Do you have any iron?" he asked, heading towards the door.

Haegrid blinked a few times and glanced around the unraveled room.

"Aye…" he said slowly. "I believe I may have some in my shop."

"Can you make me a light but strong chainmail shirt?" Stanislas wondered, pausing at the entrance.

Haegrid seemed to be searching inside his mind.

"I have some rings…not enough. I would have to make more…"

"Just for my chest," Stanislas explained. "My arms need to have a free range of motion."

The smith nodded, taking a deep breath. The Demon Hunter surveyed the room, filled with dour faces.

"Good night," he bid them all before leaving.

Haegrid appeared somewhat revived.

"I am headed to my shop," he announced.

"Are you sure you won't go back to the inn with us?" Leah asked once more.

"No. I have to…I have work to do."

He hastily tied on his apron, patting down his pockets, pulling out a small handful of rivet ends. When he moved towards the door, they all took it as their cue to leave, as well. Haegrid held the door open as they stepped out into the street. Shu was the last one out, but just as the smith began to lock the door, she turned suddenly.

"Oh, I think I forgot something inside!"

Leah and Kormac halted further ahead, turning back expectantly.

"Go ahead," she waved them off. "I'll catch up eventually," she assured them as she reentered the cottage.

She pretended to search beneath the table and chairs while Haegrid stood silently by the door. Once she was certain Leah and Kormac had proceeded towards the inn without her, she raised her head and examined the smith.

"Come here," she summoned him with a quick wave of her fingers. "I have something for you."

Haegrid startled.

"What is it?" he wondered, his brow furrowing.

"Close the door," she ordered him.

As he hesitated, she reached into a pouch hanging off her jeweled belt, pulling out a sooty, heavily creased sheet of parchment. The smith puzzled, wary of either the parchment sheet or perhaps even her…She wasn't sure.

"It is a letter," she explained. "I came across it while we were cleaning out the cellar. I hid it away because the others were burning everything left and right indiscriminately…but this here is safe, you see. You will have to forgive me for reading it: it is for you."

Haegrid raised his eyes, alarmed at her words.

" From Mira," she whispered kindly, as she passed him the letter.


My dearest Haedrig,

Do not feel despair, my love. You did everything you could. Our time together meant more than words can say, but in the end fate is a cruel mistress. Your strength is needed to end the horrors that beset this world. My final wish is that you find your path.

Love always,

Mira

Shu had found the letter in a small box filled with writing tools. It had been stowed away with care and Shu realized, as her eyes perused the letter, that Mira had probably foreseen her own death. Shu had crumpled it up quickly, aware that she was not alone, and that she was expected to simply carry and hurtle everything she found into the flames.

She had stuffed the parchment hastily in her pouch, remembering disdainfully of how fearful and panicked Captain Rumford's men had been when they entered the cellar afterwards.

Not everything touched by corruption ends up corrupted, she frowned.

It held true for the letter…And apparently, for love, as well, she mused, a twinge of envy surfacing deep inside her. It was a terrible, inappropriate thing to be resentful of the dead, she knew. And Haegrid's sorrow was tangible, even more poignant for his denial of it.

But Mira had known something she hadn't.

As she walked back to the inn, walking past the faint lanterns of the gloomy town, she wondered briefly if anyone would ever love her that way: so devotedly and completely.

For a moment, a memory flickered across her mind's eye:

A courtyard covered in plum blossoms, her mother's sad eyes trailing after her father, his regal robes brushing over the polished slabs of fine wood softly.

"Mā," she called out. "Mā!"

And the beautiful woman turned back to look at her, so elegant and soft spoken.

"Your father is pleased, Qin ai de."

Her mother was doe-eyed, but the warmth of those eyes were not meant for her.

Qin ai de, her mother called her. Qin ai de: dear. But that doe-eyed gaze ran through her, never truly beholding her.

She was nothing more than an instrument in her mother's arsenal of charms in that endless battle to hold Lord Altansarnai's ever-wandering, mercurial affections.

"Mā" she had wailed demandingly, tugging at her mother's sleeve.

Over the years her many accomplishments had brought her admiration, praise, and renown among the wizarding clans of Xiansai. She was a force to be reckoned with, a true daughter and heiress of the great Altansarnai clan: beautiful, educated, and powerful, she knew.

But she was alone. Always alone.


A few lost souls littered the sparse tavern in the inn despite the late hour. Leah and Kormac occupied a table. Two tankards of ale sat before them. They gestured to Shu as she arrived, inviting her to sit with them. One glance towards the chair by the fire revealed a pair of long legs clad in heavy black boots stretched out over a stool. Stanislas held a flask he tipped over his lips with regular frequency, his eyes never veering away from the fireplace. She passed him by without a word and turned to Bron, who appeared to be in conversation with a patron, commiserating sympathetically, his head bobbing back and forth in some kind of feeble agreement.

She wanted to head straight for her room, to be left in peace while her unpleasant memories and thoughts needled at her. When she got into one of those moods, few things restored her spirits. Drink only dulled her senses, she found, avoiding overindulging so as not to affect her abilities. Besides, Bron had nothing she would consider imbibing to soothe herself.

She was about to offer Leah some excuses when her eyes landed on Kormac. She contemplated the Templar's rugged face, his thick dark hair shorn in traditional military style, and she smiled faintly.

Yes, few things restored her spirits—and a night of pleasure was something she could allow herself to overindulge in without great consequence.


Shu liked her men strong, burly, with solid muscles she could knead and run her hands over. She preferred soldiers and warriors, but had dallied with the occasional mercenary for hire. She favored men who demonstrated strength in battle, who easily hefted mighty swords and axes. Few luxuries rivaled being completely enveloped by bulky arms against a bare, brawny chest. It gave her a thrill to think that those men's hands could crush and destroy with ease, but that they trembled with desire instead as they coursed over her body. She derived pleasure from the fact she could vanquish them not just by the strength of her magical abilities, but through her seductive charms. She delighted in inspiring an all-consuming passion in her lovers, witnessing the ardor in their eyes, the urgency of their kisses, the neediness in their touch. To look into their eyes as they came undone was one of the most arousing experiences she knew of, spell casting included. She liked feeling beautiful and desirable, alluring and enticing.

She loved to be loved.

It was just an illusion, and a temporary one at that, she knew deep inside, but it was what she had always managed to inspire.

Close enough...

Of course, her affairs were short-lived. She had no interest in being tied down to any man. Men tended to become possessive, controlling, even desperate in their need to obtain ongoing gratification. She was careful to reveal little about herself, to avoid crossing the path of past lovers, to disappear the moment one of them began to ask too many questions or, more commonly, make demands. She had received her share of gifts, promises, declarations of love and even a few proposals. As flattering as they were, they also meant that it was time to move on. She mistrusted their affections, for as heartfelt as they seemed, they were nothing more than something they nurtured in their own heads: she was nothing more than the charming, sensual woman who offered them pleasure. They knew nothing of her and they would burden her with the other less desirable aspects of intimacy: their faults, failures, insecurities, and vices.

So she moved on, once the illusion grew weaker and could no longer be sustained. All the affairs had to come to an end, eventually. Especially since she could not give them what they imagined they wanted.

But while it lasted, though…she grinned, thinking to herself. There was very little in the world that was as wonderful as a seduction, a chase that culminated into a night of passion.

And right then, Kormac was shaping up as a very serious contender for her affections, she decided, taking a seat between Leah and the Templar.


She had never been intimate with a Templar, she realized excitedly. She knew little about the Order: mostly that its members were celibate.

Which of course, would only make the challenge sweeter.

She could tell Kormac was intrigued by her. He was endearingly flustered and awkward anytime she was around. He practically jumped when she sat next to him. Her enthusiasm upon finding such an agreeable potential lover in a place she had expected nothing but misery from was an auspicious reward. She had to admit, though, even as she cast him her most beguiling smiles, to a niggling impression that perhaps it wouldn't be wise to entice the poor man that way. He appeared utterly guileless, completely vulnerable.

You could hurt him. Deeply, the unpleasant thought emerged, unwelcomed.

Or you could give him a memory worth savoring on a bad night. Life is filled with suffering. Why not enjoy its pleasures while we can? she shrugged inwardly.