“Chiron had to carry me back!” Alkara, standing behind the parlor sofa, drapes herself across the back of it. “Carrying me in a sling! Like a kid.” She shakes her head while picking herself up from the awkward position. Alkara subsides into a calmer storm, one on the verge of breaking. “Dre had to cobble it together. And the worst part is…”
Tharan watches her with subdued amusement. In his eyes lives an admiration for her that comes with seemingly endless patience.
“No one is talking about any of that,” Alkara’s bitterness, that waiting storm, breaks into her voice. “All people talk about are my achievements. And some of them aren’t even accurate! People keep saying I took out the Ironshod with a single arrow. That I took it down single-handedly.” She slumps into the seat next to Tharan. “I might have been the last one to hit it, but it’s not like Chiron and Dre weren’t there. That it would have been impossible without Chiron distracting it.” She grunts and slams her fist into the table. “It’s infuriating! It’s not fair. When I get back I’m going to tell Glin to quit it with all that Aberrant-Bane stuff.” Alkara sucks in a breath and crosses her arms. “Did you know Dorië’s using it now?”
Tharan chuckles, the flickering light of the fire dances across his cheeks.
Alkara twists her mouth, “What?”
He muses with a prolonged hum. “Despite the hardships that you have encountered today, the harassment at the gates and threat to your life, this is what worries you.” Tharan’s warm smile and stare unnerves her.
Alkara’s cheeks tingle under his gaze. She drops her gaze, fighting with her mouth to resist a smile.
Tharan laughs and starts playing with her braid with one hand. “I ought to find it concerning, but around you my wits flee. If I did not know any better I would say you were Fiësin.” Tharan flips her braid over a shoulder.
Alkara’s flaring cheeks must be scarlet by now. She holds herself still, breathing in the honeysuckle incense smoldering on the table. A marked absence of Tharan’s hand on her braid calls to her.
Could have played with it a little longer…
Tharan sinks back into the sofa. “Have you not asked Glin to desist in these promotions before?”
The flush in her cheeks chills as Alkara sighs. “Not exactly. Every time I go in there to tell her no more I chicken out. Everyone just… they look so happy and thrilled to see me.” She blindly searches for Guen with one hand, feeling for that familiar comfort. “Some of them even look relieved. Like somehow they’re safer with me around. And when I see them I think… I can’t disappoint them. I can’t let them down now. So I wave and play along as everyone tries buying me a drink.” Alkara shrugs and it’s as though she shrugs away some of those memories. “But it’s not right. I’m not…” Her insides squirm around, trying to find some stable place.
“Not what?”
Fear spikes Alkara’s chest. She withdraws under his sharp gaze.
Will he understand? Or am I being stupid… childish?
Alkara swallows and looks away, focusing on petting Guen’s smooth coat. “They’re making me out to be something I’m not. I just… I don’t want to let anyone down but it’s gonna happen the more people ignore the fact that I make mistakes.”
Tharan shifts closer and tugs at her arm, pulling her to lean against him. “Alkara, letting people down is inevitable.” No sharp derision finds its way into his voice. Instead a soft, comforting tone fills it. “You may be a national hero or a weaver, in the militia or a farmer. No matter the case not everyone will admire your actions despite their value to the community.” He pauses to tilt her chin up toward his face. “In Iroshi’s journal, did you find entries from the Doësin or only from the other clans?”
Alkara snorts, pulling away slightly. “Oh, your people are obsessed with you.” Her solemnity breaks into an uneven grin. “At least that’s what they told Uncle Iro. Not a single ill-word. You’d think you were the next Herald of Doë with how they talk about you. If not a manifestation of Doë themself.”
Tharan raises his eyebrows.
“I see where you’re going with this.” She presses herself back into Tharan’s chest, shifting her cheek when a frog closure pokes into her skin.
Tharan takes in one deep breath, buoying Alkara up with his chest. He chuckles. “If I spent all my time attempting to ‘correct’ my peoples’ perspective I would never be able to perform the duties of my calling.” He pets at her braid. “People need heroes and someone to believe in. It is a lantern of hope guiding them through darkness. It keeps them going. That’s what you see when you enter the tavern. ” He takes a moment to squeeze her before returning to the idle play of flipping her braid. “They need you not because of what you have done single-handedly, but because of what you have come to embody. And, more importantly, they need you to allow that admiration.”
A trembling shiver travels up Alkara’s chest. She bites her lip. “But what if I turn into some arrogant, narcissistic merc who thinks they’re all that? Who starts pushing people around because they can!”
Tharan cackles. “Doë’s Clamor why would you do that?”
Alkara frowns. A leaden weight climbs into her gut. “I wouldn’t do it on purpose! It just… happens to people. Attention, accolades, and free ale turns people into jerks!”
Tharan ‘hmms’ with a pronounced irony. “Do they?”
Alkara’s thoughts slip, she looks side-glance at him. His wide grin begs for her correction. “Well… most people…”
“While it is important to recognize the pitfalls found upon the path to fame, it is incumbent upon us to recognize our own exceptionalities.” Tharan wraps her in his arms with a tight embrace. “In your line of work you, Alkara, are exceptional. And arrogance, though possible in all of us, would be surprising for you. You should not fear failing in this regard. You care too much about other people for this to happen.”
Alkara’s lower lip quivers as she shifts.
Exceptional? Me? Not likely. Not in this anyway. I’m just like everybody else. They shouldn’t trust me any more than every other merc that’s won a scrap of fame.
They sit in silence, basking in the warmth of the fire. Honeysuckle perfumes the room, despite it having burned clear of the incense stand.
Tharan breaks the quiet first. “I would also add that your title is deserved. You grow both as a warrior and a follower of Urdima. When you described your commune with Urdima during the hunt of the Mind-Wiper was it not much stronger?”
Alkara squirms. Tharan’s attentiveness both delights and, at times, betrays her. “Yeah… but–”
“It is imperative to recognize your exceptionality.”
Alkara growls against his chest before sitting up to look him in the eyes. “I’m not exceptional. Uncle Iro is. I can’t do half the things he can!”
Tharan rests his chin against one fist, appraising Alkara with his eyes. “We must not discount ourselves simply because there is another whose ability outpaces our own. Certainly not one with near six centuries of practice. This is not a case of incompetence stumbling into praise. No, you are exceptional.”
Alkara huffs again, crossing her arms, unsatisfied. She kind of wishes he had reprimanded her. Scorned her. At least made fun of her. That she knows how to react to. She knows how to fight.
She doesn’t know what to do with this. This unyielding belief in her. Her merits. Her skills. Even her character. Sure Uncle Iro believes in her but it’s different. And he’d raised her since she was eight years old! Tharan had only known her for what… a month? Two?
Alkara’s eyes search the floor, unseeing as her thoughts spiral. Frustration gives way to a tired sadness. She slumps further into Tharan’s chest. “You don’t think…” Her quiet voice seems to try to hide within the perfumed air. “I’ll turn into some nightmarish snob?”
“I do not. Acknowledging your strengths does not mean you must believe you are better than your peers.”
Alkara sniffs. “I guess that makes sense.”
Tharan rubs her arms. “Now, let us turn toward the modern life-partner ritual. Have you completed the reading? Tell me about your perspective.”
Snuggling in to the touch, Alkara lets herself enjoy the soft massage of her arms. A timid smile enters her expression. “I finished it on the way here actually. It was much better than the other one I found. I can memorize a page of vows, but ten?” She shudders internally. “Are there any other Doësin traditions that have fallen out of favor over the centuries? Maybe all those etiquette rules?” She throws a hope-filled look Tharan’s way.
Tharan’s dashes the hope by way of grinning. “We have a great many traditions which have adapted to our current lives. I shall acquire the latest tomes on etiquette for you.”
Alkara groans and leans back.
Tomes? Plural…
The prospect of reading more books on stuffy etiquette daunts her. She pops up from the sofa and moves to the bookshelves. “Better find a book I’ll actually enjoy then. Except,” She quirks her mouth into a grimace, “I think I need a break from books on Aberrants. Any suggestions?”
Tharan nods. “There is a blue-spined volume on the second shelf called Elasticity and Deformation of Construction with an emphasis on Applied Loads by Briget Oairse-ek.”
Alkara scans half of the shelf before realization slackens her expression. She rolls her eyes and turns to find Tharan smiling with abandon. “Very funny.”
Tharan chuckles. “Yes, I am given to understand there is much humor to be found within its pages.”
Alkara waits for his real suggestion with a rigid, unhumored look.
Finally he succumbs, “I should have a book on the [Aran Duine Feata]. The closest translation may be ‘Bread Eaters.’ You will find them quite different from other Doësin. For one, they also draw divine inspiration from Urdima. Fascinating read.”
A building anticipation wells within Alkara. She scours the shelf for the book, letting the unfamiliar, and thus non-elven, tome names slide past without pause. “Where is it? Dorië mentioned them earlier. They have animal companions too, right?”
Tharan joins her at the bookshelf and peruses them. “Yes, some of them bond with companions. Not all of them do. I think this is not dissimilar to your experience with Iroshi. It’s called Seanscëal [Aran Duine Feata] Nora. If I remember correctly it has red binding.” They search together until Tharan decides he must have left it in his study and goes to retrieve it.
Alkara stays behind, idly looking through the remaining volumes. Catharata by Finn, The Great Constructs within Conjuration by Hedrin Esterio, something in a flowy, sharp-angled script, and Eitic agus Toimh by Kathal
She stops on Doësin Ceérta ek Mindan.
Huh. Doësin… forge art?
Though forgecraft was so prominent within the Doësin’s, and especially Tharan’s, lives, Alkara hadn’t thought to read about any. She plants herself back on the sofa and skims the book. Short passages interrupt well-made sketches and illustrations. Alkara flips through the amphoras and fired clay. Then the jewelry making except to look at a necklace briefly with a smile on her face as she touches her own pendant. She lingers through carpentry and carvings.
An illustration of an elegant sword stops her mid page-turn. Golden filigree wraps the length of the blade in flowing elven script. Some speak of strength of character and moral righteousness, while others are unreadable. A length of crimson ribbon hangs from the pommel.
Alkara normally doesn’t care for swords, but finds herself gazing up and down its length, admiring the craftsmanship. A small entry accompanies it. She struggles again with the translation.
Uaine crafted this sword for the Fiësin WarCaster Pelinia in 721. Pelinia led her campaign against the Miësin with this blade until her death in 723. This ended the–
Tharan’s approach interrupts her. He holds a red-backed tome. “Seanscëal [Aran Duine Feata] Nora,” Tharan says with a smile.
Alkara pops up from the sofa, borne by excitement. “Ooo, thank you!” She beams at him, the book on forging held half-closed in her hand. She hesitates, not yet taking the Aran Duine Feata. “I might actually want to read this one first. Did you know–?” Her cheeks warm and Alkara swallows. “Never mind. Of course you do.”
Tharan chuckles. “Which is this?” He makes a thoughtful noise when she shows him. “Intriguing. You have yet to find Doësin artistry interesting.”
Alkara shrugs, “Yeah, I’m not much for art.” She flips back to the weapons. “But look at these! They’re beautiful. And functional! I didn’t even think that was possible.” Alkara points out a too-thin rapier. “I thought the prettier something was the more useless it was.”
Tharan snorts. “A false assumption in more areas than just weaponry.”
Alkara narrows her eyes with a demure smile. “Okay, fine. But you’ve seen the ornamental weapons the Grecian fops have. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do.” Tharan guides Alkara by the elbow back to the sofa. “Doë’s blessings rain down upon us in myriad ways. The Forge-Kiss is one of them. As well as an appreciation for the beauty wrought. It is our commitment to the crafts which allows us to achieve what some consider impossible.” A sheepish grin sneaks onto his face. “Until they see what we have done, that is.”
Alkara twists her mouth. “Well at least you didn’t just say, ‘We’re better because we’re elv– Glohasin.”
“There are many gifted Grecian smiths. It is not their fault they have less time on Urda to dedicate to a single pursuit.” Tharan’s smile fades and a shadow crests his face for a moment. “And a human made the Godhand. When they work together many marvelous and terrifying creations can be accomplished. The Whorl, as another example.”
“So you’re saying we can compete with you, as long as we’re not competing with each other?”
“That is one perspective, yes.” Tharan furrows his brow. “Something similar could be said of the Glohasin.”
Alkara flips through more pages, letting the last comment fall uncontested. More weapons greet them until she stops at a traditional Doësin bow. It differs from the Grecian longbow with the inclusion of two littles curves, one on each end. “Well, they’ll need to update this book now that you’ve made my bow. It’s way prettier than this one.”
Tharan, “And made of a far stranger material. I suspect it would take a great deal of convincing to modify this particular text. It’s three centuries past the author compiled it.”
Alkara chuckles. “Do you think they could handle the news that their Bell Keeper made a weapon after all these years?” She let’s the comment dance between them a moment. “Wait, how long has it been anyway?” She looks down at the book again and gestures, “And why don’t you make weapons? You clearly haven’t lost your touch.” Tharan’s smile fades and he looks away, attention consumed by the fire.
Dammit. Alkara snaps the book shut. “Nevermind. It’s not important.”
Tharan stiffens. “That… could not be farther from the truth.” He turns back to her, firelight reflecting off his eyes. “If you will allow me a small respite, I will attempt to explain.”