A mischievous twinkle shines in Alkara’s eye, “Do you think they could handle the news that their Bell Keeper made a weapon after all these years?”
Tharan smirks as a kind of riposte. He could soak in her expressions for many chimes. Still, the interplay between them only stalls the answer in his mind. Eventually it digs its claws in.
Unlikely. No, the news would circulate through every event until even the trees knew.
“Wait, how long has it been anyway?”
A cold numb creeps into his chest. His gaze drifts to the flames.
Alkara looks down at the book again and gestures, “And why don’t you make weapons? You clearly haven’t lost your touch.”
His mouth dries in a rush and the cold steals across his arms and legs. Tharan shies away from confronting the answer to Alkara’s question. The strength of his intention to examine this part of his piece had faded. Now– the book snaps shut, breaking his thoughts.
“Never mind. It’s not important.”
Though the numbing doesn’t fade, a brief spark of irritation kindles in his chest. Tharan could procrastinate further, but… “That… could not be farther from the truth.” The cold grips his chest once more, brought again fear most acute. He shifts from staring at the fire, anchoring himself to Alkara instead. “If you will allow me a small respite, I will attempt to explain.”
The corner of Alkara’s mouth twitches. She nods once, small but firm.
Tharan directs his mind internally once more. Now surrounded by long buried pain never meant to be unearthed, it stabs fresh and new. Like it happened not two hundred years previous but only that afternoon.
What is wrong with me?
He recoils, covering his shame with a physical stiffness practiced and precise. Numbness threatens to embrace him. A temptation, no, a struggle between who he could be and the familiar mask. A mask which would allow detachment and objectivity.
He would become a historian describing the calamity which befell a town as their own Bell Keeper induced a divine, devastating earthquake. Or perhaps diverting a river through a capital city, flooding it without warning.
Those tragedies may be grappled with. Wrestled into a clean box and shelved. The horrors his people had faced, even by his own hands, do not strangle him so.
Here though, plumbing the depths of that memory, only shame resides. Guilt. Condemnation.
Fear. Like he has never known before.
If you tell her, it will be the end. She will leave.
She deserves to know. Iroshi knows, and believes as much. Will he not tell her himself if you are too much of a coward to do so?
Spots bloom in his vision. A pall of silence engulfs him. Any comfort Tharan might have found in the warmth of the Primal Sound evaporates. Sweat on his forehead competes with the chill in his hands and legs.
Alkara covers his fist. He blinks at it, unaware he had been clenching it so tightly. She gently pulls Tharan’s fingers to uncurl them and intertwines their fingers.
“You don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to, just start at the beginning.” Alkara’s calm, quiet voice pierces his disquiet. Not unlike a brand slicing into the oil which quenches it, some of Tharan’s anguish boils away. “I’ve heard it’s a good place to start.”
Tharan gazes vacantly into space, unable to find purchase on anything. He slowly searches the room, striving for something to cement his attention, at last forcing himself to look into Alkara’s eyes. The glow of her them fills his vision. Using her eyes to focus, Tharan then directs his attention to his breath.
Deep breath in.
Slow breath out.
Tears pool in his eyes, but the world begins to return to normalcy.
The spots fade. The crackle of the fire pops in his ears. The blessed Primal Sound breaks through the veil of silence.
The beginning? Where did it begin, really?
“The family, then.” Tharan considers the carpet of the parlor as if it were the audience, and no one else were listening. “Centuries– no, millennia past. When we lost our forest, Aela Bakir-ek helped us protect the refugees and make room for the other clans.” Tharan furrows his brow, endeavoring to slow down and tell the story one piece at a time.
“She was the most prolific weapons master of her age. Her family followed in her footsteps. Generations of smiths, martial artists, and merchants all working to provide the skill and equipment needed to protect what we had left.”
“I was young. Not more than an adult. And newly ascended. Everyone bid for my favor. My… attention. Especially women.” Phantoms of those events reach through time to torment him. Tharan swallows. One piece at a time. “One did not. This family, descendants of the great and lauded Aela Bakir-ek, is often at odds with their own Cimaudi Clag. We keep the peace, striving to solve conflict through diplomacy. But they thrive on warfare. It was an open secret that they would arm both sides of a conflict…” He trails off, unable to find the next phrase.
Time passes with that search. It could not have been more than a quarter chime but somehow it seems longer. And when he does find the next phrase, his throat closes, uncertain in his ability to play it. Alkara squeezes his hand, bringing him back.
“Her name was Mei. Mei Aela-ek-húe. And…” Tharan squeezes his eyes shut, voice crackling. “I fell in love.”
The block removed, Tharan surprises himself with a mirthless chuckles. “Mother was furious. Father… was happy for me, even though he would never speak against mother. I…” Building momentum, Tharan finds it difficult to speak, as though he cannot quite catch his breath.
Firelight sways in its somber, dying dance across the carpeting. “When a Doësin chooses a life-partner, love is hardly a factor. But I desired to find someone that… that I would look at the way my father looks at mother.” A small smile graces Tharan’s otherwise cold expression. “To this day he adores her.”
His throat closes again. The memory of Mei solidifies. She may as well be in the room with them. The chill in his extremities returns. “I… adored Mei. She was able to communicate exactly how she felt but with a subtlety that left people unsuspecting despite the offense she gave.” He hangs his head, the weight of what is to come pressing down. “Even when those hidden barbs were directed toward me I could only admire her prowess. She trained in the use of the family weapons, displaying the merits and weaknesses of each with aplomb. Her demonstrations were a marvel. She was beautiful. Stunning. Going through the forms and maneuvers with ease. Other women paled in comparison. And it seemed as though she saw me more clearly than anyone else.”
Tharan lifts his tortured gaze to Alkara’s. “As you do.” He breaks upon her eyes, shining with comfort and warmth. Unable to keep his composure, Tharan turns back to the fire, face rent in pain. “I should have known. I should have investigated the family sooner. Perhaps then–”
“Tharan, wait.” Alkara puts a hand on his cheek.
He longs to lean into that touch. To pursue it further. To bury himself in her, where he might find peace and comfort. Rather than back in the dark cold corner in which he had dwelled for centuries.
Yet he must bury those feelings nonetheless. Bound up and hidden they would not betray Alkara’s trust as Mei had betrayed his. Once locked away, Tharan returns to Alkara’s probing gaze.
She searches his eyes, prompting with small eyebrow raises. “Should have known what?”
That weight that has been pressing down doubles, making Tharan’s arms go limp. “They are war-mongers.” Disgust lacquers each of the words. “These descendants of the praised Aela Bakir-ek sow conflict. They violate the highest teachings of Doë as a matter of course.”
A gratifying incredulity enters Alkara’s voice, “And she didn’t think you’d have a problem with that?”
“They do not view it as the heretical practice that it is. In their estimation, instigating war among non-Glöhasin civilizations does not breach any sacred tenet.” Tharan places his hand on Alkara’s and, after letting himself feel a modicum of comfort, pulls it down from his face. “That was the defense they presented. However, later I found records suggesting that they even work with the Fiësin to sow unrest and fear in whichever clan they plan to attack.” A rueful smile drops into Tharan’s expression. “They are gifted in the art. They use the gifts of persuasion and discourse from Doë to spit in the face of the giver.”
Alkara grips Tharan’s hand, were it not entwined she would clench her fist. Tharan nods. She would, and should, be angry. The Grecian and Copaishan duchies had oft felt the sting of the family’s efforts.
Alkara shakes her head and loosens her grip. “So why does that mean you can’t make weapons?”
“I forge whatever Doë guides me toward,” Tharan answers with dull precision. “It was by their guidance I could crafter your bow, after all.”
“That’s not–”
“The answer to the question I believe you meant to ask is two-fold.” This familiar ground grants some measure of self-assurance back to Tharan. “First, while I am Cimaudi Clag the teachings of Doë dictate violence is only acceptable after all manner of diplomacy is exhausted. This statement is amplified by my adherence. Second, to ensure no weapons I craft become tools in that family’s machinations, I would cease production of them.”
Even after severing ties, their influence shapes my behavior.
Tharan savors that moment of self reflection before continuing. “With these considerations in mind I investigate potential clients before agreeing to any requests. Whether involving weapons or not. The divine gift instilled in me will not be used to work against Doë’s principles.”
Would that the remainder of the story be so clean.
Dread, which had been sitting complacent in his stomach, now trudges up into his chest. The awareness that what must follow is also what Iroshi needs Alkara to know does little to quell Tharan’s misgivings. Alkara must know Tharan’s capabilities should she spurn him. The way it would appear Mei had.
It is over. She cannot ignore such a damning account.
Tharan blinks in slow, nervous rhythms as the corner of his mouth quirks offbeat. He could own this part of the piece. But the final part looms, demanding a crescendo that he may not have the strength to provide.
“Thank you,” Alkara’s soft voice breaks into his thoughts.
Tharan shakes his head. “Whatever for?”
Alkara fingers the pendant laying against her tunic. “For making those arrows for me. I really couldn’t have killed that Brain Thief without them.” She squeezes Tharan’s hand, the warmth of the gesture somehow lightening the weight of the recounting. “And for the bow. For trusting me with something like that. You feel so strongly about all of this and you didn’t even know me yet.”
Tharan’s meek smile would collapse under a light breeze. “I knew you well enough. My inquiries and research gave me insight to the core of your character. That is most important.”
The pair sit in quietude, Tharan unwilling to risk the next words. Alkara, watching with those magnificent eyes, seemingly feeling the same.
The piece must continue. Tharan sighs, shaking off some of that gripping dread, and turns back to the fire. “That was not the end of the tale.”
His face crumples into an anguished grimace. “You know why she left now. It is technically true… but alas not the entirety of the matter.” Tharan opens and closes his mouth to speak like a perch gasping for breath on the shore of a lake.
Alkara gives him another encouraging hand squeeze. “Okay, why did she leave?”
Tharan anchors himself to that grip. He pulls it in and presses his forehead to the back of her hand. “I ended the engagement.” Ghosts of the past swirl in his mind, making arrangements for that fateful day that never came. “It was a mere month from the partnering ritual. So of course the severance became the focal point of conversation. I did my best to leave her be, to let her move on.”
Tharan sags, “Not two weeks passed before some instigator informed me that Mei was already pursuing a courtship with another. No doubt they wished to see how I would react.” Even now the memory sours in his mind and sinks into his stomach to twist it up. “It went…. poorly. I put on an air of theological authority and attested that her and her family’s dealings were a rot among the vine of our community. Therefore I would not associate with them or with those that do.”
Tharan pulls Alkara’s hand down from his forehead, eyes tight with pain. “The word of the Cimaudi Clag may as well be law for some. I knew this. I had seen those reverberations within the community when I spoke. Yet… I did not imagine the repercussions of that proclamation.”
The words hang in the air, stiff with Tharan’s affected speech. Alkara watches him with softness and… acceptance? Tharan cannot be sure.
“The consequences devastated her family. They were ostracized. Within a short time they were left uninvited to social gatherings. Extended invitations were retracted. Contracts were terminated and new business shunned their advances.” Alkara’s own experience with Kierra and Charlotte must mirror Mei’s after a fashion, albeit the two have a substantial difference in guilt. The thought does little to assuage Tharan’s own feelings of shame.
“Most of Aela’s family have left the city. Mei left as well. After her courtship ended before it really began I imagine the prospect of a future in Afanen died as well.”
Tharan releases Alkara’s hand. The separation a portent of what time will bring. It may be within the next few lifebeats. Or after a small time of reflection. But it would come. The balance of his merits and achievements could not outweigh this failing.
“Um…” Her silence-breaking filler word quivers with anticipation. She places a hand on his shoulder. “Tharan, is that it?”
Tharan snaps his attention up, eyes narrowed and jaw tight. “Is that is? I ruined her life. Her family’s business. Two-thousand years they dwelled in this ancestral place and I drove them out with a statement!”
Alkara exhales a gruff, relief-filled sigh.
Relief?
“But… isn’t that what you wanted?” Alkara’s own confusion must be a stark mirror of Tharan’s. “They were a threat to the Doësin and now they’re gone, right? Urdima’s Grace, Tharan, the way you reacted last time I brought it up you’d think she died some horrible death and maybe you killed her!”
Were I so charitable…
A quick scowl affixes to Tharan’s face. His transgression presents an easier focus than the weakness he has yet to confess. “It may have been kinder if I had. Still, my action exiled their family the same as an official edict. They remain a potential problem.”
Alkara stares at him with one eyebrow crooked like a theatre mask’s visage. “Okay, wait. How do you know you ruined her life? Did you keep tabs on her?”
Tharan frowns, “I deigned not to.”
“Then why do you think you ruined her life? It’s not like she’s in some hovel wracked with illness. She chose to leave Afanen.” Alkara insists with the confidence of one without expertise.
Tharan realizes the source of that incredulity. With Alkara, forgetting her inexperience proves easier the more comfortable he becomes. He smiles with a dire unhappiness.
“For us, exile is worse than death.” The words thud in his mind like hammers on a drum.
“She chose to leave.” Alkara turns Tharan’s face to her with a gentle hand. “Yes, your clan hangs on your every word but that’s hardly your fault! You made a dumb mistake when you were younger. Everyone does. Yours just… have heavier consequences. It’s not fair but that’s the way it is.”
Youth is not an excuse for folly. Not for a Cimaudi Clag. Not when each word carries so great a threat.
“Now…” Alkara begins with a wry smile, “You hardly have room to lecture me about letting go of what happened with Sengmar.” The smile fades from around her eyes, most likely drying up against the memory. “Not if you’ve been holding on to this for a couple centuries.”
That jostles Tharan’s focus. “I never meant… lecture?”
Alkara throws on the clothes of teasing petulance, “If you can justify suffering over Mei, I can suffer over Sengmar.”
No!
Tharan’s chest tightens. Visions of Alkara agonizing over the decisions leading to Sengmar’s death float through his mind. Her account does not indicate her fault. She approached the situation to the best of her ability. She–
Ah.
Tharan allows Alkara’s point to settle. He takes a cleansing breath and clasps her hand in his once more. “Or. We let go of the suffering together.”
“I…” Alkara hesitates. Her eyes dart away to find some refuge in the room. “I don’t know if I can.”
“There is no greater feat than putting forth your best effort.”
Alkara’s wan smile disagrees with the assessment. “Uncle Iro says that trying is for the undisciplined.”
Tharan laughs, the sound releasing a great tension within the parlor. Even the fire seems to flare in approval. “A surprisingly Doësin maxim. Iroshi has wandered long enough to pick up wisdom from each of the clans…”
Iroshi…
Tharan turns away, sinking into the couch. “Alkara, explaining the events of that courtship was almost more dreadful than the events themselves. I was certain you would no longer desire to proceed once you knew.”
Alkara bumps him with her shoulder. “You might think Urda had been flipped on its top but I think it’s a dumb reason to end a courtship.” Her voices dries into a somber, matter-of-fact tone. “And I’d like to think we’ve made it past petty things threatening the relationship.”
Tharan turns back, searching for words that will not appear. How could she want to stay knowing that he presents such a grave threat to her well-being should he be vindictive. Or careless. The piece will play out but even he cannot predict more than a few bars.
You still have not told her everything. If she ever finds out…
Be gone.
Face alight with a smile, Alkara stands and pulls Tharan up with her, pulling him into an embrace. Despite the inner turmoil, Tharan melts into her arms. The sludgy dread knot unravels and fades at her touch. Such a simple thing, to have so profound an impact.
Had Mei affected him thusly? He struggles to remember. Perhaps, but her action taints the memories. He shakes his head. Remembering Mei and trying to delineate those feelings would not be appropriate.
He sighs and closes his eyes. Tharan drinks up the contact, savoring the warmth and strength it provides. Perhaps it would be enough to face the pain he still holds.
Alkara pulls away, leaving a longing in her absence but Tharan follows suit nonetheless. “Speaking of which. Dorië said something else earlier. He seems irritated we haven’t officially started our courtship.” A bashful blush touches her cheeks. “I don’t think I can do one of those fancy parties yet, but I’d like to observe the tradition if we can…” She stares, watching his reaction.
A shy smile curls onto Tharan’s lips. “Well, we have a well-liked establishment called The Banquet House if you are amenable to an invitation. But it means…”
Alkara shrugs and puts a hand on his cheek. “I think we found out today that keeping this quiet might be hurting more than we think. If you’re ready for whatever shitstorm you’re going to weather for chasing a human, I’ll deal with whatever comes my way.”
Tharan’s smile grows as though it had quaffed one of those must-flavored giant strength potions. “Well said.” He rests his hand against Alkara’s, leaning into the palm with his cheek. “As I said before, I will not abandon you to the persecution of my people. Will you accompany me to The Banquet House?”
Alkara affects a upright, proper, posture and tone. “Well what a fine to-do. I would be remiss to decline such an invitation.”
The pair laugh, both at the formality and each other. Tharan cannot help but believe the path forward was forged for him.
Firelight dances in Alkara’s eyes. “Alright then. What is this ‘Banquet House’?”