[Mature, PM to Join] Heavy Heart to Carry

[moralhazard]

Night, 48th Roalis, 2719
Voedale, Old Rose Harbor

Niccolette studied Cailan’s side, and Aremu watched her do it. “Hold still,” she said, sharply, and pulled a handkerchief from somewhere, dabbing at the skin around the injury, her gaze flicking back and forth over where the knife had gone in – where it had twisted. Aremu did not know what she was looking at, but her face had gone distant and remote, and he could see her thinking.

“Fine,” Niccolette exhaled, sharply, crumpling the bloody handkerchief in her hand. She glanced up at the passive, and made a little face again, glancing back over her shoulder at Aremu. He thought he could read the question in her eyes, in the way she scrunched up her nose – did she have to?

Aremu felt a sudden blooming of warmth in his chest. He nodded, once, and Niccolette made another little face, but she turned back to Cailan, took a deep breath, and began to cast. Aremu watched her, and although his own injury was beginning to weigh on him – he could feel the heaviness of it all through his body, the slow spreading ache – he could not help but feel a little lighter. This, he thought; this was Niccolette. So she had not died with Uzoji, after all. He had not been so sure.

Niccolette was chanting in steady even monite, her body still, her breaths rhythmic between the syllables. There was steam rising from her again; Aremu wished that he could edge back out of the range of her field, out from the spreading bright heat that eased through it as she cast. He had been on the receiving end of her healing before, and well he knew that she was not the gentle sort of healer. She blazed through your injuries; she pushed back the infections and the wounds with the sheer strength of her will. And, Aremu thought, that was very much how it felt.

There was a trickle of blood from Niccolette’s nose again, when the spell finished. But she reached forward with one hand and wiped the blood from Cailan’s side with the handkerchief once more. The skin underneath had closed up – draw together, as if she had stitched him shut, and the flow of blood was gone. It was not healed entirely – it would scar, too, Aremu thought. But there was no flow of blood, and while it looked as if it would be thoroughly tender, it was as if he had been stabbed a week or two ago, not tonight.

Niccolette stepped back – and wobbled, gasping sharply.

Aremu went forward into the depths of her field, and wrapped his arm around her, holding her upright. He said nothing for a long moment, worried that perhaps he had overstepped – and Niccolette groaned, softly, and leaned her head against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

Aremu stiffened, glancing at the slender Bastian, her face pale beneath the smear of blood. She should not, he thought, have taxed herself so. She should have told him – but he knew her better than that.

“Sit for a minute,” Aremu said, gently, and kept the worry from his voice. He eased her back towards the wall, and knelt with her, lowering her back against it until she was sitting, and he was crouched next to her.

Niccolette drew her knees up, and rested her arms over the top of them, and buried her face against all of it. If Aremu suspected from the trembling of her shoulders, that she was crying, he said nothing. He rose, carefully, and took the key from his pocket; he had taken the knife too, after Niccolette had finished with it, because he did not know Cailan and he did not think it wise to let the other man have it.

Aremu knew that he was walking a little more stiffly now; he felt himself beginning to drag further. He did what he could through it and made his way across the room to the chest. All that blood, he thought, glancing down at the key in his hand. He set it to the lock and turned – twisted. He was turned away from Cailan, but he kept him in the corner of his gaze as he let go of the key and raised the lid.

A small, half-open bag sat inside; a handful of uncut diamonds gleamed inside, sparkling in the distant dim yellow light. Aremu could not help himself; he reached forward, slowly, and dragged the fingers of his hand through them, a shiver running itself through him. There was a closed bag next to it, with a drawstring, larger; Aremu opened it, and eased the top wide, and checked the pieces of jewelry inside – two broaches, a necklace, two rings. He nodded, satisfied, and shuddered, jerking his hand back and clutching the side of the chest tightly. He took a deep breath, gathering himself, and held there another moment until the cloudiness in his head began to clear.

Rolls

Healing spell: SidekickBOTToday at 7:54 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6

[Lars]

voedale, old rose harbor
roalis 48, 2719 ꧁꧂ in the night

text

Even the handkerchief dabbing at the site of his wound was enough to make the passive tense, eyes darting away, toward Aremu. This woman certainly wasn't the gentle sort, but Lars supposed he could appreciate that in a person so long as they still had the capacity to help. Her field was still overwhelming him, pressing in like some unavoidable sickness, like the heavy, humid air that he'd only recently gotten used to in the harbor. It was a strange contrast, he thought, that the last time he'd been injured and needed help from a galdor, it'd been such a kind and caring man, but out here on his own it was hard to find much more than indifference.

He wondered often what the professor had thought of his departure. If he'd understood.

Likely not.

No, Harper was too gentle a soul to understand. An oblivious, kind-hearted, naïve soul.

You're only thinking of him to distract yourself.

Perhaps it was the truth - Lars' jaw had locked up far before he'd started thinking of the scholarly galdor, teeth grinding to keep himself from making noise, but it was hard to keep the pain from his face. Gods, it felt like getting stabbed all over again, but with a godsdamned flaming knife and he considered, briefly, if she was actually healing him at all, or just forcing his mind to relive the pain, just to wear him down enough to take off and leave them to their business. How could healing feel so much like the opposite? Harper hadn't made it feel comfortable exactly but he definitely hadn't made it feel like this. It was hot, almost unbearably so, and forceful in nature, as if his cells were being sewn back together with dagger-sized needles.

But then it was over, and Lars hadn't even realized he'd closed his eyes until it was. They flickered open again as he felt cloth to his skin again, wiping at the now-closed wound, and Lars swallowed whatever anxieties he'd had about the woman's intention with her spell. He let his ruined shirt fall back over the tender skin, blinking his thoughts into some form of cohesion as he watched the galdor stumble backward, saved from a fall by Aremu.

She must've overworked herself. The nature of magic had never came easily to his mind, never laid itself out like a series of textbooks to just (try to) read and understand, but he knew it took a lot out of those that overused it. In that way he supposed his kind was lucky - unable to bend the mona to their will, but unbound by the rules of it, and the physical tolls that it took.

Well. His hair would beg to differ if only it could, but it wasn't anything like he'd seen in some galdori. Lars wrapped his arms around himself loosely, gray gaze once again focusing on the chest by the wall as Aremu eased the woman to the floor.

"Thank you," offered the passive quietly, doubting that she would even care for the words but getting them out nonetheless.

Aremu, now, looked worse for wear as well, crossing over to the curious chest without asking to be healed himself - Lars wasn't ungrateful, but why hadn't he gotten himself fixed up first, then worried for the stranger later? He wasn't sure if it was kindness or stupidity, or maybe Aremu simply had enough confidence in his own strength to stay well for as long as he needed. The Hessean's bony fingers, again, began to tap silently at his sides, the man observing his fellow passive as he finally unlocked and opened the chest.

Oh, he wanted to know what was in there, he did. It'd been nagging at him since Aremu had led him in, but it would be stupid to just walk over and grab whatever was inside to take a look at it - he didn't want another stab wound. No, he'd stay over here, stay away from the probably-valuable contents of the chest, stay safe. That wasn't too hard.

I want to see what's in there, Lars, come on.

Gods, I do too.

Perhaps it was harder than he'd thought. His feet itched to step forward and approach, but he resigned to simply come closer, eyes fixed only on Aremu and not allowing himself to get too close to the chest and peer inside.

"You're still hurt," he started, softly, "can I help? I can't - heal it, of course, but can I help somehow?"

[moralhazard]

Night, 48th Roalis, 2719
Voedale, Old Rose Harbor

Cailan crept closer to him, to the chest, and offered his help. Aremu stood a moment longer, still gripping the side of it. He wished that he could have believed the other passive was grateful and simply wanted to do him a favor. It would have been nice to live in such a world.

Aremu breathed in deep, taking stock of himself. The flow of blood was sluggish now, not like it had been, and the lightness in his head did not seem to be growing worse. Pain was nothing to surrender to.

Better safe than sorry, Aremu thought. Niccolette would get back to her feet; he would find a path for the two of them through the crowded back streets to Cantile. They could find an inn there, if they could not make it to Hawke tonight - sleep in shifts. Surely Hulali did not intend to curve their path yet again.

“No,” Aremu said, straightening up and letting go of the chest. “You-“

“Clockstopper,” Niccolette said from against the wall. She was looking at the two of them, her arms wrapped around her calves, her chin resting on her knees. She took a deep breath, and before Aremu could even think to stop her, Niccolette began to cast.

There was a feeling of tension in the air, a tightness in her field - Aremu could see hazy energy cooled in the air, streaming from her towards him, stretching smoky tendrils across the room. They brushed him - it was hot, suddenly, so hot that he was sweating - and something snapped.

Niccolette groaned and went utterly still, her head lolling to the side. The weight of her field was abruptly gone, and she slumped sideways onto the floor.

“Hulali’s tits!” Aremu cursed, shaking; the brush of the backlash against him had seemed to scrape raw every one of his nerves, and he had to touch himself to check that he was not bleeding through his skin. Niccolette was not moving, and Aremu gritted his teeth.

“They belong to the King,” he told Cailan, and then he left the ten-times-circle-flooded tribute behind and went to Niccolette, crouching beside her and touching his fingers to her neck; he could feel her pulse, although it felt wrong to him in a way he could not name. He held there a long moment - too long - and then Niccolette groaned, and shuddered, her eyes opening. Aremu felt the faint sting of tears in his eyes with the relief of it, the surge of adrenaline powering him through.

“Who’s the clockstopper now?” He murmured, settling back into his haunches.

“Shut up,” Niccolette sighed, struggling and failing to rise. She slumped back against the ground.

Aremu stroked her hair from her face, took her gun, and rose, holding it lightly in his hand as he turned back to Cailan, the tip of it pointed down towards the ground. “Can you carry her to Castle Hill?” He asked, glancing down at Niccolette. There was a brief grumble of protest that died out into another pained groan. “I’ll pay you,” Aremu offered.

Rolls

Healing spell: 1
Severity of backlash: 3

[Lars]

voedale, old rose harbor
roalis 48, 2719 ꧁꧂ in the night

text

Aremu didn't trust him. That was smart. It'd been a rather weak attempt at distraction, anyway, and the white-haired passive couldn't blame him - he didn't trust Aremu either. It didn't matter that he'd gotten the galdori woman to heal him, because he could stick the knife back in and let him die just as easily as before. Lars was still disadvantaged when there was a galdor on Aremu's side, drained though she was, and he stepped back slightly as the other passive straightened up.

It was a good thing he had, too, because just as soon as he'd stepped back, the galdor was speaking again, pressing in and over them with that heavy, inescapable feeling of heat. It burned at his skin, though his flesh remained untouched, and Lars didn't dare speak up again until Aremu moved from the chest.

"What - what was that?" he asked quickly, though it was clear he didn't expect an answer. While the other passive got down and checked his companion for a pulse, Lars took the moment to step closer to the chest again, although not close enough to touch - he looked inside, and caught sight of something glinting with light.

I want whatever's in that bigger bag, Lars.

Stop it, he pressed, though his own companion moved closer still to the chest, unseen to anyone's eyes but his own but just as intent on looking through the chest. He reached down, pawing at the bag to see the jewelry within, as Lars himself moved toward Aremu and the strange woman that'd healed him - but not without shooting a glare to the empty space by the chest.

He has a gun. Don't touch anything.

And he's injured. Just take it from him.

It was with no small amount of anxiety that Lars watched Aremu take the woman's gun, as well, before addressing him once more. The first gun he could've handled fine - couldn't have that much left in it, right? But a second... that was worrisome. Even just pointing at the ground as it was, he wanted to step back and curl into himself and not give the passive the slightest opportunity to use it.

"Castle Hill?" he repeated, his nervousness starting to crack through his otherwise soft expression, "I - I guess so?"

He didn't feel like he had too much of a choice in the matter. It seemed dangerous to carry such a tumultuous being, but his unseen companion was already approaching the galdor's slumped form, and gestured in a rather rude fashion for him to follow. Offering a nod to Aremu, Lars crossed the room, hesitantly approaching the woman and taking a deep, shaky breath as he did.

"You'll have to show me the way, again, I'm not all that familiar with this place," his voice was quieter now, not wanting to disturb the galdor any more than his presence already had - and so long as she didn't resist entirely, he put an arm beneath her knees and the other to her back, attempting to hoist her upward as gently as he could.

[moralhazard]

Night, 48th Roalis, 2719
Voedale, Old Rose Harbor

Aremu watched Cailan cross the room from next to the chest, holding there. He had not answered Cailan’s question, and he did not intend to. If the other passive did not know what backlash felt like – perhaps it was too much to hope for that he would also not realize how weak Niccolette would be now. It had been odd, kneeling so close to her without the sharp, bright sting of her field; it was not the first time he had been near her without it, but he had forgotten how different it felt.

It was, the passive thought, an uneasy thought.

While Cailan made his way to Niccolette, Aremu dealt with his things; the gun first. He put his spent gun in a pocket, and slid Niccolette’s into his holster. He checked, carefully, making sure that with a quick jerk he could slid it out with his left – checked, too, that the knife was still accessible. Then, and only then, did he turn back to the chest, and take the small bag of diamonds and the larger one of jewelry, closing them each one handed and tucking them away beneath his clothing. He swore he could feel them against his chest, through the thin fabric of the bags, but he tried not to think of it.

Niccolette was shivering, and her eyes were not even half open. She jerked all the same when Cailan touched her, Aremu saw, and he thought perhaps her lips had moved, but nothing audible emerged. She slumped a little more when Cailan lifted her, and Aremu thought she looked oddly small; he never thought of her that way. She shifted one last time – he thought she was trying to lift her hand – and then her eyes fluttered a little more and shut, solidly.

Aremu held his breath until he saw her chest rise and fall, still very afraid. He had seen backlash many times; he knew, consciously, that it was unlikely that this could kill her, or even that it could do her permanent harm. All the same, he thought uneasily that it would let Uzoji down terribly if Niccolette died on his watch. No matter that Uzoji was, himself, returned to the cycle; Aremu meant to honor his memory, and honor what he had left behind in the world. He did not think letting Niccolette backlash herself to death accorded well with such a goal.

Aremu stepped away from the chest. His side pulled with each step, and he wondered if he, himself, could make it back to Castle Hill. He did not, Aremu felt, have much of a choice, and so he put the thought aside. Back over the long thin bridge, back to the main heart of the Rose. A carriage, he thought, because he doubted he could sit up through the night alone, and he did not like the idea of them both sleeping with a fortune of jewels tucked beneath his shirt.

He gestured with his hand towards the door and let Cailan go first. Aremu followed behind and let pain crease his face, for just a moment. He glanced back around the room one last time, taking in what they had left in their wake, and wondered if he would dream of it. The smell, perhaps; he thought he might dream of the smell. He thought he might reek of the blood for months.

But Aremu did not hesitate, and if he had such thoughts, they never slowed him down. He followed Cailan down the hallway, and back out onto the street beyond. It was sleeting rain still, a heavy curtain of it rippling through the air in the wind, but it was not as torrential a downpour as it had been before. Aremu breathed it in deep, although he knew it could not wash the scent from his nostrils.

“This way,” the imbala said, quietly, and gestured left. He tucked his right arm against his side and rested his wrist against the edge of his pocket; it lay flat beneath, but it would pass at a distance. He kept pace with Cailan, walking almost next to him through the wet, sandy streets, winding back through the outskirts of Voedale. Voedale to Basin Court, he thought, tiredly; over the bridge that wound through Bean Island, and then Castle Hill – it was a rainy night. Surely there would be carriages about.

For now, Aremu focused on putting one foot in front of the next; for now, Aremu did not let himself think of anything beyond the next step and the occasional glance around, checking equally on Cailan and the strange burden Aremu had laid upon him, and the dim distant rain-soaked shadows.

[Lars]

voedale, old rose harbor
roalis 48, 2719 ꧁꧂ in the night

text

Much like the other passive, Lars watched the woman closely as she attempted weakly to move, or to speak, or to do something else that wasn't quite possible right now. He swallowed the rising lump in his throat. She was unconscious, right? She couldn't do anything right now. Unless galdori had some secret method of casting and attacking in their sleep, Lars was safe from her, and so long as he held Aremu's companion and did as requested, he was safe from him as well.

Before heading outside, the passive shifted the woman in his arms slightly, making sure he had a good, stable hold so as not to jostle her on their walk. Afterward, he ventured forth, exiting the room ahead of Aremu and falling into step with the other once they were both outside.

Toss her into the first body of water. She can't stop you.

Lars held her close to his chest, turning his head to examine the other man as they walked. He was dragging more, his steps stiff and surely pained, but still he continued on. Either he was an incredibly good friend to this woman, or he was incredibly loyal to whatever king he'd mentioned the diamonds and jewelry belonged to. He'd heard talk of something like that, some king of the underworld... but aside from those mentions, he had no clue what any of it was, or what it meant. He couldn't recall ever hearing of a king in Old Rose Harbor when he'd lived in Brunnhold.

"What's her name?" he inquired, glancing for a moment down to the galdor in his arms, "and... why can't I feel her field?"

It was just strange. He knew that galdori could at times suppress their fields, but this seemed different, as if she was suddenly just like the two of them. No, he could only feel the wind and the rain, and the low, ever-present hum from a fellow passive's form. It was always there, now, always on his mind in the harbor to concentrate and look for, but it was no less strange now than it had been the first time he'd felt it.

Aremu hadn't answered before, and likely wouldn't now, but Lars couldn't always stifle his curiosities. Sometimes they just itched at his brain, but other times they forced their way out.

"You two helped me, I'm not going to turn on you because your friend's out. I would've left you with that wick if I wanted to see you die." He wasn't sure how reassuring that was, but half of himself believed it, at least. Looking away from the galdor and toward Aremu, he inspected the state of him as much as he could in the rainy conditions - still forging on, but Lars knew firsthand now what that stab wound felt like.

You wouldn't turn on them, but you'd rob them blind?

Oh, don't tell me we're thieves now.

I wont tell you, then.

Fortunately there weren't all too many people out in the rain, especially at this hour, because he sure as fuck didn't want to be drawing any unnecessary attention to themselves as they travelled through Basin Court and on to what he'd learned they called "Bean Island," didn't want to run into any more wicks with an urge for stabbing.

"I can help you. Really. Your friend probably shouldn't push herself anymore than she has, and you're not getting any better."

[moralhazard]

Night, 48th Roalis, 2719
Basin Court, Old Rose Harbor

Aremu might have given Cailan Niccolette’s name, if that was all he had asked for. She did not guard it, Niccolette Ibutatu; she wore that name with pride, and he could not imagine her feelings had changed, now that she was the only Ibutatu remaining. He did not think she would mind if Cailan knew it; he did not think she would mind it he shouted it from the rooftops of the harbor, flung it back into the face of the storm above.

And he had given his own - Aremu - already, and he was not sure why he had not given the wholeness of it. Ediwo, the name he had made for himself a long time ago, when he regretted the lack of a second one. He wondered, now, why he had thought it necessary; but he had been a boy, then, and it has rankled to have only one name, when so many others wore their father’s or mother’s with pride. Still, if one was so inclined it was easy enough, in the Rose, to link Aremu to Niccolette; she, more than he, was a subject of some gossip. He had heard hints of it already, of Hawke’s displeasure with it. He had meant to help, but Aremu was not sure he had not made things worse.

She was, he told himself, still alive. She was, he had seen tonight, still Niccolette, somewhere inside. He did not think she would heal, but he thought she would learn to work around the loss.

But in the end he held silent on the subject of her name, because it would be too telling not to speak of her field - because silence, or even a warning to Cailan that it would return soon was a tacit admission of how helpless she was now. Let him draw his own conclusions; Aremu doubted they would be worse than the truth. Uncertainty paralyzed men worse than knowledge, most times.

They walked, still. Aremu was conscious of the prickle on the back of his neck that marked Cailan’s gaze on him, conscious of the pained stiffness of his gait, conscious of the weight of the gun hanging inside his coat. He was conscious of it again when Cailan began to speak once more, and wondered, tiredly, why the other passive was so anxious to reassure him.

And Aremu wondered, too, what kind of a passive with an Anaxi accent did not know the Rose well. He knew there were some who made their living in the Dives of Vienda; he knew that Anaxas did not hunt them down. Niccolette had told him about Bastia once, a warning. He knew she had meant it well.

“How would you help us?” Aremu asked, curiously. He did not stop; it was dark, but he still knew these streets, and he thought they had found the line where Voedale oozed into Basin Court. He turned his head slightly, letting the pale line of the other man’s silhouette fill his gaze.

A flash of distant lightning lit the street, and Aremu could see Niccolette’s face, her lashes resting against her cheek, her lips slightly parted. Was it peaceful, he wondered, her sleep? He did not think she had dreamt as he did, before. He did not know the truth of it now; he wondered if such dreams might be kinder.

Around them still the Rose was shuttered and silent in the heavy rain; they might have been the only living souls on the streets. Rain splattered off a tarp nearby, an empty stall, and Aremu caught a glimpse of yellow eyes, a small cat crouched beneath the edges of it. No, he thought; not the only living souls, then. He was aware of an odd sense of relief, of a strange kinship with the mangy little thing.

[Lars]

basin court, old rose
roalis 28, 2719 ꧁꧂ in the night

text

He couldn't help the soundless sigh that escaped his lips as he was met with more silence on the subject of a name. What would a name matter? He was simply curious about the person he was hauling, was that not allowed? He hardly knew one face from another in the harbor and he doubted that he'd know her, even if she was someone of great importance. So he didn't ask again, and let his eyes wander away from Aremu, searching the dark and rainy streets before them.

It's not too late to drop her.

Don't tempt me.

When the other passive finally spoke again, offering another question from his own, Lars shrugged as much as one could whilst holding another person in his arms.

"Am I not helping you now?" he asked, glancing to Aremu only in the corners of his eyes, his fingers itching to move yet staying solid in their hold. "I meant your injury. I could at least help you get it clean," but the tone of his voice, then, made clear that his former intentions of being helpful had passed. It was subtle, the shift in demeanor, but noticeable enough if one paid attention - the slightly stiffened posture, the dim glint to his eyes; nonetheless he continued on, and kept his hold of the galdor stable as they walked.

If his words of inquiry would be ignored, then fine - he wouldn't ask any more. What did it matter, anyway, to know the names and situation of two people he'd likely never meet again. It wasn't anything he need concern himself with. If the man walking near him was going to pay up at the end of the line, then it at least made the night's events somewhat worth it.

Besides, the earrings that'd been shoved into his pocket were another bonus. Whatever damned king they intended on bringing them to could cry all he wanted about it, they were his now - and didn't he deserve a bit of decoration? The stab wound, though mostly healed, would surely scar and he was owed some form of re-compensation for that dip in his appearance.

Much like Voedale and Basin Court, the island they came upon was relatively quiet but for the rain and wind and the sea, devoid of friendly and hostile faces alike. It was strange, to travel through different parts of the port town and find them unoccupied - perhaps he simply needed to take more walks in the rain to escape unwanted company.

[moralhazard]

Night, 48th Roalis, 2719
Castle Hill, Old Rose Harbor

Perhaps there had been a moment, Aremu thought, when he could have done this differently. Perhaps there was a moment when he could have opened up to the other passive, when he could have trusted him. Perhaps. But if it had ever been, Aremu thought it had gone now. He gave no response to the half-hearted suggestion of help cleaning his wound.

Trust could not be extended from weakness. This - what lay between them now - it was not trust. Aremu could not manage; he knew that, injured as he was, he could not have carried Niccolette alone. He had asked Cailan for help not because he trusted him, but because he had no other choice.

To bare the wound on his side to the passive - to let him see the contours of where the knife had gone in, to let him - what? Clean the blood away, try to find something to rinse it out - it could not but hurt. No, Aremu thought, he could not have risked it.

And if he had been strong - if he had not been injured, if Niccolette had not backlashed, if they had not had to leave Carter behind without so much as a burial - then what? Would he have extended a hand to this white-haired Cailan? No, Aremu did not think so. At least he would have had a choice.

No, Aremu thought; trust was a form of weakness you chose yourself, and that was why it needed so much strength.

It was in Basin Court that he began to feel it again - the faint stirring of Niccolette’s field in the air around them, a slow gathering of mona returning, sharp and bright. It wasn’t the same overwhelming force as usual, but it was growing steadily. Aremu did not know why, after backlash, it sometimes took minutes, sometimes hours - once, memorably, days - for the mona to return to a galdor. He only knew that he was glad at the brush of them.

Aremu followed Cailan over the bridge; the wind tore at them, fierce and vicious over the Mahogany. It drove the rain sideways against them in sharp spurts, and it pulled so hard at his clothing that Aremu thought it might be ripped from him. Aremu kept his eyes fixed on Cailan’s back, and kept his feet moving, step by step. There was no time to rest on the island, and they passed through the path and onto the second half of the bridge.

By the last rattling gust of wind-swept rain, Niccolette’s field was vibrant in the air once more. It crawled over his nerves, and Aremu was beyond grateful for the familiar discomfort, the growing strength of it.

“Her name is Niccolette Ibutatu,” Aremu offered, quietly, his voice close to Cailan’s back as they descended the slick wooden stairs at the far end of the bridge, back to solid land, finally to the outskirts of Castle Hill. There was no sign of carriages yet, but there were distant glowing phosphor lights, bastions in the dark, and Aremu hoped to find one there.

“Of course it is,” Niccolette snapped, and her eyes opened. She shifted, squirming against Cailan’s chest. “Set me down,” she told him, firm, as if - as always, Aremu thought - she had no doubt that she would be obeyed.

Her command had - perhaps - been premature; Niccolette could not stand terribly well, but she clung two handed to the half-rotten wooden railing without the faintest indication of yielding, as if this was simply the most sensible way to stand. The Bastian lifted her chin, field sweeping out around her in the rain, and glanced around. She looked back at Aremu, and she - she waited.

Aremu had not expected it; he thought she would want to take charge again. He had looked forward to surrendering to her, if he were honest with himself, to letting her make the decisions. He was only an imbala - he was - he could not -

After a moment, Aremu found himself again. He had done stranger, he thought. If this was what Niccolette needed from him, then he would do his best. “Here,” he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a few coins. He did not count them, he was too tired to do even that, just thrust them out through the dark to Cailan. “Thank you.”

[Lars]

castle hill, old rose
roalis 48, 2719 ꧁꧂ in the night

text

As soon as the woman's field started to return, Lars' eyes drifted downward. It collected itself about her as if it'd never even left, the mona returning to slip that uncomfortable feeling back into the air around them, the particles spinning beneath his skin like the unwanted insects they were. He inhaled deeply, glancing upward again, back to the streets ahead of them.

Finally he heard his fellow passive's voice again, offering him the woman's name, but Lars didn't bother to respond. He didn't have much of a chance to, anyway, seeing as the woman - this Niccolette - began to stir, her displeasure with him immediately clear. The passive didn't hesitate to obey her command this time, setting her down and not bothering to try and stabilize her unsteady stance - he wasn't interested in willingly submitting himself to whatever retort would surely follow, and so his head turned only to Aremu once she was out of his arms.

You should have taken her out while we still could. We could've handled Aremu, Lars.

He seems kind. I don't want to.

Kind? Sure. Just admit that you're too soft.

Lars' eyes followed Aremu's hand as it reached into his jacket, pleased to see him retrieve the coins and offer them out. He nodded then, allowing himself to offer the hint of a smile, even if it didn't quite reach his eyes, and took the coins into a cold hand. He slipped them into his pocket and threw another glance to Niccolette.

Aremu had neglected to answer him for a reason, not allowing Lars the woman's name until her magic had returned to her. He had his assumptions, but that fact only confirmed them - and the passive wasn't certain if he'd have helped a powerless galdor in any fashion if it hadn't been for Aremu's persuasion in healing him. On any note, he wouldn't do it a second time, if it ever presented itself.

"Right," fell from his mouth like a careless farewell, and he moved, stepping away from the two and beginning to walk in the direction of the waterfront.