The World of Urda

The Accident (Part 2)

“She loves you.” Tharan says after a few moments’ contemplation. They’d finished dinner, and were now lounging in the parlor. Alkara had just finished telling him about the Ironshod incident. She blanches at his assertion, but Tharan continues before she can reply. “It is the only explanation.”

Alkara snorts, “She has a funny way of showing it.”

Tharan leans toward the fire and places another log on the flame. “You are responsible for dissent and opposition to Kierra.” He nods with the assessment. “Anyone else would have been eliminated by now.”

Alkara’s breath catches in her throat. She hadn’t been eliminated, as Tharan described, but that doesn’t mean her path is easy. “But someone abducted Uncle Iro,” Alkara mutters, refusing to consider Tharan’s description of the relationship. Somehow it was easier to believe that Kierra would do anything to control Alkara than it was to believe Kierra loved her. “Maybe it was her.”

Tharan nods, “There is that possibility. Her tactics include kidnapping, but the Forsaken were an unusual element.” He stops, letting them both consider the scenario. “No. Whoever perpetrated that crime likely plies their trade along the Fourth River.”

Alkara arcs an eyebrow, then shrugs. “Maybe,” She says but all the while shaking her head. “But I don’t know why anyone involved in all that would care about me. Uncle Iro made sure I stay far away from it. Didn’t think I could handle myself with those types.”

“Your interactions with the nobility hint that may be the case.” Tharan chuckles. “Those with ill-gotten gains don’t take kindly to blunt accusations.”

Alkara narrows her eyes with a playful smile. “How I deal with nobility is how I deal with people, ’cause that’s what they are. No one gets the sweet talk, unlike you. You sweet talk everyone.”

Tharan huffs with mock indignation. “Diplomacy is a virtue worth upholding.”

Alkara rolls her eyes and guffaws. “No wonder we don’t get along.” They stare at each other for a moment. A smile struggles to break Alkara’s serious expression, finally cracking under the pressure as Tharan laughs. Alkara’s laughter joins his as she savors the moment.

Their smiles die down until Tharan once more stares into the fire, humor gone. His brow knits together.

Alkara tugs on his sleeve. “What is it?”

Tharan looks down at his sleeve, almost like he didn’t remember she was sitting next to him. Embarrassment creeps into his face. “I… were you able to enter the city freely?”

Alkara watches him, searching. “As freely as we can with the Writ of Passage.”

Tharan nods. Magenta graces his cheeks. “I made something for you…” He trails off, looking away. “It should help ease your passage further but…”

A slow grin spreads across Alkara’s face. “What’s going on? It’s like you’re proposing all over again!”

Tharan pushes his lips together, working against the smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, the similarities are remarkable.” He stands and takes her hand. “Come with me.” Tharan leads Alkara down to his forge, and after lighting a significant number of candles leads her to the back. A necklace hangs from a display.

The silhouette of the panther draws Alkara’s attention first. Made of Truesilver, Tharan notes, it lay in the middle of the jade gemstone. Several silver stems curl around the gem’s housing and beyond. Filigree primroses blossom on those stems. Each glows with an inner light. Six small emeralds sit in the necklace’s bail, sparkling in contrast to the matte steel.

And all Alkara can manage is to stand there and gawk.

“Adamantine and mythril comprise much of the necklace.” Tharan speaks in a hushed voice, matching the candle-light. “So it will hold up in battle. The flowers will close soon.”

Alkara’s eyes flow across the necklace to the primroses. Each has an incomplete look, as though Tharan hadn’t meant to show them in the full beauty of their blossom.

Tharan indicates one near the edge of a stem. “They bloom again each morning at dawn with, ah, a bit of a surprise.” Alkara feels the subtle shift of air as Tharan moves closer to her. She can’t seem to drag her eyes from the piece. “Do you like it?”

Alkara looks at the panther silhouette once more before whirling on Tharan. “I can’t,” she shakes her head, shoulders up. “Tharan! I can’t wear this.”

Pain, confusion, anxiety all fly across Tharan’s face. He looks to the necklace and back at Alkara.

That unreadable mask drops into place in Tharan’s expression, though the pain in his eyes still shows. “Is it not to your preferece?”

Alkara grimaces with a helpless shrug. “What do I know about jewelry Tharan? The only piece I even own was given as a thank you.” She looks back at the necklace, deflating. “I never even wore that one.”

A small quirk of Tharan’s mouth suggests a rueful smile. “That is not what I asked.”

Alkara squirms, “I don’t do jewelry Tharan. It’s not my thing. I’m sorry!”

Tharan stares for a time. His expression softens, the mask falling away. “Then may I ask a favor?”

Alkara sighs miserably but nods.

“Will you please try it on?” Tharan tilts his head and smiles with a soft sadness touching his eyes.

“Fine.” She turns around and lifts the braid of her hair up, like she’d seen other ladies do in the market of Three Rivers. Her cheeks warm as Tharan reaches through to lace the pendant around her neck, and drops her hair when he steps back. They only get warmer when she turns around and he doesn’t manage to suppress a small gasp of wonder.

Alkara can’t help but make a face.

It’s just a necklace. How pretty could it look on someone like me?

Tharan clears his throat and reaches for a hand mirror. “Would you care to see?”

Alkara looks down, sighs, and takes the mirror.

The gemstones sparkle in the mirror, pulling out a brightness in her own eyes. The weight, rather than being cumbersome, sits comfortably against her breastbone. But she can’t shake the feeling that it just… doesn’t belong.  This isn’t her. She’s always out hunting. It would get so dirty. She’d lose this thing within a day. And then what?

She twists her mouth, lowering the mirror to look at Tharan.

Ugh… what is wrong with me, I should just wear the damn necklace if it means that much to him.

“Tharan… I…”

“It is alright.” Tharan reaches to unclasp the chain. “I should have anticipated your preferences.” He takes a deep breath. “Perhaps a simpler design could hang from the ribbon you share with Guenwyvar.”

Alkara gasps with a smile. “Oh! I would love that.”

Tharan smiles in kind. He replaces the necklace on its display. “That settles the matter. Let us return to the parlor and resume our reading time. I do not wish to steal any more from it.”

Alkara watches him. The uneasy smile, his softened eyes. She shakes her head and turns to leave. “I don’t think that really compares to the amount of time you spent making that necklace only to have it go to waste…”

“Not a waste.” Tharan takes Alkara’s hand and they walk toward the forge’s exit. “Every step closer to a pendant you would enjoy wearing is a victory.”

Alkara twists her mouth. “I guess.” Regret’s dull grip tightens around her heart. She actually quite liked the pendant Tharan had made for her. But she can’t shake this nagging feeling that… what? That it doesn’t belong to her? That she doesn’t deserve it?

That’s it. Proper ladies wear jewelry like that. It belongs on a queen or duchess. Not some lowborn hunter covered in blood and muck more often than not. Her tunic pales in comparison. Threadbare and patched, it just belongs. Anyone who saw that necklace on her would think it were stolen.

Well. Anyone except Tharan.

Alkara sighs and throws herself into a relaxed position on the couch. She flips the journal open to Yluna’s account of Courting Tharan. She scans page after page but she’d devoured this portion already. Her curiosity about Yluna had gotten the better of her, and she’d skipped several sections to read it.

Back to the Fiësín section then.

She smirks at some of the descriptions of Tharan. The Fiësín, it seems, hold a begrudging respect for Tharan. Their clan is bred for war, and Tharan’s job is to prevent the clans from fighting. Tharan is too good at his job for their liking. On more than one occasion, his diplomatic and tactical brilliance had deprived the Fiësín of their fun.

A student called Glynvalur respects Tharan for that quality. But not his battle-worthiness. No, Glynvalur and her clanmates suspect they’d defeat Tharan in single combat.

Alkara works her mouth against a smile, stealing a mischievous glance at Tharan. After what she’d seen of Tharan in the Depths, she suspects Glynvalur is right.

The Fiësin Spearpoint Melena Gerein-ek-gar declared Tharan is a suitable shield-holder. Uncle Iro’s footnote says it’s a derogatory term. The Spearpoint trained Tharan during his Ascendancy, which would be before he was Bell Keeper.

How long ago–

“How old were you when you became Bell Keeper?” Alkara wastes no time from wondering to asking.

Tharan looks up and tilts his head. “Bell Keeper Elisen retired in my one-hundred-and-third year.” He arcs an eyebrow, “Why?”

Alkara furrows her brow. “So that means… you had just come of age right? That’s pretty young isn’t it?”

Tharan nods. “Ample discussion surrounded my candidacy, much of it was dissent. I fought for two months to disqualify myself.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “Instead of working in my favor, that is, the outcome I preferred, the more I attempted to disqualify myself the more the Principals agreed with Bell Keeper Elisen.”

Alkara scrunches up her face. “How does that work?”

Tharan chuckles. “Initially I studied the relevant texts. Dogma, theological treatises, speeches from Principals and Bell Keepers alike. My research would allow me to counter arguments in my favor while providing the foundation for why the decision was counter to Doësin values and faith.”

Alkara nods along. Tharan’s account certainly sounds like the elves. Bureaucratic and stifling. They would take months to decide what to name a street. Of course they would take just as long for debate.

Tharan smiles. “Each point I argued reduced their uncertainty. As they conceded ground their disapproval faded.” He shakes his head and sighs. “It was maddening.”

Incredulity spreads through Alkara’s thoughts with each word. “Wait, so you studied for something you were trying to fail?”

Tharan blinks, “Ah… yes.”

Alkara bursts into laughter. “And I bet you showed up on time too?” Her laughter spills out more when Tharan nods. “And also stayed as long as they wanted you?”

Tharan’s lips twist in a sheepish smile, “Of course.”

Alkara laughs, closing her eyes and leaning back against the couch. “No, no, no. You did it all wrong.” She giggles and elbows Tharan in the ribs. “You’re supposed to show up late, be rude, forget what you were talking about!” She shakes her head, “And leave before they say you can.” She looks at him again, that sheepish smile turned into a contained grin. “I know how to fail my etiquette classes.”

Tharan snorts, “I find it difficult to believe Iroshi even got you to take an etiquette class.”

Alkara scowls with a hint of a smile. “He didn’t. Kierra paid for them.” Tharan begins to smile until Alkara’s scowls turns real. “No, not because of that. I lost a bet to Kierra when I was a girl. She said if I took them she’d pay for archery lessons afterward.” She smirks. “She didn’t specify that I had to pass. That was the next year. Uncle Iro kept saying they could save my life on day.” She rolls her eyes.  “As if.”

Tharan raises an eyebrow.

Alkara’s face blanches. “Except…” She groans. “Maybe Kierra was right. Maybe they would have helped keep all the Doësín etiquette straight a little better.”

Tharan chuckles, “You need only ask–”

“It won’t make any more sense!” Alkara throws her hands up. “Too many rules.”

Tharan nods, smiling. “There are many but they are written.”

Alkara arcs an eyebrow. Having them written doesn’t reduce their number.

Tharan meets her gaze. Each stares as though daring the other to speak first. Tharan breaks the silence. “Take, for example, the Laësín and the Reäsín. They disapprove of our many rules, when in reality they have just as many. They are simply unwritten, unspoken, often changing, and in that regard, much more difficult to navigate.”

Alkara furrows her brow. “I remember the journal saying something about that. But I can barely wrap my head around the Doësín. Let alone five other elf clans.”

“The effort alone speaks volumes,” Tharan says with a smile. “Few attempt it.”

Alkara sinks back into the couch, twisting her mouth into a lopsided smile. She stares into the fire for a few minutes while Tharan returns to his book.

Alkara watches Tharan. Watches his eyes scan the page he’s reading. Watches him breathe in. Out. Watches that small bump where the bell sits on his chest. He looks up at her as though catching a cat in the cream.

Alkara’s mouth twitches. “Why didn’t you want to be Bell Keeper?”

Tharan looks down at his lap. He sighs and closes his book, staring into the fire for a few moments before answering.

Tharan looks back at her, a glimmer of nostalgia coloring his expression. “The Forge sang to me. My master and I had lain out a plan to advance my career. Play to my strengths. I was very nearly set to inherit his forge, young as I was.” Tharan nods. “My mother proclaimed I would be her successor and all of that shriveled up.” He stares into the fire. “In short, I was selfish.”

Alkara’s eyes widen. “You? Selfish?”

Tharan smiles with a sigh. “Three hundred years provides many opportunities for growth. I am fortunate to have learned from the worst qualities in my people, none of which I am above.”

“Is…” Alkara swallows. “Is that why things didn’t work out with Yluna?” She stares at him a moment before breaking her gaze away.

Tharan’s eyes widen for a moment before narrowing. “Yluna?” His eyes flicker toward the journal and back to her face. “No.” No hint of doubt or uncertainty fills the word.

His eyebrows soften. Firelight dances across his face, flickers in his eyes. They glisten in that light.

He continues with slow, careful words. “Yluna and I courted as expected. Had I not courted her she would have had difficulty finding a suitor.”

Alkara frowns. “Why?”

The corners of Tharan’s mouth twitch upward. He shakes his head once, keeping his eyes on the fire. “The influence of the Bell Keeper stretches even into relationships. Had I denied the advance others would have thought her unfit.”

Alkara makes a noise of disgust.

“Precisely,” Tharan nods. He gestures to the journal. “May I inquire on the subject matter for your night’s reading?”

Warmth not from the fire spreads across Alkara’s cheeks. “Just, um. Some stories from some old friends of yours.” She winces. “Well, and some that probably aren’t friends.”

“Indeed?” Tharan asks with mild humor.

Alkara fidgets, unable to meet Tharan’s gaze. “Yeah, I guess Uncle Iro went around Glöhakjan asking about you. Said I should know before I decided.” She gives Tharan a furtive glance. His expression hadn’t changed but Alkara’s mouth dries all the same. “Any um…” She swallows. “Deep dark secrets I should know about?” Alkara’s tremulous voice betrays the attempt at playfulness.

Tharan straightens his shoulders. His expression blanks. “Three hundred years is a long time. Iroshi could fill the journal with stories of my flaws. Stories of my successes.” Tharan shakes his head and offers a porcelain smile. “We shall see.” He turns back to his book, but his eyes don’t scan the words.

Alkara scowls. “I hate it when you do that.”

Tharan nods, not looking up at her. “I know.”

“Then why do you do it?”

Tharan arcs an eyebrow, “Why do express your reactions so candidly?” Tharan shrugs, “It is simply part of who you are.”

Alkara shakes her head, “That’s not who you are. That’s hiding.”

Tharan continues to stare down at the book in his lap, his voice quiet. “Perhaps some things are better off hidden.”

“Like what happened with Mei?” Alkara blurts, her heart pounding. She’d seen a quick line scribbled in the margins of the section about Yluna. Ask him about Mei. That’s all it had said.

Tharan stills to an impossible degree. His chest doesn’t even move with breath. His eyes remain locked on his book.

“What would you like to know?” The statue of Tharan asks, his voice low and quiet, devoid of emotion.

Alkara bites down on her quavering lip. Tharan’s voice, normally full and confident, unsettles her.

She drops her own voice and asks, “Who was she? All it says is to ask you about her.”

“She was my betrothed.” His even tone matches the set, neutral expression. “Two centuries ago.”

This new mask dwarfs any Alkara had previously seen. Except. His eyes are sad.

Alkara watches him, searching for any sign, any hint of his feelings. “What happened?” Was this betrothed the woman he mentioned in the Depths? “You said… you said she wasn’t who you thought she was.”

“Indeed.” Another long pause. “She left.”

“Left? Why?”

Tharan stares at the book without answering. The crackle from the fire is the only thing keeping the room from being like a painting. Until finally he closes his book, stands, and says, “Please forgive me, Alkara.” Alkara’s lifebeat thuds between words. “I must retire to my rooms.”

“What? Tharan!” Alkara cries as she rises, catching his arm. “What’s wrong?”

First the necklace and now this? What else am I going to ruin?

Tharan stops, taut as a wire, but doesn’t turn back to her. “Please. I need to be alone.”

Alkara furrows her brow, “I think that’s the last thing you need.”

Tharan tilts his head toward her, then back forward. “I appreciate the concern. Nevertheless I wish to retire.” He looks down to her firm grip. “Release me, please.”

Alkara sighs. She waits a moment and drops her hand. “Fine. But take this with you.” She holds the journal out in front of him.

Tharan begins to reach for it and stops. “Have you finished it?”

Alkara shakes her head. “And I won’t, if you don’t want me to.”

A pause. “I will not deprive you of Iroshi’s best efforts to inform your choice.” He slowly pushes her arm away. “If you will excuse me.”

Alkara watches the Doësin Bell Keeper cross the hall and climb the stairs. His posture indicates no issues. Upright and shoulders back, it’s as though he were about to lead a prayer. As though nothing were wrong.

Nothing at all.


Tharan feels her eyes on him. All the way down the hall. Till he disappears up the staircase. He is both desperate for and terrified of the insight in those eyes.

But she does not want to see this. No one does. He has learned that much in his long life. No one wants to see a Bell Keeper’s shame. No one wants the Bell Keeper to remind them that he too, is simply mortal. Fallible.

After three hundred years, all he has learned, all he has mastered, is raising the shield and holding it firmly in place. The shield he carefully places in front of anyone who gets too close. The shield she so often bypasses without even trying. The shield he must somehow learn to surrender for this to work. Yet the vice grip remains.

He wants nothing more, and nothing less, than for her to witness the broken mess behind the shield she so despises, and stay.

And so, from behind his shield, he pleads.

Please… please don’t leave.

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