six_Betrayal
Black Star
\\
Medusa drums her fingers on the sides of her basket. "Until I convince Thane to accept the offer and then take the deer's head for himself, you must stop being so healthy."
If you're no longer bedridden, you'll have to leave the room and doubtless have your identity revealed, but you can't help being strong- it's what you do best. Your arm hardly aches at all anymore, and you've been picking at the scab on your face just so Thane has something to patch up in the evenings. "Don't you have something that'll make me sweat a little? Like a fever."
The woman scrutinizes you for a moment. "You assassins are so resistant to my regular poisons," she murmurs thoughtfully, which makes you pause and wonder when and how she's tested her concoctions on Star Clan. "How are you with scorpions?"
You blink. "What the hell is that? Some kind of horse?"
Medusa opens a tin filled with little waxy cubes of a somewhat disturbing rust color. "Chew on this," she says, handing you a bite-sized morsel, and the next thing you remember is Thane finding you in the garderobe hours later, your body a shivering, vomiting slop heap while you murmur nonsense to the waste chute.
While embarrassing, the poison does eventually fade by evening, and you remind yourself that you suffer through this disgrace for your independence. If you want to get out from under White Star's thumb, you need the Nightwalker's head to do it, and with Arachne having sent competition to Iron Town, your best bet is to stay put and make sure Mifune doesn't get the god before you do.
The thought of the Nightwalker inevitably reminds you of Tsubaki, and you blame the way your stomach twists on the after-effects of poisoning. Staring at the patched ceiling of Thane's room, you fear the Deer God's sister is bonded to you in a way that can't be undone- fear, because you can't find it in yourself to entirely want it undone. Her voice still rings in your ears, imparting a sensation you've never once felt on Death's Table. Even now you can feel the faintest tug on your heart from some dark part of Raskogr.
You're here to slay a god of the kindred, so why would his shadow save you? Just because you spared the life of that bratty lizard girl a few times?
...And why had you done that, anyway?
You're doing all sorts of things you normally wouldn't. Even though delaying Thane's inevitable murder is of no benefit to you or your mission, tonight you consider telling him Medusa is trying to kill him as he stirs in a nightmare that has him moaning about fire and brimstone.
You shut your eyes and try to ignore him. Some integral part of you has become unstable ever since you met that damned Eastlander. Maka shook something in you, making you waver during times you should only feel apathy. You roll over in the bed.
But then Thane very nearly screams awake at the table, bolting to his feet and knocking his chair to the floor. Alarmed, you prop yourself up on your hands, face pinching because there's a smell- something so commonplace to you that you hadn't realized it missing until just now, when it returns in whirling familiarity. It's the rich scent of kindred roasting on a spit, and Thane wheezes with every ragged breath as he yanks off his tunic and scrabbles madly at the bandage around his ribs.
It occurs to you that he is still half-asleep, because he's talking to the gauze like it's alive. "Let me go, let go, let go," he pleads, his splinted wrist doing little more than catching on loose threads and tangling everything. Outlined by the glowing fireplace, you see his body burning as he desperately tries to rip the wrappings from his smoking skin.
"Eibon's shit-" You're on your feet, struggling to help him unroll the blasted wrappings, though his frenzy makes the process harder than it should. He's hot the touch and, to make matters worse, the poultice has glued all the layers of gauze together. Given Medusa's adept use of poison, you think you probably shouldn't be touching it-
Actually, you shouldn't be helping this man at all.
"Gods damn you, Thane," you growl, knocking his maps and quills across the table in your haste to grab one of your daggers and working the blade under the linen. You slash the wrappings apart and help peel them away from his skin, the sound nauseating. Thane presses a trembling hand to his ribs and pulls it away black and wet.
He stumbles over to the water basin and quickly washes the poison away, steam curling off his body. You stand uselessly by the hearth, unsure what to do and more unsure as to why you feel compelled to do anything. Tossing your dagger to the table, you throw the soiled wrappings into the fireplace and try very, very hard to push away the knowledge of how identical kindred and humans smell when cooked.
Halfway through rinsing the mess from his body, Thane pauses, hunched over the basin. "It was different," he rasps, as if speaking to someone else. You watch him slowly stand upright, shoulders thrown back in an appropriate posture for a lord of Iron Town, half-naked or not, and you find the deliberate change in him between sleeping and waking unnerving.
He sees your shadow on the wall, cast by the hearth. "My apologies if I've disturbed you," he says without turning round.
You rub your face as you walk around the table. "I was already awake, my lord." Righting the toppled chair, you drop into it with a sigh, tilting your head back in a boneless slump. "Are you all right," you ask, but only out of courtesy, because you already know the answer.
You're not surprised when Thane says, "I am." He resumes his cleaning, breath catching when he touches his scorched skin.
The smell of cooking flesh still in your nose, and you hear yourself say, "Perhaps that poultice does more harm than good." You roll your head to the side and find Thane carefully watching you, eyes brightly lit by the fire. Meeting that gaze makes you grimace. You don't know who you're supposed to be, and you look away. "My mouth's run off again, my lord."
Water splashes in the basin. "No matter," Thane replies. Softly, he adds, "Thank you."
Grunting, you pry yourself off the chair and shuffle to the bed. Something in you wavers as you collapse in it, your thoughts in turmoil because you've thwarted Medusa's attempt to kill a man who should be killing you.
\\
Ivory has been soaking her head with fruits and alum, her dark hair now a stark, pale gold twisted up into a topknot. "Everyone knows the secret plan, now. Medusa sent a messenger to verify your story. When Carmine found out you were still alive, there was a bit of a show," she says, hanging upside down from a tree limb. "I turned him into a pincushion. Now I'm the new Second." Her satisfaction is apparent even if she makes no effort to smile.
"Damn it, Ivory- urhg, should've killed him when I had the chance."
Her sigh clouds her face in the night air. "You would have only been put to death. I got promoted. Please understand the distance between us sometime in this life- however long you've left in it."
You yank her needles out of your cloak, unattaching yourself from a tree trunk. After throwing one at the snare that has her by the ankles, Ivory drops into a neat handstand and rights herself. "How did White Star take the news," you ask, glowering at the holes in your pants.
No assassin should be allowed to have such a girlish giggle. "The gun was a nice touch, but you were lucky that I thought to also tell him the mercenary was here. He's coming to collect."
"Ah, shit," you mutter, tossing her the rest of her weapons. "Collecting him, I hope."
She shrugs under her layers of leather and wool, the mechanical device she keeps hidden there clanking against itself. "I can't read our father's mind," she quips. "Your orders are these: stay the course. Do as the wench's sister bids. Listen for our signal to turn on her."
"Which signal is that?"
Ivory doesn't hide her amusement this time. "You'll know, brother," she says, which is to say you'll be the very last to know.
The meeting is brief, and you are reluctant to return to that little room in Iron Town when she leaves. The thought of going to the lake is tempting- you can feel Tsubaki quietly drawing you in, and she should know much about the Nightwalker- but you know there is an eagerness in you that can't be attributed to your mission. She is like you, stuck in the shadow of something already grand, but could become greater if she could only step out of it. You think she wants you to do something about it.
Something knots in your lungs and you turn away, leaving the forest to trudge through the snowdrifts that surround Iron Town. You must stay the course, and you don't need some kindred god slipping under your skin and blurring the edges of your conviction.
When you return to Iron Town and slide in through the window of Thane's chambers, the man is still sound asleep where you'd left him, this time unconscious over meticulously stacked piles of inventory reports and correspondence with traders in Kiarr. Your lip curls at the sight- only a fool would be so open to assassination at all hours of the day.
You are not going to wake him and move him to the bed; the thought does not come close to passing through your mind. As far as you're concerned- which isn't very- the bed is yours, and it's his fault for giving it to you if he has a sore neck later. Burrowing under the furs to warm up from outside, you glower at the silhouette hunched over in the chair.
You must wait for a signal to turn on the healer woman. As you idly touch the scar developing on your face, listening to the sound of warm breath spilling over curling parchment, you can't help but wonder if the signal will come after Medusa kills Thane or before.
\\
The man named Harvar has not returned since the argument you'd heard between him and Thane. Without one of his advisors, the lord is even less eager to make any decision about Mifune and his missive.
"That old whore, Blair, keeps sniffing around, and the boy is taking too long to agree to the terms," Medusa says, slinking about the room. She checks a jar on the table and finds the container too full for her liking. "And this is not working as fast as I'd hoped. He appears to be as hardy as you are," she sneers over her shoulder.
You shrug, fruitlessly trying to scratch your shoulder through layers of fresh bandages. Though most of your conversations with this woman tend to end with you crawling helplessly to the garderobe, she's one of very few people you can talk to without having to pretend you're someone else. In a very limited capacity, you could almost say you enjoy her company. "I'm inspiring, what is there to say?"
She gives you a withering glower that could curdle blood, but then a shrewd smile slowly curls her lips and makes you itch to be anywhere but under her gaze. "He does seem to prolong his evening visits with you, lately," she muses. She returns to the stool at the bedside. "We must act quickly. When he sups in here tonight, slip him this." Medusa pulls out a familiar vial, and you have to stop yourself from shying away like a beast.
"You want me to assassinate him in his own room?" you hiss, aghast. "Would I not be the first person under suspicion? I'm not leaving without the deer's head, Medusa."
She rolls her eyes, still holding out the vial. "The riflemen are already mine, Star Clan. I've convinced them that Sephtis and Thane are unfit to protect us. You won't be persecuted, I assure you."
Eyeing her sideways, you reply, "Assurances from the Empress's sister don't exactly ease my heart." She chuckles, and you cautiously take the bottle of snake venom and tuck it in the folds of your sash. "Why do you want Iron Town so much, anyway? Jealous of Arachne?"
It occurs to you too long after the fact that you may have said the absolute wrong thing to this woman. Medusa frowns, sliding her cord of braided hair off her shoulder. "It is not jealousy that spurs me, Star Clan- it is resentment." The skin of her face begins to darken, gold-tipped black scales crawling up her neck and reaching the edges of her face. To your increasing chagrin, the pupils in her eyes narrow to snake-like slits.
You groan upon the realization that you've made a 'deal' between the Warbringer and kindred. "Snake venom," you weakly say, suddenly knowing exactly where the poison in the vial came from. "Nine hells. Is Arachne a beastling too?"
The kindred serpent smiles, grin empty save for two mean-looking barbs for fangs. "Once. But when she experimented on Maaba, the old woman cursed her and took her blessing away." Medusa laughs, looking genuinely overjoyed, scales receding. She looks human again when she says, "Then she tried to force me to serve, but I will not bow to her. Nor will I bow to our old, stagnating gods. And most certainly not to our foolish lord who only turns in place, shackled by his indecision." Standing and gathering her basket of poisons, she says, "I will destroy these so-called 'protectors' of the kindred."
You scoff, shaking your head and grudgingly acknowledging that this woman has no excess of ambition. "And what, be the next Empress to rule?"
"No, Black Star," she says, looking at you as if you are a child. "I will finally rule myself." And with that, she leaves you to your own devices, her venom sitting like a stone in the shallow of your hip.
You think you should be feeling a great deal more insulted by the fact that Medusa is kindred, but she clearly hates the restraint of being such, and you relate a bit to that, maybe.
That's worse though, isn't it? You shouldn't relate to those you are assigned to double-cross, much less someone your sire would consider a meal.
Before you can dwell any longer on it, a draft hisses under the door to the connecting room, announcing someone's arrival. Quickly double-checking the vial hidden in your clothes, you recline on the pillows, donning your bedridden persona. You don't recognize the approaching footsteps- they're slow, boot soles dragging on the floor with every step- so you are unprepared when it is truly Thane who enters.
He's decorated in a new brand of filth, looking so weary when he looks at you that he seems to consider climbing into the bed despite your being in it already. Dark hair falling loose from his knot, he gives up the bed and drags himself to the water basin in the corner. As he passes by, you get a closer look at the mess splattered on his chest and arms, and it's only by smell that you recognize it as blood, black and putrid.
You scramble to sit upright, watching him unbuckle his sword and drop it carelessly at his feet. "What the kinshit happened to you?"
Thane regards sword and scabbard on the floor a long moment before sighing and picking it back up to properly set it on the table. "My father is unwell," he blandly replies, peeling off his clothes.
Medusa's fanged smile flashes behind your eyes. "You mentioned your sick room bein' full… is there some kind of plague here?"
"Of a sort." Thane sloughs his father's blood from his hands, the coal-black of it only serving to make him look paler than he already is, veins stark on the insides of his arms. "Anyone who touched the salamander's fire was cursed. Sephtis most of all. Medusa is doing her best to help him."
Yes, of that you're certain.
"How are you feeling," he tonelessly asks, awkwardly scrubbing at his right forearm with an immobilized left hand.
You give him the same generic answer you've given him every day he asks this. "A bit better."
He nods. "I've sent for supper earlier than usual. I hope it does not trouble you."
"No, my lord," you murmur, watching as he dries himself and carefully works his broken wrist into a fresh tunic. Everything about being in the same room as Thane troubles you. You don't even notice when someone walks through the meeting room to knock on the bedroom door.
Donning a clean overrobe, Thane crosses the room to the answer it, and you're thankful the door hides your awful sneer when you recognize Ox's voice. You cannot bear being anywhere near the chief of guard- contending with him during caravan raids is both stressful and annoying enough.
Speaking of annoyances, Thane looks even more assailable with the guard present, going so far as to undo his hair and causally let it down in a stream of silver-streaked black. His blatant disregard of the possibility that he shares a room with an assassin inspires a desire to throttle him for his weak defense.
A tray of food is passed to Thane. In hushed tones, Ox says, "Something's amiss, sir. The riflemen are hiding their eyes, pigeons are flying with messages that neither of us seem to read- are you falling ill?"
"I was visiting my father," Thane replies, which is apparently enough information for the guard to understand. "Any word?" There's no spoken response. The lord sighs. "I am sorry, Ox. I fear I've driven him away for good."
Oh. He refers to the not-lover, Harvar.
"I have not known him to be ruled by anger," says Ox. "I'm sure he'll turn up soon." He goes on to mumble a few quiet things you can't catch through the door, and Thane asks for fresh water to be sent before dismissing him.
Good. The farther the guard is from you, the better- Ox could identify you with a simple glance from across town, no doubt, and if the man has already caught wind of treachery, Medusa was right about needing to act quickly.
Shutting the door, Thane wordlessly stands before you with steaming food and tea in his hands, and you fold your legs under you for him to place the tray on the edge of the bed. He takes the stool for himself. You pour the tea.
You've been through this bizarre ritual the past few evenings, but this time you must find a moment to add poison to the menu. Gods, but you do hate poison. It's too much like Carmine and Ivory- underhanded and effortless. You'd rather kill a man while facing him with a weapon, but you suppose that's the a difference between an assassin and a warrior, and you are simply trained to be the former.
Among steaming, spiced apples and roasted root vegetables, tonight's supper features pork dumplings, and you think the gods must be laughing at you. You portion out a bit of everything to a wooden plate and pass this to Thane. "You needn't eat with me if you have other things to do," you grumble.
The man carefully balances the plate with his splinted arm. "My evening meal is the only time I have to myself." He sounds faintly amused when he adds, "Plus you seem strangely adept at serving food."
You pause with your hand hovering over a dumpling. Is this pampered prince making a jab at 'Blade's' laboring family, implying you are too poverty-stricken for servants? Thane is sometimes condescending, but rarely snide. "My lord?"
He does not appear to be making any kind of joke at your expense, however. Thane studiously looks over his plate. "You arrange it just so. It appeals to me," he says, and you realize he is being serious.
Without thinking, you say, "You are the strangest lord I've ever met."
He looks up, somewhat startled, and you realize you've just insulted a man who could throw you out of his chambers and blow your cover. "Aaah- not that that's a fault, my lord. It's strange that you're so, uh, ...generous." You hate that your ears burn as he watches you trip over your own tongue, the corners of his mouth turning up. You sigh, returning to piling food on your own plate. "You seem to have an excess of kindness," you mutter. "I can't hope to ever repay you for it."
He pinches the centermost dumpling on his plate with his fingers. Voice smooth, he says, "Perhaps you can serve under me for a time," and something very warm settles under your skin at that. You slowly turn your head again, hazarding a look. Thane pauses in bringing the food to his lips, levelly returning your stare between curtains of his hair.
"...Serve under?"
He hums an affirmative. "For repayment. You've nothing to trade, if I recall."
Try as you might, you fail to glean whether or not you're being propositioned from his expression. The burning in your ears spreads to your face, and your eyes involuntarily trace down his body and back up again.
Thane raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smile. "At the forge," he clarifies, finally taking a bite of his meal while you pull your lips into a thin line and rub your crinkled forehead with the heel of your palm, silently cursing every inch of heaven. "Though you'd have to contend with the brothel girls. They enjoy harassing new recruits."
You lift your head from your hand. "Brothel girls are manning your forge?"
He is too well-mannered to speak while chewing, so you must wait for his response when he takes another bite. "Well. Ex-brothel girls, yes. We have quite a few of them working various trades around town. Some even build our firearms."
"I'd like to see that," you say, genuine, but then you recall the vial in your sash and realize that this moment, whatever it is, will soon be rendered pointless. You toss an entire dumpling in your mouth, speaking around it. "Though my offer still stands to track your deer, my lord."
Thane takes a deep breath, face settling back into his customary, blank expression. "I won't be needing that service, I'm afraid."
The food tastes like ash as you swallow it. "Not hunting the Nightwalker?" you ask, your heart suddenly loud in your ears.
"No," he says, somewhat distant. "As much as I respect my father, my path is different from his. I must find a new way for us to live."
A deep-rooted part of you unwinds with relief. Even if your goals are the same, your paths undeniably go in opposite directions, and you can't help but marvel at the clean, direct strike heaven makes the moment the lord seals his fate. The gods line everything so precisely: someone knocks at the door, announcing fresh water for the basin. Setting his plate on the bed, Thane stands to answer the door, and you are given the perfect window of time to slip the vial from your sash and pour its contents into his tea as he changes the basin water.
You soullessly chew your supper when Thane finally returns to his seat. He catches you following the line of his neck as he reaches for his cup, and there's a wistful sense of missed opportunity when he looks at you and brings death to his lips.
Mifune
\\
She is becoming independent, as of late. You're not sure what to do about it.
"I don't mind you going to the forest so long as I am with you," you say, walking with her to Iron Town's armory. The blacksmith had said she'd have a sword ready for you by midday.
"I only wanted to ask Tsubaki if Maka and the wolf prince made it to the lake," she says, running ahead and chasing birds in the muddy craft district.
Your forehead is an eternal wrinkle. "Who is Tsubaki?"
She flaps her arms at the fleeing pigeons. "I told you, she's the Night Stag's sister! Miss Kitty talks about her all the time."
You take a long breath and follow her down the street, a few nearby horses nickering as she passes. It is difficult to know when a young child is telling the truth or making up fantasy when she is capable of conjuring wyvern's breath from thin air, and you can only attempt to separate fact from fiction for so long before giving up. "Hands to yourself," you remind her as she reaches the armory.
The girl is smitten with tools of murder, and the fault is entirely yours. Angela struggles to keep her hands behind her back as she darts from weapon to weapon stocked in the building, seeing her reflection in polished blades and smiling at herself. You direct her down a curving hallway lined with sacks of gunpowder and rows upon rows of long, heavy rifles. The hall takes you to a back door that opens to an outdoor smithy.
Jacqueline, a willowy, dark-haired young woman, stands at the grindstone wheel. She directs Patricia to polish and sharpen a batch of steel arrowheads, having recently taken the young girl as an apprentice. When she sees you and Angela, she leaves the girl to her work, stepping forward and gesturing you away from the loud noise of the grindstone.
At a workbench, she sifts through various canvas-wrapped bundles of weapons. She disregards any formalities and says, "I am reluctant to arm an Imperial swordsman."
"He's a mercenary," Angela corrects, the title not holding any negativity in her ears.
Jacqueline blinks down at the girl. "With a kindred apprentice?"
Angela only giggles, leaving the question unanswered, then dashes off to visit with Patricia. The blacksmith then gives you a considering look but doesn't press the matter, returning to dig through her inventory. Mouth pinched, she says, "In any case, if my lord wishes it, it will be done. Also, upon seeing my former work so mutilated, you could say that replacing it became a matter of pride."
"I'm not certain anyone could forge something that could withstand that damage," you offer. "It was the work of demon fire."
A true blacksmith, she does not flinch at the mention of flames. "That explains all the impurities when I tried to reforge it." She finds what she's looking for, drawing out a leather-wrapped scabbard from a bundle, presenting it to you. "Luckily, I've had another one waiting. It's too long for most who come through here, and those tall enough to wield it prefer something heavier for a two-handed. Sharpened this morning."
You draw the sword and test the weight in your hand. Holding it is like finding a missing limb, and you revel in its craftsmanship. You say nothing, but when you look up at the blacksmith, she reads you like an open book. "Well. That's yours then. May it serve you better than the last." Jacqueline pauses for a moment, then very seriously adds, "Unless you're fighting us. Then, despite how unlikely it might be, I hope it disintegrates."
You fight a small smile as you fasten the scabbard to your waist. "You have my gratitude. Your work is superlative."
The woman's cheeks dust with pink, but she is too reserved to look any more flattered than that. She gives a quick glance over her shoulder and quietly directs you further away from Angela and Patricia, drawing closer to the glowing forge and battered anvil. In hushed tones, she asks, "If you were sent from the palace, by chance did you happen to see a woman with hair like your girl's?"
She's caught you off-guard entirely. "There was a Loresinger," you quietly reply, and Jacqueline's eyes widen with barely contained excitement, the forge fire dancing in them. "A woman named Kimial."
The blacksmith takes a steadying breath. "Was she well?"
You recall those milk-like eyes of hers, but the Loresinger hadn't seemed handicapped by them. "...As far as I could tell. She taught Angela a few Songs," you say, wearily reliving a certain avalanche in your memory.
"That is good to hear," Jacqueline says, finally easing into a close-lipped smile. It's a fleeting thing; she is back to business in moments. "About your old sword: it takes a great deal of fire to make it cooperate, but there's some salvageable steel. I could make a small blade, perhaps something your girl could use-"
"Really?!" Nearly dancing in place, Angela peers at you and the blacksmith from around a quenching barrel. Patricia stands behind her and casually waves, unashamed of her eavesdropping. "Mif, I can have a weapon?"
The word 'no' is already on your tongue- primarily from abhorrence of the thought, yet also, simply, habit- but the idea of her sneaking out alone in the forest, armed with nothing but Songs she can hardly control, makes you swallow your decision. What if something should happen to you? What if she's caught by another Star Clan cannibal?
Your main problem is that you simply don't know what the girl is capable of. You worry about Arachne's warnings of embers and hellfire, unsure if giving Angela a weapon would help protect her or simply fan the flames.
She drags a reluctant answer from you with only her expression. "I… will consider it-" The girl nearly bounces herself to the sky, squealing in joy and running circles around the blacksmith's apprentice. You give a wry look to Jacqueline, who has the grace to look slightly apologetic.
"Patti, take the girl with you and have your meal. Bring me back a share when you're finished."
"Alright!" Patricia then squats low and gestures to her back, and Angela leaps for it, riding on the young woman's shoulders away from the smithy.
Jacqueline straightens her heavy leather apron. "I'll take that as a yes?"
You grunt, crossing your arms and wondering how you made it to this particular moment in your life, discussing the finer points of arming a nine year old kindred girl. This must be a crime in at least three different ways. "Are you familiar with the knives used on the southern islands?" you idly ask.
"Five-finger daggers," the blacksmith says easily, and if she's curious of your taste in obscure, foreign blades, she makes no indication of it. "It's a good choice; the blood gutters keep it light. Shall I make one with the old sword?"
With a tired sigh, you say, "If it's possible. Please send word when it is finished." Excusing yourself with a small bow, you leave the smithy and armory to follow after Angela. You suppose you now must teach the girl how to handle a blade alongside her reading lessons.
The long tables in the dining hall are nearly empty, most of Iron Town's laborers having already dined. You see Patricia and her older sister Elizabeth near the large hearth, but no sign of Angela. You do, however, see a familiar, dark haired woman talking to nobody in the furthest corner of the room, so you grab an ale and join her.
Once you're seated, you feel Angela stalking up to her preferred spot on your shoulder. "This is Blair," she says, becoming visible and imitating your hair draped on your cloak. "She runs the big bellows."
The woman is the same one who had helped carry Soul Eater out of Iron Town the night he attacked Lord Thane. She holds up a bowl of creamy soup in greeting. "Hello, swordsman. How's the head?" she asks, putting the dish to her mouth.
You hadn't thought your injury to be so common knowledge. Cautiously, you reply, "Better, thank you," and then you notice the inside of her forearm as she tilts the soup into her mouth. There's a burn scar there, glistening pink in the light.
A thought occurs to you, and when you look to study her face, you find her cat-like eyes already staring at you over the rim of the bowl. She loudly slurps as if in confirmation.
Angela stifles a giggle. "It's a secret, Mif, don't tell anybody."
So this is the 'Miss Kitty' that has been teaching Angela about the gods in Raskogr. You don't know why Blair would keep her true nature a secret in a town that openly accepts and protects kindred, but it isn't your business what she does with her life. "Thank you for your… guidance, the other night."
Blair smiles, placing the bowl back on the table. "You're most welcome," she says, but then she tilts her head to one side, her smile shifting into something decidedly less friendly. "Still intending on slayin' the Nightwalker?"
You feel Angela go still on your shoulder. "Depending on what the young lord decides."
"Hmm," the woman muses, resting her elbows on the table. "You could just stay here, you know? You've defected from the Empire before, what's another time?"
You're suddenly very conscious of the sword at your side. "My reputation precedes me," you say, voice flat.
Blair shrugs and rubs her shoulders with her hands. "Don't give me such a cold glare, Mifune," she says playfully. "You learn things when you work in a brothel as long as I had. Many people spoke of a mercenary with hair like yours. I only mean to say you ought to work for Lord Thane instead. Angela certainly likes it here, don't you, kitten?"
The chameleon twitches on your shoulder, tail curling. "I do, but…"
You stare into your tankard of ale. You've known she does- you saw her chase birds today. It would be a lie to say changing your alliance once again hadn't crossed your mind already, but the situation is different this time.
"It's not like Mif wants to kill the Night Stag," Angela says, and your eyes widen, hearing her say what you haven't told her. "But he's gotta. And I go where he goes."
Blair fits her hands around her bowl of soup, warming her fingers. To you, she says, "Why do you fight for Arachne? Given the company you keep, I'm surprised- she's hardly better than Star Clan with the things she's done."
You're well aware. You think what she's planning may even be worse. Looking up, you quietly ask, "Do you know much of the 'Brightwinged'?"
The woman's expression becomes guarded, canny eyes watching every nuance in your face. Just as lowly, she replies, "Some. Why do you ask?"
You exchange a glance with Angela, whose eyes are split-focused between you and the kindred cat. "...A bird came to me in a dream and sent me to the Empress." You take a sip of your ale, watching as an excited smile pulls on the edges of Blair's full lips.
Leaning over the table with interest, she says, "Tell me, did the bird leave you something? A gift? A token?" You get no chance to answer, because she seems to know from just your face. "The sparrow is a messenger. We hadn't seen the Brightwinged in nearly 200 years, until the war started. She's chosen by the gods when a great task must be put into motion." Blair is all grins and hushed excitement, checking over her shoulder for any nearby eavesdroppers. "This token, what was it?"
"It was a pretty stone," says Angela. "Like milk, with Empress's mask carved on it. It didn't do anything, though…"
"It got us through the palace. We were taken straight to Arachne, no questions asked."
Blair nods, knotting her fingers together as if to keep them from gesturing wildly. "So you think the sparrow sent you to work for Arachne, and therefore you must slay the Nightwalker."
"I don't know what to think." You frown, pushing the ale away. "We were desperate at the time, so I thought it a blessing to put food on our plates, even if by the Empress. But now this mission to slay the kindred god- I just want to keep the girl safe."
"Well, perhaps you weren't sent to help Arachne. What if you were chosen to help us?"
"Iron Town?"
Blair shakes her head, pointing first at Angela, and then at herself. You can't help but squint incredulously at the woman.
"Does that mean we don't have to kill Masamune?" Angela asks, excited.
"It doesn't mean anything," you say, irritated with this whole conversation. To Blair, you murmur, "I can hardly protect one kindred. If I were meant to help them all, why would the gods send someone like me to Arachne?"
The woman opens her mouth, but she is interrupted by a few bellows workers at the entrance of the dining hall, calling her away for work. "I'll be there shortly!" Blair yells back. She then proceeds to steal your ale and gulp down a great deal of it. She stands with a satisfied sigh, hands on her hips. She says, "Perhaps you were sent to see something the kindred are blind to."
Worriedly, Angela whispers, "Mifune?" when your body becomes very still.
Blair retrieves her cloak from a nearby hook and drapes it across her shoulders. "We were born with claws and fangs, mercenary; it isn't protection we want." She leans down with a hand on the table, her smile very much feline as she says, "We want deliverance."
The woman says a hasty farewell, hurrying for her turn at the bellows. Brow furrowed, you stare into the empty space she had left behind, Angela's little clawed toes nudging your cheek with concern.
"Hey, are you still hurt?"
Resting an elbow on the table, you rest your mouth against your fist. You slowly shake your head.
She doesn't sound convinced, lizard hands still touching your face as she hums an anxious noise in the back of her throat. "Miss Kitty didn't make any sense…what's deliverance mean?"
You pull your hand away long enough to say, "To be set free."
\\
Blair's interpretation of your dream would appeal to someone less disillusioned, but you are not so important as to be a special piece on a game board of the gods- you are simply an aging man who has become skilled at killing people for a living.
You are far from some savior destined to lead the kindred out of hardship. It's this kind of self-conceited fantasy that turns warriors into fools on the battlefield, and you have been pacing the tall battlements of Iron Town trying to convince yourself of this long enough to bore Angela out of her skull.
There is no reason for heaven to look at you at all, save for passing judgment on the things you've done- or, perhaps, the things you haven't. Because after meeting the cursed tribeswoman who had spared your life, the Star Clan assassin who didn't assassinate you, and the young lord who showed mercy to even those who would kill him, you find yourself wondering if you've ever once tried to stop the chain of violence you helped facilitate.
All this time you have been trying to keep Angela safe, but you have never stepped forward for the injustice done to her and her kind. Whether you were chosen by the gods or not, you feel compelled to tell Thane about Arachne's true intentions. He needs to know her plans of becoming immortal and doubtlessly exploiting the kindred for her personal gain, and you can no longer stand by and simply watch more horrors unfold.
Though you fought on both sides of the war, as a mercenary you were never truly part of Star Clan or the Empire. You've always been caught somewhere in between, part of neither, and you think you should fight your own war now.
"Angela," you say, striding down the long ramps off the battlements. Under your cowl, you feel her shift under your hair where she'd been dozing.
"Huh?"
You turn a corner, heading for Thane's meeting chambers. "Earlier today, you said you will go where I go. Thank you."
Her tail uncurls along your neck with her uncertainty. "Oh. Um, you're welcome," she says, giving you the response because it is proper, even if it's clear she doesn't know why she has your gratitude.
"How did you know I did not want to kill the Night Stag?"
The chameleon inches forward, popping her head out of your cowl. "Ummm. I forgot the word. But you said it means getting rewarded for doing something you don't wanna do. And that's what a mercenary does, right?" You find your stride slowing as she speaks. "But you don't like being a mercenary, 'cause you grow this old wrinkle in the middle of your forehead when you gotta do stuff you don't like. And you don't like killing, and you really don't like doing stuff that'll hurt my feelin's, even if you're getting paid for it."
You slow to a standstill in the middle of Iron Town, overcome.
Angela carefully leans further out of your cowl, inspecting your face. "Yeah, like that. Wrinkly."
Your chest is warm, and she hasn't sung a single note. You begin walking once more. "I will not kill the Night Stag," you say, a smile pulling at your lips as you fondly watch her cling to your cloak.
With a gasp, Angela tumbles off your collar in a puff of smoke, falling into a girl in the snowy street. "Really? We don't work for the Empress anymore?"
"We don't. We don't work for anyone."
She laughs joyously, dragging her boots through the slush. "Good! I like that the best."
"Arachne will be mad. She will come looking for us," you warn her.
"I'll protect you," she says, and you are so amused by her reckless confidence as you walk through the door to Thane's meeting chambers that you do not realize you've walked into a mistake. The first thing you see is the golden braid on Medusa's shoulder as she pushes it out of the way and regards you with a too-wide smile.
You freeze two steps from the doorway, Angela stumbling into you with your sudden stop. The healer woman says, "Oh good, you're already here. We don't have to waste any time."
It's too late for you to draw your weapon- there are riflemen stationed in every corner of the room, weapons trained on you. You can't risk even draping your cloak around the girl to hide her. Cautiously, you ask, "Where is Lord Thane?"
Medusa takes a seat in Thane's chair, resting her hands neatly on his desk. "That is of little consequence to you," she says. "There's been a change in plans. The city is mine now, and I have agreed to Arachne's terms. We kill the beast, tonight. Make ready, swordsman."
"I do not understand-"
Your heart drops to the earth when she adds, "Oh, and my sister wants the lizard back."
"N-" You only have enough time to turn to the girl when a green light pierces through the room, sudden and blinding. Angela is sucked out of your grasp by the light, suspended within a glowing, magic box that blocks out all sounds of her screaming for help. It's then you hear the low muttering of a Song from behind you, and Kimial, Arachne's Loresinger, steps forward, directing the floating cage into her waiting hands.
Song completed, the spell remains, Angela beating her fists on green-tinted walls in vain. Coming to stand next to Medusa, Kimial turns to face you, milk-white eyes blank as ever. "Mercenary Mifune, you have stolen property of the Kinmother Empress Arachne. I am here to reclaim it."
Your hand is white-knuckled on the hilt of your sword, on the verge of drawing the blade even in a room full of firearms. Through clenched teeth, you growl, "I do not wish to harm you. Release her."
"I will not. You have betrayed the Kinmother's agreement by kidnapping an apprentice Loresinger. Continue your service and aid the Lady Medusa, and you shall not be punished for your cr-"
"I renounce my service to Arachne!" you bellow with rage.
Behind you, a man says, "I was hoping you'd say that," and as you whirl to cut him down, you catch a glimpse of hair almost as light as yours just before something slams into the side of your head.
Maka
\\
You are a walking catastrophe. You are no better than Asura, so desperately seeking relief from your hatred that you endangered an entire city. Everyone else could be dead by now- it would be Riohdr all over again, the heads of Liz and her sister at your feet. You don't want to wake up from this one.
Asura's voice wears you raw, chewing down to the marrow as you float through an endless void of cold and heartache. The gods have abandoned us.
All except him, you think. Kilik had said the curse would kill you, and you wonder if it is done yet. You came and found the source of the disaster, and all you've learned is that you are powerless despite all your strength. Are you simply to die and take the curse with you? Had heaven sent the salamander to you like refuse to a bonfire and set you both alight? What do the gods want with you?
Your hatred clouds your eyes, Demonsbane, says a voice you do not know, twisting around you like stars. The curse in you writhes with loathing. We have waited a long time. There is much for you to do. Wake.
Something warm pulls at your heart. It does not scorch you like the demon god, but is instead like the fire pit at home, comforting as it warms your face. It is a balm to your soul, and you let it carry you away.
You wake under a tall canopy of trees, melting snow dripping down their branches, limb by limb, leaving behind a rich evergreen. The water meets in rivulets that feed into a steaming lake, and though you can see the white glare of winter on the edges of the forest, it is somehow spring here.
The land murmurs. Your connection to Asura allows you to hear the whisper-talk of Raskogr, and you know this must be the Nightwalker's home. Voices rise from the depths of the lake, warning the forest of an approaching storm, and you have little doubt that the storm is you.
You are propped up against Crona's familiar belly, stripped down to your tunic and breeches, your limbs so heavy and aching you can hardly move them. Under your right hand is a hoofprint, toed like a deer and humming magic into your fingers.
Sitting an arm's length away, near Crona's head, is Soul. Around his neck is your tribe's soul catcher, which he plays a few cautious notes on. Seeing him jogs your memory, and you recall being shot by an arrow in Iron Town, the bolt clear through your torso.
You quietly reach for the wound. There is a hole in your clothes, but the injury is gone. You are miraculously whole. It's then you realize your stomach can't feel the warmth of your fingers.
Gingerly lifting the neck hole of your tunic, you glance down your chest. The curse has spread, your breasts and stomach entwined by blackened scars. The Nightwalker saved your life but Asura's hatred remains, eating you alive. You manage to drape your arm over your stinging eyes, listening to Soul slowly play a phrase of the virtues of kindred.
"You are very better than me," you croak, interrupting him in the middle of 'deer live in gentleness', tears falling from the edges of your eyes.
He startles and immediately stops playing. After a long pause, he says in your language, "I cannot make that awful sound even when I try."
The noise you make is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. You keep your arm firmly pressed over your eyes as Crona turns his head to nuzzle at your hair. "Did I hurt anyone?"
Voice hard, he says, "No. You protected Thane, and I still do not understand why. It was the humans who did this to you- why did you stop me?"
"I am human, Soul."
"You are different. You respect the forest, you are the daughter of the Br-"
"No," you say, emphatic. Sliding your arm from your face, you lift your head and find his eyes. "I am exactly like them- I have fought a god to protect my home!" Exhaustion weighs you down, pulling your head back to rest on your elk. The earth hums underneath you, rejecting your tainted body. Frustration tastes bitter in your mouth. "Should I not have? Should I have just fled like a coward and lived?"
"You did exactly what you should have done," Soul says on a tired sigh. "It is why the gods chose you in the first place."
"For what?" Crona twitches with the outburst, his legs and shoulders tensing. "They always are choosing and taking and never saying why-" You gasp in pain. Hatred flares under your skin, and you writhe in your own anger, cursed hands clenching in your tunic. "What do they want from me?! I have nothing left!"
Soul quickly comes to your side, frowning as he pries your hands away from your clothes and takes them in his own. "Stop it," he says, chiding you in Common before making an annoyed wince and switching back to the Old Tongue. "You'll only aggravate the curse, getting worked up like that."
You snarl, "Tell the sun to stop burning," before you can control yourself. You grit your teeth and attempt to suck down a calming breath. You heave a shuddering sigh, fingers clenching around his, searching for warmth but still finding none. After several moments of this, you ask, "Did you bring me to the Nightwalker? Am I not your enemy?"
With a huff, he shares an exasperated glance with Crona, and you notice Soul looks even more like a wolf than when you'd seen him in Iron Town, fine white fur lining the back of his neck. His fingers end in nails reminiscent of claws. He reminds you, vaguely, of Tsugumi- the outsider brought into the tribe, becoming one of their own.
"Wes and your elk brought us here," he says, avoiding your eyes with a grimace. "I am told you took an arrow for me, so I find it difficult to hate you."
The corner of your mouth tries to pick up in something like a smile. "It was mostly an accident. But I am glad it did not find you."
He tilts his head the way a confused hound would. "Why would you be glad, when you protect Thane?"
"I don't want anyone to get hurt," you insist. A breeze moves across the steaming lake, a warm mist dusting your face. You watch the branches of nearby trees stir. "Sometimes I see you and I remember home. Your howl is beautiful."
Shocked, Soul drops your hands, leaning away as if you had directly accosted him. "I- When did you-"
"I am sorry about your mother," you say.
The man's shoulders sag at this, his dismay falling away to leave behind something both quiet and strong. "The Nightwalker will take Moro to the sky. She will protect us in death, as do all the wolves of Raskogr before her," he says, placing his hands in his lap.
"Wolves protect," you unthinkingly recite.
"Yes."
"How do you know that song? You were playing it."
"Your friend," he says, slipping into Common again. "I told him he could go where he wanted, but he stayed. He loves you very much. He's told me about your village."
You raise one of your hands and reach back to rub Crona's plush fur.
Soul says, "We're the same, you know. You and I. Having gods for mothers."
There is a twisting in your heart, your hand pausing on the elk's belly. You look at him and realize you share a similar sadness, and you wish you could sit as tall with yours as he does with his. "I don't remember her voice any more."
The look he gives you is nothing short of incredulous. With a small shake of his head, Soul leans forward and says in the Old Tongue, "Maka, of course you do. Do you not feel the wind when she speaks?"
Your mouth falls open as you try to comprehend what he means, but your thoughts are interrupted.
"Soul."
The man abruptly stands, eyes wide and anxious as he focuses on a point behind you. "Tsubaki. Have you found her?"
As you shakily push yourself up into a sitting position, a hand reaches over Crona's back and lights gently on your shoulder. "Do not look for me, Demonsbane. Asura's hatred will rise when he sees the Old Gods he so loathes." To Soul, Tsubaki says, "Moro is with the farseer. She dies."
Despair flits over the man's face, but he quickly replaces it with determination. "I must go to her," he says, looking down at you.
You are breathless from merely sitting up. "Go. Take Crona," you say without hesitation. "You must watch her when she leaves."
Soul shakes his head, conflicted. "No, I will run, I will not leave you here alone-"
"You will both go," says Tsubaki, her hand pulling away from your shoulder. A moment later, Wes leaps out of the forest and into the warm clearing, panting hard.
"Brother. She calls for us."
\\
You had forgotten about Asura's mark on the land. To get to Stein's hut from the Nightwalker's lake you must cross it, and here in this part of the forest, where the demon's touch is oldest, the earth bubbles and cracks like Lord Sephtis's face.
Soul and Wes lead you to a makeshift bridge that arcs over the path, the wolf god leaping to a felled tree and ambling across.
Slumped over on your elk, your head is filled with a deafening chorus of voices, paralyzing feelings of betrayal and resentment hissing from the scar. Your curse inches across your skin, and you lose the warmth of Crona's back. You whimper, the pain rendering your mind numb as you press your face into the elk's neck.
A chuckle bubbles up your throat.
"Maka?" Soul calls out, twisting on Wes's back.
"I will not be denied," you hear the demon say, or maybe the voice is yours- you are so entwined with Asura now that there is little separation between your rage and his. Crona bellows in response, angered as you are angered.
"The Dead Path resonates with her," Wes says. "The salamander makes her weak. It calls her spirit away."
You tilt your head back and roar to the gods, all your hatred a bullet hole that festers and rots deep in your chest. Black and red fire shrieks along your arms, swirling about you in a torrent of howling power.
Cutting through the storm like a blade, you hear a silvery note.
You take a ragged, whistling gasp, your soul caught between heaven and earth. More piercing notes reach you through your madness, and you focus on the melody, curling back into Crona's neck. You clutch at the elk's reins and slowly lead him to the bridge, running the virtues through your heart. Bears, crows, wolves and lizards. Deer live in gentleness. Sparrows breathe with hope.
Does Suzume breathe so? Had she spoken to you all along, while you had been too deafened by your own resentment of heaven to hear her?
Your soul returns to your body. You cross the Dead Path, and though your hands have begun to bleed under your bandages, you are still yourself.
"There you are," Soul says on the other side, your catcher still in his hands.
To his and Wes's worried glances, you give a small smile. "I am all right now. Let us hurry."
Soul nods, tucking the necklace under his clothes. "If it happens again, I will bring you back."
\\
"Oh, sweetheart," Marie quietly says, seeing the black scars that snake up your neck and under your jaw. She helps you slide off Crona's back so Wes and Soul can go to their mother; your knees wobble as you try to stand on your own, forcing you to rely on Marie to stay upright.
You look over your shoulder to see the mountainous white form of Moro. All you manage to gather in your brief glimpse is that she rests on her side near the treeline- any longer a look than that and your body aches with the demon's rage. You carefully avert your eyes.
Marie helps you over to the treeline, blocking your vision with a warm hand and leading you near Wes, Soul, and Stein. She turns you so that you face away from Moro, holding you steady while keeping a hand on Stein to keep him from resonating with the earth.
"Where have you been, Mother?" Wes asks, a whine threading his words together.
Soul adds, "We could have done something!"
Moro must take a deep breath before speaking, something deep in her body whistling from the effort. "I conferred with the wolves of old. This is where my path leads," you hear her say in the Old Tongue. Even weakened, her voice makes the trees tremor with her might, evergreens shivering. She takes another breath. "You have already known this. Soul has been changing since the moment I was shot."
Facing away from everyone else, you see a crow fly into the clearing, turning into a black-cloaked man with a swirling of smoke. When the kindred pushes his hood from his face, you recognize him from Iron Town- he's one of the men who had helped protect Thane from Soul.
He recognizes you easily, freezing mid-step and warily regarding you, but before anything can be said, Moro says, "Harvar." He keeps a careful eye turned your way until he passes beyond your line of sight.
"How dare you show your face," Soul spits.
When Harvar speaks the Old Tongue, you realize with a start that his accent is nearly identical to yours. "I know we have been at odds for several years, but I never once wished this upon you, Moro."
"You helped cause it!"
"Enough, brother-"
"No," says Harvar, "He is right. It was I who gave Thane the gun that morning. This is my doing-"
Behind you, everything seems to erupt: Soul howls in anger, and you hear crunching snow and the loud scuffle of bodies hitting the earth. There's the gnashing sound of snapping jaws, and Marie and Stein are forced to leave your side, the both of them trying to break up whatever is happening behind you. You fall to your knees without Marie's support, unable to look back lest you see Moro and lose control.
There's a roar of an angry bear, and Soul suddenly tumbles across the ground in front of you. He is unharmed, already back up on his feet in seconds, but before he can jump back into the fray, Moro bellows, "BE STILL."
Soul winces, and you hear Wes grumble-whine somewhere behind you. The clearing echoes with the sound of several people catching their breaths.
Moro takes another whistling inhale. "There is no time. Crow, even with all your knowledge and Stein's farsight, there is little you could have done. The stars have been turning towards this moment for years. This was to pass."
The kindred grunts, short of breath. You watch Soul's narrowed, angry eyes follow Harvar as he stands up, boots scuffing the earth. "I still feel responsible. It is my task to stop you when you become a demon."
Then, to your surprise, Moro laughs, the trees shaking in her amusement. "I will not become a demon, crow- I am a wolf! Though there is anger in my heart, I will not cause more death." The god chuckles once more, then takes another breath. "One demonsbane is enough. Soul, bring her closer."
With an uneasy sigh, the man comes and kneels next to you, a brusque, frowning expression masklike on his face. He slings your arm over the back of his neck, hoisting you up with his right hand around your waist. Carefully supporting you, he uses his free hand to gently cover your eyes before he turns you around and leads you forward.
Moro's snout ghosts over you, her sniffing forceful enough that you must cling to Soul's clothes to stay steady. Her proximity, even without seeing her, makes your blood split into thousands of angry voices. You tremble.
The god takes another whistling breath. "I thank you and the crow both for stopping my son in the human city. Revenge is not something wolves condone." Moro breathes. "Only the Nightwalker may decide who dies- for us to try is to walk a demon's path."
Soul flinches against you, fingers twitching over your eyes. "I am sorry, Mother," he murmurs.
"It is the human in you that feels so strongly, Soul. Do not let that go." The next breath Moro takes rattles deep in her chest, halting and strained. "Stein," she says, powerful voice diminished by half. "Raskogr braces itself for calamity. This is your chance." Every word she says swiftly becomes less earth-shaking than the last. "Use me, farseer, and find what threatens our home."
"It will be done," says Stein.
"The Nightwalker comes. Ah, my sons," Moro says with a note of despair, sounding so startlingly human that it pierces your heart. A breeze stirs through the forest, the treetops above you swaying together. "Be strong. We choose to protect life."
A hush falls over the clearing, and you hear the soft tread of hooves behind you in the snow. The hand on your waist suddenly clenches, Soul's body quaking as he holds in his grief. Moro's last words ringing dreamlike in your ears, you slowly reach for your face, wrapping your fingers around Soul's hand and pulling it away from your eyes.
Antlers bearing the heavens, a towering stag stands before you, shifting lights swirling under his coat. Seeing him spreads the curse to your toes in a searing wave, Asura's resentment of the god who had not saved him melding his hatred to your bones.
You tell the demon that deer live in gentleness, and though your body burns, you remain steadfast. The Nightwalker bows before Moro, lowering his head and pressing one small tine of his crown to her shoulder. He draws a pale blue light from her body, a new, bright star blooming in his antlers.
Wes howls.
Soul makes a sound in his throat, and when you look, you find he has averted his eyes. You twist in his grip, slinging your arms around his neck and quietly embracing him. "Do not look away," you warn him gently. "Do not close your eyes." You feel him pick up his head. Over your shoulder, Soul watches his mother leave.
When the Nightwalker has collected Moro's soul, he departs the way he came, walking between Soul and Wes and into your line of sight. Seasons pass under his feet, winter melting into spring, burning to summer, withering to autumn, the ground frozen by the time his hooves move on. He turns his glowing gaze on you as he passes, your curse claiming every last inch of your skin, but when the god of gods speaks within your soul, your eyes are unclouded.
"The Brightwinged chose well."
The stag slips into the forest. The moment he's out of sight, Soul's hands suddenly clutch at you, claws digging through your clothes. You scream as he bursts into flames in your arms.
"Soul?!" His skin rends open, blinding white fire enveloping him entirely. Marie and Harvar rush over, trying to pull him away from you, but the flames burn them, keeping them at bay.
Soul falls to his knees, bringing you with him, and though you do not feel the heat of the flames, you feel his body change under your hands. You finally understand what is happening, and you almost cry out for him to wait-
His arms fall away, the flames going out, and in your embrace is a wolf. He slowly slips out of your arms. After only the briefest glance to Moro's body, he bolts out of the clearing without a word.
"Wait, brother-" calls Wes, but Soul disappears into Raskogr. Tail dusting the ground, the wolf turns to Stein and says, "I will find him. Do not let Mother's death be wasted."
\\
"It's hard for him, being a man with the soul of a wolf. He cannot accept one without neglecting the other," Marie says in Common, realizing belatedly that her paws are too big to prepare tea. Stein requires solitude to gaze into the future, so she had led both you and Harvar into the hut, leaving the farseer to his work. She turns into a plume of smoke, becoming human and filling a kettle with water from a basin. "But he's been called. He's made his choice."
Havar helps you into a chair near the wood stove, not knowing that its warmth is wasted on you entirely. He retreats to a dark corner of the room, arms crossed underneath his cloak. "He shouldn't have needed to make the choice to begin with," he says with a sigh. "I tried my best to prevent it, but it still all went as Stein predicted in the end."
"You cannot stop what comes to pass, Harvar. You can only choose what you do when it happens." She places the kettle over the stove and glances over you with concern, then kneels before you, inspecting the blackened bandages around your hands. "With Moro's death, Soul chose to help protect the Nightwalker."
"Please," you say, trying to understand. "Soul is having choice?"
Marie blinks up at you with her one eye. "Yes. He was called, like your mother was," she says, which only makes you furrow your brow.
"Her mother?"
"Maka's mother is the Brightwinged of our time," Marie says over her shoulder to Harvar, and the man's arms slowly fall to his sides in astonishment. When she turns back to you and sees your confusion, she leans away on her heels, perturbed. Your hands in hers, she carefully says, "To be called is to resonate with the gods. There must be consent, like with Stein and I."
Your fingers clench around Marie's. "...And my mother, she is also having choice?"
"Yes," the woman says, quickly nodding. "Maka, did you think she was taken all this time?" She reaches up and wipes your cheek with a hand. "Your mother decided for herself. She helps us fi-"
Someone knocks on the door to Stein's hut.
Harvar is instantly on alert, silently gliding to the door. "...Who knocks in the middle of Raskogr," he says lowly, and Marie releases you, standing and transforming into a bear in one smooth movement.
"Well, it's not Stein," she says, lumbering across the room. "He doesn't open the door, much less knock." Marie slaps the latch with her paw and noses the door open.
Dusk has settled outside, and as you lean over to see around Marie and Harvar, you're shocked to see dozens of animals on the other side. Birds, weasels, dogs, and foxes all swarm together, deer and horses towering over them with lizards and rodents riding their backs.
"Good gods, what are all of you doing here?" Marie asks.
There is a puff of smoke, and a young woman with pale, pin-straight hair appears, performing the Bloodless Bow. "We are here to help the crow and the cat."
Harvar haltingly bows back. "Eruka, what's this about?"
"You and Blair have helped all of us escape Star Clan and the Empire, so we've come to repay you," she says. "We are sent by the Brightwinged."
Marie swings her big head between the woman and Harvar, asking, "For what?"
"Excuse me," you hear Stein say from outside, animals squawking and squealing as he pushes through. "Yes, this is blood, please stand aside-" The man shambles into view, resting his bloodstained hands on the door frame, his face somewhat wolfish. The glowing trail from his eye swirls a bright blue. "Something big is coming, the whole forest feels it," he says breathlessly, and then his eye searches for you, finding you sitting on the edge of your chair, anxious. "I thought it was you, Maka, but I was wrong."
"What have you seen?" asks Harvar.
Stein smiles, teeth like Moro's fangs. "Something new. But first, Harvar-" he gives his head a shake, and his silvery hair becomes slightly less fur-like. "Thane has been betrayed. You must return to Iron Town swiftly."
Thane
\\
Blue eyes focused on your mouth, he shifts to one side, leaning off the bed and into your personal space. His hand reaches for you, scarred fingers neatly covering the steam rising from the top of your teacup. He presses this away, drawing both it and you closer while he leans in, slowly tilting his face to yours. Warm breath touches your lips as you feel him attempt to pull the cup from your hold just a shade too hard.
He turns to stone when you press the point of his own dagger against his throat. Your left hand does not easily hold it, but at this range it hardly matters. He had mistakenly underestimated your mobility entirely, as well as your intelligence- he had been too intent on poisoning your cup to notice you slipping the weapon into your robes.
A hair's breadth from his lips, you murmur, "Stealing my tea?" You give the cup a small tug and he releases it.
"Don't drink that," he says with a grimace. You set the cup on the tray and switch the dagger from your left hand to your right, encouraging him to back away with its razor edge.
Today persists in being the worst day in your life. You stand from the chair, hand steady. "Why not, Black Star?"
"Are we ignoring the part where I stopped you from killing yourself, because I think this is a valid thing to consider," he says, chin tilted up in an attempt to keep his neck from being flayed as he speaks. "How long have you known?"
"I have always known, cannibal. I knew you the moment I found you in Raskogr." Your disappointment and fury make your lips pull back in a snarl. "I'm surprised it's taken you this long to try to kill me- I've given you every opportunity."
Black Star's eyes roll to the heavens and back again. "You found me? If you've known the whole time, why the hell am I still alive?"
"Because the Nightwalker's shadow led me to you," you spit, eyes narrowing as you now feel even more betrayed than five seconds ago.
"That's it?" he snaps back, though there is a wince in his face that belies his harsh voice. "Your only reason is some shadow in a beastling forest?" Something in his countenance changes, and what little there ever was of a man named 'Blade' instantly vanishes from his face, replaced by an arrogant sneer fit only for a son of the Warbringer. The hooded look he gives you is a blood-boiling challenge, and though he's unarmed and has a knife at his throat, he suddenly does not look at all defenseless. Voice like woodsmoke, he says, "Well, she's not here now, is she?"
You hate this day so wholly that it inspires violence. "You're right." With a smile, you slowly dig that knife just a bit deeper under his jaw, watching him swallow. "It's not the only reason," you grit out through clenched teeth. "I wanted to know why a god would spare the son of a man who started a war." And then you smash your splinted left hand into his still-healing face.
You'd wanted to know what made him so special, and had hoped that if you knew, you would find some hope for yourself- that you would find a way to fix this mess your father has wrought without invoking the wrath of heaven.
There's no chance for you, after that. You're drained both physically and mentally, swordless, and up against a Star Clan assassin. He has you pinned on the bed in moments, both your wrists trapped in one of his hands above his head, your broken splints digging uncomfortably into your skin. Your vision blurs at the edges when he digs his knees into the sides of your ribs, a groan slipping out your mouth.
He has disarmed you of the dagger, and he carelessly flings this onto the stool next to the bed, where it sticks like a knife in a butcher block. Then, for some reason, he shifts his weight and relieves your discomfort.
You are no closer now to understanding why Tsubaki saved this man than you were the last time he'd pinned you down. "What are you doing here, Black Star?" you ask, weary.
At least he's come away from the brief scuffle with blood in his mouth, which he casually spits away. "Probably something stupid." He wipes his lips on the back of his forearm. Bluntly, he says, "White Star wants the Deer God, so I will use its head to buy my freedom from the Clan."
"Get in line," you say, glowering, but then his words truly sink in. "Freedom?"
Black Star shakes his head, irritated. "It's a long story. The point is, Medusa tried to kill me-"
"She didn't do a very good job."
"Would you do me the favor of not talking?" he growls under his breath, then suddenly lifts his head, cautiously listening. You hear nothing, and evidently neither does he. "Anyway, in order to not die, I told her my sire would make a deal with her if she helped me get the Deer God."
"Medusa," you blurt, struggling to get up, but he has no qualms using your ribs against you. You flop back to the bed, seething. "My healer working with the Warbringer is worse than the than the one about your 'weaponsmith' family-"
"Please shut up. Your 'healer' has been poisoning you and Sephtis from the start."
The impersonal, guileless way he says this makes your body go slack. "What?" you silently mouth, and just the merest mention of the concept brings everything you've been ignoring into bright focus: Blair's distrust, your father's blood-soaked descent into madness, your dreams of the salamander burning you alive-
Black Star gives you a look that might have been sympathetic if you thought he had ever once known the concept- as it is, he looks more scornful than anything. "Are you listening now, my lord? She's been after the city since long before I showed up. I told her that in exchange for the god, we would ally with Iron Town and help put her in charge by murdering you."
Bile rises in your throat. "I don't-"
Leaning down and lowering his voice, he says, "She's been trying to convince you to take Arachne's terms, hasn't she? Using the mercenary to do the dirty work and then taking the Deer God for yourself to save your father? She's been poisoning him. And you-" And he takes his hand down the center of your robes, gaping them open to your hips and pushing up your tunic to reveal your awful torso. "Bruised ribs don't look like this, Thane. Ask me how I know."
You try to piece everything together, but you can't stop shivering, your body tearing between shock and fury. You think you're going to be sick. "You're the one who stopped me from using the poultice," you say, voice thin. And you've been getting better without it, which is proof in itself, isn't it? "Why would you do that? If you're to kill m-"
Black Star looks away, his hand clenching involuntarily around your wrists as he hisses an emphatic, "I don't know! But Medusa found out you stopped using it and you're taking too long to say 'yes' to Arachne, so she told me to slip some shit into your tea."
It occurs to you then, hitting you like a bullet, that Medusa hasn't been poisoning your father- she's been having you do it. "Get off me."
He hesitates, something wavering in his expression, but he pulls his lips into a thin line instead and releases you. As you gingerly sit up, he backs away, yanking his knife out of the stool for good measure. "You understand, right? You're supposed to be dead right now."
One hand on your ribs, you rise from the bed with a wince. You need to form a plan of action to have Medusa detained, but all you can ask is, "Why aren't I dead? Not that it wasn't obvious- you're about as stealthy as Ox- but you did, technically, stop me. That's twice you've saved me from poison."
Black Star struggles to answer you, one hand rubbing at the cut on his jaw.
"I renounce my service to Arachne!" someone angrily roars from the connecting room, you and Black Star both startling. By process of elimination, it must be the swordsman, Mifune-
"Thane, what are you doing," Black Star hisses. "What part of 'dead' do you find complicated? Medusa has your riflemen now, and probably any other guards you have other than the stupid loud one-"
Ox will certainly lecture you about this later. "I'm going to tell Medusa what she wants to hear," you say, wrenching open the door.
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