[Closed] The Light You Used to Bring

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

H

urte’s mercy, what right had she?

Amelie was lovely. Quite lovely, he thought firmly, scowling. In fact, he was fixing an image of her in his mind just then; he was holding it there, quite forcefully. Her full, soft face, with its strong – but still feminine – cheekbones, its proud chin; her thin mouth, which always seemed caught in a bemused smile. Her dark auburn hair, which never seemed to be in the same chignon twice. He had never seen it down, though he knew he would soon, after – after the wedding, in Dentis. There was a great deal to look forward to, after the wedding in Dentis.

There was a picture of Amelie on his desk, in Vienda. It was a very lovely picture; in fact, it was that picture which he saw in his mind now. Encased in the silk and velvet of that ruby-red dress, with its full sleeves and lace trim. He saw that picture almost every day, under ordinary circumstances.

Congratulations, Aurelie had said haltingly. The detainee. The detainee had said. Hurte’s mercy, what right had she?

“Thank you,” he snarled.

So it was not a marriage like from those old stories. What right had she? He was still shaking his head about it, cleaning his glasses off on the hem of his jacket.

He was not concerned. Not about the marriage, nor about the wedding preparations, nor about anything which would occur after the wedding. He did not have anyone to talk to about it, which was quite all right, because he did not need to. He was not concerned about any of it; he had all of it completely and entirely under control, and if Aurelie Steerpike thought anything whatsoever of him or of his immaculate planning –

It would have been for her, once, some part of him whispered, unbidden. She had not only been his closest friend.

His train of thought broke off abruptly. He shivered.

Where would I go? came her voice, again more sharply than he had ever heard it. Not that he had heard it at all, until a few days ago, not like this.

It stung, as no doubt intended; he grit his teeth harder, and resolved to put all of it out of his head. Why did she insist on calling him by his name? The detainee, he reminded himself. The passive.

Tucking his glasses away, he stood ramrod-straight and still, his chin up. He blinked away more tears, but they seemed to be coming a little less now.

He blinked, chin jerking in the direction he thought her voice must be coming from. “To shelter of some sort, or help. The Quartering Act of 2102 requires that any human renter of any galdor’s property” – that was, of course, all of them, with very few exceptions – “quarter any officer of the Seventen, as necessary – and give aid and direction. We shall find someone, or at the very least somewhere with a roof, and either get help or wait there for further instruction.”

Carefully, he stepped closer. If it struck him rather strangely at first, the lack of a field, he could not think more about it. Why had he expected there to be one? What field had he expected?

It was nothing, he chid himself angrily; he gave another irritated snort, and resolved quite to ignore the pounding of his heart against his ribs, or the ever-multiplying beads of sweat on the back of his neck.

Stripes, it was hot! But the only thing worse than helping her up encased in his dress jacket would be helping her up in his undershirt, and so he resolved to let that, too, go.

“Very well,” he said abruptly. But then he hesitated. He would have to bend over, and – find her. Arms. Somewhere, without the aid of the handcuffs.

He bent, reaching for her.

At first, he fumbled, his hand brushing her hair and – briefly – what felt like an ear; he flushed deeply. “Sorry,” he grated, fumbling lower and finding her arms finally. It was hardly his fault – she was so small, and he…

“Take hold of my left arm,” he said sharply, “and pull as I do.” If she did, he would catch her behind the back lightly with his other, slide it neatly under her arm, and take what weight he could.

Do not worry, he got the strangest urge to say, remembering a hundred times in his boyhood when his soft, shaky arms had failed to help her up, or when she, of strong constitution, had had to take his meagre weight. He put that, too, out of his head, and all the strange feelings it brought; he grit his teeth tighter against his headache.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere, En Route to Nowhere

He didn't have to—to snarl at her like that! All she had said was that she was sure his fiancée, whoever she was, was... was lovely. What would he rather she have said? That she was certain she was unpleasant and unlovable? Her face burned up with the shame of having said anything at all.

She was just happy for him, she thought stubbornly. He needn't— She wasn't— This wasn't some ploy, or... Perhaps it was just that he didn't like being reminded that there was a time when that would have been her, now that they knew what she was. Had been all along.

(About this time, she thought. Mother had always said it would be after she graduated, which would have been just this past Vortas. Would they have waited, she wondered, or—)

Stop this! She didn't need to think about that any more. Any more than she had, off and on, these last ten-odd years, in her lonelier hours. Any more than she'd thought about it on her birthday, or the birthday before that. Reflecting on a life lived so distinct from the world, closed-off and small...

She should have counted her blessings. There were, after all, smaller worlds than the one she'd been in. More peaceful maybe, and gentler. Aurelie thought about how she'd likely never again see another person's face, and her strength threatened to give out. She should have counted her blessings. She should have tried harder, in her accounting, to protect them, too. Her wrist and neck felt impossibly heavy.

She held her arms up anyway, and she had asked just where it was that they were going. Frankly, she didn't care. Her end destination was the same. But she would be happy to get out of the direct heat of the sun, no matter how good it felt initially. This dress was deceptively warm, and there was hardly a breeze to bring any relief. Sweat had started to collect at her collar.

His answer was so—so precise. The Quartering Act of 2102! As if that was what she were asking. She made some noise in the back of her throat, meant only to indicate that she was listening.

So they would either impose themselves on some... some poor family, who didn't need any of this in their lives, or take shelter somewhere abandoned. Aurelie hoped fervently for the latter. The only thing she wanted less than any of this experience was to drag some unwitting strangers into it. Perhaps Desiderio was used to inflicting his will on others in such a way, now, but Aurelie found the idea vaguely repugnant.

There was a rustling, and an irritated sort of snort from a little bit closer than his voice had been. Aurelie frowned. What was he upset with her about now? She wasn't doing anything! Just waiting, awkwardly, feeling stupider by the minute.

Very well. And then nothing; not the sound of him moving, or anything. Her frown deepened, but she bit her tongue. The hesitation had probably been better. When he did find her, he managed to brush his hand over her hair and then, mortifyingly, her ear. Gracious Lady! She had never felt so embarrassed in all of her life, which was certainly saying something.

Standing, she scolded herself. Concentrate on standing. Aurelie bit her lip, choking back anything she might have felt about his tone. She was growing used to it, in a terrible way. Maybe she could grow so used to it that it stopped hurting at all. She did as she was told. His arm was there, solid and steady. The other slid around to take her weight, without much strain or effort.

Do you remember? she wanted to ask. There was a time when she was the one who had been the support, even though he was older. There was something dizzying about this reversal of fortunes. About Desiderio holding her up, because she couldn't do so herself. Even a strong constitution couldn't save you from a turned ankle.

It all made her feel very small, and she couldn't decide if she minded.

"Thank you," she managed, trying not to think about—anything. There were no thoughts she could conjure up that weren't stupid or useless, so she was better off without any at all. Her face felt even hotter than the air. As if she hadn't—she had been in much more unusual... But this was Des, it was all so terribly different. "I-I think I'm... I'm ready to go, De— If you are."

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

N

aturally,” he replied, no less abruptly than he had said anything else. He was trying very hard not to think about anything at all.

It was unwieldy. It would have been less so, had he been able to loop one of her arms around his shoulders; but he would have had to stoop so far for that, it would have defeated the purpose. He might have been able to carry her, even with his elbow, but he rather thought she would have been as enthused about the concept as he was – not at all, under the circumstances. And he did not need the use of his eyes to see that ridiculous picture in his mind, and the thought of it, like the cover of a cheap novel, made him aghast. As a matter of fact, he thought he could picture one cover in particular. And what a ridiculous pair they were already, scuffed and torn, and him festooned in gold braid.

Terrible.

He cleared his throat. “I am ready,” he grunted, and cut off any of a number of sharp additions. There was no point in taking it out on her any more than he had already. He thought of the way she had jerked away from his hand earlier, as if burned; there was no need to compound what for her must be a dreadful experience
with his even more frightful tongue.

No. The sooner they oriented themselves, the better. And so he set about – orienting them.

The insects crowed from the brush, very loud. The leaves overhead rustled. He strained to hear anything, anything at all, and failed.

Ordinarily, he would have made use of one of a handful of spells. They came to mind; with the hammer of his headache, it was almost achingly tempting. He told himself that it was only the uncertainty surrounding the diablerie which stopped him from casting in her presence.

“Right.” One careful step, then another. He held out a hand, shaky; he caught the rough bark of a tree underneath it, and inched them around it, careful of the roots. Slowly, he found another tree, and another.

He paid close attention to the shape at his side, to whether or not she was favoring the right foot. Not close enough to dwell overmuch on the brush of her hip, or the press of her upper arm against his chest.

Still close enough that he could not quite ignore – everything. She was surprisingly light, contrasted with his memories, which was enough of a shock on its own.

But the slim back against his arm, muscles rising and falling with the uneven breath of each step, was surprisingly… solid, in ways he did not remember.

He had very little to which to compare this, admittedly. He remembered waltzing with Amelie in this very uniform, one of his hands underneath her shoulder blade. The curve of her back had seemed so smooth and full and delicate all at once, underneath the thick embroidered silk of her gown and the velvet of his gloves. He had thought it rather improper of him to notice such things, then.

He had caught a trainee once, after she had nearly slipped from a chrove; he had given her a lecture the likes of which she still complained about in the patrol division. That had been another Seventen, and therefore very different.

He had been assured as a boy that it would not be a hard life. Easier, in fact, than the one she would have had otherwise. He had asked over and over, on the verge of tears, thinking of soldiers, thinking of her whispering to him that she was afraid of the dark.

He thought of her hands. Of the bracelet, too. He had insisted to Clerisseau that if anything were removed from her person before the magister arrived, he would have all of their heads; but he had not thought anyone would confiscate it, strange thing that it was. Where had she gotten it?

An easy, gentle life, he had been assured, one suitable for a child. He had always thought – he had gone to Brunnhold for four years, but he had never noticed, if…

“A-ha!” he snarled again. His hand was not on a tree, but on the wooden support for – a well, he thought, as he found blessedly cool, damp stone underneath his hand... a bundle of rotten rope, a wet leaf.

The smell was stale, but water.

“Your ankle,” he said coldly. “How is it?” His eyes stung less, even when he lifted his chin; they were in the shade. “Here. Sit a moment.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

They moved on.

It was awkward, leaning on the support of Desiderio's arm while trying also not to lean too much. She didn't want to think about it, but it turned out to require rather a lot of her concentration. She ended up having to lean rather heavily on his arm, to keep the weight off of her ankle. The alternative was to lean into his side. That, she was not about to do.

Desiderio had just grown so—so tall. A far cry from the soft, sickly boy he had been when he had been the only real friend she had in the world. And her? She hadn't grown very much at all, vertically. It seemed rather unfair; she'd always imagined they would end up at more or less the same height. Ana was tall for a woman, after all, and Mother too.

Ana and Mother were a lot of things she wasn't. And Desiderio had outgrown her in more than one way in the end. Aurelie tried not to dwell on it, and focus only on keeping her weight off of her ankle.

For some reason, she found herself expecting to hear moa, or the magister, or... Or anything at all, besides Desiderio's breathing and the buzz of Roalis insects. Birdsong, from time to time—different birds than she heard near Brunnhold. Different, too, to what she'd ever heard at ho—around Briarwood. Aurelie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to dispel the thought of ivy-covered walls and ponds where fish became sea monsters that writhed beneath cheery blue and white sailboats.

Aurelie had also expected to hear him cast, and had held herself braced for it. Any moment now, she would feel the etheric flare of his field, hear words she could never learn—that would be meaningless in her mouth, anyway. His soft-harsh voice, twisted into those syllables that scared her more than she really understood. But he said very little, and that in Estuan. They put one foot in front of the other, slowly inching along.

That uniform must be uncomfortable, stiff and heavy as it was with braid and importance. Aurelie wondered, briefly, why he didn't take it off. Even leaning against him she could tell he was warm. It wouldn't be right, of course, to take off his jacket with a young lady present—but she wasn't a young lady. She was nothing; a scrap. Not important to anyone, except for making sure she stayed in line.

Once her foot caught on what must have been the twisted roots of a tree—they were by the woods. She had bit her lip against the tiny grunt of pain. Her ankle hurt less than her eyes, she consoled herself, and would pass. And once she'd opened her mouth, to ask him a question, to make conversation. That had gone so very well for them both before; she shut it again. The pressure in her chest built up.

"A-ha!"

The triumphant snarl (and it did seem pleased, somewhat) surprised her. She jumped a little, and it made her lean further against his side. He must have found—something. Aurelie could smell water, then, and she stuck her hand out cautiously to feel cold stone and damp leaves. It wasn't so hot here, either. Good.

"Ah, it's, uhm. No worse than it was," she replied, startled into plain honesty. Thorough, she thought, and dedicated to his duty. She sat, although she wasn't sure it was dry and she didn't particularly relish the thought of being as damp as the leaves. Well, what did it matter? It was a relief to not have to lean on Desiderio any longer. That was the feeling exactly.

She hesitated; she ought to keep her mouth shut, but... "A-And your... How are your... eyes?" Her stomach turned, and she held herself very still and stiff. He was going to snap at her again, she knew he was. But she was concerned, and she wanted to know more than she was afraid of his being cross with her. There was nothing she could do about it, of course, but it was her fault.

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

H

mph,” he grunted, frowning. No worse, she said; of course, he hardly knew. It could have fallen off entirely and, blinded as he was, he would have been none the wiser. He thought he had felt her tense once, as they had crept over a gnarled tangle of roots.

She sounded startled, all the same. As if she had not expected him to ask. Well, what else was he meant to do? She was his charge. He was responsible for her. He had told her he was thorough; she had seen his thoroughness firsthand, or rather felt it. He still felt an ugly mix of sour and – something else, something much worse – to think of that choked sob, and the way that she had thanked him. It was hardly the first time he had ever elicited such a response, so he could not imagine why.

Well, perhaps she did not believe him, but he would hardly go to all this trouble only to leave her off now. Or else permit her sprain to become a fracture; or any number of other things which would be… more of a problem for Brunnhold, he thought firmly, than he wanted to leave them with.

She went to sit, and it was a relief, by all accounts. He shifted his arm, which was warm where she had been; the sleeve was rumpled.

He remained standing, holding onto the post. The wind picked up, and he thought he felt something drift down from above and settle in his hair. He brushed it off; it was a leaf.

A-And your… How are your…

He tensed, fist tightening on the post.

...eyes?

“Wholly tolerable. I have had worse,” he insisted, quick and harsh against a mounting churning of fear. It will not prevent me from my duties.”

Perhaps her own blindness was beginning to fade; perhaps she was counting on it, even – perhaps that was what accounted for her laughter and her boldness, when they both woke…

He remembered the fraying, hysterical edge. No. No, he did not think so.

He blinked, turning halfway away. Wherever ‘away’ was, at any rate; he blinked again, shut his eyes, and opened them. Only the sensation of the air stinging his eyeballs and prickling in the moisture on his lashes could tell him whether they were open or shut.

He snorted in a breath. “Useless,” he replied finally, honestly, “but no different than they have been. The pain is subsiding somewhat. I can see no light or shapes. Only grey.”

How long? he wanted to ask. How long does it –? He wondered if she knew; he wondered if perhaps this had been the first time. In the last wondering, he thought he stepped too far into the water. Gooseflesh crept over his arms to think of it, as if he could even imagine – something inside of him which could act without his control, and every tool by which he might have controlled it muted, meaningless. He had wondered once what it would be like, when he was a boy, before his test; he had resolved never to wonder again. He had not quite succeeded, that first year.

Even in the shade, it was damnably hot. He was stuck to himself with sweat. To have something to do with his hands and his mind, he unbuttoned his uniform jacket, then the first few buttons of his shirt, relieved at once by the breeze on his neck and collarbones.

Slowly, gingerly, he came to sit. He had no way of knowing where she sat; he could only hope beyond hope he did not fumble again.

“Is it so with yours?” he asked evenly, as he did. “Your eyes,” he added more softly, clearing his throat. Then, in the same harsh staccato: “Do not think to gain the upper hand by lying. I shall know, or swiftly find out.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

"Tolerable," she repeated, furrowing her brow. Chimes, she wished she could see his face. He'd replied so quickly, too. She'd scarcely had time to wonder at what his response might be. Just as hard as she'd predicted, at least. Comforted by their mutual blindness, she didn't bother to smooth the worry out of her expression.

What did that mean, "tolerable"? For a guilty, anxious heartbeat she wondered if he could see after all—was it only the pain that...? But no. No, she knew he could no more see than she could. Otherwise he wouldn't have... touched her, as much as he had. Considering he could barely go two sentences without snapping at her, and the... Aurelie found as much as it hurt, she couldn't quite blame him. She didn't want that either.

But it wasn't her place to press further, or to insist. Maybe it might have been, once. No longer, she reminded herself. Whatever concern she felt, whatever traces of tender sentiment, they were hers and hers alone. Best kept inside of her breast, where they originated and where they belonged. Desiderio didn't need or want it. Despite the warmth of the air, she shivered.

From somewhere above her, she heard another snort, and then... And then he went on, more honest than she'd expected. Blind still, then, but not as painful as they were—that was good. That was better than she had hoped when she asked the question. "Thank the Lady's grace," she sighed. She pressed the heels of her hands into her own eyes, which felt no better at all.

Part of her still feared that it was—permanent. That neither of them would ever see again, and that she had ruined his life simply by reappearing in it. It didn't matter for her now; in fact, she thought it would be comforting. What did it matter, then, if every face around her for the rest of her life was veiled from her eyes? But Desiderio was different. He had a life, a future, a career. Could you still be an Inspector without...?

Not for the first time, she felt an irrational sort of irritation with the mona, with her own useless leylines. There should at least be some way to know the danger you posed to others, and the shape of it. If she couldn't control it, she wanted to at least know what it was that would use her. Perhaps one day such a method might be found, but it did her no good now. Nor did thinking about it; Aurelie did her best to set the thought to the side.

He would recover, she told herself firmly. And if he didn't... She forced herself to look at the thought. If he didn't, if she didn't, then it was too late to do anything about it anyway. He was the one who had found her, anyway. She hadn't wanted to... No, she couldn't make any of this Desiderio's fault. Not even in her head.

Aurelie heard another shuffling, and then felt the barest brush of his arm. Just the tiniest fraction—she wasn't even sure he would have noticed at all, through the thick material of his stiff jacket. She could have moved away, but she felt pinned to the spot.

Your eyes, he said with a voice that almost... She pretended, for a moment, he'd sat near to her on purpose, and could tolerate her company. He continued, and she let the image go. She snorted before she could stop herself; having her sight certainly hadn't given her the upper hand before. She licked her lips, which were dry and starting to crack, and paused before answering.

"No," she answered, just as evenly as he had asked. "I can't see, and the pain is the same. I've been told," she went on, a spark of anger catching her voice, "that the scrap usually gets it worst of all. You'll likely recover before I do. I don't know. I had hoped to go my whole life without knowing."

She had hoped to go her whole life without hurting anyone she cared about, too, and that hadn't happened. She hoped for lots of things; it didn't seem to matter. The anger left her as quickly as it had come, leaving only that dull ache behind. She sniffed, and didn't care if he heard her.

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

S

he snorted.

He might have been offended, if even he had not known himself for a fool that time. He bowed his head instead, grateful she could not see him. The uniform was still stiff, scratchy even through his thin undershirt. He shifted his shoulders underneath the epaulets, straightened his crackling back.

Thank the Lady’s grace, she had said, and he hardly knew for what. That he was still blind, or that his pain had lessened? One was much more disturbing than the other; one he could account for, and one he could not. This pretense of care, after he had run her down in the market twice, when he was still due to bring her back to Brunnhold within the week. Better she divested herself of it. Better she rid herself of any lingering feeling she had for him; he would ensure that she did.

Or perhaps she had seen the error of her ways, after all. Perhaps, this having happened – perhaps she knew now where she must go. It was a thought that was not so comforting as he wanted it to be.

Her arm, he had begun to notice, was just brushing his. Her shoulder, rather, brushing his upper arm. Her sleeve was thick enough; blinded, she must not have felt him, because she did not move, though it would only have taken her a half-centimeter’s shift away from discomfort. He might himself have moved, but he felt pinned to the stone.

He sat ramrod-straight and still, his hands on his knees. He did not move, conscious of her at his elbow.

He listened, when she went on. He was grateful again she could not see the way his face twisted. The pain, she said, was the same.

He heard the anger, then; he had begun to know it, in this woman’s voice. The way it thinned out, no less soft, but precisely sharp. It was not a child’s way of expressing anger. It was not her way, the little girl he had known.

Then he heard her say the word scrap, and he could hardly help his audible, sharp grunt of surprise.

He shifted, scowling down. Her whole life. He had hoped so, too.

One of the reasons they had sent him back to Anastou for his schooling and his keep. What had the professor’s name been? Honeywood. Monic theory. During a lesson about something entirely unrelated, he could not remember now what. He had filled the whole hour with questions about diablerie and passive ley lines; he had cried in front of everyone when Honeywood had finally dressed him down – yet another reason it had been wise to move – and he had gotten detention.

A part of him wanted to ask even now what it had been like, that first year, what had… But – they had always told him she would be safe. They had told him, even, that – like any child – she would be unconcerned; she would be happy merely to be safe, and among her kind. He had remembered her fear, and how sometimes she had seemed even older than him, with her trays of ill-shaped but lovingly-baked cookies and those watchful green eyes –

One of his hands balled into a fist in his lap. He squeezed it tightly, then resolved to let go those embarrassing, weak memories as soon as he unclenched it.

Only they did not. Not quite. He heard her sniff, then.

“All the more reason to examine you,” he said harshly, “to ensure – there is nothing else at work. And to understand this better. For the both of our sakes, naturally.” The last he grated between his teeth.

What if the pain worsened for her, rather than eased, over time? To what end?

No. He got to his feet abruptly. “Come. Now. If you are ready to stand, find my arm.” He held out one arm, a matter-of-fact command.

Then he froze.

“What – what is that sound?” His lip twisted. A – whimper, almost, or a squeaking, above even the bird song. A whimper and a rustle.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

It wasn't a word she used often, "scrap". Some found comfort in it—Aurelie never did. The truth of it hit her too hard for having it come from her mouth to carry any sort of healing power. That was, after all, what she was, wasn't it? A scrap, the edge of a person, the leftovers of what should have been.

Somehow Desiderio's sharp surprise made her want to say it again. Scrap, she wanted to say, to shout. That's what I am, isn't it? To you? To everyone. That was why they were sitting here on cold, damp stone, her wrists still smarting a little where metal handcuffs had once been. Why everything had fallen apart the way it did, why there was some lovely stranger in a place she'd always only wanted—

Aurelie leaned her head back, carefully, until it was resting against the side of the wall. Her hair was going to be—as if that mattered. As if anything she'd tried to make matter in all this time did. She'd done the best she could, she really had. Staying where she had been put hadn't saved her from cruelty or earned her love; neither had leaving. So why bother? Desiderio shifted next to her, but said nothing. At first.

She choked, fear she couldn't stop. She was keenly aware of his field, just so on the edge of her awareness. Like he'd flexed it at her, or... But he hadn't, it was only that she was thinking about it now and had been trying not to before. Examine—yes, she'd agreed to that already, hadn't she? Her stomach lurched. What else could there possibly be? There was only her, and this thing she could do but not control. That no one could prevent. It was sensible to—to find out. She just didn't want... What if it was worse than she thought, what if...?

Well, she thought dully, then it would be worse. And all the more reason to lock her away, she supposed. As unlikely as this was to ever happen again. "Naturally." What was more natural than that?

Desiderio stood without warning. Aurelie stayed still; her side felt cold, suddenly. Time to move on, it seemed. Desiderio—Inspector Morandi—said so, and so it was. Fine. She didn't want to sit here forever, anyway. Aurelie swallowed, wiped away more moisture from her watering eyes.

Aurelie had been halfway to putting her hand up when she heard it too—a sound, distinct from that of their voices, or the birds and rustling of small creatures in the underbrush. Banderwolves, she remembered; the blood drained from her face. Without thinking, she reached to clutch at his arm. Not to pull herself up, but just to feel something solid underneath her hand.

It hadn't sounded... Aurelie wasn't sure, of course. But it sounded more like a whimper than a growl. Something lost or afraid, not angry or violent. Those could easily become the same thing, she reminded herself. Her heart ached a little, anyway. "A-an animal?" Her fingers clenched.

Oh, this was... Her every nerve seemed at attention, straining to hear more sounds. At first, there was nothing. Then—there! Another whimper, and more rustling. Closer than it had been before, she thought. She couldn't be sure. She found her eyes were quite wide, as if she could somehow will herself to see.

"A dog...?" Her voice was half a whisper, and not nearly as confident in her assessment as she wanted it to be. But if there were houses nearby, as there surely were somewhere... A dog was more likely than wolves, wasn't it? In the middle of the day, so close to the both of them. Wild animals, she remembered from Nurse, were more afraid of you than you were of them, usually.

"Who's there, hmm...?" She offered the question in a sort of sing-song. Her hand had not left Desiderio's arm. She found she was holding out her other hand in the direction she thought the sound was coming from. She clicked her tongue in that way some people did when calling a pet. Please be a dog...!

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

F

or the first few seconds, Morandi stood very still, his ears trained to the noise. The shuffling was getting closer, blastedly quiet underneath all the Roalis sounds. But the whimpering was quite audible, and sounding more and more like…

Any thought he might have had was knocked out of his head by the sudden touch of her hand on his arm. He did not jump, but he tensed, freezing like a taut bowstring. He tried to relax, expecting to take her weight as she levered herself to her feet. No such thing happened; she merely sat, one hand on his arm, warm through the wool of his sleeve. His throat was so tight he could scarce swallow. A-an animal? came her voice, and he nearly opened his mouth, but then her fingers curled tightly into his sleeve – tight against the muscles of his forearm – and his heart began hammering in his throat.

By Her deadly terrors, Morandi thought for what must have been the hundredth time, pull yourself together, Inspector. Fool that he was, he was not sure which frightened him more: the hand, or the approaching noises.

Frightened him? It was only a moment, but it might have lasted an hour. His head felt strangely empty, or as if someone had filled it with sawdust. It was only a moment, but he got the strangest urge to reach and set his hand on top of hers. It was, of course, only a moment.

And which hand would that have been? a part of him snarled. The one which wears your engagement ring?

A dog, Aurelie suggested. He forced the muscles in his back to relax; instead of anything else he wanted to do with it, he reached with that hand to touch the baton at his belt, grateful at least for it.

His sorcery was useless at best against something he could not see or touch to locate. He had fended off wild dogs before, but a banderwolf? Best if she ran while the beast was distracted with him, at least, but – ran, he thought bitterly, on a turned ankle? Blinded?

And what, by Hurte’s vicious claws, was she doing?

It distracted him so much that for a moment he could only look at her sharply – or rather, in the direction of the soft, singsong voice. And then, to his further bewilderment, tongue-clicking.

It was almost cute.

Yes, Morandi thought, he must have been quite addled indeed.

He did not think he had heard her, some vague part of him rattled on, happy, not since – he had never heard this woman happy. Naturally, she had said earlier, more dull than angry or cold. There was a familiarity in her voice now that made his heart ache. It was an ache which he neither wanted nor needed, but he had had those aplenty, today; he could not seem to keep up with them, he had so many. It changed nothing, he told himself. It would only make him hurt the worse, in the end.

But as the rustling grew closer, there were no snappings of twigs; the white-hot pain he expected to feel, from great claws – not as unfamiliar as he would have liked – never came. Instead, something much smaller waddled from the brush, from the sounds of it. He heard a queer sort of snuffling, and then something furry and no taller than his knee brushed his shins.

Another whimper, then a yip, at which he stiffened even more. He heard a series of wet jowelly noises. Something stubby and small was slamming repeatedly against his ankle.

“What is it?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “What is it doing?” He could barely hear over the rushing of blood in his ears.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

Desiderio's arm hadn't pulled away from her, and she found it oddly comforting. He didn't take her hand, or make any gesture that might have been... even slightly indicative of a care for her comfort, but he was warm and solid beside her and that was enough.

It could have been anyone, she insisted to herself; it was just nice to feel like there was someone else with her in this moment. And it helped that this stranger version of Desiderio was rather large. So any large stranger would have been just as comforting.

Right.

Aurelie had precious little room in her mind to worry about that, anyway. Her senses were all fixed on that whimpering and rustling. Even as she stuck her hand out, she felt more than half a fool. Dog, she'd asserted. Definitely nothing else—definitely not... And if he thought she was stupid, he'd seemingly decided to refrain from saying so. So that was something, perhaps.

She supposed it didn't really matter any more than anything else did. If it were not, in fact, a dog—if the little tug at her heart had led her firmly astray, as it seemed so wont to do—then her calling out to the creature wouldn't make a difference. She couldn't see or run to escape. Maybe Desiderio could; he was blind, but he could still... Something told her that he would not leave her here, and she wished it hadn't spoken up.

The rustling continued, getting louder and closer. Aurelie's heart seemed to have migrated to her throat, but she kept her hand held out. It trembled only slightly. Wait, she told herself. Just wait. Whatever the animal was, it sounded so very lost. She bit her lip. Animals weren't capable of deceit; she just had to trust... Well, trust her own instincts, which weren't usually very good.

And then—she felt something cold and wet press against her outstretched palm. Hard, but not aggressive. Inquisitive, maybe. Aurelie's face split into a smile. It was a nose; she could feel the snuffling breath against her skin. Her hand stayed where it was, but it didn't tremble now. The creature moved, running her hand over the soft, furry head and down its back. A large dog, Aurelie thought, but it certainly felt like a dog.

Her back, which had been held tighter than she realized, relaxed. Finally she let her hand unclasp from Desiderio's arm, to join her other in front of her. There was a whimper, and then a sad little yip. The dog moved to sit between them; Aurelie could tell because she felt a paw on her foot and then a rather wet tongue on her face. She could hear the thwap thwap thwap of a tail.

Poor Des; he sounded absolutely petrified. Actually, he sounded rather irritated, but she didn't think those were so dissimilar. Aurelie tried not to, but she couldn't help it: she laughed. "It is a dog," she said, delighted. She had always liked dogs, at least from afar—Mother and Father had never much cared for the idea of pets. "And it's being friendly, that's all."

She gingerly reached out to find the dog's head again, running her fingers through thick, rough fur. A little matted, she thought, and dirty-feeling. A stray, maybe. And thin, too. Nobody's pet, at least nobody who was taking very good care of it. Aurelie scratched behind the pointy ears, and the thumping sound got louder and faster.

"Aren't you just the friendliest thing?" She cooed, then laughed again. All her fear seemed so silly now, with a wet nose poking at her and thick, fluffy fur underneath her hands. "Too friendly for a wild creature, hmm? What are you doing out here by yourself?"