Devil and Candlemaker
"Everyone knows about heroes, adventurers, nobles; people that matter. No one remembers the name of those shunned, or their descendants. Especially when their crimes were severe enough to sell them to Melromarc's enemies. Don't worry, though. Master has only one directive for me: serve the Shield Hero, kill any that wish him harm." F/F romance, slavery, dark themes.
All warnings placed in chapter 1 are in place for the duration of the story. I won't bog this down by placing anything more than chapter-specific warnings here.
First Arc—Everything is political, you need only ascertain the angle
Chapter Nineteen—Sorrow C Lyght
8-8
Highness's meditation garden is beset with Shadows. Nervousness of my proximity to her, perhaps? Curious as to who I truly am? They should know I'm no danger to any that bares not their fangs.
The slushing of water from one of fountain's tiers to another is all the noise that greets me just now. I've shown Highness the job notice, explained why I think she's behind it, and made clear my stance on it. Hmm, perhaps that's why the Shadows think me apt to lash out? My staff rolls slightly out of the way, lain against the gilded bench and out of reach, to set the Shadows more at ease.
Withering flowers dot the tree, though the leaves are green and lush as ever. Clouds grow thin, sky a startling, almost strained blue. Summer starts soon, I should think. A shame. I rather enjoy spring.
"I would not suggest such a thing." Highness looks troubled. "I'd hoped you pregnant by now. Why would I want you fighting dragons when I want grandchildren more?"
Hmm. That leaves some unsettling options. All strings I currently perceive lead back to Rabier, the Church, or both.
"Lord Van Reichnott wouldn't knowingly set you up. Not only isn't he the type, he's approached me with hopes of facilitating a more amicable relation between you."
There's that, but I wrote him off as a threat because of my reaction to Lord Seaette's murder—surely Lady Seaette would have informed him of how I guard her and hers just now.
"That one, however…"
8-8
Lyraynna stuffs her staff into filolial's sheath and draws her sword to inspect it. Grin carefully loads another filolial's pouch with bombs, his grin bordering on manic.
Bry flicks her fans open, slashes the air, flicks them closed, throttles the air with makeshift batons, tosses flicked-open fans to either side of her and catches them on the return, only to repeat the cycle again. Her glare is hard as diamond and sharp as steel.
Ginad pets his two-headed dogs in turn, scratching behind one of each head's ears. Damned things are taller than he is, but the wagging tail shows they know who the alpha is. I'm unsure how to feel about six level forty-five monsters in my manor, but I was there when the slave trader applied the monster-crests—the advanced crests, to boot. No, these are boons for our cause, for our war.
Archer fills his filolial's quivers with prepared arrows, though I can't make out which types just now. Hope keeps bringing her husband more throwing darts by the pouch and arrows by the quiver, offering all the support she can—given no one even considers allowing her along for this, I can understand her desire to do something, anything.
Zaan scrapes a sharpening rod across spear-blade, his glare assuring a slow, painful death. Not that the mutterings of heads on pikes help the image any.
Tayrend and the seven shadows with him rush about. They stock their pouches with throwing daggers, an assortment of bombs, sharpen their twin daggers, and oil their twin fans. They fasten the straps on their black Light Metal weave suits and the plates to match mine. They polish their Light Metal masks, uncaring for who sees their face just now. They work extra throwing daggers into their bandoleers. All this, while sneering at nothing in particular. I'll just assume they prepare for the bloodiest of wars.
Even First Consort and her party refuse to sit this out. Facing a dragon emperor or no, she has wagons stocked with potions and arrows and bombs and projectiles and spare weapons and rations and ingredients for stew and medical kit. She has archers, mages, healers, and guards lined up and grouped according to their designation. Éclair even addresses Lt. Hearth, ordering that the manor go into lockdown until our return, and to double the guard.
She's a blundering oaf in the face of politics, but there's no denying we're stronger with her as a general.
"General Éclair." The courtyard goes silent. My party smiles, knowing just what I mean to say—though that's nothing compared to the sunshiny glow of First Consort as the troops stand a little straighter. "Prepare a fourth wagon as a mobile hospital. Have our healers stationed there under proper guard."
"At once!" Éclair snaps to attention and raps her balled gauntlet against her breastplate. She turns to the healers. They no longer all wear the healer's robes. If anything, the pantsuits look far more armoured and combat ready. "Lt. Mederi. You'll be in charge of the medic wagon. See to it."
"At once, General." The man snaps to attention and raps his balled white glove against his sternum. He runs over to the other healers, showing off the cyan crest on his armour's back. In short order, a fourth wagon is rolled out, also bearing my House crest. Orders are barked this way and that, getting things prepared post-haste.
"You eight," Éclair beckons to four shield knights, two snipers, and two shield mages, "will guard that wagon and all within with your lives. Anything that gets close is to be reduced to ash."
"Yes, General!" The eight selected present themselves to her, snap off a salute, and rush to the assigned wagon. But Éclair isn't done; she orders the shield knights to the four corners, one mage to either side, one sniper at the front with the driver, and the last to the rear.
"Get those snipers a barrel of arrows!" Éclair barks out. Without missing a beat, two empty barrels are loaded to the front and rear of the wagon, and are loaded with stocked quivers of arrows. "And I want the same guard detail for the other wagons! Stat!"
Yes, this will work.
8-8
We Quick Travel to Lurolana, the closest location I have to Rabier's capital. The place is a ghost town. Construction sites halted, bricks stacked and ready to place, cauldrons hanging from long out fires to prepare mortar.
There's only the crying of gulls and whinging of rusty signs swaying in the wind now. Even my compound and workshop are left unguarded.
"What happened here?" Éclair asks, tears in her eyes she refuses to let fall.
"With your father gone, the people don't feel safe." I look around, my heart heavy at the sight. "I house them in Lute." A temporary measure, hopefully. I nudge Chandelier to head south, towards our destination.
"Move out!" Éclair gets the greater party on our way. Not the mad dash I'm used to, rather a steady, rhythmic march to war. Gulls circle overhead, including Tallow, keeping everything from horizon to horizon under constant surveillance. Wolves scout about, checking everything tree and shadow our airborne eyes mark as worth investigating.
The marching order isn't free from Éclair's hand. Heavily armoured mounts march to the front and back of the column, as first lines of defence and to set the pace. Éclair's party is behind the medic wagon, with my party before it, to ensure a swift defence for our most valuable resource. And the other troops are grouped between the other wagons.
Éclair even arranged for three extra, and mostly empty, wagons, arranged with lavatories and seating for when the uninjured are ordered to rest—so we can keep moving. Honestly, I think they're more for loot on the return trip, but the troops take turns seeing to their needs without slowing the column.
We've even war-bards along for the ride. Their flamboyant capes, proudly displaying my crest, flap wildly in the morning breeze. Their drums rapping out a steady beat to march to, while flutes whistle a catchy tune in unison, to spare the troops the monotony of the march.
What I find most amusing, however, are the flags hoisted from every wagon, and the armoured flag-bearers. As if the maroon canvas emblazoned with my cyan crest wasn't enough. Éclair has one spearman holding a long rectangular banner, pointed at the lower end, and strung from a spear-tipped pike nestled into every party, with two mounts at the front and rear also bearing our banner.
A small army, to be sure, at just over a hundred souls. But this company of mine survived a Wave. Let's see what Lord Rabier has to say once his scouts report our approach. Tayrend's party should arrive before the news, after all.
8-8
Tayrend: "Rabier laughs. He insults your army, claiming you stand no chance against his. Apt to allow you into the town." Arrogant to the very end.
Me: "Keep me posted."
Port Town looms atop its perch, overlooking the shallow sea. The large gates are closed, of course, but more curious is the lack of a drawbridge as additional defence. He's the perfect setup for it, but seems overconfident he won't need it.
The town itself seems quite affluent. Smooth stone buildings tower over the low outer walls. Thousands of glass windows gleam with mid-afternoon sun. The faint cries of a busy market place obvious even at this distance.
They see us coming, know they mean to war with us, and don't bother to safeguard the citizenry?
Our column approaches the gate and slows to a stop. Chandelier trots forward.
"Ah, Duchess Lyght." Curious, that I'd be addressed as such. "Duke Rabier is expecting you. OPEN THE GATE!"
The gates groan open, allowing us in without so much as confirming our identities. The streets bustle with the usual goings-on. Markets full of traders flogging their wares. Servants purchasing today's rations, carting ever-filling baskets as they go. The citizens eye us, curious, but pay us no mind beyond that. What's more, six soldiers, including a red-feathered lieutenant, guide us to the central square, outside their lord's manor.
A square centred on a pearly white monolith, engraved with magical script. Looks fairly old, but I can't make out its use or purpose.
Me: "What's that for?"
Bry: "A barrier of some sort, but I'd unfamiliar with that style of enchantment. Old magic. Headmistress might know more."
Rabier himself is there to greet us; he's no army at his back, yet the cocky, self-satisfied smirk doesn't leave his features. Arms hang loose at his sides as he bows, curt to boot. His back is to the monolith, facing us without a shred of fear. Come, worm. Dig your grave.
"Lord Rabier." My voice carries through the square. Every curious pair of ears, of eyes, take in the scene from the safety of their windows. "I've accepted a job to hunt this dragon of yours. Where might we find it?"
"Of course, Duchess Lyght. We were most pleased to hear you accepted." Rabier looks to his manor, as if to send the signal. The door claps open and Father Trent walks out, followed by four monks leading bound prisoners our way, two to each side, holding their ropes taut as if they're rabid animals. Father Trent sports his usual, unflappable smile. The monks bear only the warmest of smiles as they regard us, but the prisoners are hooded to mask their identities.
Uh huh. The bait he means to dangle, to get me to dance to his will.
Me: "Identity of the prisoners?"
Tayrend: "Uncertain. They've been hooded since our arrival. Unfed for days."
One boy, one girl, look to be Human, young, perhaps early or even pre-teens. Chests are bare, showing slave-crests.
If this is going where I think it's going, this town will be a slaughter.
"Duchess Lyght." Rabier motions to the slaves. "As a show of good faith, I've arranged a fitting reward, should you best the dragon." The monks remove the hoods. Green fuzz to show they haven't shaven recently. His left eye is scarred like mine. Hers are unscarred. Both stare ahead, their pink eyes lifeless.
Me: "Ready for battle. The boy is Crayn, the girl is Stellar. They are my children. Act accordingly." There isn't a soul under my command just now that doesn't receive the message, nor is there one that isn't standing just a little straighter or glaring a little harder.
"And they are…?" Go on. Admit you know what you do here.
"Slaves I've acquired from King Siltvelt. He assures me they are the children of the spy he sent to Melromarc. Tell me, Duchess Lyght. You wouldn't happen to know them, would you?" Political games? Really?
"You sent a notice to hunt a dragon, Lord Rabier." My smile remains firmly in place even as I dismount, leaving my staff in Chandelier's sheath. I approach the rotund man, stopping just outside of his personal space as I curtsey to show respect. He'll not have reason to cast blame where he pleases, not unless my babies are threatened—in which case, I simply won't care. "How does one relate to the other?"
"It's quite simple really." Rabier grins, as if he's already won. "If these are your children," Crayn and Stellar's eyes snap into focus, zooming in on me, on my scar, "then you're a spy sent by Melromarc's enemies."
"Are you admitting you lured my army here under false pretences?"
"Not at all. There is a dragon. A most ancient beast trapped by my ancestor, a Spear Hero of ages passed." Clever. But not nearly enough.
"A trapped dragon needs not be slain, lest it first be released, Lord Rabier. Would it be fair to assume you've summoned me here for another purpose? Doing the bidding of King Siltvelt, say?"
"How dare you!" Rabier sneers, glaring with a wrath unlike any I've ever seen. He reaches into his ruffled blouse, digging out a silver pendant of the Three Heroes Church. "I do God's work and God's alone!"
"Then kindly inform me how I factor in." I get only an enraged scowl. He can't say it, not with those he knows will be watching this exchange. Yet he has no dragon to point to. "Very well. General Éclair! Get our people back to Lute."
The medic wagon is the first to blink out, then our supply wagons. The empty wagons soon follow. Our troops, one party at a time, blink out on at a time, ordered by levels from lowest to highest, leaving Port Town. Each time, Rabier's scowl deepens, sweat building to show his chance slips through his fingers.
I monitor my Quick Travel, the constant soft blue.
"Execute the slaves!" Father Trent makes the fatal error. Blue snaps to an angry red, my status menu fades from sight.
The monks drop in a spray of blood, dead, throwing daggers piercing the backs of their necks. Crayn and Stellar fade into the shadows before any can even respond.
A march of armoured boots, hundreds strong, fills the square, blocking off all escapes—in their opinion. A headcount shows only Éclair's and my parties remain, with our mounts and familiars.
Yet, we do not bare steel. Not yet. The Church is the current aggressor. I need Rabier as well.
"How dare you! Filthy whore!" Still only words? Rabier, your grave is dug. Kindly lie in it. "Attacking men of the cloth is a sin against God herself!"
"They ordered the execution of my scions, knowing full-well who they are. They incite war without fail." I don't even bother with the accent. No point, and I really don't care just now. "The only question, Duke Rabier, is how you fit in all this."
Tayrend: "Lord Crayn and Lady Stellar are away. Your company waits just beyond the horizon, as ordered."
Me: "Mind the suicide attempts. I will sort them out on arrival."
"So you admit you're a spy!" King Aultcray, King Siltvelt. I care not whose bidding he does.
"I will offer one chance, Duke Rabier." I flick my forearms, taking my fans into my grips. "Produce this dragon you hired me to slay. Or I charge you as co-conspirator and declare open warfare on you, your region, and your people."
"KILL H…er."
Rabier doesn't even finish the syllable; his blood sprays the smooth stone of his street, his monolith. He drops, bisected at the waist. My fans spin around, painting the cobblestone streets cherry red before returning to me mostly cleaned. I still cast the cleaning spell on them, to be sure.
"Soldiers!" I raise an open fan to draw all attention to me. "I will speak once! Lay down your arms, here and now, and only one life will be taken this day!"
Rabier's archers nock their arrows, faces sweaty and red.
"If you refuse! I will slaughter you all! And enslave your citizens!"
"FUCK YOU!" An arrow is fired right at me.
Mirror-Stance Rondo: Reflection.
Arrow strikes my open fan, and is returned with interest, piercing the archer's breastplate and felling him, and the three behind him. It's what you get for using a bodkin arrowhead.
First Consort: "Phase Two. Go!"
Bombs are sent skyward, exploding high in the air to send the citizens into a panic. Shutters clap closed, the streets quickly empty—leaving the soldiers to their fates. Some soldiers flee, but most pile into the clearing to adhere to their lord's final, if incomplete, order.
Archer shoots a single arrow up to the sky, calling down his Meteor Rain. Everything outside of mine and Éclair's parties personal bubbles is nailed to the floor.
Muttering. Shit.
I turn, a moment too late, as the handless top half of Idol Rabier, offers one final hoorah. The monolith's script glows.
"God…will surely…reward me…for killing…the devil's…whore."
Even in death, a coward like him grins. Note to self: decapitate enemies before they pull something like this.
Monolith's glow spikes.
Earth rumbles.
Quick Travel remains red; no escape other than to flee. That means forfeiting the plunder, the slaves, and every life I just so carefully saved. Worth it? Hmm. Let's see how dangerous this monster is.
Lightning arcs up from the pillar, striking the sky. Stonework around it cracks and collapses.
A flash of light, too bright.
Where the monolith stood, now is only a wingless dragon. Armoured blue scale hide, spikes sticking up from its spine, razor sharp teeth each longer than my hand and some longer than my forearm. Bipedal. Longer than it is tall, yet three storeys tall just the same. Long tail, for balance I presume. Looks slow and tanky.
Scans reveal its level; ninety-five. HP is well over ninety-thousand.
"Eagle Piercing Shot!" Archer fires a glowing arrow right into the dragon's chest. An armour piercing shot, bypassing its defences. It takes out a solid eighteen-hundred HP, but the total bar barely moves.
"Dagger Barrage!" Thousands of daggers rain down, ramming into it from snout to tail
"Acid Rain!" Bry and her battle-mages conjure a mini storm that dissolves its armour.
It lets loose a cry that curdles my blood and charges right for me. Oh, fuck me.
Rupture-Stance Rondo: Tortoise Shell Cracker.
As right fan strikes left, the shot tears into the dragon. It barely fazes it, taking fifteen-hundred HP—leaving a grand total of ninety-thousand and eight HP.
I dash to my left, grateful its massive red eyes keep on me, and its gaping maw wants me alone. It doesn't fall over for its attack, but it's slow to turn just the same. Ramming is likely its favoured style of attack—and it looks like it can topple buildings with it.
"Take to the roofs! Long range only!" Everyone backs up leaving me alone with the monster. Seeing as I'm small and quick, it'll have hell getting a good bite on me—though one bite will likely kill me outright.
Bombs rain down on the dragon, none costing it more than fifty HP.
"Eagle Piercing Shot!" Archer takes another crack, this time from the safety of a nearby rooftop.
"Dagger Barrage!" More ethereal daggers lambaste it.
Rupture-Stance Rondo: Tortoise Shell Cracker.
Its right eye explodes from my attack, costing it a meagre five-hundred HP, but it bleeds and lost that eye. Worth it.
Tail lashes out, sweeping everything around it. So swift, everything around it would have died. Thankfully, none of my people are near it. It still takes a chunk of a building, spilling its guts and the once regal furniture and artwork all over the streets and burying them under rubble and brickwork.
It turns back to me, its eye already healed, scales bubbling and re-growing in plain sight. A glow on its chest, deep purple, show there's more going on here. Scan reveals HP recovers quickly enough that we cannot let up until it's dead.
Me: "Send Shadows to gather potions and munitions. Prioritize arrows to Archer and potions to me as needed."
Tayrend: "Already on the return trip."
The dragon rushes the building with Archer and my mages.
Air Strike Fan Shield!
My shield is almost lost in the myriad of Air Strike Shields. The monster thrashes through all of them, but they take enough of the brunt that the building merely shakes.
I overcharge a Tortoise Shell Cracker, pouring all three-hundred and eighty-two of my SP into it. The concentrate beam of light slams into dragon's back, but doesn't pierce.
As I fish out and unstop a skill potion, I scan. That cost it eight-thousand HP, and its attention is once again centred on me and me alone. Stoppering and stowing the vial, I shiver with disgust at the taste.
"Here, lizard lizard." I beckon. It roars, charging for me once again.
8-8
"Acid Rain!" The armour dissolves in the downpour, leaving it vulnerable to the rain of arrows and daggers and bombs.
The dragon just shakes it off, its scales regrow quickly.
Rupture-Stance Rondo: Tortoise Shell Cracker.
The dragon slams its tail into another building—dislodging a chunk of it despite the wall of shields we put in its way. One brick flies my way, I parry, slip on another brick from the last round, and fall.
Scanning. Three-hundred HP. I fire off another Tortoise Shell Cracker, killing it.
For the tenth goddamned time, the Exp doesn't filter in. Chandelier and the filolials pounce on it, tear into it.
Dragon shudders, AGAIN! Only this time, I pay close attention. That gem in its chest glows, the scales regrow. Scanning shows it back at forty-five-thousand thrice-damned grandmother's-tit-sucking HP.
A-FUCKING-GAIN!
8-8
"Acid Rain!" The armour dissolves in the downpour, leaving it vulnerable to the rain of arrows and daggers and bombs.
The dragon just shakes it off, its scales regrow quickly.
Rupture-Stance Rondo: Tortoise Shell Cracker.
The dragon slams its tail into another building—dislodging a chunk of it despite the wall of shields we put in its way. One brick flies my way, I parry, slip on another brick from the last round, and fall.
Do these things just have no goddamned limits?!
I get up and keep at it. I'm unsure how many hundreds of shots it's taken, just that the sun is now low on the horizon. Yet, bombs rain down on the thing, whittling away at its regeneration, while Bry, Grin, Archer and I take slivers of its HP at a time.
Scanning, our dinner is finally under five-thousand HP—AGAIN. With the dragon once again focused on me, another party of shield knights swoop in to the building behind it, sifting through the rubble for any survivors. They find a woman shielding her children with her now broken body—they lug the lot of them out of there, the last giving the sign they should be the last of them.
I've got fifty SP, and eight MP after that overcharged Shadow Hand. I rap the back of my fan against my breastplate, burping quite loudly—bile gurgles up, almost to the point of vomiting. Yeah. Can't take another potion. Shit.
The advantage is that I've cast Tortoise Shell Cracker so damnably often that the SP cost is lower than my SP recovery—and currently at mastery level one-ninety-two.
Yet, the fucking thing just won't roll over and die.
"ONE MORE TRY!" I get nothing but resigned nods from my people as chanting starts up. "As source of thy power, I command thee. Decipher the laws of nature and bring forth a servant from the abyss. Shadow Hand!"
Shadows envelop my hand and shoot out, holding my steak dinner in place one more time, just as it starts building momentum to charge me once again. Slowing it just enough for Acid Rain to dissolve its back's armour for a hail of ethereal daggers to pincushion it.
The last SP I have, I pour into one last all out, fuck-it attack.
Rupture-Stance Rondo: Tortoise Shell Cracker.
The dragon rears back, dazed. The scales bubble, already trying to regrow.
"Chandelier! DEVOUR!" Every filolial rushes forth, pouncing on the stunned shit. Where once were blue scales, I now only see an explosion of feathers as beaks rip into it.
A pained cry. The whiney little shite finally succumbs to fear as dozens of filolials tear into its weakened frame. More cries, it thrashes about, tossing our fowls every which way, but there's blood. Their fur is covered in dragon blood, and they fucking like it.
Without needing the encouragement, they all keep piling on, pecking at the holes they make.
I walk…limp…I limp over to the now hysterical dragon, desperate to get the birds it would step on any other time off it.
"Let me see it." Another step closer, Chandelier and her flock are in an absolute feeding frenzy by now, eagerly tearing through the armour that's beaver-damned us all fucking day. With a hole properly formed the lot of them push into the crevasse, into the body of the dragon itself, gorging on their hard-won treat. "Show me that fear. Show me you fucking understand you're about to die you dried up shite."
Its eyes don't disappoint. Fear shines through, at long last, as half-hearted scratches and shudders try to shake off what it can.
None of our fowls even notice.
I just keep fucking limping over. One step at a time.
But even with our gorgeous birds eating it faster than it can regenerate, the Exp doesn't come. Part of me fears it'll shake it off again. That it's playing possum again. That life will flicker back into its eyes again and it'll mysteriously regain more than half its goddamned HP.
I limp passed its snout, keeping a damned close eye on it. There's barely enough kick left to show it's afraid.
At its neck, I slash it open with my fan. Blood pours out, engulfs me. Don't give a fuck. I just keep hacking and slashing away, tearing through bone and scales alike. Until I finally see it. That glowing thing.
Fan slashes through organs the shite no doubt needs, until I reach where the heart would probably be. Only, there's no heart. Only a gemstone thick as my forearm. I slash at the tissue connected to it, ripping it out one slash at a time. Until at last, ninety-thousand Exp floods in all at once and the gem gives way.
I grab the damned thing, careful not to let it touch anything around me, and limp the fuck right back out.
"Mama's coming."
Away from the damned lizard shite, away from the remnants of battle as my flock kwee and chirp and summon all the town's filolials to help clean the mess up.
"Mistress!" Lyraynna runs towards me, eyes wide with emotions I don't want to decode.
I shove the gem into her hands and limp passed her.
"Mama's…coming."
"Mistress! You shouldn't—"
"Mama's coming." I shake my head, limping. They're so close. So close. I can't not see them again, not this time.
"Mistress! Your leg is broken!"
I just keep limping along.
A noise, a cry. Words I can't make out, happy and scared and elated and worried and so many things at once. Green hair, little more than fuzz on their heads. Pink eyes full of tears.
"Mama!"
I fall to my knees and my babies tackle me to the ground, as eager to hold me as I them. For the first time in…eternities…I hold my babies. I press tearstained kisses to their sweaty and filthy brows, caring for nothing more than feeling them in my arms again.
"Don't eh…ever…leave my…my arms…again."
Crayn and Stellar nod against my breasts, no doubt saying something back.
Darkness comes swiftly, and I welcome it.
8-8
Mistress nods, pleased with me as she holds my baby, my Crayn. She says things, wise things, but all I care to hear is his disgruntled murmurs. Naval string just barely cut, I bleed profusely after a difficult delivery. I care not.
I'm handed my baby as the midwife shoves her whole fist inside me. I care not.
Crayn cries. Little hands balled around his thumbs, eyes squinted shut. Little head shakes, makes a seeking motion. He latches on, for the first time. It hurts, though more a dull thrum against the background noise of nearly bleeding out.
My fingertip slips down his bloodied body, tiny, frail. Covered in my blood, not his. Yet all my heart cares for is how he grabs my bloodied fingertip, how he holds onto me, how he needs me.
My Crayn. My baby.
Mine.
"Crayn!" I jerk up, covered in sweat. The room is dark, there's not one here. No.
No. It can't have been a dream, it can't! I refuse to accept that! I found them!
"CRAYN!" Desperation seeps into my tone as I toss off the sheets and collapse onto the floor. Where are they? Where are my babies? "STELLAR! CRAYN!"
Footsteps. A door opens. Someone comes, a man. No. No!
"Candy, calm down!" Arms reach, hands take me.
"No! CRAYN! STELLAR! WHERE ARE MY BABIES! WHAT'D—"
Two more footsteps, quieter this time. There they are.
In the doorway. Caryn comes, motioning that other person to step away.
"Mama. You need to calm down. You're still in bad shape you know."
I shake my head, uncaring about that, beckoning for him.
"Uh uh." He shakes his head, no. "First let him help you into bed. Then you can take all the time in the world to cuddle. Okay?"
I swim in my own head, the world lurches side to side like some kind of demonic possession.
"You won't leave me?"
"No, mama. We won't leave you. Ever."
I nod. I don't care about anything beyond that.
Arms grab every part of me, hoist me up. I'm carried somewhere, but I only care that I hold Crayn's hand. So much bigger than I remember, so much stronger. He holds me as desperately as I him as I'm lain against something—or on it?
A warm body snuggles in beside me, against me. Another soon joins—Stellar.
"Mama seepy?" A tiny little thing crawls atop me, pink eyes peering into me. I nod, hoping that's answer enough. I press a dry kiss to each of their brows, an arm around my babies, and theirs around each other. "Nuna seepy."
"Alright, Nuna. How about we take a nap together?" Stellar presses a kiss against my cheek, against my ear, and lets me hear the goofy-happy smile as she asks, "All four of us? Together?"
I nod. Together. My babies and me. Together. Yes, this I like.
8-8
Days blur together. Not that I mind, too much.
"No, more like," I correct Stellar's grip on her battle fan, nudging her index finger slightly further away from the others to loosen her grip somewhat, "that. It's not like a hammer grip. It should be kept loose, dynamic."
I've awoken at the strangest hours. Sometimes with daylight, sometimes without. But always with either Stellar or Crayn nearby. I've not been allowed out of bed, again. Another blood curse to complicate healing. But I'm allowed to train—more importantly, I'm allowed to train my babies, so they can grow strong.
"Try it now." I motion for her to swing it. My baby, my gorgeous Stellar, snaps the fan open and snaps it closed and snaps it open and snaps it closed. Over and over and over again until her jerky motions smoothen and grow fluid. "Better. Now, what's the acceptable distance between you and someone you're not on friendly terms with?"
"Two of their paces. Larger people therefore need more space. When in doubt, step away, not toward." Stellar snaps the fan for a hard block, and relaxes her grip again. She snaps it for a hard block, and relaxes her grip again. "I still don't understand why, though."
"It allows everyone the room, and therefore time, to react, should someone attempt to attack. If anyone comes too close to you, you're allowed, by law, to assume they mean to kill you. Therefore, you're permitted to kill them before they try. Don't forget that."
Eyes widen with newfound knowledge as her irises dart to and fro to sort that away. She nods. "Thank you."
I nod, a pleased noise seeping from my vocal cords. "You've been practicing your reading? Writing?"
"Unn." Stellar nods, smiling a little unsure smile—still unused to this new life she finds herself in, I suppose. I can hardly blame her, given I struggle to get used to having my babies again. Grateful as I am, it's…confusing. I want to hold them and never let go, but at the same time I want to train them into the ground so that not even rampaging dragons have a chance to harm them. "Ms Hope is a demanding teacher. If it's not perfect, she makes me write it ten more times."
I breathe easier. I have the people; they can help me train my babies, just as I will help train theirs.
"Mama?" Stellar can't seem to look at me just now. Hmm. Yes, I can just imagine what she wants to ask.
"Unn."
"Why didn't you tell anyone about us?"
Sigh. It was going to come up eventually. "I'm not sure you want to hear the real reason, baby. But, if you want the truth, just nod."
She thinks for a moment, just flicking her fan open and closed. She nods.
"I found Master. His whole compound. You remember how he likes to move around a lot, right?"
She nods.
"I didn't think I'd even find him. Find any of you. But I did. Do you want to know what happened?"
She flicks her fan open, and closed, open, and closed. She nods.
"I killed him. I killed Mistress. And I killed Little Miss. So the crest had no one to inherit the slaves. Do you know how your aunts and uncle and grandma reacted?"
Tears well up in her eyes, but she flicks her fan open, and closed. She nods.
"I thought you and your brother did the same. So I…" Tears well up, flowing freely down my cheeks. "I tried to move on best I could. I ended up falling in love. Getting married. And then Éclair betrayed me, and I…I just couldn't anymore. I just…"
"I'm sorry."
"No." I pull her closer to me, lay her head against my chest and just…just sit here, in bed with my leg still very much in a cast. Even with a manor full of healers, between another blood curse and continuing to fight for hours in that condition…?
"It's all my fault, if I didn't break that cup, Master wouldn't have…"
"Baby, you listen to me." Even as her tears shatter my heart, the ability to comfort my baby again…it…sigh. "You did nothing wrong. There was no logical reason for him to sell you. It was all about his ambitions, not me. Do you understand?"
She shakes her head, no.
Sigh. How to even begin explaining any of this? I push her back, gentle to show she doesn't have to move if she doesn't want to. She pulls back just the same, her pink eyes teary, begging for me to tell her she matters, that she has a value not counted in coppers and silvers.
"There wasn't a day that went by I didn't cry myself to sleep. That I didn't want to tuck you and Crayn in. To tell you the tale of Princess Luna." I lean in and kiss her brow and her cheek and blow a raspberry in her neck to tease that musical half-shriek half-giggle. As I pull back, her little smile fades, the yearning growing in its stead. "You mean everything to me, Stellar. Everything. You, and Crayn, and Luna. And in time?" I lay my hand on my tummy and look down. As I look back up at her, he nods to show she understands, even as she cries a little—though she tries to hide it with that little unsure smile of hers.
"Are," Stellar looks away, biting her lip, "you going to tell people about us now?"
"Not with these injuries." I laugh a little, but she doesn't seem to appreciate my humour just now. I capture her chin with just my fingertip, nudging oh so gently for her not to look away. Her eyes don't hide any of the fears life taught her are all too possible. "I'm never letting you or your brother out of my life again, Stellar. Never. Even when you marry, I want you both here. With me. Okay?"
She nods, tears cascading down—hers and mine. She lunges for me, her head slamming against my chest and winding me a little; I didn't expect it, but I won't say it's unwelcome.
So I lie down properly, let her lie with me. Let her listen to the beating of my heart—the same heart I so often wished would stop.
"I'll make you a deal."
"Hmm?"
My fingers work themselves over her gentle fuzz, scratching her scalp like I used to, when the fresh shave would irritate her and make her miserable. "I'll promise to be completely open with you, even if the answer will hurt. If you promise to do the same. Okay?"
"Does," my nighty moistens, so I make a soft sussing noise to soothe her troubles, "that mean I…can ask anything?"
"It does. I won't promise it won't hurt. But I will explain it best I can. Is that fair?"
"Are you going to marry me off to your new friends?"
I snort, bothered that this life would even allow such a fear to be reasonable. "No. Not for all the gold."
"I can…choose who I marry?"
"Well. Mostly?" I tilt my head this way and that, wondering how to word this. "I can't promise they'll say yes, of course. But as long as you're happy and you stay close to me, I won't mind. Unless they treat you poorly. I will kill them if it comes to that."
Stellar shivers, her breathy laugh eroding these long, long years without her and her brother. "What if I ask you to forgive Ms Éclair?"
My fingers keep preening and coddling, but my mind trips over the very concept. Second chances. Hmm. Almost like this second chance I have with my babies. "If you can give me a logical reason for it, I will have no reason to deny you."
"How many people would have died in that place without her plan?"
Sigh. "I've been wondering that myself, to be honest." Sigh. "Alright. Fair point. But in exchange, I need you and Crayn to do something for me."
"Hmm?"
"Never be afraid to talk to me about things. I swear on everything, I will never give you a reason to fear I'll be cruel to you. To either of you. Alright?"
"Unn." Stellar breathes a sigh, all the tension in her uncoiling—gone, like the morning dew. "I love you, mama."
"I," I kiss her brow over and over and over, and pull her up to kiss her cheeks and her nose as well, "love you. I've always loved you, baby. And I always will. No matter what."
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End Chapter Nineteen
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End Arc One
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A/N: There you have it. Arc One comes to a close. And a litle more of our Candlemaker comes to the fore. I guess you'll have to wait and see what the next Arc will be. ^_^
And no. The dragon drop hasn't been dealt with. Nor have...things, other than Idol Rabier. I wonder why...?