A/N: Hey, y'all. Told you I wasn't ditching you. This bit is just testing my balance between hyper-detailed and montage writing. Apparently i'm not especially good at montage so. . . more scenes.
It'll get exciting again in a bit, don't worry. I told y'all this sidequest was super steeped in mythology, but since it's not exactly mainstream mythology, I feel like I need to set the pieces and characters a bit. But I expect in another two? chapters it'll pick up plenty.
Guest: ehehehehe. I actually hate nightmares as a trope. But it made an irritating amount of sense to add them in as a bleeding through or weak point between the entities. But slight/not? spoiler: the nightmares are more of an irritation than an issue. I figure she's had these for twenty years, you get used to anything-even horrors. So I smatter in when she has an especially bad one because it messes with rest/performance, but otherwise it's not a pity point. It'll get fleshed out a bit in a scene later.
Thanks for keeping up with me through my non-canon writing, I know it can be a bit tough for people who are really just here for characters/story lines they already know. But I appreciate you being here for me to play with these characters. And, yes, we'll earn the M-rating on this story, just. . . not yet. ;)
As always, please fave/review/send carrier pigeon/smoke signals.
Laxus managed to rein in his sadism the next morning and kept the training limited to meditation. Talia had stolen a blue cushion from somewhere in the house and plopped herself on top of it—back straight against the wall behind her. Thoughts darted around and plunked between her ears, echoing within her skull. But slowly she lulled them down and was able to wander her way back to the willow.
They both seemed happier in Blackthorne. To Talia's surprise, Morrigan was swinging her legs like a child off her perch. The Old One's laughter crackled like a hearth fire a few branches below. Talia smiled and sat in the grass. Home suited them.
"A storm will blow through this evening." Morrigan's voice was a contented hum. "Though I have come to enjoy the thunder of that False Dragon."
"Truth or not is relative," admonished the Old One, a twinkle in her eye and walking stick wound up somewhere in the tree. Even the leaves seemed to shiver as part of the conversation.
"Are you two. . . gossiping?" Talia's brows crinkled in a funny way on her forehead. Something between hilarity and disbelief creasing her skin.
Morrigan waived her off with a half-hearted attempt of a scoff. "Live a few thousand years and you'll find entertainment in the brevity of life as well."
This was not the meditation conversation she was expecting today. But for everything Talia had been through in the past week and a half. . . the oddity was welcome.
"Little One—who was that tinker from so long ago? The one with the quick little eye and shop of trinkets—"
"Haedan?" Talia wasn't sure if the name was an answer or a question to mirror the Old One's. "I was thirteen." Her eyebrow raised. "And I'm pretty sure he was old enough to be my father."
The tinker and toymaker of Bradford, Haedan had been kind to Talia on one of her first solo jobs. But it was nothing like the Old One's soft sigh belied.
"Age and time flitter about. Such a nuisance. Five Years, fifty years, five hundred years. Dragons were here tomorrow and gone yesterday. Silly little black-eyed boys who play with pockets. Doors and dance and drums." Her ramblings devolved when she was cheery. The nonsense that used to frighten Talia as a child had morphed into a comfortable diversion.
"You could have had that crush mage, girl. Now there would be a prize." Morrigan's smile flashed with predatory swiftness.
Talia didn't know whether to laugh or heave. "Gildarts?" she squawked, "You like Gildarts?" Morrigan's purr of contentment was her only answer, and it sent Talia into a bout of giggles. "He is definitely old enough to be my father."
Morrigan licked her lips. "But that magic. And those shoulders. They don't make men like that anymore."
"What, prone to cracking a town in half because he tripped over his own shoelaces?"
Morrigan waived her off again. But now Talia was interested.
"You like power," she mused. "War God likes a warrior. That makes sense." An odd tickle at the back of her mind had Talia scrunching her brows together. A memory? A story? A piece of a dream? She followed the translucent thread back, back into her head.
Somewhere around her, she heard Morrigan respond, but she couldn't make sense of the words. They were talking in the wrong language. One she knew, but now she didn't. It didn't twist enough, wasn't rough and rolling enough. . .
Sharp green eyes danced across her mind. A curling red beard. Impossibly large chest and arms that could break the world in their crushing grip. Warm, strong hands along the bare skin of her back. A laugh that rolled like thunder across the plains. . .
"Child, where have—"
"Who was he?"
The Old One didn't finish her question. Talia's eyes were shut, still trying to follow that dancing thread. It was so delicate, she didn't dare grasp it, just drifted her fingers down the shimmer, following back and back and back—
"Dagda."
The name brought the face into focus: proud nose, broad forehead, and wide mouth that was formed specifically to smile. He had the warmest and heartiest laugh that Talia had ever heard. It vibrated her ribs and warmth grew in her chest.
"Dagda," Morrigan repeated. Her voice had settled. The tamber of a great happiness cut short.
Talia opened her eyes, and found soft reflection on Morrigan's lovely face.
"He was my husband."
They may share a mind and soul, but Talia had never seen Morrigan so open. So trusting, so vulnerable, and so. . . human.
"I lost him in the Fomorian War; long ago." Her voice had turned soft as a sea breeze.
"I thought gods didn't die?"
"They don't," a weary sigh. "But they can choose not to walk the world."
And that may as well have been the same thing for one who chose to walk for thousands of years, hundreds of lifetimes. Every time one of her Tithes died, she returned to the realm of the Gods, and she cried until her body burned for her lost child. But she always returned to the mortal realm. A cruel joke—to love life so fiercely that she was willing to watch it fade. Again. And again. And again. And then still be willing to start all over.
Sometimes, the age of her companions bewildered Talia. How many times had they died? How many times had they been shattered from the inside out? All the power that they wielded. . . certainly there must be another way for them to stay corporeal. But they chose to take a Tithe. A ritual, once as common as marriage. An offering of a vessel to a god. A human hope of blessing—that, if chosen, the child would live a life of respect and wonder. She had asked them, once, why they chose her. When she had run out of tears and her lungs stumbled through breaths. The Old One had answered her in her dreams that night: Because you were right.
She hadn't felt right that night, or most of the nights since. But here, under the willow, warm and safe in Blackthorne, listening to Morrigan and the Old One chittering happily. . . this felt right. Learning about their incalculable lives. Sharing in their memories.
He had come to her, Morrigan said, while she was bathing in the river. They were both new gods then, young and quick to fall into the burning trap of emotion. And fall they did. They tumbled together for days and nights, until years died and were reborn, a union of life and death on a cosmic scale.
She told them of the battles he fought, the tales he wove with that harp of his. Talia felt the warmth spread through her chest, those heady emotions addictive through their binding. It surprised Talia how quickly she slipped down into the feeling—it was so bright, so warm—she wanted to drown in it. Deeper and deeper she followed the well of happiness.
But something changed as she followed it down. Dagda's green eyes shifted to an unflinching grey. A chiseled jaw, shoulders broad enough to shake a mountain. But this wasn't the warmth she had felt—no, this burned. Talia tried to pull back, away from whatever, whomever, this was. But the burning held her fast and scorched her veins with anger. Jealousy and scorn latched into her with needle-pointed talons; she choked on the acidity. There was no up, there was no down, there was no path forward—she was utterly, utterly lost.
A strong arm wound around her waist and pulled her from the depths, she sputtered as her eyes frantically snapped open. She was still in her meditation, still under the willow. But somehow she had sunk into the soil beneath the massive tree, and the gnarled roots wound around her; twisting and pulling and grasping for all they could.
"Child, can you hear us?" The Old One's voice was threadbare, worry slipping through the seams. Silver and Black eyes looked over Talia as the roots slowly unwrapped her. She put a palm to her temple and tried to blink understanding into the jumbled mess of her thoughts.
"There was. . . I was so desperate. . ." Talia rubbed her chest and winced as her body still recoiled, "That . . . jealousy. It burned." She looked to Morrigan who did not meet her eye, but instead stared off past the willow. "You wanted someone. But he didn't want you back. A mortal."
"Half-mortal," Morrigan corrected, her voice terse. "But yes. I wanted him so badly my blood boiled." Her slender fingers clenched and unfurled. "Sétanta, he was born. Cú Chulainn, he died. The greatest warrior of ages long since lost. I was obsessive in my pursuit of him, but he would not have me. My longing turned vindictive. Our arguments bled into clan conflict." A pale hand wandered up to her right eye, "He blinded me, and in my venom I cursed him."
"We were young then," soothed the Old One to her sister. "We still ached after Dagda's death, and then came this young hero—bold and strong and feeling so familiar—"
"It was a foolish infatuation," Morrigan snapped, cutting off the Old One's attempt of verbal balm. But her voice turned quiet again, like she still felt the shame all these centuries later. "It was a mistake." She took a sharp breath and straightened her shoulders from where they had slumped, every inch returning to the queen she was. "He died in battle, as he was always meant to. And his wife never again had to feel the weight of his lashes."
Pieces and timelines clicked together in Talia's mind, but she said nothing. This was far more personal than Morrigan had ever been, and she didn't want to burn through her favor.
"You should return to the world, child," prodded the Old One gently, "Go, embrace your kin. Train with your team. We will be here to guide you when needed." Talia rose from the soft earth. "Mind the storm this evening, it should pass quickly but it will howl. The stars will return for you tomorrow."
Only Laxus, Talia, and Freed made the journey to the farm that afternoon. Evergreen demanded time to herself for a bath, and Bickslow went back to Mrs. McCreary's inn to explore the strange town and people that now surrounded them.
The gravel path crunched under their boots, and the darkening clouds on the horizon spoke truth to the Old One's warnings. The sound of waves lapping at the shore grew slowly. They saw the little farm long before arriving—the flat, stark land gave no shelter save within the swaying grasses and wheat. It was simple, just as the town had been: a modest farm house, a stone cabin set aside from the main structure, and a haphazard set of lean-tos and barns within a precarious-looking fence.
"Saints preserve us, that fence needs work," Talia grumbled as the dereliction came into more immediate scrutiny.
A chorus of barking dogs fumbled down the few front stairs of the open front door. Three of them, the group could see once they settled into a proper run toward the intruders. Talia gave a sharp, high whistle that brought the dogs into a sliding halt, ears cocking inquisitively. Another whistle, just as sharp as the first but descending in tone, flew from between Talia's teeth, and the dogs obediently trotted to them one after the other, taking a wide arc to the right of the road.
"I always forget how smart working dogs can be," mused Freed as the black and white fluffy dogs trotted up to Talia, tongues lolling.
"Hey there, little ones," Talia smiled and squatted before the dogs. They sniffed her curiously, but their white-tipped tails soon began to wag. One jumped forward to lick her face and she laughed. "They were still puppies last time I was here," her hands dragged over their soft fur, "Niamh clearly trained them well. She has a knack for it."
She stood, and the dogs wandered over to Laxus and Freed, noses sniffing curiously. They continued toward the house, four-legged escorts devotedly trotting at their heels.
"Angus! Argo! Ailie!" a woman's voice snapped from inside the door, and the dogs jumped forward toward her call. A figure came into the open doorway of the house; tall and slim, her long brown braid wound over one shoulder as she dusted her hands sharply against a dirty apron. Her hands stilled when she saw the group. She jolted down the stairs.
"I thought McCreary was playin' me 'fer a fool when she said you came back," her voice was sharp, but a startled smile made it way to her face before she closed the distance to Talia and wrapped the redhead in a hug. "But, Saints preserve us, here ye' stand." She took a step back and looked over the group. "Come, Ma will want to see ye. And I trust you'll be wantin' to get back to town before that storm screams through."
Niamh was a hard woman, direct and discerning in her words and judgement as any woman who lived this far from town had to be. She was the one to till the soil, she sheared the massive sheep of the farm single-handedly. She was a testament to independence and perseverance at the edge of society. It also meant she had little patience for small talk.
She leaned against the counter as Talia placed the clafoutis on the table at the center of the kitchen. Baskets of shucked and unshucked peas sat atop it, and a third basket of empty shells sat on the floor next to the wooden chair that had clearly been disturbed when the dogs had launched out the door. Naimh crossed her arms.
"So what happened?"
Freed winced at her bluntness and one corner of Laxus's mouth tilted up for a brief moment. Talia sighed. She introduced her companions and updated her cousin with an even, calculated recountment. If Niamh was startled by the mention of a dragon or mysterious magic that froze time, she didn't show it. She stood quietly though the tale, asking few pointed questions as needed. Freed was impressed by how she took everything in, those sharp green eyes analyzing. He had seen similar looks in Talia during challenging fights—trying to piece all her information together to see what could be wielded and how.
Naimh was quiet a moment after her final question, but sighed softly and turned to a small orb that sat on a pedestal above the fridge.
"Not hearing from you for so long was the last piece of my argument for the communications lacrima. She finally gave in after a year. I wrote yer guild, asking for a way to contact ya, but the letter was returned, unopened. Said I had the wrong address." Her eye was harsh as she studied Talia, "I guess that was about the time ye said the guild had ta move. Didn't make things any easier." Her eyes shifted to a door down the hall, but hardened further when they returned to her cousin. "She was worried sick, Talia. We prayed to the Old Gods for your safety, but after a few years, I think she resigned to having lost you, too."
Talia winced slightly. Orla was her mother's only sister, and they were the only family she had left. Of course Orla would have mourned her. The recognition hurt.
"These seven years. . . it's only been a week and a half for us," Laxus added, his voice gruff. He could feel the weight of her gaze shift to him.
"Laxus, the lightning mage, right?" He nodded. "I've heard of your exploits, and I haven't decided yet how they weigh against the stories Talia has told me," her voice was cold and flat, brutal. "But I'd suggest not shoving yer'self into family matters."
Freed saw Laxus's jaw clench as he bit back his retort.
"If I may," Freed started, knowing full well he was about to become Naimh's new target, "Talia came as soon as she could. She was prepared to walk the week to get here. Throwing knives at a clock won't stop time, and this line of conversation will not change what has passed—"
The soft creaking of an old door cut him off. From the hallway, a soft voice called for Naimh. One of the dogs trotted over to the small woman as she hobbled her way down the hallway and into the light of the kitchen.
"Talia?" the old woman's voice shook. Talia's eyes shone with tears as she closed the distance between them and wrapped her aunt in a gentle hug. Naimh pulled out a chair at the table for her mother.
"You two should talk, catch up," Naimh said curtly before turning to Laxus and Freed. "I've got a few tasks I could use some spare hands for, come." She motioned for them to follow her, and they did, leaving Talia and Orla to speak and wade through the tumultuous waters of time that separated them.
Niamh put them both to work. Laxus got a crash course in mending fences, while Freed examined the water pipes to the outer barn to see if he could see why the water had been losing pressure. Over an hour passed before Talia walked out of the house, dogs on her heels. Freed and Niamh were somewhere in the back barn, so she went to where Laxus was replacing the lower slats of a fence, the curious sheep threatening to make a break for it every time the board dipped low. He was plenty strong, but clearly didn't have the repetition of the task in his limbs yet. Talia silently asked for the hammer and nails with an outstretched hand. He gratefully gave them to her from where he knelt in the dirt, and held the board against the post, waiting for her to fasten the two together. She shooed him off.
She slid her heel under the board and used it to balance the slat. Her back to the fence, she took a nail and efficiently tapped it into place before going to the other side of the slat and evening out the other side with another nail. Both sides even, she added two more nails to each for extra security.
"I've been trying to figure out how to get that even for half an hour."
"Took me a week to figure out. I think Niamh just liked to watch me struggle with it. Not much else for entertainment out here, anyway."
"She's not exactly warm and fuzzy," his voice was dry and flat. Talia shook her head.
"She's taken care of Aunt Orla and run this farm since she was 15. She didn't really have the opportunity to become cuddly."
"A hard life doesn't negate the need for basic kindness."
"She's plenty kind," Talia corrected, moving to another slat, "she's just very picky on who she bothers to extend it to. Her kind of efficiency is what has kept them both comfortable here." More quick taps of the hammer. "Aunt Orla asked me to check the nets—want to come brave the water with me?"
Laxus looked over his clothing—black slacks and a tank top seemed like a poor choice for any real work, but that's what washing machines were for. He agreed and they set off toward the shore.
The gentle sound of the sea crept up from between the wheat blades, but Laxus couldn't see any beach. It was just land and suddenly sea, as if the earth itself had taken on Naimh's efficiency and thought a wide expanse of pale sand was superfluous. Just clean lines for a simple life.
But there was a beach—it just took a rocky, winding cliff-side path down to reach it. Talia saw his head turn about quizzically.
"This town wasn't always called Blackthorne," she said as they picked their way down. At least it wasn't icy like the last time she was there. She earned her fair share of bruises walking this path over the years. "When Fiore united the city-states into one kingdom, they changed the name." She looked back to him with a small, conspiratorial smile and extended her arm toward the cliffs in welcome. "This was Black Throne, one of the great pillars of Old Magic."
As their feet met the gently rolling sand of the beach, the true scale of the cliffs settled over Laxus. They weren't terribly high, maybe 40 feet, but the black stone cut the land with deadly precision before disappearing into the foaming dark water. And they extended farther than he could see in each direction—a black wall, towering over anything that dare approach from the sea. He could imagine the morning mist hanging over the tops of the cliffs and spilling down—a mercurial waterfall that never touched the rippling shallows.
He continued to stare in wonder as Talia pulled off her boots and waded into the water, hissing as the cold water cramped down on her calves.
"You know Bickslow's new attack—his Fyke formation?" she asked as her bare arms rummaged around the water by a sunken wood pillar. Laxus agreed absentmindedly. She pulled up a conical, woven trap from the lapping waves and inclined it toward him. A handful of crab and two small fish jostled within the cage. "Which one of you knew about this type of trap?"
"Freed," he answered, finally bringing his attention away from the cliffs and back to her as she trudged out of the shallows. Her jeans were soaked to the knees, and she threw the fyke trap onto the beach next to him as she went to check the other.
He carried one trap and her boots as they walked back up the black cliffs. Laxus couldn't recognize the stone—onyx, obsidian, something dark. It didn't matter. If their theory was correct, he wasn't surprised that the creature bound to Talia would be borne from a place like this. Cleaved out of the bedrock, a proud, silent protector. The Black Throne. It was a place half-forgotten, even in the myths.
"Why a throne?"
He thought she hesitated for a moment in her stride, as if the question brought up a memory she'd rather forget.
"These people have been here for. . . a long time," she mused, "Every few decades someone would pull together enough pieces to realize what it meant. There's no physical throne, just the cliffs. But people revered it because," she paused, "they believed it to be the home of a God." She repositioned the trap on her shoulder and carefully stepped around a particularly sharp stone on the path. "It brought all sorts to the town, looking for a fight, looking for glory. Hell, even dragons came. This whole area used to be wooded. Mrs. McCreary says dragonfire is why the soil is so poor."
"Dragons leveled the town?" He watched her shrug, but he was unconvinced.
"It was a long time ago," her voice sounded odd, shadowed. "The story goes that two dragons came. Burned everything and laughed with the flames. Whatever. . . whomever was here, fought them. Two dragons came. One barely limped away into the sky with shredded wings. But the town had been evacuated in time; the townspeople dropped everything and fled to the far cliffs." She shook her head and her voice cleared.
"That's a damn good guardian angel," Laxus responded, and watched her carefully. She looked. . . weary. Not physically, but he could feel it weighing her down. She nodded and gave a slight smile.
"I don't think that's how the dragons saw it."