Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ The Shades In Sorrow ❯ Altitude ( Chapter 3 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

It feels to him that he has been on Tellius for ages. Always beginning anew, again and again and again...

For months now—almost a year, his life just is a succession of shorter breaths; an effort to pace his life to the lifespan of those who matter. There has never been many races that strived as long as herons.

He has thought about the Wolf Queen lately. It still feels strange to imagine that someone larger than life can someday fall into silence.

Before knowing it, he finds his hand looking for another in the bedclothes.

The beorc...Tanith...turns around, with a lost expression. As if she had flown for too long and cannot recall where she has landed.

She smiles faintly and mutters something that turns out as "Hello master."

For one moment he is left wondering, because it has been eons that he has never heard of beorc being made into slaves and she cannot possibly have been alive back then—she sees the expression plastered on his face and guesses that there is something amiss.

"My lord," she corrects tentatively, and he manages to break from surprise to shake his head as if trying to help, as he is growing dubious and amused.

But her face lights up in victory. "My Prince," she affirms, proud of having found the correct one, but—"No." She frowns with aggravation and with a sassy voice shift for "Reyso—" but there is a second of doubt here and her eyes widens in shame, almost as round as her half open mouth, fully awake now, able to realize what she has just said.

"Oh Rafiel..." She cringes "Oh my /goddess/," dives into the mattress, face aflame, and he let a laugh escape.

*
Is he laughing?
From up close, the sight of mirth on his face, against her heart, is blinding, numinous.
She isn't sure make to make of it at first, but behind the pity and affection in his gaze...there is nothing sour.

In the bird's eyes, she sees something else, something well-grounded, the glimpse of a strength that doesn't rely on senses, but on patience. ...She has long become used to the means of the Prime Minister who had really ruled Begnion. So, perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised that the crown prince of Serenes, who would outlive most people on Tellius would have some layers to his character...

She feels small—there is a little girl somewhere deep in her heart who is glowing with pride and could easily grow carefree if she could hear that laugh more often... She is quickly losing against her own elation until—wait why is he is laughing already?

Well... Even if he doesn't believe her explanation, /she—a solider of Begnion—has made a Prince of Serenes laugh/.

*

Rafiel is unable to stop smiling—now Tanith is swearing that there is no way for her to confound him with his brother, or that there is anyone else that she could mix him up with, really; she is just very bad at coherent thinking on waking, and he reassures her—but enjoys every minute of it.

Of course, there is no doubt on Tellius that the Reyson he now knows would rather die than lay with a beorc. Anyway, to connect this strongly with another on a whim is impossible without impending the strength of their /galdrar/ for a long time, may the partner be beorc or laguz.

And for all of his love of hawk customs, he doesn't think his brother so careless as to imitate... (Ah. Well...Reyson /has/ forced himself to eat raw meat once. True. But did that compare with risking his seid magic?) No, /he/ was the only heron on Tellius careless enough to do something like that, so even though his own galdrar has never failed him, he has lost any right to chide his brother).

But the captain doesn't have to know any of that. Does she?
He likes to imagine that he is the only one to have heard how fun the ever serious Imperial Begnion captain is by mornings.

He can't help but play doubt a little—because she's too fun to pass it—and it dawns on him now how much he had missed teasing his nephews and younger sisters, an eternity ago. If he looks beyond physical strength, endurance, stubbornness and differences in their rates of maturation, the captain is still incredibly /young/ in years, and knows so little about this world.

/And it is relieving (he is not a thing to keep, any more than a title to use; she cares about his opinion) ...it will have to do as proof for now./

Perhaps...perhaps, at least and after all, he can still be useful to someone.

_______________________

Time passes. It has been long since the heron prince has been close to a beorc in any way, prior from this lady knight; long enough for a lot of things to be discovered again as if they were new.
Many are much less gloom than he expects.

Now, he doesn't need her to spin him as much as before—he is amazed that she manages to move still, after so many times, with such a fallible body will dull senses. It's difficult, but he begins to respect the merit of tools. Crafts. Schemes—if only because it may be the only thing that beorc have to strive, and to deal with their own chaos.

He is still not ready to mourn, but when he thinks about it, his world doesn't crumble down anymore. Now, the emotion has become almost manageable when he hears Nudi's or Nailah's name.

_______________________

One day, Rafiel wakes to find her looking at him.
His knight looks tired, barely awake, but radiating victory. (She has finally managed to rise before him today.) She pecks him with a surprising dexterity despite of the fog in her eyes. He begins to smile when she greets him in a strange manner.

The pet name she chooses brings forth memories old of thirty years, all in sounds and shapes that he had never cared to recall.

Apparently, remembrance comes with nausea—the feeling makes him pull a face a second before he can cover it with a hand. Mere memories can hold such power over him even now, can't they? He resent himself for letting something as neutral as 'songbird' ruffles his feathers in the wrong direction.

Despite the time, the distance, and all of the things that Nailah had called him in the meantime... (But Nailah is a different part of his life, like a vibrant dream of freedom and equality, a distant life, infinite and so short, that has fled from his grasp with his joy and love for life...) Perhaps it is because he is on the wrong...the /right/ side of the desert again, now; perhaps that here, he can no longer escape the demands of reality any more than he can chose which part of his life has been real or not.

He swallows and panics a little. Because there is a knot in his throat and he feels a galdrar of Bliss rises in his chest as his mind has already drifted back to that day...

~A tight cloth tying his wrists together, the rhythmic of feet mercilessly pounding on soft dew-covered grass, the utter uselessness of his Galdr of Sorrow, his memory of the darker dirges he had learned during his years among the Royal Sentinel comes with /hesitation/, because there are very strict rules and this does not apply, now it would be self-centered and the slavers have not tried to killed him so dark seid would definitely be excessive here, but Nudi would be worrying if he does not return... (Too nervous, too disheartened to register more or even want to, the most he caught are general directions of thoughts and feelings—flowing and flaring much too close against his senses.)

It goes on and on—soon there was the agitation of the marketplace, numerous tiny auras of elementals wandering aimlessly around beorc casters, noises, colors, voices; then, a night and a day in a dim cramped place where he felt his body weaken by the second, unable to sleep. (From its beginning to its ending, the memory is a blur of signals, images, sounds, foreign thoughts and foreign emotions without rest.)

Then out again—no sun then, less noise on the streets, then an entrance. Stairs, a narrow corridor with carmine velvet curtains everywhere and loud music covering conversations.

Many large bodies clad in extravagant clothes, all gathered in a dim cramped space, then another pair of curtains that are quickly drawn shut, money appearing...disappearing, different slavers—his wings are yanked open and he can see what the one who took a sharp tool his thinking before they hide it and motion him over—terror makes him stumble in his panicked retreat—there was a yank on his bindings, hands on his shoulders, /bring it over/, scornful words, derision between the sellers when he recoils from the clippers, wings closed tight against his back, as he sings Sorrow witlessly again and again, hopping to pass out as soon as possible...

Then, an interruption, impatient discussion—an aura of shock, throwing insults, the others taken aback, forced into apologizing, silently sneering—they /bargain/ and Rafiel tries to calm his heartbeat, feeling grateful beyond his wit for the bidder who had stopped them...even now he is nauseous.

His neck is a knot, raw nerves jumping at every noise and move, and every slip of his thick locks of hair onto his eyes further unnerving him; he has to fight against instinct to keep his wings safely hidden behind him. He jumps out of his skin when hands forcefully unfold his wings, grabbing, turning him; mouth, shoulders, legs—but he has seen the other laguz that has been waiting, sit still like the dead in a back corner (lean, dead eyes, silent mind, naked like an animal...it makes the touches bearable. He could—he wants to sing for the male cat, but Sorrow has taken too much of his energy, so he is just glad that they have left him half of his clothes even if he has to struggle to use what he has left to cover himself—/genuine songbird, rare brand, already tame and unmarred—but we can take care of his wings for you, the missing jewel of your estate, a magnificent gift/...his mind begins to understand that he is not a person in their eyes. The other bidders are a blur or extravagant colors and buzzing noises and eager movement. His clothes are taken out of the view and returned more than once. Maybe he would have been better without learning the Modern Tongue.

He doesn't try to see the buyer. He has to focus not to fall down, but is no longer sure of why it mattered. There's the sound of beorc, tiny round stones tumbling over themselves in large pouches—ah yes, he (is) was a prince, heir of kingdom, how had it come to this?—he must not let them know. Would they rise or lower the price? —/fleeting thought, sour, foreign/—No. Would they learn, he would be lucky if they only cut his flight feathers instead of silencing him on the spot.

Another tug, less forceful, he is set to walk again, but...but the world is swaying quicker under his feet and nausea is getting the better of his senses...he wants to ask them to wait /wait/—yet common herons don't speak their language and so he can't afford it... His legs are no longer carrying his weight. Distantly, he registers panic and uproar in the minds above. He closes his eyes and senses to them and to the world~


...
His hand wanders the bedclothes searching for the arm of a queen. With a sad sigh he brings it under his back to keep from fisting it again.

The heart of the beorc beside him feels full of warm reliance...he has felt safe and valued here...so why . . .

Rafiel wills his mind empty, focus on senses alone...and feels a familiar soreness in his throat. How long has he been singing?

Now there is only silence to answer him. He feels her aura twinkle...betraying her calm countenance in waves of confusion.

Ah right.

Tanith has greeted him, and he has responded with a galdr.

But he is still not sure how to answer her words.

This Begnian knight...can be found somewhat narrow-minded on one or two topics. But her honor and respect have steadily grown on his heart, enough that he can trust her without question—and his faith does not stand alone; he can tell exactly what the knight has meant and felt by the second that the three words of greeting has left her mouth. (One glimpse of her mind can tell him about her designs quicker than she can sort them into coherent thoughts herself. ... And she never tries to cloud her thougts or crypt her emotions. ...Does she knows?)

Tanith is...well, other tribes, tribes who do not consider themselves married when they consume each other's body, would still call them /lovers/ at least, and it feels fitting. Both ways, she is a world away from the slavers. Or the buyers—her mind and her heart are a clean contrast from that of the old duke who has...bought him.

But...Rafiel does not feel like /hers/.

Seeking a pier, an altar, an intimate aura to love is something that he cannot imagine living without, ever since the sky has been lost for him. But giving his will over to a queen stands on a whole different dimension. It had occurred naturally with his wolf mate, but...it was something unique and he cannot want to belong to another person in the way he had to Nailah. It is not that his lady knight...that he cannot grow to get used to...but he simply doesn't think that it could happen in the manner she... He clears his mind. She /will/ understand.

"Yours," the heron whispers quietly, like a question. He covers her hand, trying to convey warmth. "My dear," he murmurs just loud enough for her ears with as much kindness as he finds, eyes staying ahead to refrain from pressure her. "If it comes to this, I will let you know."

Rafiel feebly tries to clear a sad weariness from his eyes before turning his head toward her. "What do you say?" he adds and they both know that the question comes but as a polite afterthought.

His lady knight blushes, her aura in a mess as she faces away (wounded pride turns into guilt—there is an apology on the tip of her tongue—another form of pride rise, tie it up and takes it down; gallantry is silenced). There is a semblance of balance in her mind before she speaks out.

"I...fair enough, my Prince."

At this, he blinks and hums with sad hesitation. With that, the false countenance of her hearts is no more.

"I mean—" She frowns, struggles against a new apology with a funny face, her heart is burning as red as her head— his heart yearns to put her out of her misery and he bit his lip to resist from hugging her huffing with mirth.

Rafiel settles for a few pats on her head and covers his giggle behind a hand when her wounded pride turns into cold flames lightening her eyes in a searing glare. But he feels numerous promises in the seething shadows that it casts in her mind, and all of them are not so different when they make his heart aflutter with a charming thrill of fear.

Eyes lingering on a point beside his head, she reaches up before thinking. He unconsciously hunches his wings closer to his back to keep them from flapping away uselessly. When balance returns to her heart along with her mask of stern tranquility before she does anything, he is surprised and appreciative.

Tanith's curiosity grows minutely as her hand rises to the level of his ear. He knows what to expect long before she meets his wing and traces the tight curve of its fold. In the wake of their caress, her fingers leave a ghosting touch on his down and Rafiel wonders whether he is going to remind her of the hour or, instead, try to see for how long into the morning he can keep her in bed. Today her services are not required in Sienne, after all... Curiosity win over order and he slowly opens a wing before her eyes—inches from her fingers, as nonchalantly as possible.

For now he has someone to tease and nest with—even if there is no love of that kind for him anymore. There is room for other things though—feelings almost as strong. Slowly, his mind begins to register the Captain's face. Striking eyes, regal stance, the fragile shine in her eyes when he traps her between curled wings, the smell of her hair with the feel of her hands on his waist, the song of cold fire running beneath skin as soft and hard as ivory...

_______________________

His captain has pride. Not more than everyone else he had known, yet maybe, he thinks, more than what would be useful for a knight and though he hopes that this trait will not push her to do harsh things in her work, he will surely derives pleasure from it.

She is proud, formal, stubborn, tightly attached to authority, maybe excessively serious, honor-bound, and strong willed beyond worlds. In a few tiny details, her embrace reminds him of wolves, her hair has the smell of the winds that catches through her pegasus feathers. Her mind feels secure and her heart feels good against his senses.

Slipping under the skin of a woman of her...well...quality—the versatility of the word seem perfect)—is a process which takes time and subtlety. He doesn't find either in default. Really, her character is almost like a present from Ashunera, one that takes time to unwrap, as it get less and less necessary for him to hide the pleasure that he takes from the process. How could he not revel in a steadfast body, a will of steel and so many honed feelings...when under all of these layers hums the secretive glow of a naked soul waiting for a song, for the coaxing of seid magic. How could he not take pleasure in being the first, often the sole lover able to reach, inhabit, change or melt a grown warrior from their core?

There is no predatory desire in him; the promise of power is a tickle of playful affection dancing on the back of his mind. The strength he derives from that unique intimacy yet unknown to her, brings no more eagerness than impatience to be attained. There is simply experience—about thirty years of it before he met this beorc woman—anticipation, knowledge and satisfaction, all arisen in a sort of bubbling giddiness behind his smiles when he watch her confident strides.

He wonders what he will do after she is gone, though.

He doesn't think there is much left to know after having learned to fly thrice and having sung four lifesongs, now.

His clan has always been seen as an incarnation of order by beorc and laguz alike.

But balance does not mean occultation of the nature of chaos. Yune can be the flutter of joy, the surprise of renewal as simple as harmless mischief in balanced hearts. Yune is important; they all need her...if in measured amount.

Sometimes, he thinks about how Lehran's soul has strayed from Ashunera and sought war against Yune for a revenge that he regarded as absolution. His clan has always know that excess in either form cannot be healthy. He knows that their father must also worry about Reyson.

Sometimes, he can hear songs echoing, far in the south, they often have the accents of Rebirth; a powerless galdr for the soul who knows loss...a natural emotion. Yet, he misses Bliss. He has considered going to his father to ask him to sing this galdr to him again...but bringing Tanith under the trees would raise a wave of too many questions—some for which he has no answer, other that he feel too weak to face. But...he doesn't want to leave her side, doesn't want to know whether he will be able to return after leaving her.

...He wonders if maybe, she would agree to receive his father here.
Later. Soon.

He recalls what she has said about his role on Tellius, now that he is less terrified of his mind. There are some reservations about her opinion...and he is not sure that it is enough reason to feel useful even when his family is doing much better than he could.

But he will live.

As long as there will be someone to balance or inspire, he will be a galdrsinger.

he-he can survive like this

...Extend wings to the sky and give voice to echo, to reinforce the few remaining songs of Serenes...

He can let it be

*

The shades of Sorrow do not last long in the heart of Herons,
though this galdr carries a weight that is never shed completely.
Each caster knows the sour tingling of the mantle of Pity.
Both songs house light in their dim vibrations.