The Fall of the Riders

[Lenaara]

Irene had noticed Warren almost brighten at the sight of Orien accepting the blanket. Heat, not brought forward by the cold in the slightest, flushed his cheeks. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot and onto another either in embarrassment or as a way to conserve warmth, and spread the blanket to drape it over Orien’s shoulders. Warren’s hands froze mid-air, however and his attention snapped to Irene. The guard’s good spirits plummeted down with damning speed and he glared at the woman with suspicion.


The glare was not noticed, however. Irene was intently listening to Hui Hua speak. The language was almost forgotten, some words were completely foreign to Irene and she could only grasp at their meaning from the overall picture conveyed. Though it was pleasant to hear that she was remembered.


<<I remember,>> Irene’s lips curved into a slight smile, but a genuine one. It had occurred to her that she had not smiled for a long time.


The memories brought forward by Hui Hua’s words were recalled with ease. It was a peaceful time, when she and Leon travelled and stayed in different towns and villages; when they trained together when her mentor was not pulled away into some other task that earned them coin. Their travels had led them here, to this mountain and they visited the villages spread beneath snowy peaks. With little to do but train, Irene remembered being given little tasks to do to help out those who allowed them lodging. One of such tasks included taking care of Hui Hua’s children. The oldest one was…ten, perhaps? Irene remembered trying to spar with one of them, and ended up falling face first into mud instead of triumphantly winning in the end.


It all seemed such a long time ago.


<<Ming…no? Cannot remember words, names. Long time ago. Sorry. Very young when was here. Remember you and Leon killing…beasts together. He was happy. Thought you strong,>> Irene continued and looked at Ming Xia who had straightened.


She could scarcely remember the face of that young child whom Irene used to watch after so many years ago. Perhaps the happy memories were warping the reality but Ming Xia appeared to be much happier back then. Much…lighter, perhaps.


Now, Ming Xia struck Irene as someone who had seen far too much for her young age. Who had experienced something terrible, that had driven a bright personality of a child away and instead replaced it with harshness and cold quiet. It had occurred to Irene then that Ming Xia and she shared the same look – of someone who had been hardened by the world.


Irene looked back at Hui Hua. <<She grew strong. You must be proud.>>


The language was odd, foreign, and Irene struggled to remember it. Words were said slowly with small pauses in between as the woman searched her memory for the words not used in at least a decade. Not many travellers passed through this mountain and throughout the later years Irene had met only a few people who had been from the Mountains of Veneshia. As such, she had little opportunity to use the language.


<<No,>> Irene shook her head once. <<My uncle. But father, too. Mentor. Guide. Guard. Friend. Many things.>> At the notion that she and Leon looked nothing alike, Irene chuckled. <<People said that we…act alike. Not more. He passed five summers back.>>


Galene’s voice had pulled Irene’s attention from Hui Hua and her daughter. It was easy to forget where Irene was and who was standing around her. The cold and the foreign tongue was all she could focus on, with her mind grasping at the words long unused, pulling them from pleasant memories of years ago. And it was good to talk to someone who remembered Irene, who remembered Leon. It reminded Irene of the life before the damned leather collar of a slave was locked around her neck.


Cold hail continued to fall down in icy needles, damping their thin clothing, flattening their hair and numbing their exposed skin. While Orien and Galene had been given something warm to cover themselves with to protect from the cold hail and winds, Irene had not been offered a thing. She stepped closer to the fire but could scarcely feel its warmth.


“No.” Irene raised a hand in a dismissive wave as she glanced at Galene, who had been sharing the thick pelt with Kydoimos. “Just getting to know one another.”


It was not a lie.


At her side, Warren had been staring at Irene, his eyes dark beneath a shadow cast by furrowed brows. With arms crossed over his chest to retain warmth he quietly watched Irene. His stare was as cold as snow beneath their feet.


<<Charge.>> Irene searched for the word, trying to remember its meaning. When it clicked she pressed her lips into a tight line and was silent for a moment that may as well have lasted an eternity.


Years ago she had been claiming that she wanted to be like Leon, to work as a guard and protect people. It was surprising that Hui Hua remembered.


<<No. Not charge.>> She moved a hand towards the collar of her jacket and pulled it down to expose the slave’s collar wrapped around her neck. The worn and faded leather stood out against her skin. With the collar exposed Irene felt shame wash over her and she looked away, instead looking to the side into the forest. <<Not guard. Bought as slave. By him.>> She nodded in Hardeep’s direction without looking at him. <<He need not know of past.>>


The information given was vague enough. Describing herself as a guard was much easier than trying to explain her work as a mercenary, Irene decided. While her physique was no longer that of a warrior, the way she moved was enough of an indicator – with her back always straight and footfalls silent and soft, eyes dark and ever watchful of shadows. She only hoped that no one would question the odd scars left by blades or arrows, or why she never exposed her back to anyone.


<<Need prepare for night. Share clothes? I hunt for more as pay later.>> Irene lifted the jacket once again over her neck. <<Please.>>

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Li Ming Xia

Li Hui Hua

Ming Xia scowled slightly when the woman agreed to remembering about something and then promptly mispronounced her name. Her name was Ming Xia, two syllables, two words. It was not just Ming and many had tired to break it down, to be simpler so they didn't have to try harder. Ming Xia wondered how they would feel, if she took part of their name from them.


She rolled her eyes at the comment of her mother being strong as Hui Hua laughed. Half the men had been chasing her since she had been old enough to go out on her own and walk among the forest. Half of them had promised her riches and glory and strong babes if she settled with them. Instead, she had chosen her father because he was too shy to chase her or to resist her smiles and quick touches that left him with a babe while she danced off to fight the creatures in the forest. Many people thought her mother beautiful when they met her, but most in the villages and forest knew that she was strong, too. They knew that she had carried twins in a harsh winter and had killed bears with a babe still tucked under an arm. They knew that she fought the creatures in the deep caves and the dark corners because of what her name meant and they knew that there was little to stop her.


Hui Hua straightened when Irene compliment Ming Xia, puffing up with pride. Strong children meant strong parents and strong parents meant a strong family. <<I thank you,>> she said proudly. <<She is fully capable of plenty of her own hunting and killing.>>


Ming Xia stared back at the woman levelly, unflinching and unmoving. Her face held no open emotion and her attitude reflected nothing. Irene was watching her, staring at her, as if trying to examine her face, to see any cracks and crevices that may hold an answer as to why she was the way she was. Like all the villagers had when she had returned, eyes hollow and heart empty. They had whispered that her soul was gone, that a creature had stolen her being and returned her simply because she was too much of a hassle to consume completely. She had let them whisper, too worn, too tired, the truth splashed on the back of her eyelids and etched into her memory. Even now, it was what the night offered her.


Her mother moved on from that comment, glancing at Ming Xia as she usually did those days; quickly, quietly, and as if she was hoping it would allow her some peace. It hardly ever did, as the next statement was about death.


<<I am sorry to hear,>> her mother said, <<that Leon has passed. He was a nice man. A strong man.>>


The woman's changed demeanor when her mother announced that she was perhaps a charge made Ming Xia cautious, her hand moving to her belt and gripping the hilt of a knife, unsure of what to do but knowing that the word was either not welcomed or not usual, given the care the other woman was taking. Her mother rested a hand on her elbow as if to calm her and Ming Xia tossed her a somewhat irritated glance. Her paranoia had never subsided since she had crawled back and it would never subside, if her life continued as it had.


The leather only made Hui Hua confused, tilting her head slightly to examine it. Ming Xia did not let go and only waited for more answers. She did not fully understand the customs of those in the desert and she had no idea what the leather meant. She only knew that dragons flew in the sky and the people that rode them were meant to show power. When Irene said slave, Hui Hua's eyes widened and Ming Xia's eyes darted to the man in armor who was staring at them all, eyes dark.


<<I do not know you,>> Ming Xia said abruptly, her eyes falling back onto Irene as Hui Hua's face turned to stare at her.


Ming Xia knew that the man who Irene had gestured to was the man with power. He had a dragon, a dragon that could eat Irene and Ming Xia and her mother alive. A dragon that could burn the forest and delay the creatures but also burn the villages and destroy life. The man had power in the form of a sword at his hip and armor on his body, in the form of the four slaves he had brought with himself. Irene had brought only her own body in its thinness. If Ming Xia wanted the payment, wanted the reward that she had been promised by agreeing to guide the rider, she would have to focus on the rider. He held power and control and the slave had nothing. A promise to hunt in her state was not a promise that Ming Xia expected to be kept in any way, especially with her condition. <<You offer me little.>>


<<Little Flower,>> Hui Hua began, her voice iron and not at all kind against the nickname. Ming Xia jerked her elbow out of her mother's grasp, who clenched the hand like a fist.

Hardeep Passi

Orien

Hardeep was slightly annoyed.


Or rather, his annoyance was continuously mounting and it had bypassed what it had stagnated at briefly when they had landed and the dragons, unhappy, had begun to become rowdy and disoriented. He was rapidly approaching infuriated at the slave's behavior and the fact that she seemed able to understand what was happening better than he. Yet he was the master, the one that had ridden the dragon and set his father's body aflame in the desert to turn to ash and join the sands and his mother.


He heard the name Irene and it frustrated him that that was the only thing he understood, the only thing he grasped. Furthermore, it seemed that an exchange was happening between Irene and the other woman, the tall one dressed in furs that seemed to belong in the mountain. Orien had become still as well, his mouth a thin line. Galene and Kydoimos were huddled together, as he might have expected, their heads bent close and faint noises coming from their shared pelt, no doubt conversing about what to do. It annoyed him.


Finally, the younger broke away, her face blank where the older's was somewhat angry, her eyes digging into the back of the younger as she approached Hardeep, moving past Irene without so much as a glance in her direction after words were exchanged.


"Hardeep Passi," he tired once more.


He received no reaction.


"Looking. For. Shelter," he said, a pause between each word.


Still nothing. The older woman moved towards them but paused as the younger folded her arms over her chest.


"Understand?" Hardeep asked, drawing the word out slowly in an effort to try and communicate.


"You sound like an idiot," she responded, her eyes dull and Hardeep jerked upright as a snicker came from behind, probably from Galene. "I am waiting for you to explain to me what you expect me to do with the lot of you, when I have only enough space for the two promised."


She made a point to glare at Orien and Warren over Hardeep's shoulder. Her eyes fell on Galene and Kydoimos as well, but the other girl simply shrugged.


"I'm surprised they told you anything, really. They don't tell us shit," Galene said.


The guide's face did not morph or change and it turned back to Hardeep.


"Excuse me?" Hardeep asked between clenched teeth. "You've offered me no response til now, when I've tired to communicate."


"You've stated your name twice and your desires once," the guide continued, her voice like iron. "What do you expect me to take away?"


Hardeep fumed, his fists clenched. She was a child, no older than Galene, and mocking him as much as the slave might mock someone.


The guide breathed heavily out of her nose and turned to stalk over to her pack. "We cannot afford to stand around and converse," she said, straightening. "Find branches. Big, thick ones," she said, straightening and offering Orien what appeared to be a hatchet. "You will each pair up and sleep in one of them, unless one of you may want to sleep in a sack alongside me in a tree."


"You sleep in a tree?" Galene asked.


She was ignored.


"Find dried moss or grass. We will make temporary huts to sleep in for a time. Tomorrow, we will walk to villages. I had only expected two of you."


"And still expected us to sleep on the ground?"


"Some of us are strong," the guide snapped back at Hardeep before turning on her heel and making her way to the campfire.


"Well?" she asked, turning around to stare at them. "Will you move or must I do everything?"

Galene

Kydoimos Makhai

It was almost funny, the way the guide was treating Hardeep and the others, as if they were simple children. Annoying children. Galene could sympathize.


Kydoimos was pressed against her side, their larger figure taking up most of the pelt and their cold armor not exactly conducive to heat. They had managed to shrug off a fur and place it between her and the metal, allowing her to lean against it more comfortably.


"I don't have anything to use," Galene responded when the guide demanded they move, draping the fur over her own shoulders and yanking the black pelt away from Kydoimos, who only looked mildly perturbed at the sudden absence of her body against theirs.


"Here," the guide said, tossing her a hatchet. Kydoimos made a sound of alarm but her hand managed to dart out and catch it, preventing one side from embedding in her face.


"The hell?"


"Good, you have instinct. I was wondering which one of you would be wisest to be felled and left," the guide said, turning back to her pack.


"You're funny," Galene responded.


"You are not."


Galene grumbled at the back of the other and pulled the pelt closer to her body, shuffling down to the forest.


"Do not go alone," the older woman said sharply, the one who had been standing near their guide. Her face was older yet kindlier and somehow more welcome. "You do not know what lies there."

 

[Lenaara]

<<Nothing else to offer. Skill here,>> Irene nodded at the forest, <<more value than much. Foolish to refuse.>>


Very well. It was too much to hope that these people would honour their connected past. The connection was not that of a deep friendship, truthfully. If there ever was one, Leon and Hui Hua shared it. Irene merely played with Hui Hua’s children, watching after them and telling them some silly stories, or requesting sparring matches. Even Leon was here only to get coin and, once the task was done, they left. There was nothing to honour.


Hardened by the harsh environment that took the lives of many during winter months, it was expected that these people would not be sympathetic to Irene’s cause. It was naïve to think that they would jump at her defence, protect her and offer her lodging. It was naïve to think that they would believe that this thin and frail woman covered in scars and cursed by the God would be able to pay back any debt, however small.


And yet, Irene hoped.


Hoped that there was still some good left in people. This very same hope was dying for two years now, crumbling and falling apart, threatening to disappear completely.


Remember Anja’s son? How he begged you to guide him through the swamps? How hollow his promises were? You never helped out of the goodness of your hypocritical heart. You were in it for the promised coin and a selfish vow.


Irene chose to ignore the voice of conscience. At the back of her mind she came to accept the dark thought – she would not have helped herself, or anyone in her position, either. So she did not protest or beg for warm clothing. It was useless. Silently Irene watched Ming Xia pass by her, too tired and too cold to say anything more to the younger woman.


Cold was numbing Irene’s fingers, toes and nose. The thicker linens did little to nothing in hiding her from cool winds, the cloth long dampened by the hail turned icy rain and wet snow. Galene’s bear pelt suddenly seemed very welcoming. Anything capable of trapping heat was welcoming.


While Hardeep and Ming Xia exchanged anything but pleasantries – the young woman’s words brought forth a sneer from Warren and a snicker from Galene – Irene circled the fire and stopped by Hui Hua.


“I am sorry we met under such,” Irene paused to think of a kinder way to describe the situation without painting it in gloomy colours, “unfortunate circumstances.”


Her voice was quiet, muffled by the crackling fire and the conversation between Ming Xia and Hardeep across the fire from Hui Hua and Irene. Talking in Crubian was easier, the words had long since lost the accent coating them and Irene thought it easier for Hui Hua to understand what Irene was trying to say. At least this way, Hui Hua was not forced to listen to Irene butchering Veneshian like an illiterate peasant.


“It is nice to see you again.” She looked at Hui Hua, whose features appeared harsher with the firelight casting shadows across her face. “If he allows, I will come visit.”


Who he was Irene chose not to elaborate. There was only one he who had the power to allow or forbid Irene anything.


Irene continued across the clearing, leaving Hui Hua, the warm fire, and the rest of the group behind. She passed by the edge of the forest, walking along the glade’s ‘border’. Shadows drifted and turned within the dark forest, hiding those who lurked within. Not only animals hid in caves and dens deep in the woods, hiding behind the wide trunks of oaks and willows, or sharp boulders by the rivers. Those that posed as animals lived in the shadows, appearing as wolves and bears but bigger in size; others wore the guise of a much more terrifying creature, with their skin and fur long ago tinted with the forest colours to mask their presence; and some, the deadliest ones, were intangible, brought forth into existence by strong negative emotion or death.


Not only Mountains of Veneshia housed such creatures. Many forests, ravines, bogs and swamps were full of such monstrosities. Irene had seen many, killed some, and escaped from most. Every encounter was hard, no matter the creature, and each threatened to bring an end to the woman’s life. Back then, however, Irene was fit to deal with any looming threat – there was warm and sturdy clothing on her shoulders, a weapon in her hand and a flawless ability to fight to power her body. Now, Irene only had linens draped over her shoulders, tied and wrapped close around the body frame, the muscles now fit to tend to the fields, and a hair comb as a weapon that would do little to nothing against a creature of the woods.


But she would survive. It was that or die from cold. And she was too stubborn to die.


Snow crunched beneath someone’s weight.


“I am not planning on running away in the dead of the night, if that is what you’re thinking, Warren,” Irene said as she continued to tread the glade’s edge. There was no need to check who had approached her – Warren’s marching gait was enough of an indicator, with his armour clanking and his footfalls loud enough to wake half the mountain.


“What did you talk to them about?” Warren followed Irene, falling in a step or two behind.


Irene ignored his question and instead quickened her pace. Moving warmed her blood and kept the frost from her bones. Something wrapped around Irene’s elbow, stopping her in her tracks, and pulled. Warren had grabbed her arm, his gloved had squeezing tightly in an iron grip, and spun Irene to face him.


“One of them recognized you,” Warren said, his words as cold as the night. “She said your name. I heard it. And she laughed at something, more than once. I doubt you cracked a joke.”


“It is none of your business.” Irene pulled back only to have Warren’s grip tighten.


“It is. Sir Hardeep might trust you to be weak but I know better and—“


“I have lived here for a period of half a year when I was twelve. Don’t believe me?” She asked noticing the furrowed brow and disbelieving eyes. “Ask either of them.” Irene nodded in the direction of Hui Hua and Ming Xia. “Now let me go.” Another jerk and Warren’s grasp loosened enough for Irene to free herself from the man’s hold and step away.


Back by the campfire, Ming Xia had begun to snap orders. Warren followed Irene back to the glade, staying a step or two behind the woman as she knelt down by the flames and picked up a log. It would do as a torch for the time being. Or a weapon. Night had fallen, the setting sun coating the sky a deep peach colour on the horizon behind the mountain peaks and let the myriad of stars show high up above. It would have been a beautiful sight had it not carried a threat of a long cold night with it.


Irene would have preferred to sleep in a tree, it being the safest spot to be in comparison to the open glade, but the thin linens were not enough to offer protection from the harsh frost. The idea of sharing a sack with Ming Xia was not the most pleasant one – it had not escaped Irene how the young woman’s hand darted towards her belt and grabbed the hilt of a hunting knife. The only way to survive the night was to share body heat, and that meant sleeping close to someone from the group. Warren would be the one to volunteer sleeping with the Murderer, no doubt.


After picking up the makeshift torch, Irene turned on her heel and crossed the glade to head into the forest. Warren, as she expected, followed close behind her. Snow crunched beneath their feet – some footfalls heavier than the others – and the wind hollowed at their sides. They headed north from the glade, leaving the campfire behind them, and soon only their little island of orange firelight illuminated the surrounding trees. Irene stepped over some of the roots, careful not to trip and fall, and had to let go of the pulled close to her jacket to brace a hand against a tree trunk or another for support as she stepped over a particularly large bush or protruding tree root.


Behind her, Warren had been picking up whatever dry moss and grass he could find. He kept close to Irene, using her torchlight as a beacon between the trees, and did the task assigned to them by Ming Xia. Sometimes his blade would hiss as it slid out of the scabbard to hack at a nearby tree to cut off a thick and long branch.


“Where are you going?” Warren broke the silence and groaned, his armour clanked and cloth rustled as the guard picked something up from the mossy ground. When Irene looked over her shoulder she noticed the four large thick branches pressed between the man’s side and arm, while the other held a bundle of moss and long grass.


“Looking for tracks,” Irene replied and knelt down by a pine, the log had been burning away quickly in her hand and she could feel the fire’s warmth through the other end.


“Whose tracks?” The guard asked suspiciously.


“A hare’s.”


Irene reached down and brushed a hand over the ground. She was kneeling before a patch of wet snow and mud. There were prints embedded into the soil where the moss did not cover the ground and the snow was disturbed, leaving larger dents that disappeared around the pine and continued down the forest floor beyond the reach of Irene’s torch.


“You expect to follow it?” Warren adjusted the grip on the items and wrapped the tall grasses into a piece of moss.


“I expect to catch it.”


“How? It ran off.”


Irene sighed through her nose. The man had spent his entire life in a desert, she doubted he had ever seen a hare, least of all snared one.


“Hares leave tracks and are creatures of habit. See these?” She pointed to the tracks, her finger gliding over the ground and pointing towards where they disappeared into the darkness. “They look fresh. There is a chance it is going to use the same path again. Not a lot of trees or rocks here, no funnel to block the animal’s path. I am going to snare it.”


The torch was stabbed into the ground and illuminated the spot where Irene had begun to work on. She picked up some sticks, long and thin but strong enough to be used, and stuck them into the ground to form an X by the roots of the nearby tree and the pine. With no wire in hand but a thin rope taken out of the sandals that she wore around the Passi homestead at her disposal, Irene tied a loop around the sticks. Warren was watching her intently, either out of curiosity or suspicion. The loop was about four inches above the ground. She worked slowly at first, careful not to disturb the snare, but picked up the pace soon enough, remembering what was taught to her long ago. It seemed like such a long time ago that she had last built a snare.


“Who taught you this?” Warren asked when Irene took the torch and stepped back, examining her work.


It would have to do.


“My uncle.”


On the way back towards the camp, Irene had caught Warren glancing behind his shoulder. Was he that intrigued by a snare? Or did he think that contraption was for something else entirely? She could only guess. Warren did not speak or question Irene any longer and followed her in silence, watching as she bent down from time to time to pick up a large fallen off from a dead tree branch or a pile of moss and dry grass. As he did, Irene wrapped the bundle of grass into the moss and brought it towards the campfire. She tossed the now coloured bright orange log into the flames.


No sounds followed them, no shadows jerked or drifted at their sides. Irene had been watching the forest intently, warily. Memories of the horrors encountered in Riverside and many other places was enough to keep her senses on high alert, irrelevant of the cold. Leon spoke of these forests with unusual stillness to his voice; it unnerved her then, and now too.


Their share of branches and moss was brought towards the fire and laid down onto the ground. Her hands were numb; her entire body was numb. Irene had not realized how set her jaw was to prevent her teeth from chattering. The trek through the forest had warmed her bones somewhat, but she could barely move her fingers or feel them. She crouched down by the fire, hands extended towards the flames to greedily drink in the warmth.


Behind her Warren turned and took a step towards the forest but stopped when Irene reached up to grab him by the wrist. “Don’t go in there alone.”


“I’m not afraid of some wolf,” Warren grumbled, his pride wounded, and freed his arm from Irene’s hold.


“A wolf is not what you should fear,” she said.


The guard ignored her and went back into the woods. Fool.


Irene allowed herself another moment by the fire, waiting impatiently for the warmth to bring life to her trembling fingers, and then got up. She paced around the glade to pick up some more grass and moss, and then headed back towards the fire to deposit the rest of the materials into her pile. Content with the amount gathered, Irene looked up at Ming Xia huddled by the fire, cutting rope.


“Share the rope?” Irene jerked her chin at the pieces of rope in Ming Xia’s hands. “Or must I get to know you first?”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Galene

Kydoimos Makhai

The task was not easy.


Hardeep had taken Orien as Warren followed Irene, who left them. Galene had watched with a frown on her face; if the woman ran for the woods, there was little that she could do to go anywhere but the mountain. There were no dragons to carry her up into the sky and anywhere but downwards, where the forest stood ominously. Galene had learned that the forests were not forgiving, no matter what one thought. The inhabitants of them knew that even beasts such as wolves could become something else in the dark. It changed them. It morphed them.


She had seen pinpricks in the dark, of eyes that were glinting at her and leaving trails of blood and fur that she did not wish to think about. The inhabitants of the mountain always told her to travel in packs, as the wolves did in order to keep safe. And when the wolves ran and the bears did too, to never look back and return to the outside as quickly as possible.


Kydoimos had never been in the mountains. They had never seen so many trees before or felt the biting cold and were acting like a child, craning their neck every which way as Galene continued to walk, her ears perked. Every time they stumbled over a branch of cracked over a twig, her face darted to theirs, eyes narrowing briefly before returning to the task at hand.


"Why are you so anxious?" they asked her when she had dropped the branches she had already collected when they had made a right fool of themselves and cracked branches in order to get through the path instead of simply bending over them.


"You don't know what lives here," Galene responded, hacking away at a sturdy branch with the hatchet, her eyes focused on the glint of the metal and her ears turned for any crunching of snow.


"Wolves. Bears."


"Things with claws and fur and teeth," Galene corrected.


"Of course."


"Bigger than bears. Faster than wolves. That eat more humans than both combined."


Kydoimos chuckled easily behind her and took the branch that she had cut, still smiling. She turned to glare at them, unamused. The smile slipped off like a mask and if she was not ready to be killed, she might have felt guilty.


"Calm," they said reach over to brush the top of her head and push the dripping wet droplets away from her. "The slaves have filled your head with silly stories."


"I know what I saw," she challenged back and they looked confused. She turned on her heel and continued walking, carrying the branches that she had managed to gather. They were large and dragged along and Kydoimos bent down to pick up one end and make her quest easier, still unused to her demeanor that did not welcome chatter.


"What you saw?"


"I went hunting on mountains," Galene said. "Learned how to use a bow and arrow there. I saw things in the dark."


"There is no need for fear," Kydoimos said as something rustled. Galene paused and turned to the sound, lowering the logs in arm to the ground as Kydoimos sighed, shaking their head. "Do not fear."


There was the sound of feet crunching and Galene gripped the hatchet tightly, her feet moving in the direction of the noise. The sound grew nearer, as did the sound of metal, of tinkling, of something that wasn't a bear or a wolf.


It was growing louder, louder than her thudding heart and once it was within reach, she swung, the hatchet cutting across the air and a few leaves and branches, sending them scattering to the ground.


"It's just Warren," Kydoimos sighed, the guard appearing where she had cut through the dense foliage.


"I could have killed you," Galene insisted and Kydoimos sighed again.

Li Ming Xia

Her mother vanished back to her own homestead with iron eyes and a sharp tongue, warning Ming Xia that the desert people obeyed different rules. Ming Xia did not listen, instead parking herself in front of the fire and beginning to pull out long tendrils of rope, created through trade and from twisting dead plants and bark together. She slowly unraveled it to a suitable length before taking out a sharp, small knife and cutting several strips before tying them together, twisting them over each other in a braid that was thicker and sturdier. The work kept her focused, kept her mind clear on what she had to do. Over and under, over and under, over and under.


She allowed her eyes to watch the forest past the flickering orange flames, watching the people vanish and return, the girl and the boy coming back several times with logs. Her eyes were wide and watching, her movements jerky while his were casual.


She knew, then. In some capacity. Or she feared.


Good.


The two other men were cocky asses that she wished she had not agreed to take. Or at least, the one named Hardeep was. The other, the slave with the leather collar, did not do much. He allowed the one named Hardeep to act like he did and did not raise his voice or change his tone when speaking to the other, as if there was nothing bothering him about the other man at all. As if they were hardly in the same area.


It was strange.


She did not dwell on it.


They were both cocky asses in the other respect that they did not fear the forest, not like the woman and the girl feared it. They at least knew caution, knew that the things that lurked were far worse than any of the horrors that they had faced before, or they had potentially already faced. The men were idiots, as all men were by Ming Xia's standard.


Her eyes followed the return of the first woman, the one named Irene that had attempted to bargain with her. She exchanged words with the guard before the idiot man went back into the woods.


She made no move, no call to stop him. Her mother had warned already and there was no way that her words could carry any wait for a man like him.


Instead, Ming Xia watched the woman pace, move. She was cold.


Pity.


Ming Xia continued to cut and bind rope with eyes trained on the forest, ears to the woman pacing. If she ran, she'd have to answer the man who owned her. If she ran, she was dumb.


The woman sat down by her and spoke to her.


"Take the pieces and bind them," she said simply. "It will make the rope thicker, hardier. Good for binding logs."


She cut several more strips and sat them down at the woman's feet before standing up, sheathing her knife, and shrugging off a fur.


"I will move the logs to the fire to begin to construct," she said, tossing the fur at the woman. "Keep my fur dry of sweat."


Ming Xia moved to the pile of moss and leaves and grass, binding together long strands of them and bringing them over to the fire, laying them down as a bed. She layered them on top of one another, until it rose up to about half of the length of her fingers.


Satisfied, she headed off to the pile of logs that had been growing, taking one in each hand and dragging them back to the fire, angling two of them so that they crossed one another and formed a triangle with the ground and binded them with a piece of rope before finding another and laying it perpendicular between their intersection, allowing it to stand up briefly. The man named Hardeep appeared and Ming Xia turned to look at him.


"Hold this," she commanded and he nudged the one next to him, who placed his moss in the growing pile and held it.


Ming Xia narrowed her eyes at his defiance but said nothing, simply heading to the spot where the log met the ground and digging the heel of her shoe in, creating a dent that she then rested it in.


"Bring me more," she demanded and this time, the man moved, pulling a single log with two hands and handing it to her.


She rested it against the perpendicular pole, and motioned for him to bring her another. She pressed them close to the first two and tied them together, examining the structure to make sure it was stable.


"We layer it with moss and branches," she said next. The slave stared at her uncertainty.


"You can let go," she said, the irritation almost there.


They worked on moving larger logs to cover up spots between the first two and Ming Xia pulled out a hatchet to chop up some into smaller pieces to continue to lean against the perpendicular log until it made no sense to. Ming Xia then commanded they get the grasses and bind them together, laying the stacks next to each other before she weaved rope between their bindings and fastened them as a sort of makeshift layer of insulation. She placed it on each side and used moss to fill in any gaps. Finally, Ming Xia hauled over two large logs (in one trip because time was running out) and placed one on each side, lengthwise against the bottom to attempt to keep the moss and bound grass together.


"We need to make another," Ming Xia told them as the man named Hardeep seemed ready to finish.


His complaints did not reach her ear as she began to haul more logs on over.

 

[Lenaara]

Perhaps, going into the forest alone was a bad idea.


Something hooted above Warren as he treaded the forest in the dark, his pride preventing him from doubling back to pick up a log. There was enough light passing through the dense canopy of trees above him and he spent a fair amount of time admiring the trees than what was lurking behind them. They were odd, after all. Everything was odd.


Some trees loomed above the guard with thin and black trunks, their branches so high up in the sky that he had to crane his neck to see the top. The trunks of others were hidden from Warren by the foliage. Curious, he reached out and slid his hand over the branch of a pine and then pressed his thumb against one of the needle like leaves. They prickled at his skin through the thin leather but it was not painful. He tried to stride past the pine only to be pushed back by the branch. Warren stared at the tree in an accusatory way in response, looked around, and circled the pine only to nearly run into another tree with branches so low they were threatening to pluck his eyes out.


A mixture of curiosity and annoyance had come over him. Curious for the world around him and annoyed at how the trees seemed to have moved from Irene’s path when she entered the forest, while he was struggling not to fall as he chose his own path this time.


But that woman was akin to a snake, Warren justified the situation for himself. Irene slithered above the ground soundlessly, her body twisting and moving away from the branches of pines, oaks and willows. He watched her pick a trail and follow it, illuminating it with the log turned torch, and he followed her lest she chose to run. Unlike him, Irene did not stare at the trees as if they were otherworldly creatures. Unlike him, Irene did not step on branches and twigs with such noise that half the game was scared off and fled on the other side of the woods.


As expected, Warren thought, of Sir Balin’s murderer. Only someone as slippery as that woman could fool Sir Balin into lowering his guard.


With these dark thoughts Warren paced through the forest and cursed Irene for knowing where to go and how to step without falling over. As he stepped over a root to cross towards a small clearing of dry moss and grass, his sword caught onto some shrubbery. Warren cursed it and made a distant mental note to watch Irene to mimic her gait. A soldier’s march was not fit for the forests where creatures and people as slippery and barbaric as Sir Balin’s murderer lived.


The cold was getting on his nerves and the shadows drifting in the distance were unnerving. More than once Warren caught himself looking over his shoulder, the warning given to him by Irene repeating over and over again in his mind like a mantra.


Something rustled to his left and Warren whirled around, his palm on the hilt of his sword and eyes darting from one shadow and onto another. He waited, forgetting to breathe. It was silent.


“Wolves,” he muttered. “Just wolves. Or a bear.”


It did not occur to him that he had never seen a bear. Wolves he had seen in books before and his father once bought a wolf pelt to use as a blanket during cold desert nights. Warren imagined that creature to be about the same size as a dog and very soft, as that fur was softer than anything he had ever touched. But how to deal with a wolf? Dogs were smart, they did not attack blindly.


Warren mulled over the uneasy thoughts as he chewed on his bottom lip. After another moment of utter silence an owl hooted above his head and Warren jumped a couple of inches into the air.


“Why do I feel safer beside that snake than I do by myself?” He groaned and ran a hand over his hair. His other hand was rubbing the pommel of his sword.


He continued going east, sword in hand this time. He justified having the weapon out to hack off a branch from an oak. Small dents in the snow stood out vividly by the patches of mossy ground that added a spring to Warren’s heavy step. After being told that such dents were left on the ground by a hare, Warren wondered how the animal looked like. He imagined it to be something like cat.


A crunch to his side alerted Warren to make him halt, one foot in the air, about to step into a soft crunchy snow. He had been listening intently for any sounds near the camp, in case some wolf or bear – or something worse, if Irene was to be trusted – lurked nearby where Sir Hardeep and Sir Kydoimos were. Warren brought his collected logs to rest against his shoulder and began heading slowly towards the noises. He heard voices drifting over the wind and then some hacking sounds. Thieves? More mountain inhabitants?


Ahead of him a shadow was growing and moving. What he assumed to be the shadow’s shoulders were large and broad and furry. There was another silhouette behind the shadow, tall and wide, with a sleek skin that reflected the moonlight creeping through the dense canopy.


He raised his sword.


Metal gleamed under the moonlight and Warren felt wind whistle inches away from his face. He staggered back, threw the collected branches onto the ground, and raised his sword for a counter attack. A familiar voice stopped him from skewering the one with the hatchet.


And he cursed Galene with such a well combined phrase that a seasoned sailor would blush at.


The one whom he thought to be a large furry creature – he thought it to be a bear – was Galene. The girl stood clutching a hatchet in one hand, the weapon that nearly took half of Warren’s nose off, and the bear pelt was draped over her shoulders. The sleek skinned monstrosity that Warren assumed to be anything but a bear or a wolf, was Kydoimos. Sir Kydoimos.


Warren stared at Galene and then at the rider by her side, and lowered his sword. Had Galene been here alone, he would have told her everything he thought of the swing, the hatchet, and what inappropriate actions the girl should be doing with the said hatchet. As it were, Kydoimos was nearby. So Warren bowed, face tinted with pink from the cold and utter embarrassment.


“I apologize, Sir Kydoimos,” he said quickly and slid the sword into its scabbard. “I thought you were...well, not yourselves.”


Something crunched at their side and Warren spun around, eyes skirting over the shadows in the distance. The forest unnerved him.


“Do you have enough branches?” Warren shifted his attention to Galene, taking in the branches and that the rider helped the slave carry some of them. He would have questioned the odd offering of help had something not crunched in the distance again. He forced his hands to let go of the sword’s hilt, reached down and picked up his scattered branches (which fell onto the ground with such sound that surely the ones by the campfire had heard the commotion) and looked at Galene once more.


“Enough branches? Yes? Good. Let’s leave.” He realized how impatient he was to leave the darkness of the woods and cleared his throat. “Sir Hardeep cannot be left alone with those dangerous women for long,” Warren corrected and turned to head towards the flickering firelight in the distance.


***


Irene expected not to be handed a thing by Ming Xia. The girl had made it abundantly clear that she did not know Irene, their meeting a fleeting one and scarcely remembered, and Irene did not look like someone who could survive more than a day on the mountain. Here, people valued strength; that is why Irene commented on that instead of beauty or intelligence when she spoke with Hui Hua. These people were easy to read. Rope, pelt, iron, food, these were valued above all by the inhabitants of the mountain. They signified strength.


But the rope was laid at her feet and a task was given. Irene arched a brow at it, wondering about the sudden change of heart, but reached out towards the pieces of rope. Her fingers were still numb from the cold. Fire had been slowly seeping into her bones and skin, drying the dampened clothing. Irene had to flex her fingers a few times before she began to work on the rope, twisting it into a braid. She let her memory guide her hands and focused her sight and hearing on the forest around them. Warren had not returned yet, and neither has she seen Galene and Kydoimos.


Before Irene could do more than a few loops through the rope Ming Xia spoke and Irene glanced at the girl’s direction when a fur was tossed to her. Her hand jerked up instinctively and caught the pelt.


“Thank you,” Irene said and wrapped the fur around her shoulders, knees pulled up to her chest to preserve as much as warmth as it was possible. Her fingers dug into the fur, revelling in its softness.


It was warm. So warm. The inside of the pelt was warm from having been worn by Ming Xia moments ago, and the outside fur lining was pleasant to touch. Irene pulled the pelt closer to her, letting her cheeks touch the fur and buried her face in it. To warm up her numb cheeks and nose, she justified. It was a moment of weakness.


The desert has made her forget what true cold felt like, how all-consuming and dangerous it was.


After being exposed to the biting frost for such a long time, a part of Irene began to crave for the scorching sun.


Irene greedily drank in the warmth from the flames and enjoyed the offered protection from the frosty winds that the pelt offered. After some life had returned to her trembling fingers, she reached out and began to work the rope once again. Behind her, Ming Xia, Hardeep and Orien were beginning to construct a hut. Well, Ming Xia and Orien. Hardeep was mostly playing the role of a spectator. The attitude made Irene frown but the fur hid her narrowed eyes and furrowed brows from sight.


While they – or rather, Ming Xia – built the hut, Irene shifted in her position to hook the two pieces of rope around her foot. One rope was coiled into another and pulled towards her, one end pressed against the ground with Irene’s foot. With her hands now holding two pieces of rope in each, Irene began pulling the leftmost strands towards the right side, weaving them together to form a rope about an inch in diameter. She picked up the pace halfway through the braiding process, partly to stay warm and partly because the night was looming over them. Time was running out.


Warren, Galene and Kydoimos still have not returned. Their absence meant that they either dwelled too far into the forest, or were not in a position to return. The latter meant trouble for all.


With the rope finished Irene pulled on it to check the completed work. It was a different style of braiding than Ming Xia’s but both achieved the same result – the rope was thicker, stronger, enough to be coiled around the logs without snapping. She reached out to leave the rope by Ming Xia’s pack and then got up to take the remaining moss and grass. They were moved to the fire, the moss and leaves laid down first and then covered by the grass that Irene began to bind after crouching down by the ‘bed’. More than once Irene looked up from her work to look at the forest, aiming to see either Kydoimos’s armour or hear Warren’s marching gait. All she heard was some odd sounds coming from the forest, as if someone had said something loudly but the crackling fire at Irene’s side dulled out the voices.


After the bed of moss and grass was completed Irene headed towards the pile of logs to begin building the base of the hut. She copied Ming Xia’s movements, unused to building such huts herself, and began to build a replica of the first hut that now stood completed.


The fur continued to rest over Irene’s shoulders, kept there by one hand while the other reached out to pick up two shorter branches to build the first X of the shelter.


The forest rustled at her side and Irene looked up in alarm, clutching at one of the branches as if it could be used as a weapon. Shrubbery rustled, twigs crunched under someone’s heavy weight. Shadows parted and Irene was momentarily blinded by the firelight reflecting on someone’s armour. It was Warren, marching towards the campfire, though his chest no longer was puffed out confidently; no, his shoulders drooped, his head inclined forward, and his cheeks were tinted red. More logs fell into the pile when Warren approached it and with his hands free he ran one hand over his hair and the other over the pommel of his sword.


“What?” He snapped when he caught Irene’s stare.


Irene quirked a brow at the man, surprised by the sudden change in attitude. Did he not just a short while ago march into the forest, boasting confidence and undaunted by the evils lurking within? What changed?


He also kept glancing over his shoulder, staring warily in the direction from where he had emerged. His behaviour was strange. Had there been a threat in the forest, however small, Irene thought Warren the kind of a man to take his sword out and go headfirst into a bloody battle with some evil that can pose a threat to Hardeep. But no sword was drawn.


“What happened?” Irene asked as she dug the heel of her shoe into the ground to make a dent and repeated the action about a foot or two across from the first dent. She stabbed the branches into the ground and angled them to form a triangle. The protruding twigs allowed the branches to rest on one another and Irene let go of the contraption, deeming it stable enough to be left alone while she went to fetch a larger log to build the next part of the hut’s skeleton.


Warren did not reply and stepped quietly towards Irene to hold the skeleton of the hut as she coiled the rope around the branches. He continued to look over his shoulder more often than not.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Li Ming Xia

Galene

Ming Xia switched directions and dragged her logs over to Irene when she noted that the other woman was creating a hut as well. The slave glanced down at the hut, looking slightly lost.


"You," Ming Xia said pointing a finger at Hardeep. "Do you know how to stoke a fire?"


"I--"


"Nevermind," Ming Xia said, not getting the yes or no answer she wanted. "Do you?"


"Yes," the other man said, blinking at her while Hardeep looked offended that he had been cut off.


"Tend to it," Ming Xia, said, gesturing the to the flames. "I should have a few rocks in my pack, bound in a brown pouch made of leather and tied with red string. It will serve us well to keep the fire contained and away from the huts, as well as allowing the ashes and embers to gather so that they may continue to light."


The man nodded and headed over to her large sack, more than half of her own size and bulky enough to make the others question how she could possibly carry it anywhere. He found the pouch, dangling from one of the strings binding the entire pack and keeping it closed. He walked over to the fire and laid the stones around in a circle, pushing them close together to prevent the flames from licking their way to the logs.


Ming Xia turned back to Irene and the hut, straightening the logs and digging the ends of the X into the ground more. She examined the bed already created, pushing her hand against it and checking its height to ensure that there was enough padding that there was room for the grasses to freeze and room for them to be warmed by bodies.


The sudden shift of shrubbery made Ming Xia look up and even Hardeep seized his weapon. The others came stumbling out, the girl still clutching her hatchet with wide eyes.


Ming Xia sighed heavily and continued her examination of the bed, checking to ensure it was level throughout before beginning to place logs in their proper place again, working around Irene.


The other girl approached her, her name Galene from the short sentence she had spoken to Ming Xia.


"Can I keep this?" she asked, showing her the hatchet as she placed her branches down.


"No."


"Do I have a weapon I could have?" she asked as Ming Xia seized the handle of the hatchet and brought it back to her, hooking it back onto her leather strap that slung across her waist.


"No. Ask your master."


Galene's nose wrinkled and opened her mouth to say something when the other man she had walked with breezed by her, body rigid and eyes focused on the armed guard that had come marching out with them.


"You begin to build another hut," Ming Xia said, picking up a few branches.


"Actually, I was thinking about sleeping in a tree."


Ming Xia stood up straight and stared at her with a blank expression.


"I used to hunt in the mountains," she explained. "I know how to use a bow and arrow. My master knows this; they can verify," she continued. "Building a hut takes time and effort while you already have the ability to sleep in a tree, correct?"


"I had three prepared, yes."


"Then I can take one and we can cut down on work," Galene reasoned.


"A hut needs two people to keep each other warm."


"Well then Kydoimos can sleep with one of the others," Galene said, waving an arm.


"They can only keep two," Ming Xia corrected, her eyes narrowing.


"We can make something wider and shorter," Galene said. "That way, they can all slip in and there won't be so much upper draft."


"The logs would slip and fall."


The girl was finally quiet and Ming Xia breathed, moving her logs to another area.


"Come on, we can all sleep in a tree then!"


"Take that up with your master."

Kydoimos Makhai

Galene was the only slave on the mountain with Kydoimos, the only piece of their life from Crubia, and one of the best pieces. Warren had very much looked prepared to slay her on the spot because she had swung the hatchet at him and while he did not, he had let loose a string of curses that Kydoimos had not very much wanted to hear, or see directed at Galene.


Kydoimos would have pushed the man against a tree and threatened him then and there, but Galene had been as ready to leave the forest, her eyes still darting everywhere. It had been somewhat unsettling to see her quieter demeanor and her anxiousness, so they had allowed them to move through the forest at rapid pace, making their way back to camp as the cold really began to set in.


But now, the fire was roaring and they had not been given a specific task. Galene was already speaking with their guide, trying to reason with them in some way, shape, or form and was distracted.


They made their way over to the other hut in a few strides, casting a glance at Hardeep who was staring down at his nails. Poor bastard, they thought. Lost and alone.


Well, Hardeep was also being an ass, but that was beside the point. Almost all dragon riders were asses and Kydoimos was not going to judge a man who had lost a father and then a home within the same few days for wanting the world to stop turning and focus on him for a while.


Kydoimos, however, had a different objective in mind and arrived in front of Warren, staring down, to the best of their ability, the other.


"Hello Warren," Kydoimos said, their lips curling into a crooked smile. "I suppose it was lucky that we found you, yes? You managed to get out of the forest in one piece in the end."


Before the guard could answer, Kydoimos reached to their belt and pulled out a thin blade, pointing it right underneath the man's chin, allowing the tip to poke at the skin there.


"However, I noticed you had a sword ready to ensure that Galene did not appear in one piece," Kydoimos said in a low voice, so that others could not easily hear. Their eyes narrowed, hand pushing the tip of the thin blade further into the flesh, not breaking skin quite yet.


"Now tell me, do you think I would have appreciated it if you had attempted to 'protect me'?"


Their half smile had turned into a scowl, one side of their mouth curled upwards to reveal teeth.


"You are a guard of dragon riders, boy," Kydoimos snapped, "Do not raise your sword again towards her or you will find yourself with one less limb to use next time something does appear."


They removed the blade and sheathed it quietly before giving Warren their half smile again.


"Do your best," they said, before turning and finding Galene trying to convince the guide of something. Apparently, it had to do with a tree.


Gods help me, they thought. Why the hell did they ever leave Galene alone?

[/column][/row]

 

[Lenaara]

Irene stepped away from her contraption. What an odd thing it was. She had seen such huts before, built them on several occasions, but preferred other means of cover in the forests. Oilskin draped over a branch and a bearskin spread over the ground worked just as well, if not better. That, and Irene chose to steer clear of forests, knowing from experience what lurked there. Traveling with caravans, sleeping in clearing by the fire or in abandoned mansions, or, more often, renting tavern rooms, was norm in her life once. Sleeping in shelters of grass and branches? That was never done, not unless her charge had a knack for adventures or needed to avoid the main roads.


Not a single word was said as Irene stepped away from Ming Xia and let the younger woman adjust Irene’s contraption. It did not topple over, which was a good sign. Irene watched Ming Xia patiently and silently, tracing back the younger woman’s steps to memorize how to build the temporary shelter. This knowledge would serve her yet.


Irene had been coiling the rope around the branches when Galene and Kydoimos had emerged from the forest. She had glanced at them, taking in their weapons – the sword at Kydoimos’s side and the hatchet in Galene’s hand – and their attire. No blood. No wounds. Why was Warren so jerky, then?


She looked over her shoulder at Warren. The guard had retreated from the hut and stepped towards the fire, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark and lips drawn into a thin line. After the last of the group arrived to the glade, Warren avoided looking at Galene or Kydoimos.


The hell happened there?


Galene and Ming Xia’s discussion about sleeping arrangements had pulled Irene’s thoughts back to the women by her side. The hatchet was put onto Ming Xia’s waist and Irene shifted her gaze towards the large pack by the fire, the one belonging to Ming Xia. It, surely, had more weapons there. Another hatchet, maybe a dagger. Something small and nimble would do, easy to steal and hide. Of course, that would have to wait. Irene did not doubt for a second that Ming Xia’s response is going to be prompt when the younger woman discovers one of her items missing.


Perhaps, Irene thought, she could blame the theft on Galene who had requested a weapon just moments ago.


Can you live with the guilt of another being blamed for your own selfish actions? You will have to tell this to Rael. He will demand answers. How will you look him in the eye and tell him that you condemned an innocent girl to a punishment you rightfully deserved?


Easily. Two years of slavery changed even the kindest of hearts. Or that, at least, Irene tried to tell herself and was so preoccupied with ignoring the voice of conscience that she missed a loop.


The lack of expected pressure beneath the rope made Irene lose her balance for a moment and lean forward, nearly toppling over the hut. She recovered just in time and stepped back to run a numb hand through her hair.


Breeze shifted to Irene’s side and she looked at the direction of the walking figure. Kydoimos. He had been approaching Warren, who was doing his very best to ignore the other rider. It did not work, and Warren was confronted. Irene could not hear their words – did not care much for them, either, as it was not her business – but the effect that the words brought upon Warren had left Irene staring at the scene.


Warren had turned a few shades paler and looked down at Kydoimos who seemed all the more menacing under the soft orange firelight. Iron gleamed and a dagger was pulled out of its sheathe, the blade’s hissing sound masked by the crackling fire to the side of the two men. Irene had unconsciously taken a step towards the two, aiming to break the two men apart.


This was not the best place for a brawl. Blood spilled would attract both wild animals and the creatures of much higher calibre. Negative emotions, such as death or immense pain, would leave a feast for those spirits that lurked the shadows in their jerky forms made of tendrils of darkness. Irene wished not to encounter any of those threats.


Warren said nothing and tilted his head to avoid the blade of the dagger without, Irene assumed, bringing forth the wrath of the dragon rider. The guard did not reach for his weapon. The words hushed to almost a whisper now and Warren, after a long pause, nodded. Kydoimos stepped away from Warren who had taken a step back, his arms raised palms forward, and reached up to rub his neck.


For a moment, Warren was still. His eyes focused on the ground, his hand still rubbing the piece of skin where a blade was resting against moments before. Then he looked up and did not look at Kydoimos or Galene – at whom he had glanced at some point when Kydoimos spoke to him – or even Irene, whom he kept under constant watch. Irene followed Warren’s gaze. He was watching Hardeep. And Hardeep was focused on his nails, not a care in the world.


When Irene looked back at Warren, her task forgotten by the scene, he had looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked disappointed.


“I can sleep on a tree,” Irene said as she looked at Ming Xia and Galene.


Metal clanked at her side, Warren neared them. “No. You are not sleeping alone.”


“Fine. What do you propose?” She looked up at the guard. He was still pale but otherwise seemed to have returned to his usual behaviour.


“I will sleep with Sir Hardeep to protect him,” he offered.


“The two of you will not fit into one of these.” Irene jerked her chin at the hut. It was large enough to house one large and smaller figure, maximum. “If Galene wants to sleep on a tree, let her. Lord Kydoimos can join her. I can bunk with Orien for the night.”


Warren narrowed his eyes at Irene and put a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Out of the question.”


Irene did not reply and merely pressed her lips together into a tight line. “Well, we need to decide this before the frost settles in. Your stubbornness isn’t helping with the situation, Warren.”


“My stubbornness?”


Irene rubbed the bridge of her nose in response and the guard at her side raised his hands, palms forward and waved dismissively at the woman as he turned around to stand by the fire.


“What do you propose?” Irene asked after a moment and looked at Ming Xia. She was, after all, the only one of the group who knew these mountains better than anyone. And could talk back to the riders without fearing for repercussions.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Kydoimos Makhai

Hardeep Passi

Hardeep seemed to have missed the entire interaction, or at least was acting like it. It was unsettling slightly; Kydoimos would understand some anger towards them since they had threatened a guard of his, but instead, the man seemed entirely too interested in his own nails. They didn't know why. However, as the conversation turned to sleeping quarters, Hardeep looked up and began to move from where he stood, pausing by Kydoimos' shoulder.


"I do not know what you said," the older man told them, leaning close so that his face was not far from their own, "but do not threaten my guards. He will protect you as well."


"He'll kill the slaves first," Kydoimos snapped back, glaring at Hardeep, who only stared in return.


"You mean you fear he will harm Galene first." Kydoimos did not respond and Hardeep gave a short, disbelieving laugh, half-mocking as he rocked back on his heels. Kydoimos' eyes narrowed.


"You still care about her here? In the deadly cold? Listen," Hardeep began, leaning close again but this time, Kydoimos shrugged him off.


"Don't mock me for caring," Kydoimos said indignantly. "Your father did as well."


Hardeep's face dipped into a scowl and his eyes became hard, staring at Kydoimos' own face as if to punch it. They half hoped the other would; the mountain was already becoming agitating and they wanted some way to let off steam.


"We're on a mountain," Hardeep said, his mouth dipping down in a sharp frown, his eyebrows furrowing together. "We're in the middle of no where, freezing cold. Leave behind any of your special affections because I promise you, they won't do you any good here. She is a slave, a girl that's meant to serve you and she is here because she is worth nothing to your family back home."


Kydoimos' lip curled as well, unhappy with the way Hardeep was speaking about their friend.


"Don't challenge me," Hardeep said sharply, his voice still low enough that the others could not hear, but more forceful. "It is the truth. A slave is worth the coin that was traded for them and coin should not be wasted easily."


"Is that the only reason you brought the woman here?" Kydoimos asked, their own tone more aggressive than it was a moment ago. They turned to face Hardeep fully and they stared at one another for a moment. There was silence and nothing but the wind and the sound of the forest, foreign and unfamiliar.


"Do not threaten my guard. I may not show my care as easily as you do, but I do not appreciate my house being threatened by an ally. They are all under my protection and I do not wish to see anyone inflict any kind of harm on them."


Hardeep turned away from Kydoimos and moved towards the fire, his face still furrowed.


"Then what about Orien?" Kydoimos called after the man and he stiffened, turning around to stare at the other as Galene suddenly made her way across the field, the black pelt tight around her shoulders. Her lips were in a faint line and she brushed by Hardeep, clearly sensing some sort of unrest in the air.


"Hey," Galene said, appearing by Kydoimos' elbow. Turning, they could see that Ming Xia was motioning for them to come towards the group that had gathered, her expression blank and without emotion. Galene wrapped her fingers around Kydoimos' elbow. "Come on. She wants to talk about sleeping arrangements," she said gently, her eyes watching Kydoimos' face.


Hardeep and Kydoimos continued with their staring for another moment or two as Galene tugged Kydoimos along, their feet falling into place beside her as Ming Xia folded her arms over her chest, a single eyebrow arching upwards as she witnessed the scene. Orien shifted uncomfortably next to Warren, pulling the fur he had been given closer around his shoulders and staring at the two riders as they approached the others, a chill in the air that wasn't there before.

Li Ming Xia

Galene

Orien

Ming Xia sighed as the slave known as Galene continued following her over to Irene and the guard. The other slave, the one she still did not know the name of, walked from his position by the rocks, clearly satisfied, and hovered close to the guard, a look of slight worry on his face. When a pause in the conversation between the guard and Irene appeared, he rested a hand gently on the guard's arm and gave a quiet, "Are you alright? Sir Kydoimos appeared unhappy."


"Kydoimos is unhappy about many things," Galene called over, clearly having no care for the privacy of the conversation or reassurance. Ming Xia looked up, frowning slightly.


"You did not call him sir."


"Who?" Galene asked, turning to squint down at Ming Xia.


"Kydoimos."


"First, they're a they," Galene said smartly. Ming Xia frowned at that, confused. "And second off, they're my friend so I get to call them by their first name."


"Kydoimos is a singular being," Ming Xia said, standing. "Furthermore, he is of male build."


"Yeah well," Galene said, looking a bit perturbed at the other girl, "they don't get called by male pronouns because they aren't a man."


"What?"


Ming Xia was beginning to feel as though the desert people made everything far too complicated.


"Look," Galene sighed, "some people are born as men or women, right?"


"Yes," Ming Xia said. "Everyone is."


"Ok," Galene said, raising both of her hands, palms flat. "This side is female," she said, waving her left hand, "and this side is male. See this space between them and all around them?"


Ming Xia nodded slowly.


"Well, that's all the people who do not feel fully male or female," Galene continued. "You can be born one way but you may feel another. How you feel and what you are are different things. Get it?"


"Somewhat," Ming Xia said, continuing to frown. "But does that mean they do not have a--"


"They've got male anatomy," Galene said, looking slightly frustrated. "But that's not the important part. The important part is they don't feel like a guy, so they use plural, neutral pronouns."


Ming Xia stared at Galene for several more moments before nodding very slowly and turning to her work again. Galene huffed a breath and pulled the bear fur closer to herself.


As Ming Xia turned to get more logs, Irene spoke to her. She turned to look, as did Galene.


"You three are own by Hardeep, correct?" Irene asked, gesturing at the guard, the slave, and Irene. The slave nodded. "Then he must decide which one of you two," she gestured to the slave and Irene, "will sleep with him, and which will go with you," she continued, pointing at the guard. "You two slaves are far too thin to sleep with one another; you will not be able to keep each other warm enough in the night. The huts are designed for two people at a time so that they may sleep close to one another. Some suggest stripping naked though I advise against it; the bed of grasses are not soft, even when you are wrapped in pelts, and it is far more comfortable for some of us to be wearing clothes."


She shifted her position slightly and her eyes grew dark briefly at some repressed memory but her mouth did not change, nor did her tone.


"You," she said, turning to look at Galene, "you may sleep in a tree if the one named Kydoimos allows it."


"Should I get them?" Galene asked, turning to notice the two of them speaking with one another, their faces unhappy.


"Quickly," Ming Xia said as their words began to travel, mostly garbled and snatched from the wind, though Ming Xia caught herself a comment about houses and protection and keeping people from harm. The one named Kydoimos who was apparently not a man's last sentence did reach them.


"Then what about Orien?"


There was no reference for the sentence or why it had been spoken but the slave stiffened.


"You are Orien?" Ming Xia asked coolly as Galene rapidly made her way across the field to Kydoimos, her lips a fine line and her strides large.


"Ah, yes," the slave said, starting to look uncomfortable.


Ming Xia gave a small "huh," unsure of what to do with the information and sudden heavy blanket of awkwardness as Hardeep and Kydoimos finally approached, Galene clutching an elbow of the other rider, her own eyebrows furrowed in some contemplation.


"Which one do you plan to share a bed with?" Ming Xia asked Hardeep, gesturing to the now-known Orien and Irene. "They will not keep each other warm and since you own them, it is your choice of who to choose."


"Irene," Hardeep said after a beat of contemplation, his eyes glancing between the two slaves. "I trust Warren can deal with Orien well."


"Alright," Ming Xia said, turning to Kydoimos and Galene. "This one wants to sleep in a tree."


"Why?" Kydoimos asked in an exasperated tone.


"She already has supplies," Galene said, "and besides, it'll be better than the hard ground."


"I'd rather sleep on the ground."


"You may sleep in a hut," Ming Xia said. "We can build another one and have you rest in it with extra pelts and furs. But we must hurry."


Kydoimos nodded and glanced once more at Hardeep, who only stared back, and followed Galene towards the logs that had been placed down by Ming Xia already.


"You four ought to prepare. Take most of your furs and pelts off for a moment and lay them on the grass bed. Keep a few on is my suggestion but if you wish to strip, then it is your business. Then, lay on the pelts and furs on one side. From there, you will take the other end and wrap it around so that the person closest to the end of the fur can tuck the other end underneath themselves, forming a cocoon of sorts. I advise one of the armored ones to lay near the end, since it will be chillier."

 

[Lenaara]

Warren stiffened at the touch. The dark forest had him on edge, the proximity of Irene and Sir Hardeep was enough to keep his senses on high alert, and Sir Kydoimos’s threat still lingered in the air. The touch, however gentle, had sent alarming bells ringing like crazy in his mind and the guard looked down at the one who stood by him, a scowl marring his otherwise kind features.


At the sight of Orien, Warren’s shouldered slumped and he reached out to brush a hand through his hair. It was not nerves that brought forth the gesture this time. He just needed to distract himself from the thoughts that spun in his mind.


The touch was not uncomfortable and Warren let Orien’s hand stay on his elbow, afraid to move or put a hand over the other man’s in case it was unwelcomed or overstepped the invisible boundaries.


“I am alright. It is not Sir Kydoimos that is…” Warren’s voice drifted off and he looked away, eyes skirting over the flames. “It does not matter.”


A glance was thrown at the riders. He could not hear their conversation and would never have allowed himself to even think about listening in on their private affairs. It was not why Warren had come. He had come to protect Sir Hardeep. The job assigned to Warren was a simple one and he took great pride in it. He did the task perfectly, with dedication. He knew this. Everyone knew this.


He had heard from others – guards and servants alike – that many viewed his loyalty to be bordering idiocy, stupidity, lack of his own choice. Warren always thought it to be strange. Is it wrong to be proud of one’s position? To be proud of working for a family that his father, and his father’s father, stood with? And work with dedication because there is simply no other way but to give it your best? The Passis have never wrong him, or his family, never gave him reason to hate them or question their beliefs.


Until, that is, Balin’s murderer was spared.


The day when Malliah returned with a dead man on her back, Warren felt his world shatter. He was one of the first guards to come to the scene, sprinting towards the dragon to help calm it down. It was strange, he thought, that the dragon was acting this way. He was as dumbfounded as everyone else, shocked by the scene and confused.


And then, he noticed blood.


So much blood. It stained the saddle and the beautiful purple tinted armour that he grew to admire and be proud of just because he was given the chance to protect the wearer. Blood oozed from the head of the one whom Warren respected more than anything else in existence; the only one he respected. And a woman was clutching to him, looking at everyone with such…cold eyes. She reminded him of a snake protecting its nest.


Warren was too shocked that day to even step towards Malliah. He still felt shame for not acting quickly enough, for not being one of those who restrained the dragon and took Sir Balin from the snake-like woman. Only when someone called out an accusation did Warren act, pushed forward by another guard who rushed towards the scene. Warren had nearly stumbled forward that day, pale-faced as the sun’s bleak disk. That push propelled Warren forward and he forced himself to take a step to regain lost balance.


His world was shaken, broken, the perfect image cracked. He was a guard. A guard. And what good did it do? Sir Balin was dead. He was dead.


So Warren thought to himself to do better, if it was even possible, and guard Sir Balin’s son. He thought that he would be protected, too, and well taken care of as Sir Balin took care of his servants. It was selfish perhaps to think such a notion, but Warren remained loyal and hoped to have a similar sort of loyalty extended to him by Sir Hardeep.


And Sir Hardeep continued to stare at his fingernails, uninterested in the scene, not caring for the fact that another rider, an ally and not a family member in the slightest, had threatened one of his own guards. The only guard who had been brought to this damned mountain.


Warren looked away from the riders, not knowing what to do or even what to think. Later, he told himself, he would dwell on this. When there was time and when the cold was not beginning to seep through his leather boots and thin gloves. He was cold and he wondered if the frost was fully responsible for the shivers running up his spine.


Immersed in thoughts, Warren had missed half of the conversation and snapped his attention back to the situation at hand when Ming Xia barked something and pointed at him.


Ah, they were deciding who was sleeping where. Orien, Warren thought with relief, was not allowed to sleep with Irene. Good. He would take the duty then, and watch the woman lest she thought to do something while the group is asleep.


Ming Xia even proposed the idea of sleeping naked and Warren hoped he did not blush or scowl. To sleep naked with Orien was out of the question. Had he been assigned to sleep with Sir Hardeep, Warren wondered if he’d be able to allow himself something as out of the line as sleeping unclothed beside Sir Balin’s son.


“Then what about Orien?”


Warren stifled a wince. He did not want to hear any part of the riders’ conversation, and he did not wish to hear anything related to the old connection between Orien and Sir Hardeep. In his mind he hoped, of course, that that connection was long gone. He would never dare be with someone who used to be his master’s lover. That was partly why he chose not to act upon his feelings to the male slave.


It did not matter. Sir Hardeep and Orien would be sharing a bed that night, however cold and barbaric it was, so some feelings were bound to be—


“Irene,” Warren heard the rider say and his heart plummeted to somewhere below the base of the mountain.


Irene. Irene?


The day when Sir Balin died, Warren lost control of his body. It moved on its own, moving towards the bloodied woman atop the dragon with damning speed. His arm darted forward and grabbed the woman who had just slithered off Malliah. His hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled, yanking her towards him to…kill her? Maim? Punish? He did not know. All he knew was the rage boiling deep inside his body. His hands were aching with restrained force and his sword felt so heavy but sharp too, even through the scabbard; he felt the polished blade against his thigh. That blade was never bloodied before. This woman will receive the honour of staining the steel, he decided then.


She looked up and Warren froze.


Those eyes bore into him like daggers, narrow and piercing. There was no fear in those eyes, no hesitation or confusion. No. Warren had seen the woman’s demeanour change in a fraction of a second the moment his fingers coiled around her wrist.


He did not see her move and realized what had happened only when air refused to enter his lungs. He gasped and panted, his body falling into a different kind of shock. Not enough air. He was suffocating, wheezing, and he could not forget how this woman, this snake, had moved towards him. Like water, flowing, fast and unstoppable, twisting her body around the limbs that reached out towards her. The flash of silver was the last thing he remembered before collapsing and drowning in immense pain.


Warren nearly blurted out that Hardeep had lost his senses. Did his master not realize how dangerous this woman was? Warren, a warrior trained from early childhood, could not stop her. Sir Balin could not stop her. How could everyone sit still and wait to be slaughtered by her? How could Sir Hardeep even think about laying down beside that snake, only to be suffocated in the middle of the night?


“Sir,” Warren said as he stepped away from Orien and circled the campfire to reach the rider, “a word?” he asked and looked around.


The crowd was dispersing. He noticed Irene remain where she was, staring at Hardeep with parted lips and unblinking eyes. Had he not known better, he would have thought she was afraid. But that emotion had left her features and the woman turned, heading towards the bags brought with them on the dragons.


“Sir Hardeep,” Warren began after Galene, Kydoimos and Irene were out of earshot. Though Warren continued to talk quietly still. “Please reconsider. You cannot sleep with her. I do not trust that she is—“ The guard frowned. “I worry for your safety. She did this,” his pulled down the cloth collar binding his neck and exposed the bruise. It was darkening now, tinting the skin with brown and purple. “Who knows what else she is capable of. What she can do to you.”


The guard cast a glance at Irene whose thin frame was barely visible as she crouched down by the sacks, her hands pulling apart the flaps and digging into the contents to pull out the furs and pelts brought with them. It occurred to Warren that his argument had little weight to it – Irene looked like she could barely lift a sack, let alone punch a well-trained guard in the throat. But he knew what he had seen that day when his master’s corpse was brought into the homestead.


“Please, sir, reconsider.” Warren was stepping out of line but he cared little for it. Sir Hardeep’s safety was paramount.


***


Irene had been crouching by the packed up supplies, her hands busy unfastening the rope that held the bags together at the flaps. It was the second sack of supplies, the first one carried only washing basins and some changes of clothing stacked inside to save space. The flap flew open and Irene pushed aside the contents to find what she was looking for. Furs and pelts, something warm that can trap heat as the night was going to be cold. Warmth would help her sleep.


If she was allowed sleep.


Hardeep had scarcely given the choice a thought. Orien was expected by all, surely, to be sharing the bed with Hardeep that night. It was the most obvious choice. No one had explained to Irene the connection between Orien and Hardeep, but their glances at each other – or rather the unusual lack of them – and the strange behaviour was enough to hint at something much more than friendship. Irene had noticed it back at the bathhouse and her suspicions were confirmed when she dropped Orien’s name in the mess hall of the Passi homestead. They were not friends, not any longer. Old lovers, more likely.


So when she had heard her name being voiced, Irene had stared at Hardeep in disbelief. Why her?


Because he had seen the Mark.


No, surely that was not the reason, she told herself. It would be out in the open, on the cold ground and in the middle of the forest.


He is a rider. Who is going to stop him?


Irene pushed the thoughts aside but the paranoia had still lingered within her chest. Hardeep had not shown any interest in sleeping with her yet – other than in the literal sense, anyway – and Irene hoped that there was another reason for the odd choice.


When she got up, some furs draped over her shoulders and arms, Irene carried them towards one of the huts by the fire. A fur slid down and Irene stopped to pull it up rather awkwardly, trying to balance the rest of the pelts on her arms without having any fall onto the ground.


A perfect image of grace and beauty.


The furs were laid down onto the grass mat and she had to crouch onto the damp ground to spread the furs out to cover the bottom of the claustrophobic opening. Behind her she could hear Warren speaking to Hardeep and muted out their conversation. It was not her business.


Irene followed Ming Xia’s instructions and laid the furs and pelts how was advised. First, a layer on the ground, and then more to the side to be used as the ‘top’ part of the cocoon. With the task completed, she got up and stood by the fire, arms extended to feel the warmth of the flames seep into her numb skin, and waited for Hardeep to either change his mind or come over to the hut. He might need help easing out of the armour.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Balin had always been a popular man. Among the slaves, among the guards, among the common folk, even among the riders that were not popular among the others. He had a charm about him, a kindness that was firm and just, a way to see who was wrong and who was right. He commanded respect, attention, power. Everyone loved him, everyone cherished him. When Balin did wrong, the world forgave and forgot, and his father always did his best to make it up, to correct it, to be better. He thought logically, weighing payment and coin and loyalty against law and took a path that garnered applause and admiration.


Hardeep was the problem child, the one that saw his mother burn and sat around for days afterwards, reeking of smoke and flame and staring at nothing. He was the one that turned instead to pleasure to numb the pain, to datewine and men and women to warm beds and to flying in the sky.


His father was never quite angry or disappointed, always a little sad.


And that was perhaps the worst.


Balin never raised his voice, never shook his head at his actions, never spoke to him. His mother had been the one to discipline him, to tell him what to do, to teach him what to do. Balin never knew how and suddenly, he did not have a teacher.


Part of Hardeep knew that his father was not flawless, that he was as twisted as the other riders in some way or another and he wished and hoped that Balin might one day be like his mother, be strong and fierce and just a little bit cruel. But he never was. And now whenever they looked at Hardeep, they only saw Balin's failure, not Estzar's scowl or glinting eyes.


It made him angry sometimes.


As of right now, he simply stared back at Warren, at his reasoning.


"I brought her to this mountain," Hardeep explained. "I did not kill her down below. That is my burden to bear and any shed blood will be on my hands. As such, I must take responsibilities for all actions she does, to you or any other. For tonight, I will be the one with her. If something should happen, I am sure your judgement will be swift."


He turned, making his way to the packs of furs and pelts, pulling them out slowly. He knew his choice was not popular and he had done it for selfish reasons and reasons that his father would be proud of. They thought that because she arrived soaked in blood, she was the murderer. Balin would have been disappointed if he put Irene to death because of it. Balin would have been disappointed that Hardeep didn't take the white robed men's words into consideration. Many doubted his judgement, yes, but Hardeep needed to believe them.


And she had looked gentle, once.


Perhaps there was something else.


That, Balin would be proud of him for noticing.

Orien

Orien remained silent, watching Warren speak to Hardeep with wary eyes. He knew that Hardeep was not all there, that he had shrugged into his shell that was the label of "dragon rider", of "master". He knew that Hardeep had his own reasons for being so unlike his father, still so much like a child.


It had been the thing that had separated them, after all.


Balin had once laughed at how the two of them were close, how Orien and Hardeep would smile at the same time. They were almost brothers, Balin would say. Almost, because they sometimes shared a bed in a way that brothers did not and Balin wouldn't care in public, wouldn't dare care.


But they both knew better.


They knew that Balin was searching for an heir, wanted one to carry on the family name. He had been somewhat obsessed, Hardeep whispered to Orien, after his mother had died and had not given him another child.


"He wants someone with the Passi name," Hardeep murmured with wide eyes. "I can't do that."


Hardeep had interest in women, yes, but no interest in marrying. Whenever he bedded a woman, he ensured she would not get with child. Something about marriage also set him off, causing his eyebrows to furrow, his face to frown. Whenever Balin would present Hardeep with women that might be suitable, he would turn his face away, as if they troubled or repulsed him. Orien never found out why, but he knew that marriage was not something Hardeep wanted, that something about it had become tainted and twisted.


Whatever it was, Balin did not know either, or perhaps chose to ignore it.


Orien himself knew the weight of a name and had told Hardeep as much, speaking on how a name carried power until it could not any longer. "My name no longer carried power, which is why I serve under you."


Hardeep had looked almost offended and that had been the first crack.


These days, there were so many jagged cracks between them, broken connections that linked them together through pain and anguish and death.


Orien walked towards Hardeep and took the pelts and furs from his arms, staring at the other man in silence.


There were no words exchanged as he walked over to the hut he would sleep in with Warren and began settling them down.

 

[Lenaara]

While Warren and Hardeep spoke, Irene knelt down by the fire and fed some nearby branches into it. The wood snapped and cracked, the fire eating away at the branches turned kindling. Larger and thicker ones were left for the hut to be prepared for Kydoimos, but the group had gathered enough branches to repurpose the smaller and thinner ones for kindling.


It was not that rough of a start. A fire waiting for them, there were enough furs to be distributed, and Irene hoped the next day is going to greet her with a caught hare. She still did not know what to do with it if the snare worked and trapped the small animal. A hare meant a pelt and some meat. But it also meant a good trading tool in the village where Ming Xia was going to take them the next morning.


Irene had been pondering about the hare when Warren had turned on his heel and walked by the kneeling woman. His armour clanked and there was an odd step to his gait. No longer was it a marching of a soldier. No, Warren’s shoulders were slumped down, his head lowered, and he kept rubbing the pommel of his sword.


When he passed by Irene he stopped a few feet away and turned to crouch by her. He reached out and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her towards him so harshly Irene would have lost balance had she not recovered quickly enough.


She looked at the guard with furrowed brows and tightly pressed lips. To say that she was tired of being yanked about was a monumental understatement.


“If you harm Sir Hardeep, I am going to kill you,” Warren said quietly under his shallow breath. He let go of Irene’s arm, leaned back and got up. The threat still lingered in the air, weighted it down and thickened it.


Warren never came across as a man who was driven by vengeance or anger. His features were too kind, his eyes too soft and voice too calm. But Warren’s loyalty for the Passi house fuelled his anger. Irene could see it in Warren’s eyes. He was not bluffing. The guard was dead-set on ending Irene’s life if Hardeep did not wake the next morning.


She watched Warren circle the campfire and stop by the hut where Orien was beginning to settle down the furs, spreading them over the ground. Warren did not say a single word to Orien and did not even run his hand through his hair. Whatever was on the guard’s mind, it was enough to distract him long enough not to fidget and tremble in Orien’s presence. For now, at least. Warren’s fingers were trembling, however, as he was unfastening the metal plate from his chest; he fumbled about with the leather strings that tied the plating to the leather tunic beneath.


“Help me take the metal plating off, please,” she heard Warren say to Orien. “I…uh, don’t want to hurt you. In there. The edges are rough.”


So, Hardeep chose to sleep with Irene. Neither Orien nor Warren exchanged words that indicated that the sleeping arrangements were being changed.


Some more kindling was thrown into the fire, the logs were stirred with a longer branch, and then Irene dusted her hands before pressing her palms against her knees and got up. Hardeep had arrived by the hut then and Irene turned to face him, one hand clutching at the fur around her shoulders.


“Should I help you get out of the armour? Sleeping in clothes can lead to a fever,” Irene said as she reached towards the metal of Hardeep’s armour but did not touch it, letting her fingers hover over it until her offer was either accepted or declined.


Dealing with a raging Warren the next morning because Hardeep had woken with a fever was not something she was looking forward to. That, and a part of her did not wish Hardeep to suffer, either. He seemed a decent man, in a way. He spared her life, and Irene still could not understand why. It was more than most had done for her.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Hardeep frowned as the woman offered her services to help undress him. Glancing back, he could see that Warren was struggling.


Hardeep had personally learned how to do and undo his armor rather quickly due to his habit of sneaking off for the night to be with someone else and therefore not being around servants or others that could potentially know how to unfasten armor.


"I am fine, thank you," Hardeep said, working at the ties around his shoulders and near his belt. "I have learned how to take and put armor on for a long while out of necessity."


He did not specify what that necessity was as he quickly removed his breastplate, unfastened the tasset, and removed his shoulder pads and leg pads. He remained in his plain tunic and pants, moving to the pack and producing sheets of thin fabric that he used to wrap the armor pieces in, shuddering slightly in the wind.


"If you have anything of value, I can hook it up in a tree," Ming Xia offered, suddenly appearing. The hut was finished and Kydoimos and Galene were speaking, probably discussing her choice to sleep up in a tree.


"These," Hardeep said gruffly, shoving them at her. Usually, he would have followed her to ensure they were fastened safely, but he was cold. Quickly, he made his way back to the fire and snuck into the hut, laying so that his head was near the entrance and huddled into the furs.

Orien

"Of course," Orien said, his fingers moving to the ties and unfastening them. He had helped Hardeep every once and a while, though the man was skilled himself in unfastening his armor and refastening it, probably learned to avoid commotion if he left the estate and did not return for morning and aid by the servants hands.


The metal clinked against his knuckles as Orien removed it, placing it by the logs. "Do you need anymore help anywhere?" he asked, peering up at the other man.


The night would no doubt be strange. He knew that Warren still had an infatuation with him and knew that sooner or later, Orien would have to confront it. Whether or not he returned those feelings was not a certainty; Hardeep was still a grey area and they were currently on a mountain and as such, he had little time to contemplate emotions and affections. Warren was a good man, a somewhat blind man but hopefully he would see soon.


Hopefully.

 

[Lenaara]

Irene did not retract her hand for a moment. She was looking up at Hardeep with arched brows and a look of surprise. It was the first time that she had heard such a polite response to her offer. It was strange to hear it. It was akin to having a royal bow to a peasant because the peasant was splattered by mud by the royal’s golden gilded carriage. It was absurd.


Last time she and Hardeep spoke, it was still back at Nuru. He was not rude to her then, not by Hisraad’s standards at least, but he was not so polite to her, either. She was a slave, a servant. It was her job to do such things as helping take off her master’s armour. She would never have asked had she known Hardeep well enough to assume what he expected of her. After all, he never defined her purpose on this mountain, why she was brought here and how she was supposed to serve him.


So his response left Irene looking at Hardeep as if he had lost his mind.


Irene pulled her hand back and stepped away to give Hardeep a wide berth so he could take off his armour without her being in the way. While he unfastened the armour, Irene had waited patiently. At her side, Warren had been doing the same but with Orien’s help. She shifted from foot to foot, wanting to keep moving for a little while longer to fight off the frost.


Night had long fallen. Stars shone above the glade like jewels, bright and vibrant. Some clouds drifted, but otherwise were dispersing to let the moon shine to its fullest and light the forest below. Wind howled through the trees, rustled the thick canopy and the shrubbery below the blackened trunks; tongues of fire shifted and turned, eating away at the kindling that pleasantly cracked at her side.


It would be a calm night, she hoped. They were fortunate that the hail had stopped by the time the huts were built.


While Hardeep handed the armour pieces to Ming Xia, Irene undressed. She shrugged off the fur and the thick linen jacket, leaned down and put it into the hut to join the other pelts. She still wore the dark short tunic beneath, pulled over the pants given to her by Warren earlier that day. The low collar exposed the black brand over her collarbone and Irene instinctively reached up to cover it with a modest hand. Her other hand untangled the coiled braid and let it fall between her shoulder blades once more, its end brushing over the ground when Irene knelt down.


Behind her, Warren had shrugged off the metal plating and settled it down to rest against the inside of his side of the hut. Then, he waited for Orien to enter the hut and settle down on the side where the furs were tugged over from the bottom of the cocoon. Moments after, Warren had carefully eased into the shelter and lay down as far away from Orien as possible, the furs tugged over him but exposing half of his body in the process.


Warmth was leaving her limbs quickly now that the fur and the jacket were taken off. Hardeep had entered their shelter and once he got himself comfortable in the furs, Irene moved into the hut as well, careful not to disturb the contraption above or the man by her side. It was easier said than done, as the man did not choose a particular side and Irene had to slip into the furs with greater care. With her back towards Hardeep and front to the tugged over furs, Irene settled down on the side, uncomfortable with the thought that their limbs were touching. Her thinness, for once, had worked to her favour, as she managed to ease in without bumping the man with her knee or elbow.


She reached up and moved her braid over her shoulder. With the tunic no longer bound by a sash – Irene had taken it off for the night – the piece of clothing appeared to be much bigger, its fabric draped over the woman’s shoulders. So when she settled in and reached towards the furs, the collar slipped off the woman’s shoulder and the firelight illuminated the beginning of several jagged scars on her back. They were mostly hidden beneath the cloth; they looked no older than a year or so old, and the orange light danced on the uneven skin. Irene moved the tunic back over her shoulder and pulled some furs over herself, while still keeping close to the side of the hut, her face almost pressed into the pelt.


It was cold. The wind entered the hut through the small cracks between the moss, grass and branches. The fire had been on Hardeep’s side and the warmth seeped into the hut slowly.


“Are we ah,” Irene heard Warren call out from inside his hut, “to sleep like this? Or to, how do I put it, to,” he cleared his throat, “cuddle? Not that I am implying that I want to. Or that I don’t. Just clarifying. Never camped by the fire like this.”


They were supposed to huddle closely to retain warmth, it was expected, but Irene felt uneasy at the thought of being in such close proximity to Hardeep. It was not shyness. Rather, anxiety. She slept like this before, of course, with individuals much shadier than Hardeep – or anyone of their group – could ever be, but that was before Hisraad.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Li Ming Xia

There was the sound of feet in the snow and Hardeep glanced up to see Ming Xia, face as unreadable as ever, peering down at them.


"Are you monks?" she asked them, her tone difficult to discern as sarcastic or mocking. "Is touching the other going to burn you? Hug her waist and press her back to your chest. It will aid you in conserving heat, if you are so inclined to want warmth or not to freeze to death."


Hardeep would have turned and glared at the girl if he wasn't so... concerned.


His mother had had marks, too. They were old, very old, markings that he had spotted once when she had had him sitting in his parents' room, swinging his feet from a stool and staring at the woman as she dressed for some event or another. He had asked about them before she could cover them with a thin shawl.


"They were from bad men," Estzar had explained to him, combing back his hair and straightening the shirt he wore. "Very bad men who were greedy and did not play nice. Do not fear; your father will protect you from them." She had kissed the top of his head and lead him by the hand out to meet his father, who had swung him upwards and carried him to the main square, where for the first time, Hardeep would notice a man with flaming eyes that would not leave his mother's face.


Hardeep obeyed the girl's commands, laying an arm over Irene's waist. He could feel the bone of her hip against his own flesh and pulled himself closer to her so that his chest was pressed against her. Ming Xia's shadow fell over them as she tucked the end of the pelts underneath the ones on the ground, her fingers quick and nimble. They were only slightly cold, as if they had just been exposed to the weather.


"Now keep calm and do your best not to roll," she said in an almost mocking tone as she went to check up on Warren and Orien, supposedly to do the same thing. Craning his neck to glance outside, he could see a shape scrambling up a tree, swinging from branch to branch with surprising ease and dislodging some snow onto something down below, which sputtered indignantly each time.


It would certainty be a strange night.

 

[Lenaara]

Irene’s shoulders visibly tensed at the touch. It was not uncomfortable – Mountain knows the man was as gentle as the situation allowed – but it was unwelcomed. There was no other choice but to huddle closely for warmth. If Irene was once used to spending cold winter nights in such an environment, she highly doubted that Hardeep was content with shivering the entire night. There was nothing stopping him from shifting closer to her to trap body heat. And he did move closer to her, pressed his chest against her back and settled down behind her. It was better to just bite back her stubbornness and accept the need to huddle for warmth; there was no other choice.


Though it did not escape her how he did not move towards her the moment she laid down. No, Ming Xia had to come over and mock him – them – for not touching each other. And when the younger woman disappeared after tugging in the furs beneath Irene and Hardeep, Hardeep’s hand did not roam around. It was surprising.


Silence stretched on, interrupted only by the crackling fire and the mutterings of someone by the tree. Irene’s muscles were tense for a while longer, her shoulders squared and she did not relax against Hardeep’s touch for what seemed like an eternity. Without the ability to see who had their arms around her, she felt uncomfortable, anxious.


Irene buried her face in the furs, pulled her hands up to rest one on her shoulder and the other by her chest, and leaned back against the man’s chest.


This is not Hisraad. Hisraad is far away. Had this man wanted something from you, he long would have done it.


The thoughts should have been calming but it took Irene a long moment to fall asleep.


After the day’s events, sleep should have been welcomed. She long learnt to never take rest for granted. Even during her days as a mercenary, Irene slept whenever and wherever it was possible. Being a bodyguard meant that it was her duty to keep watch during the night while her charge slept, and during the day she had to be on high alert to defend them from an attack, should one occur. A caravan’s guard was an easier task, with her being able to share night watch duties with other hired blades, but sleep was still scarce. Constant traveling changed one’s sleeping schedule drastically. But Irene never minded it much; it was a part of her life.


Being a slave had given her a new appreciation for sleep. The night – most nights, anyway – was the only time for rest. Sleep was a refuge from a day’s hard work, a reward for surviving yet another day of endless labour.


But the forest had Irene on edge ever since arriving. Someone’s arms around her brought forth an anxiety that she hated feeling and refused to acknowledge it as a fear. Fear being touched by another? It was absurd in her mind. She was a warrior, someone who had suffered near mortal injuries and pain from multiple broken bones. Fearing a blade made sense, fearing a stronger opponent was expected. But fearing someone’s touch?


It was not surprising that her dreams were filled with visions of something wrapped around her like rope, roaming around, binding and twisting, pulling. There were voices too, whispering and mocking, taunting, but whose voices she could not see. The darkness surrounded her, pressed against her, and she found herself suffocating from the lack of air. Then came the pain, racking against her back, splitting open the skin as if claws of many creatures dug into it. So Irene trashed within her dreams, trying to free herself from the bonds that only grew stronger and stronger, until she could no longer move as her body was weak and tired. Her mind was weak and tired. And then, Hisraad appeared and his hands were stretched out towards her to—


Irene woke up with a jolt and tried to sit up. Something was binding her over her waist, and everything seemed to press harshly against her from everywhere else, stopping any movement. She panicked, thinking the nightmare did not end, and felt someone’s hand brush against her stomach.


Hisraad?


Without a moment for thought, Irene coiled a hand into a fist and turned, ready to land a hit or threaten the man behind her, while her other hand pushed away the arm snaked around her waist. But it was not Hisraad, it was Hardeep who held her.


The moon peeking through the cracks of the hut above illuminated his features, giving them a softer look and paling his skin. His arm was around her before she pushed it away and the other bindings that restricted her movement were the furs. She had moved away from Hardeep at some point during the night, a mere few inches, and slouched forward as if experiencing great pain.


Irene lowered her fist before he could see it and masked the movement by bringing her hand to her face. Beads of sweat covered her temples and forehead, slid down her neck and collarbone and drenched the thin tunic at the small of her back. She was panting heavily, struggling to regain breath, and was ashen faced.


Before Irene could regain her breath and calm down, a wave of nausea washed over her and Irene froze for a moment before she turned onto her stomach, propped herself on her elbows and lifted a hand to put over her mouth. She couldn’t get out of the hut – she nearly hit its side when she jerked awake – without threatening to topple the entire contraption over, and the furs were tucked behind Hardeep so she could not push them away to get out.


So she waited, breathing heavily but calmly now, trying to fight back the ever growing wave of nausea. Sweat rolled down her cheek and dampened her hair. Irene counted to ten.


The furs were undisturbed and she remained close to Hardeep, so she only thrashed and moved in her dreams without disturbing the man apart from suddenly waking up, covered in sweat and breathing in quick shallow breaths. Moon was still high up in the sky and the fire continued to burn steadily beside the hut, the flames visible through the cracks to her side and the opening. It could not have been more than an hour or two since she’d fallen asleep.


Thankfully, she did not empty her stomach right there and then. Sickness passed, her stomach no longer twisted and turned, and Irene moved her hand from her mouth to rest against her forehead instead and closed her eyes. She took a deep shuddering breath and wiped the moisture from her eyes.


She should have just taken a spot on a tree like Galene did.


When Irene moved her hand away and looked to the side, while still remaining on her stomach and resting her weight against her elbows, she noticed that Hardeep was awake.


Great.


“Sorry if I woke you,” she said and was surprised at hearing how dry and quiet her voice was. It was not cold this time, however. She had no energy for being distant or apathetic, a mask she chose to wear after years of living with Hisraad.


She rested on her back once again and pulled the collar of her tunic down, not caring for the brand being fully visible, and wiped a hand over the collarbone to get rid of the sweat. It was hot beneath the furs now, and she felt a pleasant breeze brush against her exposed skin. Her shoulder hurt, as that is where she’d pressed against the skin with her fingernails and pulled, reacting to the visions plaguing her mind.


“You should sleep,” Irene added. They should sleep. Ming Xia was going to take them to a village tomorrow, and Mountain knows how long that hike was going to take. But Irene doubted she could fall asleep again, not for a while yet in the very least.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

He should sleep. He should very much sleep.


But there is much to think about now that he has quiet and silence and not a thousand servants breathing down his neck, staring at one of their own as if they are to kill her. There is no messenger nagging him for a response or letters to fight as people send their condolences. There is only a crackling fire and the night sky.


He should really sleep.


The past few days have worn him. Initially, he believed that the gods had betrayed him, taken his father before he could truly know him. He believed that there was so much that they still had to do together, experience together. There was still the family name to carry between them. But then it was anger and rage that Balin had died and given Hardeep the task alone, that they had never truly gotten to know one another before he had passed, that the night was dark and the words still unspoken between them. There were still silent expectations and quiet failures and a dead body that needed answers. Balin had left him alone to deal with it, without guidance and without explanation.


The crackling fire was not as reassuring as it should have been, either. While it did provide warmth, it also reminded him of the stench of burning flesh, of a woman's screams, of a man staring down with flames in his eyes as his own voice would not work. It reminded him of a cruel laugh and his father's sword flying out, of blood splattered pavements and of the cobblestone turning red for the first time. His grip tightened slightly on the hip of the slave he slept next to, another set of memories that he wished he could leave behind, if only for a second.


Memories of softer bodies, rounder ones, with faces that lay at the bottom of the mountain and one that lay with his guard at the moment. Of faces that reflected some shocked betrayal that he wasn't going to stay, that he wasn't going to choose them like he supposedly chose Orien. They were fools, the lot of them. Orien had not been chosen, it had simply happened. They had been friends and Hardeep had wanted someone he trusted to try with and Orien, loyal as he was, offered to help. Love had been there, yes, but never spoken. After all, Orien was a slave and Hardeep a dragon rider and no children could come from the union, the biggest wrong to Balin. The affection that allowed Orien to command others did not come until much later, when they were sleeping together most nights and Hardeep didn't need to look far for a listening ear or someone to accompany him somewhere. And the affection did not vanish until much later (or was it sooner, Hardeep could never tell), when too many differences made themselves apparent.


His mother had died, burned alive by a man that should not have been allowed to.


Orien's family had been snuffed out by the dragon's greed, taking his land and crops before his name and body.


Hardeep's father layered on him his own name, made it known that he had to pass it on.


Orien's father gave him nothing but duty and a command to survive, to fight.


They were not two sides of the same coin. Orien had known cruelty in a different way. The cruelty of others and one's birth.


Hardeep had known the cruelty of lust and want and that nothing could stop evil.


He had forgotten that, forgotten that even dragon riders could burn, that even men that were supposed to be noble were not. He had forgotten that under the smiles, the eyes that blazed with courage lay deep, dark secrets.


There were bad men hidden in good men and there were no truly good men.


Balin had not been a truly good man but he had come close, started to build a lie and a legacy for himself as just when it became clear that Hardeep could not provide him one. He had made himself gentler after Estzar had burned, made them forget the blood from the wounds of other's throats. He had made the servants and slaves worship him, see him as a savior. He had made the other riders stare at him in awe as he commanded them with respect and kindness. But Hardeep knew that it was hardly true, that Balin was hoping for something else underneath the kindness no matter how convincing it was. What he wanted, Hardeep could only guess as his father would always grow silent and angry on his own time, underneath a picture of the three of them together, when they were all so much younger. He could only imagine why the servants that tended to Balin's room did not question the holes in the walls from the helmet and the fists he threw.


The guards were not permitted near the room, nor the servants until he had left it. He claimed it was because it was private, it was his sacred space. Hardeep's grip tightened slightly.


It was his secret place to rage, to be a true dragon rider. One that spat flames and demanded everything.


As he lay there, listening to flame crackle, he wondered of his father, of his mother. Were they together? Could they be together, in the wind somewhere as the stories told him? Were they flying to the stars, to carry themselves on the wind? They said the good found the good and the evil lost its way. They said that everyone could dance among the stars unless they had forsaken every bit of themselves that was human.


His mother was good, he had come to realize. Very good.


Was she gentle to the slaves?


No. She was harsh and would not take pity on those who she thought did not deserve it. "But you must always raise them back up after they have cowered to the ground," she told him. "You must show that you will lead them to somewhere better."


Was she just?


Not always, and she was harsher towards Hardeep than any of his friends. "But I want you to be the best, and harshness will smooth out any sharp edges of stone," she had told him.


Was she smart?


In a way. She always had kind words and smart words and a smile that seemed to say she knew everything there was to know. But she did not speak as many languages as Balin and did not know politics as he had.


But was Balin gentle to the slaves?


He let them do what they wished. That was not gentle. He punished them still, and he punished them all equally.


Was he just?


Sometimes. Sometimes he was, but he had left Hardeep with a problem that he could not hold with both hands and that was not just.


Was he smart?


In the ways of men and women as a whole but not as an individual. He could not court anyone else, could not connect with Hardeep in the way Estzar did.


Hardeep breathed slowly as the flames continued.


Fire had always frightened him, since it had licked up his mother and turned her to ash and scattered her to the winds. Fire had been the reason why she had died and why his father had destroyed a house, or very nearly did so. Fire was how they conquered, how they took Orien from his name and Galene from hers and no doubt Irene from her land. Fire was how they destroyed life and stood on top of the ashes and called themselves better.


What was the point of it all? What was the use of it? What could the flames possible mean that made it right to burn and burn and crush under their heels the lives of others?


Why was the fire that Estzar had, the kind that burned fierce when men spat at her, wrong? Why was the fire that his father used, burning fields and screaming men and women, right?


Why anything, really?


Before he could think more, Irene moved, suddenly bolting upright and nearly knocking over the hut. Hardeep blinked in surprise and moved to push her back down when there was another movement from Irene, one that he could see in the dark. It was over quickly and suddenly she was on her stomach. Hardeep removed his hand and sat up slightly as well, propping his body up on his elbow and staring down at her.


The furs had begun to slip out from underneath him and he shuddered slightly at the cold at his back. The flames illuminated her face, casting shadows across it. Her eyes appeared sunken and her cheeks hallow, thin. She was staring up at him with some kind of mixture of defeat and possible shame.


Hardeep lowered himself back down and stared at her, reaching to wrap his arm over her hip once more. "Are you able to sleep?" he asked. "What nightmare had woken you?"

 

[Lenaara]

Irene lay on her back and stared at the sky. Through the cracks and small openings between the tied together branches, she could see the fragments of the night’s sky. Clouds had disappeared in the hours that she had slept, leaving the myriad of stars to gleam and sparkle and the moon to freely shine at the mountain below. It was beautiful, calming. With the fire crackling at her side and the soft wheezing of someone near – she assumed it to be Warren – the atmosphere no longer felt threatening. The hut protected them from all sides, the furs soft and dampened at her side with sweat, but cooling down now and providing warmth that seeped into her clothes and limbs.


She focused on the sky and the soft orange light dancing on the tied together branches of the hut. The shuddering breaths had subsided as did her rapidly beating heart, and Irene’s eyes no longer looked around in panic.


Instead, she looked tired.


She was tired. Not physically or from something as mundane as the cold or the slight tugging against her neck of the slave’s collar. No, Irene was tired from…everything. The nightmares, the constant threats to her life that she could do nothing about or respond to, the waiting to be killed because someone thought her to be too dangerous to keep around.


Rael, she realized, would be disappointed.


Rael. How long has it been? Nearing three years? Four, maybe? He was her closest friend and confidant from a very early age. They met when they were no older than thirteen, perhaps, and lived together for a number of years. While Leon and she travelled the nations, earning coin however was possible, Rael remained in a little town in Riverside. He was an herbalist, a good one too, one who aspired to travel to Vanguard to study in one of the universities. It was his dream, one never fulfilled as he remained in that little town for no reason but to wait for Irene to return and visit him. Sometimes, months would pass between their meetings, sometimes years. Each time they met, they collided and followed a tradition that was not healthy by any means.


First, she would tell him of the lands she’s seen, of the people she’s met and worked for. He would listen, he always did. Patiently, silently, taking in every word and sometimes he got up to prepare tea or to begin tending to some ordered powder or poultice. And then, he would scold her – for not being careful and getting injured and earning another scar, for not choosing a correct client, for taking someone’s life. They would argue and then not speak to one another for hours, sometimes even days. But they always forgave one another, and Rael would make her a warm home cooked meal as an apology and they would talk of the silly things that had happened to him in her absence. In the end, they would get over their differences because that is what they did. Tolerated each other’s presence.


And then, he would ask her to marry him.


Rael loved her and Irene knew it. First, it was a passionate kind of love, new and burning, one that took over him and blinded the man to the reasons why the two of them were wrong for one another. Then, his love turned into a warm summer’s breeze. He could love, physically and emotionally, and gave it all, ready to sacrifice even the dreamt of career of a healer from a Vanguardian institution.


And Irene? Maybe, once, she did love him back, when they were young and still in their teens. And she crushed the feelings on her own accord, muting them out and ignoring them until she no longer felt anything but great admiration and respect for the man who fell in love with someone whom he never should have met.


After all, she was not worthy of him, as simple as that. Rael had to move on and find a woman who would not come back covered in scars and someone else’s blood and with stories of faraway lands to tell. Rael had the chance to have children, start a family, start a career that he wished to have.


All Irene could offer in return was a scarred infertile body that was honed to wield a blade, lacking the knowledge of any trade to feed and provide for a family.


Like everyone close to her, Irene put Rael onto a pedestal and dubbed it Friend and Confidant and never disturbed it. That was the only way to know Rael without being selfish and dragging him into a life of no children, no future, and a wife that one day might not return from battle.


Last they spoke they argued. It was a short while after Leon had died and Irene was drowning herself in work to dull the pain of having seen her mentor die over a period of two months. That time Rael and Irene did not adhere to tradition, and she left without apologizing. Without even saying goodbye.


Now, more than ever, she wished for Rael to be here, near her. To hear her out, to offer advice or just listen, quietly and without any judgement lingering in his soft brown eyes.


Mountains and the spirits within it, she missed him. It had occurred to her that she did not even know if he was still alive, if he was remained the kind man that had fallen in love with her despite knowing better.


Perhaps it was the memory of Rael that had made Irene look at Hardeep and see someone else in his spot, someone whom she used to know for years and missed so greatly it hurt. Because when she looked at Hardeep when he spoke, asking her questions that she did not know how to respond to at first, she saw Rael in the dark eyes that gazed at her. It distracted her, left her looking at Hardeep without any coldness or apathy. Instead, she looked at him as if he was no longer a dragon rider, a man who owned her, but at him as an individual, as another man who got pulled into a situation that he wished not to be a part of. She looked at him the same way when she offered that little bit of comfort after Balin’s death.


Something brushed against her hip and Irene flinched. “Don’t,” she blurted and realized that she had taken his wrist to prevent the arm from draping across her hip.


Hardeep only wanted to stay warm, to follow Ming Xia’s advice, but it was too soon. The nightmare still lingered in Irene’s mind, pushed away momentarily by Hardeep’s eyes that she mistook to be Rael’s.


“Just,” she said and let go of his wrist, “give me a moment. Please.”


The furs got disturbed by the commotion and Irene adjusted them, pushing most towards Hardeep’s side so that the man could remain warm without needing to be too close to the woman at his side.


“I am able to sleep,” she continued after a moment of silence, her voice quiet and tired. “But I don’t want to. There are…nightmares that follow me. Visions. Memories.”


With the furs moved towards Hardeep, Irene settled her hands on her stomach and looked up at the night’s sky once more. Another moment of silence passed, interrupted by the crackling fire and howling wind that crept into their little shelter.


Perhaps, it was the way how Hardeep momentarily reminded Irene of Rael that allowed her to tell him more, to answer his questions without thinking of what was told. There was no trust between them and yet…well, she hoped that Hardeep could be like Rael even if for a short while. To just be there and listen.


“The nightmares are a reminder of what I have been, what I have lost, what I have…experienced. Sometimes, they visit me in a form of a noose that tightens around my neck until I am no longer able to breathe. Other times, they are memories of what Hisraad, my old master, had done to me. Tonight, it was both.” She set her jaw, pausing for a moment, and then continued.


“It was a memory of how I became,” she shifted a hand to gesture at her body, her thinness, “this. When I was bought, Hisraad feared me. I was too strong in his eyes, too energetic and undaunted by his status or his guards. In more ways than one he tried to bind me, quell my wish to be free, my resistance against him or what he wished to do with me, what he bought me for. What he continued reminding me of whenever I warmed his bed.” Irene lifted a hand to rest it against her collarbone and brushed her fingertips over the black ink. A habit.


“Hisraad is across the desert, far from here, living in an estate full of slaves that he beats to death as punishment for their mistakes. It makes him feel better, more powerful, I suppose. My back is a stark reminder of this. Shouldn’t that be enough to remember that man by? Why must be haunt me at night, too?” Irene’s eyes narrowed for a moment. There was no anger in them nor her voice. Instead, she continued to sound quiet and calm, if not confused and tired of having asked herself these questions more than once.


“When I resisted, he bound me. When I tried to run, he punished me. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside.”


The furs were cool now, warm but not enough to protect from the howling wind. Irene had given most of the pelts from her side to Hardeep to deter him from touching her, and when she looked at him a thought occurred to her. An idea that might work in favour for both of them. There was another way to stay warm without overstepping the invisible boundaries, without making her feel like Hisraad was the one at her side.


Irene turned to her side, slowly and carefully not to tug at the pelts or disturb their little shelter, and shifted closer to Hardeep, laying down to face him with her front instead of her back. She reached toward him to wrap an arm around his waist, and hesitated for a moment before setting her arm down. With her hand behind his back now, she tugged at the furs to tuck them underneath the man. They lay close together, their chests almost touching.


“You should sleep,” Irene said once again. “I apologize for startling you. It will never happen again.” Because I will not sleep, not when my mind is so preoccupied with what I might see.


A question appeared in her mind, one that she’s been thinking of ever since Balin had allowed her to fly on the dragon towards his homestead. It was a question that overstepped that invisible line between a master and a servant. It was also a question that Hardeep could ignore easily and reprimand her for not knowing her place. But what was there to lose? She needed to get her mind off the images of Hisraad and the feeling of disgust that twisted her stomach at the mere thought of the farmer.


“How does it feel to be able to fly anywhere you want?” She heard herself asking, the words a mere whisper that Hardeep would not have heard had he not been laying so close.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Hardeep listened patiently and for the first time in his life, wondered if his father ever bothered to listen. Was his gentleness truly there, or did they assume it, as the life they had before been worse? Did they assume that once they were out of the grasp of a horrid man who beat them, who raped them, who took away everything, that the one who did not raise a hand to them was good?


He remembered his mother telling him once that his father was good with crowds. He was good at inspiration, at staring out over a sea of faces and smiling and lifting them up but on a personal level, he struggled.


"He's not very good with taking your hand and telling you he loves you. Understand that he still does, ok?" his mother had said, stroking his hair into place after she had taken him on a ride above the sands, him sitting in front of her and laughing as the wind pulled them this way and that. He had sat there and giggled and chuckled and drank in the blue, blue sky as it pulled at him and sent him flying. His mother had wrapped her arms around him and had laughed alongside him, her shoulders shaking as the sands billowed up from the wings of her dragon, the one that would die alongside her.


"Ok, mama," he said when they had landed, staring up at her. She had looked sad then, almost as if she knew something would happen. She had taken him by the hand and led him past the servants and the slaves who stared at her, at her wild curls and her wilder eyes, at the scars on her arms that she was too proud to cover up from a time before.


"Mama, does daddy love the slaves?" he had asked.


"I'm afraid not, my little fire," she had said quietly, glancing at them as they walked. "I'm afraid not."


It was an old memory, one that he had sometimes drawn up when he did not have his father and needed something to keep himself from growing angry at the only family he had left. Sometimes, he felt greedy and needed it when he watched the slaves and servants stare at him in awe. Sometimes, he just needed to remembered Estzar and the way she laughed.


He was beginning to forget that.


He did not flinch or move as he adjusted herself to be more comfortable. He did not tell her where to put herself or how to move her body. He only stared and listened in quiet, wondering if pity or grief would be useful in the situation.


He thought it may not be welcomed wholly, but he tried anyways.


"Did my father promise to burn him?" Hardeep asked her quietly. "Because his promises are mine now."


The code that the dragon riders adhered to was one of the few parts of his parents' union that was made clear to Hardeep. They believed in being pillars of the community, of righting wrongs however they saw fit. They would burn the lands of men that abused their powers and scatter to the winds the riches of those who stole from others. They would take the slaves away from the hands of the greedy and twisted and would set their dragons upon them. They had let Hardeep know that as dragon riders, their power also extended to protecting the innocent, the weak, those who could not protect themselves.


He let his hand rest in the space between them, staring at Irene through tired eyes when she asked him her question.


"I would not know," he said tiredly. "I have not flown far from Nuru and when I have, it was to conquer. A dragon's wings are great, yes, as are its flames. But unfortunately, even we are bound to the government through strings that I haven't been able to understand. Only my mother dared defied them, dared say what she thought and do what she wanted and she burned for it."


It was not the answer she was looking for but he could offer her no other.

 

[Lenaara]

Hardeep did not move and did not push Irene away. Neither did he reprimand her for not knowing her place as a slave, snapping at her that she dared to put an arm around him as if he were a lover and not a master who could end her life for no reason at all. His hand lay between them, beside hers that Irene had pulled up towards her chest as her other arm rested against the man’s waist and kept the furs pressed close to his back for warmth.


And he listened. Quietly, calmly, with no anger or distaste or aversion within the dark eyes covered by a shadow.


How long has it been since anyone has listened to her like this, anyone who wasn’t Rael?


Irene could not remember.


The slaves sought comfort in one another in Hisraad’s estate, following an unspoken code that they must look out for each other to survive their master. They hugged each other at night, cried and let their tears stain the thin linens draped over their shoulders. Sometimes, they sought comfort in love and affection for one another. But it never lasted long. Those who called each other friends, and even lovers, turned against one another when the food became scarce or Hisraad could no longer tolerate a slave for a reason that only he was privy to.


But those slaves did not listen. They did not want to as all had their own share of problems and thoughts that they had to endure day in and day out. No one wanted to bear the problems of someone else. They were selfish in that way. But Irene never blamed them. It was the only way any of them could cope, survive.


So the way Hardeep did not offer any snide remarks to her and did not take the road of pity that wouldn’t seem genuine in the slightest – she would not have believed him to take pity on a woman he barely knew and did not trust – Irene was grateful. So grateful that the defences that she’d put up over the years, even before turning into a slave, crumbled.


She would rebuild the mental walls come next morning. But for now, she thought it was best that they were down. So that she could continue to see Hardeep as Hardeep and not a man who wore dragon rider armour and rode a giant beast into the skies.


“He let the threat linger, yes,” Irene replied. “Though I do not wish Hisraad’s death. Do not think that I have lost my senses over the years of being his servant, or that I do not wish death on him because of the goodness of my heart. Mountain knows I hate that man with every fibre of my being. But his death would condemn the others to a life much worse. Other slaves would not get bought, they are too thin, and would be sent into the desert; or, north of Crubia to the border towns where fighting pits profit off those not sold on the slave markets. His family would be forced into slavery, his daughter promised to a man with the highest bid. I…” She hesitated for a moment. “I do not know what fate I wish for Hisraad. After two years of unanswered prayers, I came to terms with his existence. Or maybe I did lose my senses," she snorted, finding humor where there should have been none.


Many times Irene thought this to be some form of divine punishment. The Mark of the Exiled was a curse, after all, if the Crown was to be believed. Cursed for leaving the embrace of the God, the then King claimed; those abandoned are to be left beyond the Wirint’s Rise and given no chance of return and no chance of guaranteeing their futures through an heir. Irene thought about it on many a sleepless night, and then pushed the silly assumptions away. She was not superstitious to think that some shamanistic magic drove her to a fate much worse than what awaited her in Izmar had she stayed.


And then, there was the question of if this was punishment for all the lives she had taken, and then spared, but not out of kindness, rather out of a selfish wish to be remembered.


Hardeep had answered Irene’s question and she replied, “As did mine,” before giving it much thought. Though she did not regret the words after they were said. It was the truth, one not offered easily even to those Irene was close to. The fate of her mother brought a taste of bile in her mouth.


“It must be horrible to live in a fake presence of freedom. To have the ability to fly wherever you want, whenever you want; to see the world from the skies where only birds and spirits are allowed passage. And yet be bound to a country that has nothing to offer but war, an endless sea of sand and a scorching sun.”


There was no malice in her voice but it was tinted with disappointment. She always thought the dragon riders to be free, truly free. Though maybe some were free because they’ve chosen to fight for it, like Hardeep’s mother. It was a choice worthy of respect.


“Do you remember her well, your mother?”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

"Justice is hard to find for the damned and depraved," Hardeep agreed. "It is easy to forget that there are consequences of justice and that not all will be corrected by the cutting of a toxic branch, as the things that have attached themselves to the branch will surely wither and die as well. I cannot promise that if Hisraad was to die that the slaves would find good homes or that his wife and child would not find themselves in deep debt. My father would have offered to buy them and taken them to the estate; I'm afraid I would not be able to give them a place as he may have."


It was not the first time he had placed a distance between him and Balin. It was the first time he had done so when he spoke of a supposed kind act. Feeding thin slaves, housing them, allowing them to recover, was difficult. Balin had done so several times but he had a way with the masses, a way to reassure them and bring them in and tell them that they would be sheltered, protected, that they could shed their outer layer of fear. But Hardeep knew that each man who beat a slave, who took them for his own wants and needs, was different. And he knew every slave would come away with different scars and know different pains and that the few slaves that were sold were the ones that had needed a harsher master, that would have been good with Estzar, who had turned from a dragon rider into a woman of steel to live.


"Fate will find him," Hardeep said. "As it does all men and women. We can only wait until then, unless we wish to act as fate and let him face the consequences early."


Hardeep raised an eyebrow at her statement when she said that her mother had died, burned to be exact. He did not know where Irene was from but it was not Crubia and their traditions were foreign to him. He had seen the black markings on her shoulder but knew nothing or their origin or their meaning and had not bothered to ask. It was not a topic he could broach easily and it was not one he could forsee speaking to Irene about. He did not know if her mother had died of punishment or like his mother did; out of the divine sin of trying to live how she wished to.


Out of some greedy need for slimy men to be powerful.


Out of some twisted sense of righteousness for those that stood on glass pedestals and feared the ones who were creating their own with rocks that they held and saw as weapons to use against them.


"That is all they really know," Hardeep said, his voice dark. "They think they are free but they are bound by their own ridiculous notions of right and wrong and what they should and should not do. They are still bound to think as the common folk do and they still struggle to break away. It is only that we have the sky to fight in and the sky to settle our quarrels that makes us any different from the slaves and the merchants."


It was something he had always carried with him, since his mother burned and the air filled with smoke. It was something he had begun to understand as he watched a woman scream and sob as a man whipped her in the fields and his father simply said, "They are commoners. Their punishments are unlike ours."


Hardeep had said that his mother had burned, punished for something she had not truly been at fault for.


Balin had not responded.


"My mother?" Hardeep asked, his voice reflecting the surprise he felt. No one asked about his mother anymore. Partially because the slaves and servants thought that they ought not to and the dragon riders knew better than to.


"Yes," he said, his voice soft and quiet, barely audible above the crackle of flame. "Yes I do."


He looked at Irene then, staring at her and the shadows dancing across her face and the small flickers of flame that were reflected in her eyes.


"You would have liked her. She was free, in a way I can only dream of being. She loved me in a way I can only pray I can love another one day. And she died in a way that I can only hope no one else has to."

 

[Lenaara]

Irene looked at Hardeep silently, brows slightly furrowed in contemplation that was not accusatory. No anger was present in her eyes and no scowl twisted her lips. Most others would have accused Hardeep of being selfish, for not looking out for those that he should be responsible for as it was his people that had driven Crubia to its current state. Those would have been slaves and poor farmers, unfortunate souls that did not know what else to do but curse the dragon riders in their minds, fear them in silence and openly worship them.


She, however, looked at the man in confusion. In the shadows and the soft orange firelight, it was hard to make out the slight crinkle to her brow and the way her eyes skirted over his features.


Is he afraid of being like his parents?


It seemed a plausible question and Irene almost asked it, but Hardeep continued to speak of the dragon riders and his words had piqued her interest, distracting from a question that was completely inappropriate.


They? Not we?


The words earned a quirk of her brow. Perhaps she was overthinking it, grasping at the information given as a way to distract herself from darker thoughts and the current situation.


“I thought…well, hoped, that a dragon rider out of all has a chance to be truly free if they so choose. You have a dragon at your back and a social status that provides wealth, however acquired. It just seemed…so much more than what most have. What most are allowed to have. To be given the chance to see so much of the world, experience so much in a short period of time.” Her voice was laced with hope and she looked to the side for a moment, staring into the darkness of their hut as the memories of a different life flooded her mind.


“Seeing it from a commoner’s perspective blinds to the reality of the situation, I suppose. Though it is good to think that some fight for freedom no matter the outcome. Your mother…I respect her, as should many others.”


Whether or not Hardeep shared his mother’s opinions, Irene did not know. Did not want to guess and assume, either. He was indecisive in his position with the riders, she could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. There was a choice presented before him – to be free, to struggle like his mother did while being fully aware of the consequences; or to remain as he is, and live a life of false freedom, bound to a golden cage.


Irene knew well enough what it meant to choose freedom. She had the scars to show for it, the memories of running away from Hisraad’s estate and then spending Mountain knows how many days in the barn, bleeding to death and praying to the God in whom she did not believe in that the infection would not set in. Choosing freedom when your position did not allow you to even consider it was hard. But it was a choice.


A part of her, the part that could see Hardeep as an individual instead of a dragon rider whom she was supposed to hate for what his people had condemned her for, wished that Hardeep would choose, instead of balancing on the fine edge between one choice and another.


Had they not been laying so close to one another, Irene would not have heard the words spoken of Hardeep’s mother. It was…pleasant to hear him speak of her with such softness to his voice.


“She seemed like an admirable woman.”


His words brought forth the memories of her own mother, visions that she clung to because she could not recall anything else.


Their hut stood close to the mountain. Circled by a fence of thick crème brick, the little house of white walls and a slated stone roof was positioned on the edge of a hill overlooking the street below. On one side, it was hidden by the fence from the prying eyes of neighbours, and on the other a garden of rhododendrons and magnolia trees occupied the backyard and side wall, huddling closely to the mountain. Grape vines crept their way up the wall of their hut, brightening the plain brick with their greenery. Only one window was on the street’s side, overlooking the Middle Ring below. Surrounding the Middle Ring in a semi-circle was a fifteen foot wall of smooth pale stone, and from behind the wall one could see the sea stretch on in a grey-green blanket. Sharp rocks broke through the sea cover, appearing as blackened teeth of some sort of a giant creature.


The garden was their hideout. A bench of solid white stone was always beneath a shadow of the magnolia trees. More often than not, a book would be on the bench. Or a piece of cloth and thread, the fabric of a deep purple colour embroidered in golden.


A lemony scent tinted with vanilla spread through the garden, seeped into the pale pages of the books and drenched the wedding cloth that Irene and her mother were preparing for a little over a year by then.


“My mother…” Irene closed her eyes for a moment, wishing to see the face of a woman that she had not seen in years and instead could only recall a blur of colour, a shape with washed out details. “I remember her being intelligent, extremely so. And beautiful. A woman of supreme merit, I was told. One of the only few allowed to leave Izmar as a child, she studied at a university in Vanguard.”


Wind howled through the forest, made the flames flicker and dance on the burning kindling. Furs rustled and Irene felt shivers run up her spine. She shifted closer to Hardeep.


“Magnolias,” Irene said after a moment of silence. She had looked down at the small patch of darkness between herself and Hardeep as she searched her memory for a face long forgotten.


“I remember my mother always smelled of them. We had a little garden near our house. She planted magnolia trees when I was born. I remember her frequent teasing that I was not growing up as fast as the trees were; always said I was too short. In that garden was a small bench, barely enough for two people. We sat close to each other in the shade of the trees – I remember being jealous of their beauty and height – and broidered the cloth for my trousseau. It was…over twenty years ago.”


There was no sadness in Irene’s voice as she spoke. Indeed, it sounded softer, kinder, almost amused at the memory.


“We spent most of the time together in that garden, sewing all sorts of different symbols onto the cloth,” she continued. “It would have been years until I needed it done, I was only seven then, but it was one of the daily tasks given to me. I was promised to a boy already then, actually. A son of a tailor. He was,” she hesitated, shrugging to remember the detail, “ten, if I recall correctly. My mother had begun the talks of marriage when I turned six. I never met the boy, though I heard he was skilled with the abacus and could read well. A wedding would have been held years after, of course, after I was of the age to bear children.”


The nearby hut rustled, metal clanked and Irene glimpsed a flash of silver as the metal plating fell onto one of the shapes, the larger one. The shape grumbled under its nose, muttered something and the furs – and the other shape beside the bigger one – got pulled closer. Wheezing continued.


“That is the only memory I have of my mother. I can scarcely recall her face anymore…only that I always thought her beautiful beyond possibility. With kind eyes and a smile that could captivate anyone,” Irene snorted at the memory of the men turning their heads as they watched her mother pass by on street to circle the fence towards their little house. “What is the fondest memory you have of your mother? Were you close?”


The questions were prying, but Irene was curious and it appeared that Hardeep preferred this topic over the previous one.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Hardeep hummed, allowing Irene her moment to mull over his own words.


"Dragon riders are humans," Hardeep said lowly. "Sometimes, the cruelest of them. Take a slave child and bring it into a dragon rider's home and he will, more than likely, spit on the slaves and servants and commoners as they do if not told his origin. Take a child of the richest dragon rider and place it among the slaves and watch him wither away without knowledge of his birth. The world has put us on a pedestal of freedom and many have gotten greedy. We all have, in one way or another. We want more power, more riches, more dragons, more respect. We take it how you may take it; through violence, through commands, through gifts with strings."


He made a disapproving tch through his teeth, unhappy with something, though even he was unsure what. He remembered days sitting by his father, peering at the writing that he poured over, showing Hardeep the alliances, the offers, the commands. "They want something," Balin had told Hardeep. "They all want something."


Humans always wanted something.


He was silent when Irene spoke of her mother, wondering what the world she came from looked like. He knew next to nothing about where Irene was from, though Izmar did ring a bell in the back of his mind, a land that Balin and Estzar did not speak often about other than to scoff at. A backwards place by his mother's standards and words and one that they would not venture to, by Balin's promises. Vanguard he knew better; one of the Makhai slaves was from there though which one, he could not clearly remember. He knew that Crubia had flow there some time ago, burned the fields and the city in an effort to make them bow or garner some coin from their purses. Hardeep knew it had failed.


Vanguard was a proud place, after all believing itself above the so called riders that scoured the land for what they wanted and the Izmars by having a city that let the poor and the rich children dance next to each other in the squares, where a woman could stand as tall as her husband.


But of course, they had still burned.


There had been no word on an alliance, however, and from what Hardeep had managed to catch, the burning did nothing more than to cause the Vanguardians to resent the Crubians even more. Their pride stood taller than their wisdom and they chose to lick their wounds instead of extend an olive branch.


Fools.


"She must have been a very intelligent woman," Hardeep said. His own mother had thought of going to Vanguard but had said that there was little doubt they would turn up their noses to a woman like her, only taking the best of the best to be educated.


Hardeep stilled for a moment at the mention of marriage and children, knowing that his father had also been more than desperate at one point to find a woman for Hardeep, a surrogate, anything to provide an heir and a family to carry on. Estzar had never been so, instead choosing to focus on his strengths of flying, of fighting, of laughing and talking and holding the hands of his friends and making the world revolve around one person at a time.


"You are nothing like your father," she had said once.


He had always been unsure how to feel about that.


"My mother used to ride a beautiful dragon of blue scales," Hardeep said wistfully, remembering Aallty and his towering height. "He was an old fellow, born and aged before my mother was. A dragon of her family, not her own. He was kind, by dragon standards and did not snap at anyone else. There was one afternoon, when there was no one else around to tidy the home, father having left for somewhere or another and the slaves busy elsewhere, shooed away because my mother never quite liked being overwhelmed by them.


"We were the only ones in the pen and Aallty, the dragon, needed to be cleaned. He had dust and dirt under his wings and coating his scales after a few flights previous and so we took a few rags, a few buckets of water, and washed him. It was quiet then, before... a lot of things," Hardeep said, leaving the statement open-ended. "And it was always nice to work beside her. Aallty was kind enough to tolerate me crawling all over him, when I still hadn't realized the temper of most dragons and spent the day pulling at scales and putting them in my mother's hair."


He almost smiled at the memory.


"She liked the color blue."

 

[Lenaara]

“My mother’s best asset was her downfall. Her intelligence did not stop her from being pulled into the schemes of Izmarian Crown. Or maybe, it was the reason. Through my years of traveling I learnt one thing for certain – those involved in politics are corrupt, full of greed and machinations that bring the lives of innocents down with them because of a selfish wish to put their asses on a chair grander than the previous one.” For a moment, poison coated her words and the soft grey of her eyes turned to an icy silver even underneath the flickering of the flame beside their hut.


When Irene looked at Hardeep, her eyes were no longer cold. Silent she watched him as if contemplating something in her mind quietly, weighting the decision against the consequences that it can bring.


She wondered if he, too, wished for more power and riches, but chose not to ask him this. It was a question for another time, if there was another time. If they were allowed to share such a moment or even think of it. For now, it was best to focus on something pleasant, something that did not bring a scowl to her lips. Something like the memories of her mother whom she had not seen for twenty years.


Those were happy memories. Ones worth remembering. Ones that Irene did not feel a hollow feeling within her chest each time she recalled them.


The memories of her family were few and were cherished, though with years they begun to dwindle and were gradually replaced with events much more vivid than the calm that were Irene’s earliest memories. One moment, she was sewing an ivy leaf motif onto a cloth spread over her lap, a magnolia tree blooming above her braided hair and throwing petals of pastel pink over the young girl’s shoulders. The next, an arm was pulling her to her feet and dragging her over the stone road towards the mountains, the abductor a man whom she had never seen before but who said her mother’s name with a trembling voice and eyes narrowed in anger, not at Irene but at the situation in general.


It was at that moment that Irene’s life was no longer filled with peaceful days in the garden, but rather with seemingly endless running, people that appeared too foreign and horrifying that spoke in languages Irene’s never heard before, and places that she could never have imagined existed.


Maybe that is why Irene chose to cherish the memories of a life that was such a long time ago it was hard to believe that she had ever sat down onto that bench between a magnolia tree and a rhododendron and sewn on embroidery onto a wedding gown. It was a much peaceful time. A time that she wished to have once more but could never allow herself anymore.


Because allowing it would be selfish.


Irene listened to Hardeep speak of his mother and wondered who else knew this story. The surprise that struck his features when she asked of his mother originally did not escape her. It was not hard to believe that he rarely spoke of his mother, as Irene herself rarely spoke of hers. No, she never spoke of her mother. It was simply a topic she chose never to bring up as there was never a need. When asked, people were given vague information and nothing more; a few words that satisfied their curiosity.


The image of Hardeep crawling over a dragon, pulling its scales to decorate his mother’s hair, had brought a smile to Irene’s lips and she snorted, perhaps the first genuine smile in…what seemed like forever.


“I had done the same. A magnolia tree is hardly a dragon, though,” she said with a soft chuckle, her eyes sparkled. After another moment of looking at Hardeep, Irene looked away and tilted her head to look up at the hut’s ceiling. The night’s sky was unchanging, still retaining the beauty of an endless shadow covered with a myriad of jewels.


She wanted to tell him something reassuring, something that could possibly give him reason to think that there was still some good left in this world that she once was looking for. She wanted to tell him that she had once strived to be a person who protected the innocents from being pulled into the mess of scheming politicians that had taken the life of their mothers.


Though that was a much more romanticized version of what she had really been doing over the years – guarding sleazy merchants who barely paid enough to afford a meal at a tavern. She was no more than a mercenary, hired muscle, a shield.


Instead, Irene said, “You should sleep.” She shifted closer to him, tugging the furs closer to them to preserve the warmth. Cold frost continued to seep through the small openings between the branches and layered moss. With Hardeep’s chest no longer pressing against her back, it had gotten progressively cold.


“How do you want to,” Irene hesitated, searching for an appropriate word, “hug? I can turn around, if you wish.” The offer did not sound enthusiastic at all.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

"A trend among mothers," Hardeep mused before he could stop himself and think about his words. His mother also died defying men that thought themselves more powerful than her because they ran the government. It was a fact that he could not shake, no matter how much his father wished he would. It was something that he had discovered over the years, examining the little scraps of information he had managed to pull together about who the man that had killed his mother and the en and women that died in his father's wrath. It had taken a certain amount of coin to get enough datewine to loosen up enough people to eventually whittle out the whole story.


He hummed at the parallel she drew about magnolia trees.


"I suppose all children wish to care for their parents, in some way or another," Hardeep said. He had thought the scales would look pretty and make her seem like Aallty and let her fly across the open skies, away from the sneering men and the glaring slaves. But Estzar never flew far without Aallty and Aallty would halt his flight forever when Hardeep was only eight years old.


"Sleep would be good, yes," Hardeep agreed and paused at her next question.


"Perhaps it would be more beneficial if you held me," he said, flipping underneath the furs so that his back was facing Irene instead of the other way around. "It would perhaps ease your mind," he offered.


It was strange to many, he supposed, for him to offer to take the more demeaning spot. But he had never viewed it as such; an embrace for warmth was an embrace for warmth and so long as he did not grow cold, he had no problem with it. Human contact was something that he had always wished for, especially when Estzar died and Balin did not take up the mantle of a gentle and present parent.


His eyes felt heavy and the flickering fire was warm and the furs weighed him down and he was tired, so so tired. He was tired of remembering, of thinking, of wondering, of questioning. He was tired.


And so he slept.


His dreams were shockingly empty, devoid of anything or perhaps they were full of something and he simply could not remember. Either way, he was awoken far too soon with a sharp scream that sent him jolting upwards, at first glancing to see if Irene had woken from a dream again. When it became clear that she did not, he shoved the furs away from his body and stumbled out of the hut, ensuring that he did not break it and seizing a knife tucked into a sheath that he had not taken off the other night.


Looking up, it turned out the shout was from Galene, who seemed to be wriggling on a branch, seemingly trapped in a bunch of furs that were bound together.


"You're an idiot," Ming Xia said, waking up above the other girl and staring down at her.


Hardeep only breathed in exhaustion as Galene shouted insults back.

 

[Lenaara]

His offer surprised Irene and she hesitated for a moment before she lifted her arm and drew back to let Hardeep turn around without having to struggle for space. Once he settled down, so did she. With her arm around his waist, Irene allowed herself to shift closer and press her chest against his back.


It was warm and somewhat comfortable. When the situation called for it, human contact had never been an issue to her. It never bothered her to strip and sleep naked beside a stranger within a leather yurt not to catch a fever. Neither did she mind huddling close to others either out of need to offer support or to wait some time out in close quarters.


Hisraad had changed this, however, as Irene found out and startled Hardeep in the middle of the night. It would take time to forget Hisraad, Irene realized that herself, and until that time arrived she doubted that she’d be able to be as comfortable with touching anyone as she was before.


It was both surprising and pleasant to see that Hardeep understood.


When she settled down into the furs, pulling herself and the pelts closer to the man, she expected to feel the same anxiety as she did when they first laid down in the hut. Instead, she felt nothing and fell asleep with a calm mind.


That night no more nightmares plagued her. Not a single vision, not a single painful memory. Even the thoughts of the forest and the creatures that lurked within were pushed away to the farthest corner of her mind.


Irene woke up the moment someone screamed. She was lying on Hardeep’s shoulder, his arm under her while her own was resting against his chest; the furs were wrapped closely around them. Before she could so much as pull away and sit up, Hardeep sat upwards and nearly bumped Irene with his shoulder in the process. By the time she unwrapped the furs from herself and eased out of the hut, Hardeep was already on his feet and armed with a knife.


Across the fire, Warren had darted out of his own hut. The poor contraption shook and threatened to completely crumble into itself as the larger man dashed out of it. Furs followed him in a trail of a few feet, pulled behind Warren as the man did not bother shaking them off before leaving his little refuge. In the dim morning light, Warren’s hair was messier than usual and adorned his head in a spiky crown of black.


Clad in his leathers and the fabric under-armour, Warren held a scabbard of his sword with one hand, its belt dangling from side to side above the mossy ground, and with the other he pulled out the blade the moment he was standing upright.


Warren sprinted around the fire towards the source of the scream and stopped abruptly at noticing the source. Everyone just stared at the tree where Galene was trapped in the furs that kept her warm during the night.


Irene quietly laughed at the scene.


It was just so absurd. On the way out of the hut she had come up with all sorts of theories to what might have happened – a creature attack, a spirit attracted to the living beings who huddled close to the fire in the middle of the glade, a group of mountain folk arriving and startling someone. All theories were plausible and all had a much higher chance of happening than what had really occurred.


Warren shot Irene a glare, then shifted his attention to Hardeep, looked at the man from head to toe (probably making sure that Hardeep was still in one piece and uninjured) and glared at Irene once again as he sheathed his sword and wrapped the belt around his waist.


“Instead of laughing, you should be helping her,” Warren grumbled under his breath as he trotted towards the tree and halted beneath a branch where Galene was trapped.


“Leave her be, she is going to be fine,” Irene said while still chuckling and watched Galene shouting insults at Ming Xia.


Warren had lifted his arms and positioned his feet on the ground to gain a more solid footing. “Galene,” he called out, “if you roll out, I can catch you.”


His words earned another chuckle from Irene. She stood by Hardeep, her arms crossed over her chest. In a hurry to leave the hut and possibly run – had the reason for the scream been something much more dangerous than being stuck on a tree – Irene had grabbed two furs. She wrapped one around her shoulders and handed the second to Hardeep.


“Warren,” she said while still smiling, “she is no child, let her deal with this mess on her own. Galene knew well enough what she was getting herself into.”


Warren only grumbled something under his breath and cast a wary glance at Kydoimos before he looked up once again and watched Galene.


“I don’t want her to break a bone,” Warren said without shifting his focus from Galene and the branch.


“I don’t think she’d appreciate you doting on her,” Irene said. “Let her get out of the tree on her own. The fall won’t be dangerous, the ground is soft enough.”