202
Hershel had never seen anything like it. Heading towards the two tower-like pillars, there seemed to be nothing but a further expanse of nothingness. However, as soon as he passed between the towers, an entire village became visible. It was certainly not like any village he had been to before.
There were no tents, for instance. Instead, the entire civilization was tucked into the bowl shape between plateaus, and it seemed that the people had built homes right into the rock walls themselves. Stairs were carved into the stone as well, providing access to homes that were built into higher layers of the plateau walls. A large fire burned at the center of the village, where he could see a few elderly Oni sitting and could hear the laughter of children. He caught sight of them, running around with sticks and giggling as they fought each other playfully. A small smile played at his lips; he couldn't help but think of Pippa.
"This way, stranger."
The voice belonged to the young woman who he had ensnared earlier—the one called Blist. He could tell she didn't trust him, but could also sense a curiosity burning within her. She and the other warriors—for that must be what the little band that had attacked him must be—flanked him as he followed Iona to her home. He allowed them to, though both he and the small band of fighters knew they wouldn't really stand much of a chance against him if worse came to worse.
It won't, he argued with himself. They seem like peaceful people. I just caught them off guard…and it spooked them.
The power was reserving judgement either way…for now.
They passed pens of hoofers and egg-laying fowl, and he was surprised to see what appeared to be dragon nests built into several areas within the community. The Dragon called Brightdawn watched Hershel walk past his own nest and growled deep in its throat. Hershel ignored it; after all, the dragon had attacked him first. It wasn't his fault the beast had bit off more than it could chew.
They began to ascend a column of sandy stairs, heading up and away from the other homes in the area. He knew which hole-in-the-wall enclosure was Iona's before anyone pointed it out; it was off by itself, with Healers runes painted over the rocky walls. A tattered cloth hung over the gaping hole that served as a door…and a candle burned in one carved window. Hershel's eyes lingered on the runes; some he recognized, some he didn't. They reminded him of those Phos had put on his own tent.
"Well, come in Hershel…self-proclaimed protector of this realm." Iona's words were mocking as she drew back the cloth doorway, and Hershel felt Blist stiffen next to him.
"Should we come as well?" she demanded, and Iona smiled a little as she shook her head.
"I can take care of myself, Blist," she said dryly, and Hershel had the feeling that the young woman was always this high strung. The young cross-bow archer from earlier put a hand on Blist's shoulder.
"C'mon…we're on weeding duty today anyways."
"Pax," Blist hissed, clearly irritated. But she allowed him to lead her away as Hershel watched.
"This way, boy. Unless you'd like to pull weeds with the rest of them."
Hershel finally turned and followed Iona into her home. It was roomier than he expected, with several off-shoots to different areas. There were herbs hanging by the window, a small fireplace with a chimney that led to who knows where, and cushions on the ground rather than chairs. Shelves, and even a large table, were carved directly into the walls. Hershel blinked as he realized that there was a large Dragon's skull resting in one corner of the room, with scarves and other doo-dads hanging from its teeth and horns.
"Tea?" Iona offered dryly, and Hershel turned to nod slowly. The Xinta nodded to herself and turned to get it started, gesturing to one of the cushions. He obliged, sitting cross-legged on it.
"The order of Echo and Antirock," he finally said, the first thing he had said since coming into the strange hidden village. "How long has this village been here?"
Iona didn't answer at first, and Hershel found himself trying to figure out what the herbs hanging by the window were. Not willow weed…the leaves were too feathery.
"I've lost count of time."
He turned as the Xinta finally answered, and she came over to sit down on the other mat. She handed him one of the cups, and he accepted it gratefully.
"Did you know Echo and Antirock?" he tried carefully. Here Iona looked up to meet his eye and laughed.
"I'm not that old!" she chided, and Hershel realized suddenly that she reminded him of Phos. She didn't look like Phos—for one, she had bronze eyes rather than yellow ones, and she was heavier than his old Master. But something about her manner was definitely the same—maybe all elderly ancients felt this way. The thought was what caused him to pause before drinking the tea. He looked down, studying it closely.
"Afraid I'm going to poison you?" the woman asked dryly, and Hershel didn't answer as he carefully inhaled. After a moment he managed to place the smell and his expression darkened slightly.
"Yern. Not quite as effective as Lumanium…and harder to find. But it doesn't have quite as recognizable of an aroma."
He set the cup aside in disgust, looking back up at the woman with newfound distrust. Something glimmered across her expression, but her emotions were hard to read. As someone no doubt fluent in aura sense, she must know how to keep her own feelings hidden.
"You are a healer, then," she finally stated. "I wondered…but you don't have any of the bands."
"I used to," Hershel said, and she narrowed her eyes.
"You…used to have the Healer tattoos?" she repeated, and he nodded. After a moment Iona scoffed. "And you magically managed to get rid of them?"
"Basically."
She fell silent at that, and Hershel kept his own emotions calm. "What was the goal, after you drugged me?" he asked softly. "Were you just going to kick me out? Or kill me?"
Another glimmer across her expression, and finally she scoffed. "Cheeky one, aren't you? I wasn't going to kill you."
Hershel studied her, trying to think of what he would do if he had been in Iona's place. "No…perhaps not. Just a little memory alteration, I suppose."
Guilt. That's what the emotion was that she was trying to hide; he had struck true, then. His power stirred angrily and he studied the Ancient closely.
"You must really want this place to remain secret…but why?"
Iona didn't answer, sipping her own drugless tea. So Hershel tried to guess.
"You call yourselves the Order of Echo and Antirock. Were you trying to get the prophecy to come true?"
The woman scoffed, as if he had asked something stupid. "Prophecies don't need help to come true," she snapped. "That prophecy will be fulfilled eventually, and we will have to deal with the repercussions of it. We were not formed from the prophecy…but rather in the memory of what Echo and Antirock were trying to fight for. Peace between Oni and Dragon."
Hershel just stared. "Then…you don't know?" he finally asked, and Iona narrowed her eyes.
"Know what?"
"The Prophecy has been fulfilled," he tried carefully, and Iona couldn't hide her shock at the revelation.
"Impossible," she countered, but she must have felt Hershel's sincerity. "How can that be; both dragon and Oni live here; neither has been eradicated…"
"The Dragon Master chose a union," Hershel explained simply. "It was said that whichever side he chose would win, so he chose to support a joined realm of unified Dragon and Oni." The Xinta just stared, and Hershel couldn't help but smile. "Haven't you been waiting here all these centuries for such a result?"
"Of course not," Iona said, though she seemed lost in thought. "Such a thing was impossible— at least, in the realm we left behind all those years ago. We came to form our own peaceful society, far from the purge and mess of both governments…and the pesky Healer's organization."
"The purge has been over for centuries…and the union has been in place for the last twenty years or so. The current Rulers are dedicated to peace, and the Healer's organization has recently been disbanded."
The woman spluttered on her tea. "Disbanded?"
Hershel shrugged. "I was the Master Healer, a month or so ago."
Iona narrowed her eyes, studying him closely. "It seems someone has already altered your mind," she finally decided. "For there is no way a mere boy such as yourself would have been voted Master Healer, not when there are other selfish Ancients about. Unless they are all gone as well?"
Hershel didn't even know where to begin with this woman; from what he gathered, she and the rest of her hidden society had completely missed the last few centuries of history. He wasn't going to catch her up in a single afternoon.
"I can bring you the history scrolls; it appears you are quite unaware of…"
"Don't bother."
He blinked in surprise, but Iona's expression had hardened.
"If I cared about what was going on in the outside world, then I would have taken the time to go find out. We have been doing just fine on our own for the last few centuries, and we certainly have no need to change our ways now. I do not know who has sent you, or what they hope to gain. You are a believable liar…but still a liar."
Hershel narrowed his eyes as the woman laughed without humor.
"At least make the lie believable. Unified nation…Rulers bent on peace. Bah."
"I have no reason to lie to you," Hershel argued, his eyes flashing once. It caught Iona's attention, and she became pensive.
"What exactly are you?" she finally asked. Hershel scowled.
"An Oni."
"A mortal imbued with first ancient power," Iona corrected, scanning him with her metallic eyes. "An experiment, perhaps. Yes…that must be it; a creation from one of those experimental Ancients—the ones who were always trying to defy the laws of creation and destruction by tampering with aura. Very dangerous…but it seems that you survived the procedure."
Hershel was becoming angry now, though he wasn't really sure why. "I am not an experiment," he spat angrily. "The Alchemist had nothing to do with…"
"The Alchemist? And who in Loathsome Jarule's name is that?"
Hershel was at a loss for words. "The Experimental Ancient you just mentioned," he finally pointed out. "Evynn…the Alchemist."
Iona just shrugged. "Must have been after my people fled from the Oni lands. I've never heard of any Alchemist. But in the wake of the purge, there were many who tried to experiment with Oni power, to keep it from dying off."
"You have missed so much," Hershel murmured, and Iona seemed uninterested.
"Don't bother catching me up. In fact, the sooner we get your memories altered, the sooner I can forget about you, and my people can go back to their…"
"I will not allow you to affect my memories." Hershel's tone was cold, and the woman raised an eyebrow.
"Do you really think you stand a chance against me?" she asked.
"Yes."
Hershel knew she could feel the honesty in his words, but Iona just shook her head. "Well…you're either the most powerful being in the realm, or you're a fool," she countered, her own eyes blazing. "I cannot allow you to leave without taking your memories of this place. So I would suggest the more painless way…drinking the tea."
Hershel didn't answer. He could see—or rather, sense—her powering up for some attack. Most likely a paralysis spell. He vanished in a flash of light before it could hit, and then reappeared behind her. He could sense her disbelief, and he cleared his throat. She whirled, and he smirked at her with blazing eyes.
"You'd be safer in assuming the first," he pointed out softly. Iona just stared.
"There are spells in place," she finally managed. "Spells that keep you from transporting within these walls."
"My master had similar spells," Hershel realized. "As well as ones that kept him from prying eyes…namely, the Alchemist. But they don't really affect me any longer."
"You still shouldn't have been able to find us," Iona pointed out, and Hershel just shrugged.
"I was able to sense your Ancient life-force. It was harder to find than the others…veiled. But I followed it here."
Iona didn't say anything. No doubt she was trying to decide if she'd be able to ensnare him if she kept him talking, and Hershel felt prepped and ready for anything. He could just leave. If Iona really was just an Ancient that had ditched out of Oni society a few centuries back to start a civilization of peace, she most likely wouldn't be a threat. But he couldn't just ignore this discovery; even now the curiosity was burning within him.
"These abilities you possess…how did you manage to obtain them? I can sense the power twisting in you now; part of you, but not naturally so. It contains a darkness…"
"I was filled with this power against my will," Hershel finally explained, though he wasn't sure why he bothered. Iona had hardly believed a word that he had said. "It flushed out the power I had before, and now I have abilities that I do not even understand fully."
"So, you were not experimented on…and yet someone has replaced your aura source. Next time, work out your story better, boy. It doesn't quite add up…"
"You are the one who told me not to bother with the details," Hershel pointed out dryly. "If you would like the full story, then it is going to take a lot longer than one afternoon to hear it."
Iona scowled. "I have no need for your life story, boy. But in order to protect my people, you will need to forget all you have discovered today."
"It wouldn't make a difference; I would only come back another day in an effort to discover the mystery of the veiled Ancient all over again."
"If you feel that you would continue to threaten our order even after memory alteration, then perhaps I should just kill you."
The reaction came quickly—faster than Hershel was able to rein it in. Glowing white snakes erupted from Hershel's hands, and Iona balked as they wrapped around her body. Hershel could feel her fear, but the power in him assured him that this was called for. She had just threatened to kill him…and this particular spell was so effective at draining its victims dry…
Iona blasted snakes off of herself, but one had already managed to make it to her neck, opening its jaws wide to latch on. Hershel dropped to his knees, the power demanding punishment in an effort to drown out his own thoughts. Soon he would be filled with the power of the disbelieving Ancient, and her life-force would strengthen his own…
"No."
The snakes evaporated, and he could hear Iona panting as he trembled on her cushion. It wouldn't have killed her, the power reminded him. But such a brutal attack…it wasn't him. It wasn't.
"You don't have control of it."
Hershel managed to open his eyes, and he looked up to see Iona staring down at him. He was expecting contempt, but he was surprised to see that she was filled with pity. Hershel looked down at his shaking hands as he continued to suppress the power. "I'm…trying."
"And failing, by the looks of it. I take it having your power replaced was a recent adjustment?"
Hershel nodded grimly, and his power immediately warned that Iona was powering up one hand. He spoke without looking back up at her.
"Don't," he warned. "If you attack me…I don't know what the power will do next. I may not be able to stop it."
It was more vulnerable than he had been during this entire exchange…but deep down he didn't want to hurt this woman. She was a link to this amazing secret society…a wealth of knowledge. She shouldn't be punished for wanting to keep all of that safe. But despite the fact that he told himself so over and over again, the power resisted the logic in the thought. She had threatened him…was preparing to attack him. He should strike before she had adequate chance.
Fortunately, Iona stood down. The aura around her hand faded, and she shook her head.
"Is this why you sought me out?" she finally asked. "Because you wanted my help?"
Hershel wanted to point out once again that he had just been trying to figure out whether she was a threat or not. But something in her tone stirred a bit of hope. He forced himself to stand up…to stop looking so vulnerable.
"Do you think you could help me?"
She studied him a moment longer before scoffing.
"Don't see why I should. You, a stranger and a trespasser, who not only invaded our home but openly attacked me…"
"All defense," he countered, but a sudden desperation had bloomed in his chest that managed to even drown out the anger. "Iona…is there a way to control this?"
She merely glared, and his voice became quiet.
"Because it's getting stronger…and I don't know how much longer I can get it to do what I say."
He felt foolish for opening up to this woman—one who had threatened to both erase his memories and kill him in the last half an hour. But she had a deep knowledge of aura power—as a Xinta and an Ancient, she would have to. With Phos already admitting defeat where Hershel's new abilities were involved and Imgloss more likely to spit on him than help him, this secretive woman might be his only chance at finding control.
"You're a menace to the realm," she finally pointed out. "Bad enough you have the power…but to not even be able to control it…"
"I didn't ask for it!" Hershel cut in, his eyes flashing. "And if you cannot help me…"
"I never said I couldn't. Only that I don't see why I should. You are the protector of the realm, are you not? So surely you should be able to figure it out on your own."
He could sense her stubbornness, and his heart fell. "Fine." He turned to leave—to get out of this place for good. He should have known; it didn't matter which century an Ancient had come from, or what their motives were. They were selfish, stubborn…
"You will protect our way of life."
Hershel paused as Iona spoke again, her voice firm. He glanced back at her to see that she had crossed her arms.
"Since it seems I will be unable to alter your memories, and you've already proclaimed yourself a protector. If I help you master these powers, then you will use them in our defense. You will owe me."
The request surprised Hershel.
"What is it you need defense against?" he asked softly. Iona's eyes hardened further.
"Is it a deal?"
Hershel thought about it a little longer. He wasn't entirely sure what he was agreeing to…but as he felt the power within him stir once again, he knew that he needed to understand it sooner rather than later. Despite what Myrah thought, his control continued to slip...and it was only a matter of time before he did something he knew he would regret.
"Alright."
203
Syn sighed as she put the basket of food on the table; a tribute from the village she had just attended to. She looked at the contents, trying to decide how long she could make it last. If she could get a tribute like this every couple of days, she wouldn't worry. But the thing about being a healer was that unless people were sick or hurt, there wasn't much for her to do. Her healing had gone from being something that she enjoyed doing that kept her busy, to the main source of food for her family. She pushed her curls out of her face wearily. This could last the rest of the week…but they'd have to have lots of watered-down soup.
"Must have found a fever-ridden village, by the size of that basket."
She turned to see Tolan standing in the doorway. He had his usual smirk, and she shrugged. "Not fever; I mainly just treated symptoms for some colds and a broken leg. It was a generous village leader, really. But I wouldn't count on getting this much in the future."
He must have heard the strain to her voice, because he came over. His expression softened, and Syn allowed him to pull her into him. "You worry too much."
She scoffed at that, but then she heard something jangling. She pulled back to see him fishing a small pouch out of his pocket.
"You have some money saved?" she asked in surprise. "From when you worked at the fortress?"
Tolan shook his head.
"Nah. We went down the markets yesterday, you know. I sold that dagger for three times the usual rate for that kind of weapon—just as I told that old forge master I would. He took a lot of the sale…" Here Tolan's expression darkened. "…For owning the forge. But I still got enough from it to keep us from starving this week."
Syn counted the coins mentally as Tol dumped them into her hand, and she sighed as the knot in her chest loosened somewhat. "I guess we would make more if we owned our own forge, huh?" she teased softly, not missing the bitterness in his tone.
Tolan shrugged. "It would take a lot to build a quality one. Maybe that can be the plan someday, but for now, I'd like to refresh my skills. The old penny-pincher does buy the materials that I'll be using to make the weapons, I suppose. So it's not all a waste."
Syn rested her head on his chest. "Are you enjoying it?" she murmured.
"What do you mean?"
"Are you going to be happy doing this for the next little while? Is it worth the move?"
He shrugged. "I'll enjoy it just as much as any other work," he pointed out. "The time goes by faster pounding at metal than following a kid around all day, at any rate."
Syn sighed. "I'm betting they're missing you back at the fortress," she pointed out honestly. He shrugged again.
"They'll live. Where's Fluff?"
"She went out with Baffa earlier. I told her she had to be home for dinner."
Tolan nodded and then went over to the table. "What can I help with?"
Syn smiled, fishing a tuber out of the basket. "Skin this, and then cut it into strips."
He obliged, pulling a thin, sharp dagger from a sheath at his waist and getting to work. Syn went over to pull water from the bucket she had drawn from the well earlier that day.
"You sure are in a helpful mood," she teased.
"I would have helped more in the past, I was just never home."
"Mmmm…a likely story."
She jumped as something hit her arm, and she looked over to see Tolan shaking his head. He was smirking again though, and she looked down to see the piece of tuber skin that he had thrown.
"What are you doing?" she laughed, and Tolan came over to take the water bucket from her as he leaned in for a kiss. Syn kissed him back, and he pushed her hair back out of her face as he murmured to her.
"It's going to be alright, Syn. We'll find our groove here. We'll be just fine."
She studied his face and smiled. "I know," she said. "I just wanted to make sure you'll be happy doing this now. As amazing as I'm sure your weapons are, you aren't going to see a lot of action slaving away at a hot forge all day."
"I'll be fine," he assured. "It doesn't take a lot to keep me happy; you should know that. Just you and Fluff."
Syn kissed him again, and for the first time since their move she felt like they really could be alright.
"I trust you've seen one of these."
Hershel stared at the crystal in his hand, not sure whether to laugh or scoff. "Yes."
Iona raised an eyebrow. She had seemed annoyed when he had shown up that morning, and he was prepared for another battle. But after her initial look of disgust, the Ancient Xinta had allowed him to come in.
"Then you know what to do with it," she pointed out smoothly, her bronze eyes daring Hershel to complain about the task. He took it in stride, and with little more than a thought the crystal was hovering in a pool of pearly aura. Hershel looked up at his new teacher.
"Any specific emotion I should try?" he asked evenly, confident in his ability.
Iona studied him from her position on the mat across from where he was kneeling.
"Why don't we start with Hatred?"
The crystal fell to his hand, and something lurched within him. The Xinta's brow furrowed.
"Is there a problem?" she asked condescendingly. Hershel cleared his throat.
"I…I've never been able to summon Hatred."
Iona looked surprised. "No? Would have thought it would be a requirement, in order for you to become as powerful as you are."
"There weren't many requirements for this transformation," Hershel countered softly, staring down at where the morning sunlight glinted off the clear gem.
"Well, give it a go at least. Maybe you'll be surprised."
Hershel stared at the crystal in his hand, the power already stirring. Ready to prove how powerful he really was. He had never done anything with Hatred before…but his hesitation wasn't about whether he would be able to do it. It was about whether he would be able to control it if he did manage to summon the Hatred. He exhaled shakily.
"Maybe if we start with something simpler," he tried. Iona looked disgusted with him.
"A word of advice, boy," she chided as she stared him down. "Fear is the opposite of control. Do you understand? If you are afraid of your power, then you will never be in control of it."
"Perhaps. But some things should be feared."
Her expression clouded at his words, and when she spoke again her voice was low. "How did you come into this power, exactly?"
He could tell her…should tell her, if he expected her to help him. But once again, the memories of the Island filled him with a mix of emotions he found himself shying away from remembering. He didn't even notice the gem reacting to his emotions until the Ancient pointed it out.
"What on earth?"
Hershel glanced down and stiffened as he realized that the crystal was flashing with multiple colors at once. Green and red battled for control, and green seemed to be winning as unease entered his mind.
"I don't know what…" he started, but the crystal began vibrating. He almost cut off the power, but a gnarled hand grabbed his wrist.
"Let it be," Iona ordered, and Hershel froze at the command. He wanted to end the exercise because he didn't know what to expect, but his curiosity mixed with the interest he could feel coming off of the Ancient holding his arm. So he watched as the crystal whined, vibrating with the effort of keeping control.
"You're afraid…and angry," Iona pointed out quietly. "But surely there is more. Hatred is generally the next in line. Surely you can feel it within you…wanting to come forth."
Hershel watched the crystal in fearful fascination, unsure of what would happen next. It was getting darker, he realized. Would it bruise into the deep purple of Hatred? Was he capable of it after all?
But the red and the green were mixing into a deep brown color instead, and Hershel shook his head.
"What is that?"
Iona looked just as perplexed, and as they watched, the brown became bronze and then nearly golden in color. The whining reached an earsplitting pitch. Hershel was trembling as the color was drained from the crystal completely. Soon, the entire thing pulsated with pure white light. It pulsed once…twice…and then shattered.
Iona and Hershel yelled out as the pieces of crystal scattered everywhere. The pale healer winced as he felt stinging on his neck and arm, and he could hear Iona cursing. He finally opened his eyes to see her eyeing a cut on her wrist with irritation.
"Well…that was certainly a first," she muttered, and Hershel tried to calm his pounding heart.
"So you don't know what it meant?"
"No idea. I have seen a great many colors, mind you. But they generally get darker, not lighter. When people aren't in control, at least."
Hershel remembered back when he had witnessed a similar feat, when Phos had goaded Keyda until she had shattered a similar crystal. But she had used Hatred, not whatever emotion had caused the blinding white light.
"So you don't know what just happened?"
Iona just shrugged, but her mind seemed far away. "I don't even know the history of the realm for the last few hundred years, boy. You can't expect me to have all the answers."
He immediately felt frustrated.
"You said you could help me," he reminded angrily, swiping at his wounds unconsciously with fingers flickering with aura. Iona didn't answer. Hershel looked up to see that she was staring at him, looking baffled once again.
"You can heal yourself," she finally mentioned, and Hershel realized that he had erased his cuts from the crystal in front of her.
"It's not automatic, like yours," he said by way of answer, gesturing to where her own cuts had already sealed themselves closed. The Xinta didn't answer right away.
"What are you?" she finally repeated, and Hershel sighed as he pushed himself to his feet and dusted the last pieces of crystal from his clothing.
"An Oni. Would you like me to try the crystal again, or should we try something else?"
Iona was doing that thing that Phos used to do…where he stared so hard it was like he was looking right into Hershel's very soul. He hadn't minded when his old Master had been so scrutinizing, but he didn't feel comfortable with this stranger treating him like some freak. But before either of them could say anything, the curtain over the door moved to emit a tall man.
"Iona! Is everything alright? We heard some frightful sounds…"
He fixed Hershel with a distrustful look, and Hershel ignored him as he fingered a new tear in his clothing. Iona glanced at the visitor.
"Quite alright. Exercise gone wrong."
The man nodded, but hesitated as if he had something else to say. The Elderly Xinta raised an eyebrow.
"Well?"
"It's Furgeson. His old leg is bothering him again, and was wondering if you would come by with something to soothe it."
"Hmph. I'd love to…but it seems our visitor has created a mess that I now have to clean up."
Hershel blinked in surprise at the accusation, but Iona fixed him with a long look as she pushed herself to her feet.
"Hershel is a healer. I'm sure he'd love to go help Furgeson's leg."
He was taken aback by the offer, and he could feel the man's unease as well. But Iona seemed adamant.
"Well?" she demanded, daring Hershel to turn it down. He knew he couldn't, not if he expected her to continue helping him. He shook his head a little. Ancients and their prices…and expectations.
"Alright." He turned to the man expectantly, and the Oni's unease grew.
"Iona…" he started, but she waved him off.
"He'll be fine."
Neither Oni knew whether the Xinta was talking about Hershel or Furgeson, so the man in the doorway finally sighed and gestured for Hershel to follow him. The pale man looked back at Iona one last time, but she didn't seem to have anything else to say.
"I'll be back afterward," he finally said, and she shrugged.
"Suit yourself."
He had a feeling that the woman had no idea how to really help him, and he wondered if she meant to use him often to fulfill chores such as these. The thought made him bristle, though part of him couldn't help but be relieved at the thought of a healing visit rather than another reckless exercise.
The sun was shining brightly as he followed the man from Iona's home. The windows carved into the walls provided the rooms with plenty of natural light, but he still found himself squinting in the sun as it bathed the village with a warm, blinding glow. He could hear gossips talking loudly over children squealing, as well as hammers pounding and hoofers lowing. Just the average sounds of a village, really…but something about this one made him want to take everything in. There was some internal desire to memorize every detail, and he couldn't help but stare at the Oni he passed as much as they stared at him. His hair was the result of the Island's interference…but it was intriguing that the Oni in this region would have lighter hair. None of it could really be considered light; it was all still a dark color. But he had never met anyone with brown hair…besides hoofers.
A few children were brave enough to run past him, but one tripped and fell in the sand. Hershel paused to see if the boy was alright, but when the child realized that Hershel was staring at him, he froze in the dirt.
"Dune! C'mon!" another child urged, their tone panicked. Hershel glanced up to see a few older boys staring at him warily, as if they thought he was going to hurt the littlest member of their crew. Looking down once again, he could see that the one called Dune was frozen, his yellow eyes wide as he stared up at the pale figure. Hershel's guide paused, and seemed tense as if waiting to see why Hershel would have stopped.
Hershel lowered himself to the boy's level, fixing him with a calm look.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly, and the boy finally managed to snap out of his fearful paralysis. He nodded, quickly, but it was almost lost in the movement of pushing himself to his feet and darting off towards the other boys. Hershel watched him go with mixed feelings. He was a stranger, he reminded himself. And he didn't exactly look like other Oni anymore. He couldn't allow a child's fear to gnaw at him.
He stood again and the man gave him a long look before once again leading the way. The home they reached was on the ground level, and Hershel could hear voices inside. The man paused outside the home to give a quick whistle, and the door opened to reveal a woman.
"Did you bring Iona? He's moaning in there…talking about how it's the end and all that."
"She was busy. Sent this one with me."
The man gestured to Hershel who was standing behind him, and the woman's eyes flicked over him. Her displeasure was evident in both her expression and her feelings.
"Why?"
"Why does Iona do anything? Must have thought it best."
The woman didn't seem like she was going to let Hershel in, but then a call came from inside the home.
"Get the departed clothing ready Pallo, the end is upon me…"
"Enough, father!" the woman snapped as she called into the house. "You're not dying."
She looked back over at Hershel and sighed.
"Well, come in, if you think you can help."
Hershel didn't say anything, but he entered as the woman pulled the curtain back for him. This house had a very distinctive smell. After a moment, Hershel recognized it as Hoofers. These must be some of the Oni who cared for the village livestock, then.
"It's not use, Iona. We shoulda chopped the leg back when that old Hoofer kicked it in the first place. It aches and swells and I can't do a thing with it…might as well not even have it. Even now I can feel the mists of the departed realm swirling near…"
The speaker was an elderly man, lying in bed with one leg elevated. Hershel's eyes flicked over his form quickly, assessing the situation. He had met many people just like this Furgeson, he mused.
"I am not Iona."
The man's eyes flew open at the unfamiliar voice, and he blinked as he finally found Hershel in the room.
"A ghost!"
Hershel sighed as Furgeson rambled fearfully.
"The ghost of my father…no, brother. No…wait, too short to be Alan." He squinted at Hershel again. "Perhaps a great-uncle I never knew? Come to bear me to the departed realm..."
"I am not a ghost," Hershel clarified firmly, coming over by the bed. "Nor are you dying. Just pain from an old bone that didn't heal properly, no doubt."
He put his hand out on the man's leg, trying to find the position of the bone. The man jumped.
"Gah! Your hands are freezing, whoever you are…"
"I'm Hershel. I get that a lot."
His mind immediately began recommending various herbs that would help stave the pain and help the swelling go down, and his mouth opened so he could ask the man how long ago the injury was sustained. But then his power stirred inside of him, reminding him of something else he could try.
The people in the room gasped as white aura poured out of his hand, and the man in the bed cried out fearfully.
"I'm becoming a ghost!"
"Nonsense," Hershel chided, though he kept his focus on the leg as he enveloped it in aura. After a moment he let the light die off, and he looked back at the man.
"How does it feel now?"
Fergeson looked down at his leg.
"Well…Mr. Hershghost…that was a very pretty display. Leg's still aching, to be sure…but I guess that means you were not able to transform me into a spirit after all…"
"It still hurts?" Hershel asked, surprised. He thought back to Pippa and Myrah; the aura had worked on them. He looked down at his hands and frowned. What had been different? Or was the power really not listening to him anymore?
"What was all that supposed to do?" the man who had come to fetch Iona asked carefully. Hershel didn't answer for a moment, lost in thought.
"Can you help our father or not?" the woman—Pallo—demanded, and Hershel finally looked up.
"How long ago was the incident that broke his leg?"
"Years ago. It doesn't hurt him much, but every so often he tweaks it again and it swells and causes pain. Iona doesn't think it was properly set in the first place…"
"I did my best," the man next to her huffed, and Hershel wondered if they were siblings or a couple. He assumed the former, because they looked rather similar.
"Mmmm…perhaps time has something to do with it," Hershel mused to himself, looking back at the frail leg. Pallo just scoffed.
"Has to do with what?"
"Do you have any Cyran seed?" he asked, wishing he had brought his healer's satchel after all. He hadn't thought he would need it; he didn't come to the village with the expectation of making healing visits.
"No…" Pallo said, her expression making it clear that she did not find him very helpful at all.
Hershel frowned. "Give me a moment."
Those in the room blinked in surprise as he disappeared, and then gave another start when he reappeared a minute or so later with a satchel over one shoulder.
"How did you…" Pallo started, but Hershel ignored her as he pulled a small pouch from his satchel.
"Mix this with water and apply it to the side of the bone; it will help numb the pain. And if you boil these seeds…" here he handed Pallo a handful of shiny black seeds, "…into a tea, it will help with the swelling. Strain the seeds from the water before he drinks it, though…or he'll be loopy for a few days."
She stared at him in continued shock, though she accepted the things he gave her.
"And…do we pay tribute to you, or Iona?" the man finally asked. Hershel turned and noticed the small basket with a handful of flowers that Hershel had never seen before. He reached out to feel them. The top of the flowers were magenta in color, with petals that jutted out like a star. The stems were waxy and he tilted his head as he examined them.
"What are these?" he finally asked. Pallo blinked at the question, as if it was strange that he would have never seen them before.
"Just flowers…the kids pick em. They grow best near the fire-dragons home; bout the only thing that will grow in that charred soil."
"Do they have a name?" Hershel asked, intrigued that there were still herbs he had never seen before. He wondered what medicinal properties such blooms could have. Iona would probably know, he mused.
"We call em all sorts of things. Pink stars, dragon flowers, fire weeds. Not sure they have an official title."
He looked back over at the siblings, who were watching him like they weren't quite sure what he would do next.
"Are these the tribute, then?" he finally asked, and Pallo went pink.
"Probably doesn't seem like much," she answered defensively. "But Iona enjoys them. Says they spruce up her house, and the like. Puts them in a pot in her window. We weren't expecting anyone else."
Hershel just nodded to himself before slipping the flowers into his satchel. He left the tribute basket; he didn't have any need of it, and it would only make the children have to weave another one out of dried reeds.
"I'll come check up on your father the next time I'm around," he offered. "Let me know if the tea and the poultice help. If not, there are other things I could try."
The couple didn't seem very sure about that, but Pallo just nodded.
"Alright," she said cautiously. "…Thank you."
Hershel merely nodded and headed back out of the tent and into the sunshine.
204
Myrah walked into the library with bag full of new scrolls in tow. Her visit to the Eastern Markets had proven successful, but she was exhausted. She hated making the journey all the way over there; it's why she rarely went.
She went to unload the bag onto the table when she paused. Sitting in the middle of the table was a simple vase, with a bunch of flowers she didn't recognize. She reached out to touch one. They were real, she realized.
"Where on earth did you come from?" she mumbled softly, but then she heard the scuff of a foot and turned to see someone smiling at her from beside a bookshelf. She shook her head. "Hershel! Did you do this?"
He shrugged uncommittedly, but she could tell from his soft smile that he was indeed the culprit. She put her hands on her hips sternly as he came over.
"I haven't seen you for three days…and then you show up here with flowers of all things? Where have you been?"
"Dragon Territory," he explained softly. She scanned his face.
"I assumed as much. Did you find the Ancient, then?"
"Yes. She seems peaceful…and what's more, she's offered to help me gain control of these new powers."
That took Myrah aback."It's a she? Gain control? So, she must be some kind of expert?"
Here Hershel's smile faded a little as he sank into a chair at the table. "Not really," he admitted. "In fact, we've only done one exercise so far. I'm not sure she knows exactly what to do with me."
Myrah took a seat next to him, reaching out to take his hand. "So what exactly have you been doing for the last three days, then?"
He shrugged. "Talking, mainly. She keeps asking about how I got the powers in the first place, but there's too much to explain. I feel like I have to start at the beginning, and there is so much she doesn't know. She's been pretty secluded for centuries; she knew nothing of the union or even the Alchemist."
"Have you told her about the Island, at least?" Myrah tried, and Hershel's expression darkened.
"No."
He didn't seem to want to talk about it, so Myrah gave his hand a squeeze. "But you think she can help you?"
"She may be the only one who can," he responded, and Myrah wasn't really sure if that response was comforting or not. The tone of the conversation had become heavy once again, so she turned to look at the flowers on the table.
"So…what are these? I've never seen them before."
His soft smile returned as he followed her gaze. "Myrah flowers."
She looked over in surprise."What?"
The pale man's expression became sheepish as he shrugged. "They don't really have a name," he explained. "So I gave them one."
She wanted to look incredulous, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth that made it difficult. "You named them after me? Why?"
Hershel's thumb gently rubbed her hand. "They grow in ashen soil near a dragon's home," he explained softly. "Where other plants would wither or die, they take root and flourish. They're strong…determined. Willing and ready to grow where others have failed. They reminded me of you."
She was speechless for a moment. "Flowers and a speech," she finally murmured. "And…I suppose I'm supposed to find all of this charming? So that I'll forgive you for disappearing for three days?"
"I'm sorry it's been so long," he admitted. "As for the speech…last I recall, you asked me to tell you the reasons I fell in love with you. Or were you satisfied in just knowing that I found your eyes intriguing?"
She flushed, and she glanced back at where the purple-pink flowers were sitting, their heads held high. "You loved me because I reminded you of this flower," she summarized, and Hershel shook his head in amusement.
"You weren't listening very carefully to my speech after all," he chided, and she leaned in.
"Maybe I just wanted you to repeat it."
"Cheeky," he scolded, but then he obliged with a smile. "I always admired your confidence, you know. Your determination to succeed—your dedication to being the best leader you could be. You didn't fear being seen, known, heard. You knew what you wanted."
"I thought I did," she corrected. "But then you had to come along and mess everything up."
He continued to smile, but something flickered across his face that she couldn't quite place. "I'm afraid I am rather good at that," he admitted, and Myrah shook her head. She wanted to kiss him…but their last encounter played in her mind and she forced herself to keep her distance. She didn't want to pressure him…to rush him.
"Do you want to know why I fell in love with you?" she asked softly, and he scanned her face.
"Why?"
"You were so intriguing, like a mystery that I couldn't help but research. But what was more, you always made me feel like I didn't have to impress you. In fact, I realized pretty quickly that you had no desire to be impressed. You were genuine…and I knew you wanted me to be genuine as well. After a lifetime of people choosing between being my better or my sycophant, it was incredible to finally have someone who saw themselves as my equal."
Hershel didn't answer for a minute. But then he was leaning in to kiss her once, gently.
"I will get control of this power," he promised quietly. Myrah smiled.
"I believe you."
Amber scowled at the textbook. She wasn't sure why she was being required to take these end of year tests, considering that she probably wasn't even going to get to count the last semester. But a few of her professors had told her that if she did well on the test, she would pass the class even though she had missed quite a few weeks. But she wasn't really confident in her ability to do so—hence why she had spent the last three hours in the library, studying.
"There you are."
She looked up to see M. leaning up against a bookshelf, studying her while she studied.
"Have you been looking for me?" she asked, surprised. He shrugged.
"It's the last Saturday before test week. Why are you holed up in here when we could be doing something fun?"
"Because it's the last Saturday before test week," she repeated, idly flipping through the text on the impact of dance on Ninjagoan culture. "I don't really have a lot of time to do anything, not if I want to pass any of my classes."
M. looked surprised. "You're going to try and pass those tests? You haven't even been in class for half the semester, it feels like."
"I know. My tutor-based dance classes are not going to let me get away with it. But the ones where I sit in a desk and listen to someone drone on and on are test-based rather than performance based, so there's a chance I won't have to relive those boring hours all over again."
He smiled. However, as Amber studied him, she realized that something was eating at the youngest Openheimer.
"Are you alright?" she asked, and he shoved his hands in his pockets.
"Can we talk?"
Amber raised an eyebrow. Was he finally going to tell her what had been gnawing at him for the past few weeks? She closed her textbook and nodded.
"Sure. Here?"
"Mmmm…" He looked around at the other studying students who were already giving them the evil eye for talking. "Maybe somewhere else."
"Alright. Meet you outside on the lawn in ten minutes," she offered, hefting her textbooks up as she stood. "I just need to put these away."
He nodded, and they left the library. Ten minutes later, Amber walked out into the lawn and frowned. It was raining; seemed like this wasn't the best place to meet either.
"Amber!"
She looked over at M waving from a bench. It was positioned under a large willow tree, and seemed to be a relatively dry place in the sprinkling rain. She headed over and took a seat next to him. He had gotten even taller, she realized suddenly. He needed to slow down before it became hard for them to even dance with each other.
"So…are you finally going to tell me what's been on your mind?" she asked, getting straight to the point.
He looked over at her and finally laughed. "You know, it's hard being friends with someone who can read minds. You know that?"
"For the last time, M…I can't read minds. I can just read feelings, and something's been bothering you. What's up?"
He was staring out at the lawn, and for a few minutes there was just the sound of rain falling on leaves and grass. "I just wasn't sure how to tell you," he finally admitted. "I didn't want it to make it so we couldn't enjoy the last few weeks."
Here Amber frowned. "The last few weeks of what?"
M. sighed and looked over to meet her eye at last. "You know my Grandfather's back, yeah?"
"Sure…he came back a few weeks ago," she tried cautiously. She was worried; did Marty III still not like her? She hadn't actually had a chance to talk to him in person, and she realized suddenly that the last conversation she had with the elderly Openheimer was about how if she missed any more school she would be kicked out of the program. Maybe he didn't approve of her being back. Maybe…
"So he's been talking with my Dad a lot lately. Trying to figure out what to do with me, after the whole Mom fiasco and that embarrassing bit where I ran off and nearly got myself killed."
M. winced and Amber's brow furrowed. "Figure out…what to do with you? What do you mean?"
"I still think if Dad had his way, I'd be forced to go to school these next couple years, graduate, and then immediately start training to take over for him someday. But me running away finally made him realize that I'm not really going to do that. I overheard Gramps tell him that if he keeps forcing me down that path then they might end up losing me forever. Which…I dunno. I don't really want to be lost. But I know I don't want to take over for my father either…stuck in these school walls for the rest of my life."
Amber wasn't really sure what to say, because she didn't really know where her friend was going with all of this.
"Ok…" she finally tried, and M. rubbed his neck.
"So Gramps came up with this solution. His last tour turned out to be a lot more successful than he expected, though some of that honestly was probably because the school was getting lots of publicity since it was tied into everything my Mom was doing. I guess the rally that the Piano put together really touched a few hearts there at the end of Gramp's trip. In fact, it was so successful that he's already planning another one—but rather than a month, this one's going to last two years and he's going to travel all over the realm rather than just hitting a few of the bigger towns."
Amber started to have a sinking sensation, though her mind hadn't really put together what her feelings were starting to understand. "That's a long time," she tried softly. "You'll probably miss him."
He turned to face her, and she could feel his guilt. "Actually, Amber…he asked me to go with him."
It hit hard, even though some part of her had already guessed as much. "Two years?" she blurted; it was the first thing she could think of to say.
"Yeah." M was steeling himself for her reaction, she realized. Was he expecting her to freak out? Be angry? She was angry, but less about the fact that he was leaving and more because he didn't feel like telling her till now.
"When would you leave?" she asked, her tone still surprisingly calm.
"Um….the beginning of summer."
The calm shattered. "M!" she snapped. "That's basically next week! You waited until you only had a week left to tell me you're going to leave for two years?"
"I'm sorry!" he cut in immediately; he had his apology ready. "I just…I didn't want us to be depressed for the last few weeks of school. And I wasn't even sure if I was going to do it. I know my father doesn't want me to…"
"He'll never let you take two years off of school," Amber agreed, the thought actually bringing some relief. Which in turn made her feel guilty. "He's not going to let you go, is he?"
M. fiddled with his sleeve. "He actually said I could. His one condition is that I come and graduate afterward. Even if I don't end up taking over for him, he wants me to graduate."
Amber sat in shocked silence. That morning her biggest worry had been a final examination in Rallies and Routines; the variation in dance forms. Now she was being faced with saying goodbye to her best friend.
"What would you even do on a tour?" she asked quietly. M. cleared his throat.
"Um…some dancing, a lot of schmoozing. It's a way of getting donors and benefactors for the school. But Gramps wanted me to come so I could go out and experience the world. He's convinced that I ran away because I don't know what I want to do and I didn't like feeling trapped—which, is probably close to the truth in all honesty. He said that we're going to explore all the different places in Ninjago. I'll be able to see all the different kinds of occupations up close in every town and remote village and that maybe after the two years are up, I'll know what I want to do with my life. I think he and my father are afraid that I'll end up running away again. This is kind of their way of letting me run away…with supervision."
Amber sat in silence, hugging herself. She could tell from his feelings that M. was feeling guilty about not telling her…but that he was also excited. Eager about this new trip. She wanted to be happy for him, because she knew that this opportunity was maybe just what her friend needed. But she also couldn't help still feeling bitter and angry.
"Things were finally going well again…back in routine," she complained. "And now you're going to leave and mess it all up."
"You're still going to get to dance," M. offered quickly. "My father said you're still welcome to attend the school, whether I'm there or not."
She glared at the scuffs on her shoes. "Gee, that's comforting," she snapped, and M. sighed.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I knew you'd be mad."
He was sad now, and it made Amber squirm with guilt. She looked over at him.
"I'm not…mad," she tried, and he gave her a disbelieving glance. She rushed to explain. "I'm not. Well, I mean you really could have told me sooner. Mainly I'm just upset because…I'm going to miss you." Suddenly she wanted to cry, but she forced the feeling down. M. always got awkward when people cried in front of him, and as annoyed as she was, she didn't really want to make him feel worse. "Are you going to come back and visit sometimes?" she tried, and M sighed.
"I don't think so," he murmured honestly. "It's not going to be as simple as popping back home. I'm going to be all over the realm—Gramps said there are a lot of places that don't even have phone service."
"So, I just won't see you for two years? Or ever talk to you?"
He shook his head quickly, and she watched as her sandy-haired friend pulled something from his pocket. "Nah…just because we can't talk on the phone doesn't mean we can't write each other."
Amber stared as he smoothed out a wrinkled envelope before handing it to her sheepishly.
"I figured we could just do snail mail…like you do with your Grandpa Lou."
She didn't know what to say, and he reddened.
"Unless you don't really want to. I mean, we don't have to…"
Amber snatched the letter from his hand, her eyes flashing. "I'll definitely be writing you," she snapped, "But you had better write back, Openheimer. Or I'll…I'll…"
"You'll what?" he demanded, though he seemed relieved that she had agreed to be his pen pal.
"Or I'll transport all over this realm until I find you," she threatened, her eyes going down to the envelope. It had her name written on it in M's scratchy handwriting, and her throat tightened at the small doodle of a poppy that he had drawn next to it.
"I thought you could only transport to places you've been before," he teased. "Plus, the council won't appreciate you doing that. They'll sic Paul on you."
"No, diplomatic immunity, you nut job. They can't touch me. And speaking of Paul, you best hope that I don't sic him on you. I'm still convinced that he's part bloodhound; he'll hunt you down so I don't even have to waste the energy."
They both seemed to enjoy the teasing, using it as a means to keep their more poignant feelings at bay. Amber cleared her throat as she fiddled with the corner of the envelope.
"You're just lucky that I don't bring him to school anymore," she continued quietly. "Or I'd tell Paul to keep you from leaving."
"Mmmm….that sounds like an abuse of power," M. chided, but his smile was fading as well. Amber felt a few raindrops hit her face, and she winced as one landed on the envelope. She wiped at it quickly and then put the letter in her vest so that it wouldn't get any wetter.
"Which day are you leaving, specifically?" she finally asked, looking over at her friend.
"Sunday. We're catching a train that afternoon. You should come see me off…you could even bring the Piano or the other instruments, if you want."
She smiled, though her eyes were starting to water now.
"Careful," she warned. "If you invite them, they're going to send you off with some overly complicated Goodbye Symphony…"
"Nah, the Cello would never let them name it that. He'd give it some fancy nonsense title like The Cloudy Sky of Blind Stars…or something like that."
Amber laughed, in part because that title was nonsense, and in part because she actually could see David naming a song that. She was grateful that M. had made her laugh; it helped keep the tears at bay for a few more minutes.
"So…are you free Saturday?" she tried, before her emotions could threaten to spill out again. He shook his head, which made her heart fall.
"Dad made me promise to schedule the whole day for him," he admitted. "I…I think me leaving has been hard on him. He's been doing this thing where he's acting like he's really happy for me and fine with it…and it's weirding me out. We've already gone out to eat like three times this week…which is three more times than I can remember going out with him for the last few years. We even went and saw a movie…"
"He's going to miss you," Amber realized. She had never liked M's father, but she did know that he cared about his son. Even if he went about it all wrong ninety percent of the time.
"I guess."
M. was feeling guilty again, and Amber bit her lip as her friend stared at his shoes. She bumped his shoulder with hers. "Hey, if he's letting you go, it's because he trusts you," she offered. "He'll be alright."
"It's just…I never really thought he cared about me. I just thought he cared about the Openheimer legacy. But I think you're right…I think he's dreading me leaving, and not just because it means I'm turning my back on the legacy."
His lip was quivering now, though he turned away as if to hide it from her. As if she couldn't tell what he was feeling anyways.
"I'm not used to knowing he cares," he finally offered softly.
"You should write him too."
M. looked back over at her, and Amber gave him a shaky smile.
"That's what my Dad did with his father. I think your dad would really appreciate hearing from you. And it would help him know that you don't hate him."
M's expression twisted. "What do you mean?"
Amber kicked her legs; the rain was coming down harder now. "My Grandpa Lou was worried about that for a while, when he found out that my Dad had lied and had been on the run for all those years. He thought that my Dad hated him…or at very least, was afraid of him. Mainly Dad was just worried about hurting him. I think if you wrote your Dad a lot, it would give him the chance to write back. Who knows? Maybe you guys will grow to know each other better apart than you did while you were together."
M. looked a little skeptical, but he was at least considering it.
"I guess I could write him," he finally said. "It wouldn't really hurt anything. Besides, it would help me remember to write you."
She slugged him. "You better not have to remember to write me," she chided. "Writing me should be the first thing you want to do every day!"
"I'm not writing you every day!" he complained, holding his hands up. "Are you kidding? I can't even bother brushing my hair that often! I'll write you once a month at best."
"Once a week," she challenged, and he smiled.
"Twice a month. Final offer."
She huffed, but she was smiling as she considered it. "Fine. But that means that you'll only get two letters from me a month too…"
"Please. You're going to be writing me every couple of minutes. Dear M…eating my cereal and thinking of you, because you aren't here to balance your spoon on your nose like an idiot, even though I secretly actually found that skill to be both impressive and adorable. Dear M…my new dance partner is a bumbling fool with two left feet and will never be able to compete with your graceful, perfect technique. Whatever will I do without you?"
"Oh, you sure think highly of yourself!" she chided. "Not everything in the world revolves around you, you know."
"Sure. I mean, you probably won't think of me when you're hanging out with the Instruments all day. Except you probably will…Dear M…it's been so lonely without you here to mock the instruments and say everything that I'm secretly thinking in my head…"
She punched him again, and he laughed as he rubbed his arm.
"Geez!"
"So, your Saturday is booked," she recalled. "That means that I get to commandeer your Friday."
"Oh, now who's thinking highly of themselves?" he argued. "What makes you think you can just have an entire day with me all to yourself?"
"Um, it's the Best Friend Code," she retorted. "I get an entire day to myself anytime said best friend decides to leave for two years. In fact, I should get a bonus day since you waited so long to tell me!"
He was still smiling, but the sadness was creeping back in, as much as they both were trying to ignore it.
"I can give you Friday," he said honestly. "So, be thinking of what you want to do."
"You mean, besides having Paul lock you in some remote tower so you can't actually leave?" she challenged, and he whistled low.
"Careful, Oni-girl. For someone who's adamant that your life isn't a fairy-tale, you hit close to the mark sometimes."
"Only teasing," she huffed, shivering as the wind began to pick back up. She remembered his letter suddenly as she heard it crinkle inside her vest and she looked over. "Can I read the letter?"
He shrugged, trying to be more nonchalant about it than she knew he felt. "I mean, that's kind of the point of giving you a letter: so you will read it…"
"I meant right now, stupid," she responded, rolling her eyes. M. glanced at his watch and winced.
"We should probably head back inside," he said. "You can read it if you want, though it will probably only be a little less boring than your textbooks. I actually have to go; my father's taking me to some ballet in town."
M. shook his head as they both stood.
"He doesn't even like ballet…I don't even like ballet. He's been so weird."
"He just wants to spend time with you, before you go," Amber reminded softly. She couldn't really blame Marty IV for that. M. shrugged as he looked up at the clouds
"Yeah. It's coming down pretty hard; we're going to have to make a run for it."
So they did. After some slipping and splashing, and a few empty threats near some mud puddles, they finally arrived back at the school. The stood in the doorway for a few moments— just a couple of panting, giggling, dripping teens who both didn't feel like thinking about the week looming before them.
27
