DC20: Hurray for quality checks! Seeing as the chapters are really starting to stack up, I'm starting to think it's time to "iron" the chapters together, and while I'm at it improve the quality – perhaps even throw in additional guns for Chekov to have fun with. (Hurray for writing references.)
Cloner4000: Yeah, I've been busy. In fact, I've only had ten minutes here, fifteen minutes there – and I'm not talking a lot of these per day, I'm talking like this much per day. And I'm riding every minute of it as hard as I can… that didn't sound right.
Ominae: Oh, okay. Seeing as I probably won't be done before that comes out… time to start thinking of what my characters are going to be doing during this civil war…
And now for someone completely different… okay, not really, but someone who is supposed to be the cause of some drama in the near future…
******************************************************************************
"Hoi, Isara! Three days left, and you're still scrounging for scraps?"
The sound of the Fhiraldian's voice brought a smile to her voice. He was always too enthusiastic.
"Amand!" she greeted, quickly rising off of her knees to face him. "I haven't seen you for a few days." It was true – normally the rebellious son of a farmer was busy, as he put it, "being oppressed" by his family and put to work. Of course, seeing as there was little enough actual work to be done, he ended up running odd jobs for those involved with the festival preparations.
The man – although that was really a misnomer, as he couldn't have been more than a year older than Celes – took a step back, as if accused – awkwardly, he looked to the side and put a hand on the back of his head. "Err, well, it's not like I didn't want to come," he said, almost resolutely.
The scene brought back a not-so-distant memory. The first time they'd met had been when Isara had made her public announcement that she needed any and all metal goods. He'd ignorantly asked, "Just what do you need our stuff for, anyways?"
If it had been any other place, she'd have thought him a Darcsen-hater, but something about his attitude led her to another answer. Thus armed, she'd affixed him with a steely glare, and, cold as ice, answered, "Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I can produce things out of thin air."
Unable to come up with a rebuttal, he succumbed to flailing his arms around with indignation. There was no shortage of mirth in the crowd after that, and more than one villager had made some cry of being unable to handle a woman, and soon Amand's public humiliation was the talk of the village for days. It was fortunate that there was nothing malicious about the talk, but nevertheless, it seemed that Amand had never quite been so taken off guard by a girl before.
And so he had been a constant visitor to her ever since, appearing at their workshop and home at the most random of times, but always with hands free. Sometimes he'd simply been around to say hello, passing through with some box or barrel in tow to be delivered somewhere else, but more often than not he'd be empty-handed, ready to fill his arms with whatever she could give him.
It was almost pathetic, the way he tried to regain favor from her.
Regardless, it didn't mean she couldn't be kind to him. Giving him a benevolent smile, she wiped her hands on her coverall – guiltily savoring the lack of a bandage, as Celes had declared the burn to be sufficiently healed to benefit from outside air, although she knew most of that was the precious ragnaid he had splurged on her. Carefully taking a cloth and doing the same to her sweat-crusted brow. She'd been attaching yesterday's wheels to a set of earlier fashioned rails – with a slight smile, she remembered Celes's indignant yelp at discovering that hot metal looked the same as cold, and the subsequent complaining. The point had been to see if the crude constructions could still nevertheless cruise along the guides well enough to accomplish the forging. The answer was yes – but it was almost impossible to get them off and on with the deformities inherent with makeshift construction. The rails had simply been hammered out from old metal handles, and she doubted that they would hold any sort of real weight whatsoever.
She'd have to find something considerably more sturdy than what she had used for the mockup if she actually wanted to make the forge. Seeing as she did, she knew exactly what she was going to ask him.
"Actually, Amand, yes," she answered.
He looked taken aback. "Really?"
She gestured towards the arranged metal pieces on the ground. "You see these?"
As he turned his attention toward them, he walked over to beside her, hands behind his back. His focus seemed sincere – until he almost bumped into her.
Silently, she dodged away. Had she been any less attentive, it could have been extremely awkward.
As she hastily disguised the dodge by walking to the building's door, as if to grab a tool, she thought she saw a look of near-disappointment on his face. Absently, she wondered what it was about.
When she came back, the Fhiraldian was squatting beside the mockup, regarding it with a quizzical eye. "What is this," he asked with a tinge of humor in his voice, "some sort of railroad?"
"It's the structure of the drop forge I've been making all this time," she said flatly, unamused by his antics.
"Eh?" Gingerly, he reached out for a wheel – at her nod, he took it into his hand and rolled it up and down the rail. "What does this have to do with that?"
She resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. "Did you think that the huge weight would fall unguided and uncontrolled?"
Once again, he appeared taken off-guard. "Well… yes?" he offered sheepishly.
This time, she actually did roll her eyes. "That's called a compactor, not a forge – and besides, even those still have guiderails. You wouldn't want to drop such a heavy weight to bounce away and hurt someone, would you?"
He wrinkled his brow, apparently deep in thought. Slowly, he began, "I suppose not –"
She'd had enough of his incompetency. "Forget it," she sighed. "Just lend me a hand here, will you?"
He jumped up a little too eagerly at that. "Of course!" he piped, almost like an eager schoolboy.
Moving the makeshift rails back in proved to be much easier with two sets of hands, and, unlike in the morning, she hadn't even broken a sweat as the last of the four metal pieces made its way back underneath the roof.
"So, Isara, what are you planning to do during the festival?" he asked.
She leaned against the workbench casually, taking the question seriously. "Tell the truth," she said slowly, "I'm not sure." Embarrassedly, she realized that she really didn't know exactly what was going on. "Err, Amand, could you fill me in? You've lived here longer than I have."
His chest swelled out proudly as he launched into his explanation. "Well, the day always starts with the competitions."
She nodded. "Celes mentioned something about that, when Napa hurt himself –"
"Napa's down?" he interrupted, almost savagely.
She blinked. "Why, yes, he was moving a tree when he dislocated –"
"YES!"
As he pumped his fist and leapt about a meter into the air, Isara once again found it hard to suppress a sigh. "Amand, you know it's not good to celebrate the misfortune of others –"
"I don't care!"
"Amand." The single word dripped with all the disapproval she could load it with. It had its desired effect as the name's bearer immediately settled himself down as much as he could – which was to say he was shaking with glee instead of dancing with it.
"Do you realize what this means?" The statement escaped his lips in a whispered hush, as if letting slip one of the most sacred secrets known to mankind.
Isara, however, was not so impressed, confronting him with arms akimbo. "No, I don't. What?"
He patted his coarse shirt as if to compose himself, clearing his throat as he did so. "Napa's hogged this competition all to himself ever since –" He broke off, once again lost in thought. "Since I've been born, actually. He's always been the best…"
As Amand digressed into excited murmurings once more, Isara decided that it was no longer worth it to argue with him. Throwing up her hands in absolute disgust, she cast her eyes about for something extremely unpleasant to do.
He wouldn't refuse anything she asked of him. That was to be his downfall.
******************************************************************************
"Thank you, Amand, for being so helpful today!" she chimed as her subject sat – or more accurately, sprawled – himself at the table. The entire place was clean and organized now, no longer looking as if a tornado had come through and redecorated the building.
Isara hadn't been completely idle – she'd quickly fashioned fresh racks and trays out of the spare wood that had been both payment and assignment. Ironically, it had come from Napa about a week ago; she wondered what he would think if he knew that she was using it as a perfectly good excuse to persecute someone on his behalf.
"You… know I'm always willing… to help you," he panted. He raised a hand to wipe his brow – Isara almost let him finish the movement, but checked herself in time to throw a towel at him first. Said hands were smeared black with detritus from the inside of the furnace – she'd made him shovel out the accumulating ash as the last and most unpleasant task of them all.
Amand simply nodded with thanks as he caught the towel, cleaned his hands with it – and then wiped his face, streaking it black anyways. Isara could have wept for his idiocy, but instead pushed a small pitcher of water at him.
Ignoring the cups right beside him, he simply grabbed the large container and drank. Once again, Isara was struck dumb, too shocked to complain – and was even more flabbergasted when the pitcher came back down on the table upside down, completely empty.
All he had to say for himself was, "Would you mind getting me another?"
Two such containers later, he was done, body fully lax against the chair's back, eyes closed in fatigued bliss. The Darcsen only had enough composure to silently think to herself, postulating on how his internal organs hadn't exploded yet.
A minute passed. Squirming awkwardly in her seat, Isara wondered if Amand had fallen asleep. Eventually scrapping all the remaining politeness she had, she rose, taking up the pitcher once more – but this time to be washed, not filled.
As she opened the door to leave, though, the apparently lifeless body spoke.
"You know, I never told you about the rest of the festival," Amand's voice drawled, catching her in mid-step.
"… you're right," she hesitantly answered.
"After the competitions, the day gets progressively less busy. There's the exhibitions, of course –"
Isara nodded. "I knew that was happening, but exactly…" Sighing and turning back towards the still-facedown man, she turned her attention back, and finished her train of thought with a question. "Exactly what am I supposed to do?"
"Demonstrate. Talk. Generally participate is the name of the game, and don't be a naysayer. A lot of people will have some pretty weak attempts – but cheer them on, because that's how you'd want your audience to react."
She frowned. Celes's rant on faith came to mind. "I've… heard… that it is best to be honest even at the cost of happiness."
Amand suddenly sat up, affixing her with a suspicious eye. "Who told you that?"
Abandoning her goal of washing the pitcher, she quickly closed the distance to her chair, sitting back down in her previous seat. "Celes –"
The Fhiraldian's brown face suddenly collapsed into a blank look. Once upon a time, she might not have known how to interpret it – but Celes's discussions of medicine had taught her that such a look was often a reaction to news someone did not want to hear, such as a terminal illness or injury. "… Celes?" he finally said flatly. "Is Naru telling the truth that the two of you –"
"The two of us what, precisely?" She was on her guard – he only scoffed at her defensiveness.
"Do I need to spell it out for you?"
She thought for a while, examining their situation. "I suppose you could say that –"
"What?" he interrupted, almost accusing.
She backed off, eyes wide with surprise. "… let me finish." He complied, although his baleful glare spoke volumes. "… the two of us… have a strange relationship."
"… relationship, eh?" Still the voice was biting, and Isara wondered just what he intended with his line of questioning.
"It's not an intimate one… but I suppose you could call it one borne of familiarity." She coughed, doing her best to dodge his obvious animosity.
"You know that Celes and I arrived together, right?"
"Yes."
"We… have been through a lot together."
"Explain yourself, then."
"… he saved my life."
That got his attention. After taking a deep breath, he asked, "How?"
She decided against flashing the physical evidence – alone with a single male, it would easily be mistaken for something completely different. "I was shot by an Imperial sniper… here," she pointed, touching the wound above her heart, but below her shoulder.
His eyes widened. "There's an Imperial rifle in town in the armory –"
Armory? That was news to her.
"– that we don't use, ever. The wounds it makes are horrific, not meant for hunting… but for killing. It's useless for game – it blows them apart. And you lived?"
She nodded grimly. "It was all of his doing. He saved me, like I said."
The word "Imperial" suddenly manifested in Amand's mind, given the way his entire attitude shifted from amazement to skepticism in the blink of an eye. "But Celes is an Imperial. Why would one of his snipers shoot you, if you were under his care?" His eyes narrowed further. "And you're… Darcsen. I heard that the Imperials persecuted them beyond belief…"
"I am from Gallia."
The statement splashed through the last bits of Amand's calm like a grenade in a puddle.
"Wait, wait, wait, so you – he – war – I don't understand!"
She sighed. "This will be a long story…"
He caught himself before he flailed his arms once more, settling down in his chair again. "I've got time. I'll hear you out."
******************************************************************************
"And that's why he goes around in that chair and crutches of his," he confirmed.
She nodded, a move full of sad regret. "I… should have expected Celes to fail. Darcsens don't go travelling, after all – especially not singly, accompanied by single soldiers of the Imperial army."
He cocked his head at her. "You know, I always thought Celes looked a bit like a Darcsen himself."
"… really?" She shook her head. "No. I suppose we both have dark colored hair, but his is streaked with silver –"
"What's with that, anyway?"
"I've never asked," she replied, with the air of one cradling a live bombshell.
"… I suppose you've never asked about the lost eye either?"
"Supposedly, it was a grenade."
"What?"
"That was my reaction, but he's maintained the story."
His face arranged itself into an unhappy expression. "We've had gunpowder explosions before. Where are the burns?"
"… don't try asking him. He gets… touchy."
"You found that out about him, I suppose?"
"Yes." It was all the answer she needed to give him.
He sighed. "Are you leaving anything out?"
She thought again, dredging her memory for the events of that month – the pain, the suffering, the fear, everything. "No," she finally declared.
Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. "And yet…" He gave their sleeping quarters a loaded look, where two separate cots were clearly laid out. Close – but not that close.
All of sudden, every single little prior move of his came down in a cascade of realization, sending blood rushing to her extremities. "N-no. We haven't even, well,"
Amand's expression was one of surprised satisfaction. "Well, then, Isara, I'll let you finish asking me the questions you had in return for those stories."
She blinked. "Oh, I am silly," she admitted with a sheepish smile. "Go on, what happens after the exhibitions?"
"Dancing," he drawled, a glazed look coming into his eyes. "So much dancing. All the girls come out in their finest clothes, and their freest attitudes. It's the best time of the day."
The urge to slap him was barely suppressed. "And then?"
He snapped out of his stupor, embarrassedly glancing over her, as if only just realizing that she was a woman, too, and might not have appreciated the attitude he had had. "Err, then there's a last bonfire. But not everyone attends it – every one with enough energy goes off and –" He swallowed. "– continues dancing somewhere else."
She puffed out her cheeks in irritation. "I… don't have anything to wear for those dances," she admitted.
"Really? You're a –"
"Something fancy is not conducive to an escape through the Empire."
"Well…" Once again, he let his eyes do his talking by looking at the loom in the corner. Her two-thirds completed traditional shawl hung on it, as if begging to be completed.
"I can find someone to finish that for you."
She shook her head. "Thanks, but no thanks. You really don't know much about Darcsens, do you?"
"No…"
"There are only two people allowed to work on the pattern. Myself – and my spouse."
"Oh."
"Seeing as I really am in no position to become married to one of the girls here…"
"Yes, of course," he corrected himself hastily. "Anyways, I really should be going. I still want dinner, you know, and I wouldn't want to impose."
She frowned – had it really become that late? "It's okay, we have more than enough. Your peers are really quite generous –"
He shook his head, mirroring her earlier action. "I wouldn't want to stay here too long."
"Why not?"
"I just don't. Oh, and don't tell Celes I was here, alright?"
What? "Amand, how am I supposed to explain how all of this got done?"
"Has he noticed any of the past times?" he deftly riposted. "We wasted enough of the afternoon talking so that you could have done it yourself. You haven't told him about me, have you?"
She frowned. To tell the truth, she hadn't – not out of any sense of secrecy, but simply that the subject had never come up. "Well… alright," she reluctantly agreed.
"Alright! It's a promise!"
Well, that sealed her fate.
"I'll see you later, Isara!" he called as he exited – hastily, as if trying not to get caught along the way. "Finish that dress!"
She sighed. Yes, he really was too enthusiastic – dress?
Quickly, she walked over to the loom. Yes, if it was a shawl, she'd have to spend hours and hours on the pattern. But if she forewent that, used the cloth like that, and transferred the patterned area to there –
She could simply add some long lengths of white cloth, and she'd have a wonderful sleeveless over-dress with her pattern in to boot. And it wasn't as if she needed the shawl immediately, anyways.
Inspired, she sat down to work, mind already twenty steps ahead of her hands.
That was how she got things done.
******************************************************************************
I fired off a few of Chekov's guns, but something's occurred to me.
I REALLY want to fix some things in this story.
Now that I have a lot of "source" material, I'm seeing the full scope of the story as I want it. However, that also means adding a lot of other things before where I am to fill a few holes and strengthen the base.
After I finish the festival arc, before I go anywhere else, I want to do a re-write of everything I've done, fixing up places, deepening the Isara/Celes interaction, dropping weighty notes, explaining Celes's background further, etc. What sayeth the readers?!
REVIEW NOW.
