We knew Naesala was coming.
Too boring, these are filler chapters.
Sorry this is taking so long, I have problems with finishing stories.
~~ Chapter Six: Different Senses ~~
You had a to place a certain amount of trust in someone after they'd flown across a river (and most of an army) carrying you in their talons. Ranulf might not have always liked Tibarn, but he trusted the hawk king's judgment almost as much as Caneghis'.
It was just odd, he thought, that a lack of discretion on Tibarn's part could only hurt one person: Soren. Why the hell should Ranulf care? He watched, unable to answer that question, as the boy quietly explained his question to Tibarn.
Would the hawk know anything more than had Ranulf's own king? Privately, the cat doubted it. Stretching and yawning, he looked away, feeling both bored and nervous, as well as more than a little tired. It had been a long journey from Gallia to Serenes, fraught with bad weather, and Ranulf had spent most of it transformed, loping along next to a horse. At least that had kept the possibility of conversation to a minimum. Ranulf couldn't think of anything worse than a long, awkward silence with Soren.
With some amusement, he thought back to the confrontation in Gallia. Skrimir's crushed expression had been priceless, his features falling as he realized he had no information whatsoever to give his favorite little beorc. Caneghis hadn't known much more, either.
It hadn't seemed to surprise anyone (except Skrimir) that Soren wanted to know his own bloodline. Caneghis had shaken his head, looking a little regretful. "I can only tell you what I have observed in my own country. The true experts are, as you probably know, the Begnion nobles and priests in Sienne. Then, too, the birds are much more knowledgeable on this subject than I. The herons, especially, might be able to aid you simply by their intuitive nature."
When Soren brought up the subject of the brand skipping generations, Ranulf had left and distracted himself by speaking to the tactician's companions, the green-clad knight and the little girl. It seemed to be a completely impossible task, in Ranulf's eyes: the boy had no idea how old he even was, had no memory of his parents, and didn't even know if he was even a first-generation Branded. But Caneghis, true to his philanthropic nature, had suggested Soren go to Serenes.
And so Ranulf had ended up as Soren's companion on the road to Begnion, to the restored Serenes Forest. Skrimir had thought nothing of it, and in fact had grumpily complained that as king, he should have the great honor of such an escort.
But Caneghis had communicated, more through expression than words, his apology for the fact that the duty invariably fell to Ranulf, as the ranking laguz who was friendliest with both the bird tribes and, so far as such courtesies extended, Soren. Ranulf sensed that, like himself, the former lion king had an innate distaste for the whole affair, even as he sympathized with Soren's need to know his parentage.
There was a reason the laguz disliked and ignored the Branded. It was their scent. Wolves probably had the hardest time dealing with half-blood children, Ranulf thought, with their incredible sense of smell. But even the cats could recognize it.
To Ranulf, Branded children smelled familiar, as would an olfactory association with a long-forgotten memory of childhood. But they invariably smelled uncomfortably strange and unidentifiable, too, because of the beorc blood. Ranulf felt that he knew which race the little tactician's scent belonged to: but he'd be damned if he could put his finger on it. He figured that if the boy stood next to his birth parents it would be easy, but until then...
There was a noise of something crashing to the floor in the next room, startling him into a crouch. "Naesala!" came a sharp female voice, followed by a string of reprimands in the old tongue.
"Well, clumsy me," said another familiar voice, but mildly. "Hope this wasn't valuable."
Ranulf snorted aloud, despite himself. He'd forgotten that all the bird tribes lived in the same place now, ostensibly in peace and harmony. "What...?" said Naesala's voice, and the familiarly long, angular face emerged from around the corner. He recognized the cat and grinned guilelessly, coming through the doorway, shattered pieces of crockery in one hand. "Well, well, Leanne. What brings you to this part of the continent, Ranulf?"
"Trust me, you don't want to know," Ranulf answered warmly, standing straight. He remembered a time when he and most of the other laguz had hated the duplicitous raven. But in truth, the cat found Naesala quite likeable, especially since affairs between the bird tribes had been settled.
Leanne came into the room, glowing as usual like midday sunshine. "Ranulf!" she exclaimed, vexed expression vanishing at once into pure pleasure. The cat almost felt embarrassed as she unabashedly hugged him, as if he deserved such a greeting.
"Hello, Leanne." His eyes traveled to the scar on the raven's forehead, left there by his own claws. "But I guess I should offer congratulations while I'm here: I've heard that you finally had the children's naming ceremonies."
Naesala looked at once proud and somewhat sheepish, an expression that looked completely out of place on that normally arrogant face. Leanne merely smiled, looking sideways at her husband with wry eyes; Ranulf wanted to laugh at how much it made her look like Reyson. "Yes. We chose Maehdros and Lillia, nice family names," Naesala said. Then he squinted, looking into the adjoining chamber, at the hawk king. "Uh... call me crazy, but isn't that the Crimean army's erstwhile tactician talking to Tibarn?"
Ranulf couldn't help it: he rolled his eyes. "Yes. That's..." He scratched his chin, wondering if he should say it. "That's why I'm here, actually." He was beginning to wonder what on earth Tibarn could possibly have to say to the boy that was taking this long.
The raven eyed him, with a lazy grin. "Don't tell me you've up and joined the famous mercenaries, Ranulf. Or is the little half-dragon moving into Serenes with us?"
"Oh, Naesala," Leanne said, frowning and whacking her husband on the shoulder. "Be kind." The cat didn't understand what Naesala meant, and gaped at the two of them for a moment. When comprehension finally dawned, the shock was almost electric.
"He's a... he's part what?" Ranulf demanded. He wanted to know how Naesala had even known that Soren was one of the Branded. Most birds couldn't smell a dead animal at fifty paces, much less the difference between a half-blood and a beorc, and Ranulf had never seen a bird laguz do more than shiver in unconscious discomfort near a Branded.
Naesala just looked at him, his expression seeming to simply say, Duh. "Well he's not a raven, I know that much. And he's obviously not part cat, or you wouldn't be here. Besides that, look at the kid. Cut off that ponytail, and who does he look like?" The raven tapped his own forehead meaningfully.
Ranulf, shocked, looked back at Soren, who was still speaking with Tibarn. Cut off that ponytail... he tried to focus, and felt like he'd been slapped in the face when he realized what Naesala meant. It was probably the perpetual expression of darkly brooding misery, along with the voluminous tattered robes concealing the tactician's skinny figure, that disguised the truth. But Ranulf couldn't help but see it now: with that mark on his forehead, the same pointed chin and small features... the boy looked just like the young dragon king, Kurthnaga.
"Wow," he said, feeling somewhat dazed and very stupid. "Did you..." He looked at Leanne, whose clear green gaze was fixed upon Tibarn and his guest.
The raven snorted. "No, I don't have to. You really didn't guess that the moment you saw him? Geez." Then Naesala grinned, good-naturedly. "Look, I'm going to go clean up this mess before I cut my hands off with it. But nice seeing you again."
Ranulf managed to say something in the same manner, but he hardly noticed as the raven made his retreat. "Good-bye, Ranulf," Leanne said cheerfully, in the same lilting accent she always used when speaking the common tongue. "Please come by more often?"
"Okay, sure," Ranulf said, furious to find himself blushing. As Leanne left, her white dress floating just above the flagstones, he crossed his arms, unable to stop himself from staring across the room.
His attention must have been too obvious: almost at the same time, the hawk king and his diminutive companion paused and looked over. Ranulf felt his cheeks flame, and he sheepishly strolled to their side. It was probably only fifteen seconds, but it felt like forever.
"Er, any luck?" he asked, unsure how to broach the topic. Damn Naesala! Why hadn't he stuck around to explain it himself? It was just like him to bring down lightning and thunder, then vanish with a grin.
Tibarn just raised his brows and looked at him. "No, Ranulf, no luck," he said after a moment. "If you've got something to say, just say it."
Ranulf had to laugh. The hawk knew him too well. "I, er..." He looked at Soren, whose expression (as usual) wavered between distaste and complete indifference. How did you say something this obvious? Turning back to Tibarn, the cat hedged, "I could be wrong, and feel more than a bit stupid for not having noticed before, but... I think it would behoove Soren to pay the dragons a visit."
That had probably been rude, referring to the boy as if he weren't there. But, as always, Soren didn't seem capable of taking offense: in fact, he placidly raised one eyebrow and inquired, "Why?"
When Ranulf hesitated, Tibarn glanced down at the boy, his eyes sharp. Then, with a reaction of surprise so profound that Ranulf felt a little better, the hawk king started and exclaimed, "Well, I'll be damned."
Ranulf grinned. "Yeah, I didn't notice, either," he said, somewhat dryly. "Naesala just popped in and drew my attention to it."
Soren, unwilted despite double stares from the two laguz, said somewhat acidly, "Drew your attention to what? I suppose I shouldn't assume you mean my brand?"
"More your face, really," Tibarn explained, more kindly than Ranulf would have expected. "Obviously Naesala is better at recognizing family resemblances than we are. I would say you probably share some blood with the dragon king, Kurthnaga. Even your marks are similar."
An expression of disappointment flashed briefly over Soren's features: before vanishing into placidity, it made the boy almost look as if he were going to cry. Ranulf could only assume it was in contemplation of a journey to Goldoa. "Perhaps you're right." Then a different light entered Soren's dark eyes, and now Ranulf fancied it might be vague excitement.
The cat wondered if being half-dragon was an attractive concept to the tactician: any step closer to finding his heritage, no matter how small, was probably welcome. Besides that, the dragons were undoubtedly the most powerful of all laguz races. To go from an abandoned and somewhat frail little beorc, to a member of the dragon tribe... a powerful race, one the beorc left be. Ranulf thought even Soren could be excited about something like that.
"I will have an escort provided for you to Goldoa," Tibarn said, folding his arms again. Obviously he considered the subject closed. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend. It was good to see you again. Please stay as long as you like, I'll have a room made up for you."
With that, the hawk bowed his head briefly and left. Ranulf shifted awkwardly, wondering what to say. Tibarn was worse than Naesala: decide the matter and dump it in someone else's lap.
There had been no time for Ranulf to offer his own services as Soren's companion—not that he really wanted the job again, but it seemed rude to simply leave. They'd spent a miserable and mostly silent six weeks together: shouldn't he at least offer a "good luck" to the tactician?
The boy was still standing, absently staring at the door through which Tibarn had disappeared. "Um," Ranulf said faintly. "So, will you go back the same way we came, or try cutting through the Kauku Caves?"
Soren looked at him with a strange expression, at least half astonishment. Shit, Ranulf thought, wincing inwardly. Their trip through the Caves had been successful for only one reason: Soren had been telling Ike what to do at every turn, saving countless Gallian lives in the process. Ranulf was practically rubbing salt into a raw wound. "I mean, it would save time, and you already know which way to go..." he added hastily, floundering. "I would... you know... but I guess you'll already have someone with you." Oh shut up, he thought miserably.
"Thank you," Soren said, quite serenely. "I was grateful for a companion on my journey here, Ranulf, even if we didn't talk much. You were always someone Ike trusted, which should be enough for me. I hope you have a safe journey back to Gallia."
And just as abruptly as Tibarn and Naesala, the little tactician held out a hand in farewell—Ranulf shook it out of sheer instinct—and left the room, leaving the cat with his mouth open and his brain whirling.
He shook his head, walking from the room. It was bad enough to have Naesala waltz in and confuse him: now Soren was eloquent and polite. What a completely surreal day. Ranulf felt a need to find Janaff and talk inanities or spar until he could think straight again.