Alkara sighs as she sinks into one of Tharan’s couches in his parlor. She holds the tome Aberrants and their Nature: A Treatise with her forefinger wedged between the cover and first real page. She taps her thigh with the other hand while Leä sets out small snacks and drinks. Plus a bowl of cream for Guen.
“Thank you Leä.” Alkara gives her a smile and waits for the attendant to leave before kicking her feet up and reclining. Without a moment’s hesitation she cracks the book open and scans the pages. The panther’s tongue lapping at the cream forms a background cadence.
The elven body of work regarding Aberrants spans habitat, diets, biologies (such as they could be understood), gestation periods, and a number of other subjects few sages cared to study. To Alkara’s disappointment their books on Doësin etiquette, history, and culture are no less thorough. Perhaps more so. She reads both but the Aberrant lore is easily the more exciting of the two subjects.
Her perusal brings her to an entry on Snarlghasts. Alkara skips through first few pages, getting past a theological examination of the creatures. A quick review confirms her suspicions. The creature hides among reptiles and implants their young in reptilian egg clutches. Still, it bears to learn everything she can.
Alkara rests the book in her lap, reflecting as she stares into the fire. A smile finds its way into her expression most of the time. Just the presence of Dre or Chiron, Tharan, or even Uncle Iro satisfies her. The future, for once, seems bright. Alkara can’t remember the last time she’d been so happy. Before they lost Sengmar.
A weakness overcomes the light, airy feeling in her limbs. Her smile transforms into a small frown. And she feels alone again. Guen licks at the last remnants of cream in her bowl. She’s never really alone since Guen is always here. But the great cat and Alkara are closer than that. Guen lives within Alkara’s spirit and Alkara in Guen’s.
Alkara takes a deep breath. Her thoughts drift to Tharan, wondering how soon he’d finish with his duties. The smile creeps back into her lips.
Is this… okay? Sengmar is… gone and he shouldn’t be. If he were here… not here here. I might not have met Tharan… none of this… and he would have been hurt by my courting Tharan. Not that it matters now…
A small tear runs down her cheek. Alkara wipes it away with her blue-green silk handkerchief, a gift from Tharan. She turns the pages in idle activity, not reading so much as allowing the curvy script to blend together.
A crude drawing of the Snarlghast catches her eye. The artist must never have witnessed one, which is often the case. The creature’s long snout ends in a serrated tooth. Eyes blink out from the aberrant’s torso.
The artist depicted the eyes as part of the Snarlghast. Reality disagreed. As Alkara and her family had battled it during their most recent hunt, the creature expelled those eyes, young that had hatched but weren’t large enough to fend for themselves.
A doleful smile crawls across her mouth. Their plan had foreseen that possibility. Though aberrant, they’d struggled with slaying the young Snarlghasts. They couldn’t be reasoned with and would only complicate someone else’s life in the future.
Hunting, and Tharan, had brought the adoptive siblings together again. Alkara hadn’t realized how badly she’d missed it. A reflection of their former teamwork had developed. Not less than, but different with the compensation for Sengmar’s absence.
That compensation required improvisation, but also planning. Aggression, but also caution. Each piece fit with the others like the Dupplin Dissections Uncle Iro had tried to use to teach Dre geography.
Surely Sengmar would have anticipated other possibilities, but Alkara would bet she’d thought of a few ideas he would have suggested. So the plan had come together and they’d orchestrated their attack. That deadly dance that she enjoys. And they’re very good dancers.
On the hunt, resting in that two room cottage, or the simple laughter coming from familiarity. All fill her with warm joy. There’s no place else Alkara would rather be than in the throes of those bonds with her family.
No place?
Alkara returns to her book, struggling with the ancient elvish scripts and their strange loops and whorls. Having confirmed some of what she knew, she flips back to the beginning. And promptly skips the forward and author’s notes.
So self-serving.
The rhythmic clanging from the forge fades. Tharan will be finishing soon. Still, she begins the first chapter. However long it takes Tharan to join her, he’d almost certainly want to clean up. She’s got time.
Footfalls haunt the corridor outside the parlor, but they continue and fade. So though Tharan’s forge no longer fills the home with its rhythmic tinking, the feet probably belong to Dorië.
Alkara smirks. Dorië still treats her with perfect courtesy, but she gets the impression that he’s not altogether pleased with recent developments, seeing as how she’d be around a lot more often. She’s pretty sure she’s caught him wrinkling his nose at least once. She takes a quick sniff, pauses, and then shrugs. Tharan had never said anything.
No place she’d rather be? She supposes that’s not true anymore. The large house was already feeling more and more like home. The parlor. The dining room.
And by Urdima that bedroom! It’s huge! Okay, maybe not huge. She’d seen the occasional castle or two when the job required it. But this room is at least as big as the front room of their place back in Three Rivers. And she shares that with Chiron and Dreonna. This one she has all to herself!
It had been tastefully decorated. Alkara had been kinda surprised. She’d expected the elegant metalwork of the Doësín, but instead she found living vines and flowers. Woven works of branches of all different kinds of trees and bushes. She’s not even sure how some of these are possible, but there they were. It feels gloriously earthy, close to Urdima even though she was inside and surrounded by a huge city, which was a new experience for her. There was even a place to hang up her bow, quiver, and pack next to the door.
And the bed is huge too! Definitely big enough for both she and Guen to sleep on it without Guen pushing her off.
Alkara smiles sheepishly as she tries once again to get herself to focus on the words on the page. The thought and care that had gone into her room… she’s pretty sure it’s only the beginning. Though Alkara still isn’t quite sure how she’s going to make this work.
Ugh. Focus!
She furrows her brow and grinds through some of the paragraphs. But the combination of elven supremacy and high level elvish words does nothing to quicken her pace. Even if it is already proving informative.
Footsteps grow louder until they stop at the doorway. Alkara pays them no attention until, a satisfied sigh slides through the room.
Tharan stands in the doorway, beaming. Alkara’s breath catches and her cheeks burn. She sits up, the book sliding off her lap. Spots bloom in her vision and she blinks at them.
Tharan chuckles as he walks the length of the room to her. He offers a hand and draws her up to stand in front of him. They embrace, with Tharan leading them into touching foreheads.
Alkara’s heart thumps with her smile. She’s not used to this particular tradition yet. With each close embrace she thinks he’s going to kiss her. But he doesn’t. Hasn’t. She blinks a little too much, looking at his lips and away quickly. The flush in her cheeks burns itself way through her body.
At the very least she’s pretty sure this is a meaningful tradition. So she’s trying. She supposes she’ll get used to it. Eventually.
Her thoughts take her through the etiquette and formality she’s learned. Innumerable rules bind their society into routine actions, obligatory bows, and deference. Kissing may equate to making love, despite the technical differences.
She’d just have to follow Tharan’s lead until she learns more. His traditions are important to him. The man is Doësin through and through. And she doesn’t really have any that she cares about, aside from the ways of Urdima.
The silence gnaws at Alkara. She fidgets in the embrace and clears her throat. “How umm… how did it go in there?”
Tharan, eyes closed, squeezes Alkara with a chuckle. “Magnificently.” They release themselves from the embrace and sit on the couch. “The Festival of Reä approaches. I suspect they will commence early this year and claim it is always on whichever date they have chosen.” He grimaces.
Alkara presses her lips together, suppressing a laugh. She settles for a crooked smile and shakes her head.
“The pieces I will display for the festival require finishing touches. Even if they start next week I will be ready.” Tharan pops a piece of pear into his mouth. He spreads out one of the parchments and swallows. “And I have the beginnings of a sketch for the Festival of Doë.” Light coal marks stretch across the parchment, curling elvish script indicates angles and lengths, materials and distances. Tharan gestures to the book. “How did you fare in your research?”
Alkara shrugs, “I’m struggling a little with the elvish, but it’s been good so far.”
Tharan reaches for another pear chunk and wedge of cheese. He nods. “Yes, it was written near two hundred years ago. Perhaps I can assist.”
It’s like someone placed burning coals on her ears. She ducks and plucks the book from the ground. Her chest tightens as she clutches the book. “It’s fine. I think I got the idea.”
Tharan smiles and places a hand on the book. “Come now, there is no need for embarrassment.” He pulls gently at the tome and Alkara allows it to slide from her grip after a brief moment of resistance. Tharan flicks the cover open and huffs. “Phew, Master Eislin. Her writings prove dense for many.” He grins. “Even me.”
Alkara twists her mouth into a grin. “I… okay.” She looks at him anew. Nothing of the elf she’d interviewed a year previous remains. The stifled elf underneath the stuffy exterior had been replaced bit by bit. Giddiness overcomes her but she shakes her head free. She leans into Tharan, heads close so they can view the book’s passages.
They pour through the book with Tharan clarifying words and breaking down Master Eislin’s colloquialisms. Elvish, or Glöhasis as Tharan corrected, constructs complex ideas from apportioned words. Tharan’s directions would allow Alkara to deconstruct unfamiliar terms in the future.
Alkara practices with the unfamiliar terms, saying them out loud to Tharan’s full attention. She comes to a complex, multi-syllabic word and stumbles halfway through. She tries again. And again. But can’t pronounce the damn word. She screws up her face in playful frustration as she tries to get the word right. Tharan chuckles and laughs. Egged on, Alkara begins twisting the word into a mockery of itself, scrunching her nose up until Tharan descends into a fit of giggles.
“Well, excuse me!” Alkara cries, smiling despite the pouting in her eyes. “Who knew the old Glöhasis word for ‘appendage’ would be so damned hard to say?!”
Tharan, laughter spilling out like an ale from a cracked keg, sucks in a deep breath and holds it. He holds up a hand and closes his eyes, tilting his head. A tremendous grin spoils the look of concentration. He takes another deep breath and turns back to her. When he opens his mouth more laughter spoils any sense of proprietary he had recovered.
A small, quick knock disturbs the scene. Tharan’s mirth vanishes so quickly Alkara flinches. She stares at him wide-eyed, her lips agape. She doesn’t bother checking who had come.
“Master Tharan?” Leä stands in the parlor’s doorway. “A guest has arrived unannounced. Councilor Kielo offers his apologies.” The attendant bows low. “He suggests his business is urgent and an audience would be of service to the community.”
Tharan rises from the couch, and the joyful connection Alkara shared with him severed. He inclines his head in an almost nod. “Of course, Leä.” His expression sets into a comfortable, cultured neutrality. “I will attend him here.” The tone suggests they’d finished a cup of tea.
Alkara’s throat dries up worse than the cracked grey dirt of the Wastes. She smooths out her tunic and knits her brow.
Should I go? Stay?
Alkara stands, her leg bumping the table. The flatware wobbles. She clears her throat and squares her shoulders, determinedly not looking at the tray of snacks and goblets.
Tharan turns to her. A hint of tensed brow and a frown crack the otherwise pristine expression. “Forgive me. I shall be no longer than–”
“Cimäudi Clag!” A short, well-dressed Doësin man strides into the room. Miniature silver hammers adorn his long locks. The blue hue of his skin overshadows Tharan’s. The man, Councilor Kielo, glances at Alkara only a moment on entry. He stops in front of Tharan and offers a deep bow which Tharan returns with a modest one. “You honor me with the interruption of your evening. I was unaware you were entertaining a guest.” Kielo’s face offers no hint as to whatever he implied, if anything.
Tharan shakes his head. “Your apology is unnecessary, Councilor. This is Miss Alkara of Three Rivers and Rook’s Rapid Retrievers.” He gestures to her with one arm held perpendicular to his body, palm up and open. “She commissions pieces from me at regular intervals.”
Alkara narrows her eyes and knits her brow. Her skin tingles. Something snares her throat, constricting it from inside. That same feeling wraps itself around her insides like steel chains.
I… what?
Kielo nods politely to Alkara. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” Pleasure, not honor. He turns back to Tharan. “The business we must discuss requires discretion.”
Tharan nods and turns to Alkara. “Miss Alkara, might we have the room? My steward will accommodate you with a suitable alternative.”
Alkara’s thoughts jumble together, jockeying for attention. The abrupt change in Tharan and then an introduction as a client rattle her. She presses her lips together and works against the tightening of her jaw.
Her lips twist into a forceful grin until it melts into a sickly sweet smile. “Oh of course, Master Tharan.” She exaggerates each word, dropping verbal punctuations into her Glöhasis. Without hesitation or considering an attempt at the ridiculous bow, she marches from the parlor.
Leä waits outside, but Alkara doesn’t slow until she returns to her room. She slams the door and turns toward the bed, glowering.
—
Less than an hour had past and Alkara lays fuming on her bed. Each time the internal flame burns low she rekindles it with a memory. Tharan’s behavior in the Depths. His initial interview deceiving her with who he is. His recent transformation from laughing, smiling Tharan into ‘This is Miss Alkara.’
Her book sits open next to her, unread. She stares at the words, breathing hard through her nose. Footsteps approach the door followed by silence. A moment passes before whoever it is knocks.
“Alkara?” Tharan asks through the door. His conciliatory tone grates against Alkara’s ear. “Councilor Kielo has departed. May we speak?”
“Oh! The Councilor has departed?” She half-shouts. “What wonderful news.” Alkara rolls off the bed and tosses the book onto a night table. She snatches her pack up and slings it over one shoulder. Alkara stomps to the door and throws it open. She glares at him. “Wouldn’t want him to witness a paying client storming out. What would that do to your reputation?” Alkara pushes past Tharan into the hall and slams the door.
Tharan steps back, allowing Alkara to move into the hall. His face tightens. “May I inquire as to what is wrong?”
Ever the stupid perfect polite mother–
Alkara shakes her head with a glower. “You know damn well what’s wrong.” She slings the other strap of her pack on and moves toward the stairs.
Tharan follows. “I can see your agitation.” He says. “I can surmise that it is due to the manner with which you were introduced to Councilor Kielo. But that does not provide the precise reason.” At the bottom of the stairs he reaches for her arm.
Alkara whips around, scowling. She notes the tightness in his eyebrows, the slight press in his lips, and tremble in his chin with an unkind smile. A flush of warmth spreads through her.
Good.
Tharan’s brow softens. “I would prefer to resolve this before you depart. I will not stop you either way, but… please.” He brings a hand to Alkara’s cheek and steps closer. He says softly, “This pain in your eyes, in your heart… I would soothe it.”
Alkara swallows, still glaring but not as hard. The closeness and his expression dull the edge of her anger. Alkara wavers between staying mad or melting away at his touch.
Tharan searches her face, neither speaking. Silence stretches around them until he pulls Alkara into an embrace. The knot in her chest loosens, starting to unravel. She leans into the embrace.
“Please, Alkara,” Tharan whispers, “Please tell me what is wrong.”
The tone of his voice pierces Alkara. She allows the embrace to continue a few moments, savoring the feeling, but pulls away with a sigh. She meets his gaze, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell him who I really am? You basically introduced me as just a client.”
Tharan nods once, lips pressed together. “Glöhasis does not exactly have a word for our relationship as it stands now.” He looks down, shaking his head. “I wished to introduce you in an appropriate manner, without complication.” He looks at Alkara with a rueful smile. “As we had not discussed it, I thought to spare you the complications of being associated with me… Romantically… for as long as possible.”
Alkara squeezes her lips together. “I appreciate that Tharan, but–” She sighs. “Look, I told you before. I’m a nobody. If being human wasn’t going to be bad enough to them, I’m not even nobility.” Alkara drops her hands to her sides. She speaks past the constriction in her throat. “If you’re embarrassed by me. Ashamed. Whatever it is that means you can’t say who I am… We should just end it now.” Alkara looks at Tharan’s chest with softened eyes.
Tharan grows still. He massages her upper arm. “I must insist that you stop referring to yourself in that manner.” He uses his other hand to tilt her face upward. “Please.”
Alkara crosses her arms and pulls away from his touch.
Tharan tilts his head. He frowns and leans away with a small nod. “We should have discussed this. I beg your pardon for my lack of foresight. I did not want to assume you were already comfortable with me introducing you as… as my intended.” Tharan sighs. “It is not a word my people use lightly, and it carries its own implications and expectations.”
Alkara shakes her head, “I’m not afraid of that. I don’t care what your people think.” Her ribs tighten, threatening to cut her words off. “I care what…” Alkara fidgets, looking at Tharan’s chest, “What you think. And you said I had time to think about it.” She shrugs. “To be sure.”
Tharan nods and takes her hand in his. “You do. The expectations of the Doësin are my concern, not yours.” He smiles, tilting his head down. A purple blush tinges his cheek. “Though, if you are agreeable… I look forward to introducing you properly.”
Alkara sighs as she searches his face. His expression endears him to her. She takes his other hand and nods. “Okay. So I guess I… overreacted then. Again.” Alkara presses her lips together as her muscles tense. She mutters, “I’m sorry.” And the tension falls away.
Tharan chuckles. “These moments afford us the circumstances to discuss and improve. Thank you for staying.” He squeezes her hands before releasing them. “I would prefer it if you stayed, but if you must depart.” He shakes his head once, “I will not hinder your departure.”
Alkara rolls her eyes and huffs. She slaps his arm with a playful lightness. “Shup up.” A smile she can’t restrain creeps into her lips, “You know I’m staying.” Still smiling, she turns back to the stairs.
Tharan exhales. It sounds as though he’d been holding his breath this whole time. “I knew nothing of the sort. Your intent was clear and you have left in anger before.”
Alkara stops in her tracks, head down. A tremor flows from her neck to her knees. Her chin quivers. Her throat closes up with an alarming heaviness.
“Alkara?” Puzzlement fills Tharan’s words, “Is everything alright?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she clears her throat, breaking the thickness there and shakes her head. Alkara mumbles, “I’ll go drop my pack,” and sniffs. She rushes the rest of the way up the stairs.
Tharan’s quick footfalls bound up the stairs. He touches her arm and guides her to turn to face him. Tharan’s smile surprises Alkara. Though a softness touches his eyes.
Tharan reaches out to wipe a tear from Alkara’s face. “Now now, what can this be?” His velvety voice carries compassion and a tease. “Perhaps vying for another embrace?”
A smile tries to worm its way to her expression but Alkara presses her lips together, fire filling her cheeks. She looks away, “I’m sorry.”
Tharan tilts her chin back up to look her in the eyes, a puzzled grin on his face. “Whatever for?”
Alkara huffs. “I’m not stupid Tharan.” She forces a short laugh as her chest tightens. “I have a temper and I know it’s exhausting to deal with.” She pulls away from his touch. “All it does is cause trouble–”
“How dare you apologize for such a captivating aspect of the woman I love.” Tharan says mildly, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes.
Alkara startles. She blinks with furrowed brow, “What?”
“Your temper causes inconvenience and riles the sensibilities of most societies.” Tharan chuckles. His grin seems like a permanent fixture. “But for you it is a glorious clarion call that something is amiss and demands redress.” He pulls her in closer, leans toward her ear, and whispers, “I adore it.”
Alkara’s blush intensifies, burning her cheeks what must be a deep scarlet. She mutters, “You can’t be serious.”
Tharan hums and pulls away. “I have never been more certain.” Pain leaks into his expression, though he continues smiling. “The Doësin bury, obfuscate, and ignore small problems. Some of those develop into large problems.” He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. “Or catastrophes. The heightened demand on resources and energy might have been avoided if addressed in a timely manner.” His smile brightens, pushing out whatever internal pain had sneaked in. “I am given to understand intimate relationships share this quality. Therefore, yes, your temper is a blessing.” Tharan motions toward Alkara’s room with his head.
Alkara snorts as she follows Tharan down the hall, “Yeah well, tell that to Uncle Iro.”
Tharan chuckles, bravado flashing across his posture, “Shall I send him my conclusions via letter, or shall we discuss this in person?” They stop at Alkara’s door.
Alkara laughs, “Nope. None of that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Alkara ducks into the room. She plucks the book from the night table and drops her pack to the floor. She starts turning but stops, considering. She quirks her mouth at the bed. After a moment she unruffles a portion of it, smoothing the cover out as much as she can.
Alkara returns to the doorway. She mirrors Tharan’s smile, “Back to the parlor till dinner?”
Tharan stares, near-dazed, with a goofy grin. He nods.
Alkara’s lips twist a bit and she grabs his hand, “Let’s go then.”
They enter the parlor, cheerful smiles stuck to their faces. Guen lounges in front of the fire, licking the pad of a paw. Alkara narrows her eyes at the cat with a tilt of the head. She had just been ready to leave and Guen hadn’t stirred.
The panther looks back with a dull, unsurprised expression.