Kara Thrace & Her Special Destiny

He didn’t smoke (Darien had offered him a cigarette). His robes were always neat and clean. Other than adjusting his glasses, he hardly moved unless he had to. But the man must have something going on in his life. A wife, a husband. Or parents, or...friends? Maybe not. A pet, perhaps. At the bare minimum he must LIVE somewhere, and have hobbies.  “Well, better get going,” Darien said. “I’m just about off duty, and there’s a concert down the Octant I’d like to catch.” Perhaps if he shared something, the man might open up. He nodded. “Good evening, Lieutenant.” Damn. Darien headed back to the barracks, got changed, and headed down to the Octant.  The soul is not subjective. Everyone had some...interiority, didn’t they? It was too easy to move through your life assuming that you were the only thing that was real, that all the bodies moving past you were just empty vessels. I mean it wasn’t as if you really stopped to talk with people, most of the time. But they were just as real as himself. Even the boring ones had things they cared about. They made choices--say, to become arcanists and work at the customs office. While he was thinking, he wasn’t looking. The shoulder-to-shoulder impact sent them both spinning off course.  “Oh gods, sorry...” Darien stopped, turned, but the other party was already moving on. Another empty vessel. Of course, from their perspective...he was the bit player, wasn’t he? A body moving through space. They had no reason to assume otherwise unless they stopped to talk, and how often did you really have a meaningful conversation with a total stranger? He could hear the distant strains of music from the Octant, up ahead. The crowd moved past him in either direction as he paused. Eventually he pressed forward and found a small crowd gathered around the little lawn, where a young Miqo’te girl strummed a guitar and sang. There weren’t a lot of seats, but he saw a little spot along the wall next to a woman with curly hair, chin propped on her hand.  “Excuse me,” he said, “mind if I sit here?” She startled, smiled, and shook her head. “Go on, then.” He sat. They listened to the song end, and another one begin.  “She’s quite good,” he said.  “Isn’t she?” the woman closed her eyes. “I just love this song.” He watched the lamp-light on her face for a moment, then returned his attention to the singer.  Some things you just had to take on faith.

“I think I need some new clothes.” Decius looked up. “What’s wrong with the ones you have?” While not exactly miserly, he was the sort to wear a thing until it was threadbare. “Nothing,” J’alani said, tail beginning to slap back and forth. “I just need some...different ones.” “Different?”  She took a deep breath. “You know...girl’s clothes.” At his blank and blinking expression, she sighed. “A bra.” “Oh.” He leaned back in his desk chair and looked thoughtful. “Where do you even buy those?” “Alicia....” Alicia worked in Decius’ shop, and it was her who had gently brought the matter to J’alani’s attention in the first place. “...she said she knew a place, and she said she could take me.” “Hmm.” He eyed her up and down. “I guess...” Whatever he’d been about to say, he shook it off. “All right. How much do you need?” “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “Maybe--” And she suggested a figure that Alicia had given her. “WHAT?” He stared at her, slightly open mouthed. “You’re joking.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “I don’t know, that’s what she said.” “Are the bloody things lined with ceruleum?” “I don’t know!” She snapped. “I didn’t even want one.” For some reason she felt ready to cry all of a sudden. “Hey, hey.” He stood up and came around the desk, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Lani, it’s fine, I’m sorry. I was just joking.” “I don’t...” “You don’t have to do or wear anything you don’t want,” he said, “but I’ll give you whatever you need, ok?” He paused. “Is there something else?” “No,” she muttered. “I just don’t want people looking.” “Ah.” He patted her awkwardly. “I’m not sure you’re going to be able to help that. You’re...you know, growing up.” He smiled, looking embarrassed now. “Even if I didn’t notice.” “I hate getting older,” she said. He grinned. “Imagine how I must feel.”

Amelia - Engine oil, whiskey, incense Darien - Lavender, bergamot, expensive cigarettes Madeleine - Jasmine over linseed oil Celia - Orange blossom Jamie - Wood sage and leather, sandalwood and a hint of caramel J’alani - Coconut oil with a hint of lime blossom Nalili - Vanilla over balsam

“Ames...the chair has to go.” “The hell it does!” she snapped. “It’s my chair. If you don’t like it, don’t look at it.” “Your chair,” Darien said, folding his arms, “looks like a couple of cushions you pulled out of the garbage and nailed to a broken frame.” “So it’s a little rough around the edges--” “It’s ALL edges!” he said, voice rising. “It stinks! It’s an offense to the fucking eyes, for god’s sake, is there any actual reason you can’t just buy a new one?” She sniffed and folded her arms. “Costs too much.” “How much can a chair possibly cost?!?” “What do you care, it’s not your gods-damned chair!” “I realize this might’ve escaped you,” he said, testily, “but we actually live together, which means that a certain degree of compromise--” “’--certain degree of compromise,’” she said and a high-pitched voice, rolling her eyes and making air quotes. “I put up with your stupid wine rack.” “The wine rack,” he said, voice dropping to sub-zero temperatures, “is not stupid. It is a necessary thing, for those of us who prefer not to live like savages.” “Yep, I can see you’re really roughing it here,” she said, looking around pointedly. “Wine rack, fancy cups--”  “You expect me to drink a 1578 Ishgardian rose out of a coffee mug?” She threw up her hands. “Look, I’m done arguing.” She grabbed a thin cotton blanket that had been resting on the arm of the couch and slung it over the chair. “There. Happy?” He folded his arms. “That’s your idea of a compromise?” “...and I’ll make dinner.” “With what? All we’ve got are some lettuce leaves and eggs.” “Perfect,” she said. “You toss the salad, I’ll scramble the eggs.” ((No, I don’t particularly expect anyone will get the joke.))

The sound was awful, erratic, deafening. J’alani huddled down beneath the desk, in the tiny room where Decius had left her, hands clamped over her ears as she trembled and tried to wind herself into a ball so small she’d vanish, reappearing, she hoped, somewhere quiet. Eventually, after some time, the noise stopped.  The door swung open and she heard someone whistling, cheerful, a sound that cut off quickly. “J’alani?” Hurried steps and then a face appeared. The moment he saw her he drew back, as if she was the frightening thing and not the sound, all that awful concussive SOUND. “Hey.” He dropped to one knee, which still had him towering over her. “Hey. What’s wrong?” He studied her, carefully, they way she’d seen him look over a broken mechanism, trying to find the source of the trouble. “Oh...” His face fell. “The noise?” Her hands dropped slightly, her ears un-flattening, and she nodded. “I’m sorry.” He looked it, too, genuinely distressed. “I didn’t think about...”  The trouble was, there was nowhere to put her. She knew that. He’d explained that he didn’t want to leave her in his home, alone. You couldn’t leave a child alone, not like that. So instead he’d only left her a little alone, here, in the office over his workshop, with promises to check on her and bring her a sandwich. “It’s...we’re going to be testing all day,” he said, and she curled up even tighter. “I think...hang on.” He straightened up, disappearing from her view, and there was the sound of drawers being opened and hurriedly rifled.  “Here.” A hand appeared, holding...something, and he dropped back down to her level. “We use them for testing, got a pair myself. Put these on, like this--” He slipped the band over his head so the two leather padded bits covered his ears. “Like this--damn, can’t even hear myself--and it should dull the sound a little.” He handed them over. “Are you hungry?” She nodded.  He straightened and reappeared with a plate. There was the promised sandwich.  “You want to eat under the desk?” She hesitated, then crawled out, slowly, and settled herself in the chair. With a great deal of dignity, she scooted the chair into the desk, lifted the ear muffs, and placed them over her head.  Then she took a bite of her sandwich. Decius said something, but she couldn’t hear it. He smiled, though, and shook his head, and sat down on the corner of the desk to eat his own sandwich.

“...to be commended for the speed and efficiency with which I resolved the situation, you see.” Celia raised her brows and formed her lips into a little O of wonder. “My goodness.” She smiled, and let her hand rest lightly on his chest. “That’s impressive.”  She lingered there for a six second count (less would cost her a tip, more would encourage him to stay). Then she put on her best reluctant pout. “I’d love to hear more, but...” She glanced at the clock, apologetic smile, hand on chest slides down. “Of course.” He was gracious enough about it, thankfully, and she was able to hustle him into his clothes and out the door with just enough time to shower off before the next client. * “...not a rich man, by any means,” he said, with a sly smile, “but I think it’s important to do what you love.” “Oh yes.” Eyebrow bob, suggestive smile, hand on his hip. “I agree completely.” The not a rich man comment was, undoubtedly, an attempt to get her to lower the price. “And speaking of...” She figured she could make the sale and still have time to get back to the bar and book something for the following night. “Ah yes.” He glanced around. “Is there somewhere...?” “Right this way.” * “That’s right...you like that?” She moaned appropriately, though given that he couldn’t see her face, she felt justified in rolling her eyes slightly. After a few more thrusts (and some generic but impassioned vocalization on her part), he finished. She collapsed on the bed, though she was already running the numbers on how much she’d made tonight and what percent she’d need to pay out to the front of house. “All worn out?” He caressed her thigh, sounding smug. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?” She smiled, because they could always hear it in your voice, and threw in a bit of breathlessness for effect. “No...but I’m sure I won’t be walking straight for a while.” Where the hell was her bra--oh yes, over there on the desk. Mustn’t roll over too quickly though.  * It was coming on four bells when she finally strolled up to the bar. The gold-suited Lalafel bartender gave her a cheeky wink and a wave as she opened the register and dropped in the rake. “Busy night?” he asked. “You’d better believe it,” she said, collapsing onto a bar stool. “And I’ve three booked for next week already.” He whistled. “Never seen anything like it. Good work, Lady Celia.” Suddenly she laughed. He gave her a curious look. “Nothing,” she said. “I was just thinking about speed and efficiency.”

They’d all been up for days--literal days, and it was taking a toll. Fights were breaking out. One of the officers had come undone entirely, screaming that they were all going to die here, and had to be lashed to his bunk. Darien scrubbed his arms up to the elbow for the fifth time in the last two hours. Mostly to make himself feel better, as he’d spent the last 72 hours in tight quarters with the infected and washing his hands wasn’t going to do a damn thing. “Back to the front lines?” He glanced over at the cheerful woman who’d come up beside him to wash up. She was short for an Elezen, brown hair slung up into a rats nest that was passing for a bun. A fellow medic, they’d been introduced...Tina? Tara?  “Guns blazing,” he said, cheerfully, though he was exhausted. Had to keep morale up. “You?” “Almost,” she said. Other than the hair she looked remarkably fresh, all things considered. “They’ve got me up on the bow.” Lucky. Recovered patients were on the bow, upwind. Darien was stuck amidships. A few of his patients had made it to the bow. The vast majority were still hacking up their lungs below deck.  The ones who didn’t make it had been piled into one of the last life boats, set aflame, and shoved off the stern. He’d never seen anything like it--how fast they all got sick, how bad it was. By the time they’d had the Vylbrand coast in sight, there was no question of making landfall. One or two did try their luck, leaping over the side. Darien closed his eyes. He was the best shot. And he knew, as well as the captain who gave him the order, that those men could not under any circumstances be allowed to reach the shore. “Hey.” She patted his arm. “You’ll be fine. You were already sick, weren’t you?” He was. It turned around quickly, thank god. Suddenly he realized-- “Tierna,” he said. “My god, I’m sorry. I forgot.” She was one who’d taken care of him, though to be fair he’d been so feverish... She laughed. “It’s all right. Come on, sailor, up and at ‘em.” It was getting darker by the time he went back down to make the rounds. Cabin to cabin, hammock to hammock, in a space that wasn’t designed for so many prone bodies all at once, he had to pick his way carefully over them, pausing to check a few that didn’t move.  Supplies had been limited. There wasn’t much to be done. Those ashore had sent water, at least, so they didn’t have to ration, and he was doling it out now, ensuring everyone had some. Cool cloths with salt-water on the forehead. Broth when they could stomach it. He paused, grabbed the gangway ladder as he leaned aside to let someone pass. His fingers dug into the wood more tightly then necessary, so hard he felt splinters under his nails.  There’s nothing else we can do. All he could do was stay up, awake, make sure that no one was alone too long. If anyone slipped away, even if they were delirious...he didn’t think they should do it alone, without notice. These things should be noted. Fucking observed. Something. Anything. He wanted to take a deep breath but the air was rotten, sick and sour, so he kept breathing shallow until he made it back up on deck. They were bobbing at anchor out in Moraby Bay. He could see the lights ashore, clearly, warm and yellow, casting little wrinkled trails of light across the still waters. Harbor lights. Best thing in the world. “Hey.” Another presence at the rail--Tierna. She heaved a sigh and stared out at the shore. “Holding up?” “Not really, no.”  They were quiet for a while. “Anybody waiting back on land?” “No, not...well friends. Yes.” She gave him a side-eye, and a tired smile. “Me either.” They watched the lights for a long time. He suspected those ashore were leaving lamps on, letting them burn through the night, so their little plague-ship didn’t feel so desperately alone.  A hand patted him on the back. “Get some sleep.” “After.”  “Well, get some rest then.”  He saw Tierna again the next day. She was cheerful, but then, she was on the bow. He was grateful, though, that she was doing what she could to keep them all going. A word, a smile. That was really all they had, but it was immeasurable. Finally--three days after they’d dropped anchor--he was able to tell the captain it was safe to bring them in.  He’d sleep once they docked, but for now--the last awful task--sat on his knees in front of him. The casualty list. He had to check it, approve it.  Edison, Maury. Eyripfrew, Caerwyb. Gisseaux, Tierna.  He paused. That...no, when had that happened? Quickly he stood, paper clutched tight in one hand, crumpling it slightly, as he stormed his way to the bow.  “Where’s Tierna? Tierna Gisseaux?” The young man there looked bewildered. “Sir?” “The other bloody medic,” he snapped, or maybe he’d snapped long since. “Where is she?” “Sir...” the lad swallowed. “She...she was one of the first to go down. Right after yourself, only...only she didn’t make it, sir.” Darien closed his eyes. He dredged up a confused memory, he’d gotten sick almost at once, seen her face over him a few times, then... Eyes open. A few other sailors were giving him a worried look.  “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I...I just haven’t slept.”

She slid up behind him as he stood in front of the sink, carefully dragging a razor across his jawline. Her arms wrapped around his bare waist and she lay her head against the back of his neck. She breathed in. “What is that?” “What’s what?” His violet gaze flickered towards her reflection in the mirror.  “That smell.” “Lavender...bergamot...something else. Why?” She took another long, slow breath. “Just curious.” The hands around his waist slid lower. He paused. Their eyes met again in the mirror. “This IS fairly tricky you know.” “It can wait.”

Celia stared through the window for a long, long time.  The color was what caught her eye initially: cloud-pink, the color of a sunrise warming up. Then the shape of it: like a bell, a perfect curve, but how? A single piece of fabric she could have understood, but the skirt was cut in layers--hundreds, it seemed like, layer after layer after layer of some light, impossibly airy material, each one a little shorter than the one beneath, building on each other to create the perfect silhouette, a bell-shaped skirt of sun-pink silk, hanging in the window of a shop in Ul’dah. She desperately wanted to touch it--to rub a little pinch of silk between her fingers, to plunge her hand into those layers. But perhaps something so delicate wasn’t meant to be touched so ardently. She could easily imagine it crumbling, coming apart, dissolving into little tissue-like shreds that would certainly cover the entire promenade. Just thinking about it made her flinch.  The guard across the way was giving her the stink-eye. She’d been standing here too long, her own skirt too short, too gaudy, too simple. It was meant to wrap up and strap down. She’d never owned an airy thing like the skirt in the window, which--had there not been glass in front of it--would almost certainly be caught up in the slightest breeze, though even that, she was sure, would probably destroy it. No...It would never survive out here, on the other side of the glass.

Another breath. Another slide. Another chip. Behind her, all around the room, on various surfaces, one saw shapes: silhouettes, really, of graceful white balloons, smooth hulls, impossibly small fittings and fixtures. There was the Enterprise. A tiny Bronco. Her favorite, a Viltgance. Breathe. Slide. Chip. At this rate, it would take weeks.  But anything worth doing takes time.

“I think,” said the second girl, squinting and tilting her head back and forth, “it’s uh...a uh...” Maddie slapped the brush against her new canvas with force, causing the two to jump and startle.  “It’s nothin’,” said the first one, scornfully. “She’s just wastin’ paint.” Good. Yes. Fine. Now maybe they’d leave-- “Why d’you do that, just slop it all over the place?” Maddie shut her eyes, tilted her face to the heavens, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through her nose.  “It’s a sunset.” The two exchanged dubious glances. “Sunset?” “Yes,” she said, shortly.  They looked at it with fresh, if dubious eyes.  “Don’t look like no sunset,” the boy said, frowning. “Color’s right, though,” said the girl, thoughtfully. “See? All red an’ pink an...” “Blue,” the boy scoffed. “Who’s ever seen a blue sunset.” Eventually they shook their heads and moved away. Maddie heaved another sigh, this one a sound of pure relief. She didn’t like to talk about her painting, but when anybody pressed her she said “sunset.” It was just easier that way.  And it was easier, too, to slap the brush across the canvas, abstracting everything as color and suggestion, easier by far than trying to depict. To show the way blood pooled. The way it soaked into pink hair and muddied it. The way blue skin looked with little bits of teeth sticking through the cheek. Shutting her eyes again, Maddie continued to attack the canvas.  She didn’t need to look to see.

The sun hung low, nearly ready now to dip itself into the sea and be extinguished for the night. The white sand was hot, the tide low, and the waves barely had the energy to shush him as he walked along the beach. He’d had a time, finding this place. There was no easy access by foot. By boat, of course, but it was unlikely that anyone passing by would have occasion to stop here. He wanted a place where he could be alone for a minute, and enjoy the warm and the water, which he’d never been able to do before now, not really, not without that nagging sense of nervousness.  Now he was free. Discarding his shirt had been the most rebellious act he could remember, and now he walked barefoot over packed wet sand that gave a little with every step. The sun was at his back--his bare back, too pale by far but probably sunburned by now. He felt so good he almost felt bad about it.  To be fair: the potion had been expensive. He’d been adventuring, not with any great success, since he was seventeen. He was twenty six now. And he saved it all, he really did. No booze. No whores. He didn’t even send his money home, which he’d felt bad about, but his parents--his eternally kind, placid, reassuring parents--told him not to worry about it, that they were doing just fine. He hadn’t been to see them yet--he was still a little nervous about that. It would be like seeing them for the first time. Of course they’d always said it didn’t matter, but it did: every time he looked in the mirror. Every time he slipped his armor on behind a changing screen so no-one would see.  Every time he’d gone to the beach with his friends and hadn’t taken his shirt off. Of course they KNEW. And it was very much thanks to one of them that he was here, now, as he wanted to be. As he ought to be. And he was very, very, very grateful. But for this moment, he’d wanted to celebrate quietly, by himself. “Hello.” He startled, badly, and turned to see the girl, sitting on the sand, hands resting on her knees, looking up at him with a smile.  “Hi,” he said, feeling flushed, though hopefully some of that was just the sun. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.” “I thought not.” She had short mahogany curls, bright eyes, and was wearing the cutest little bathing suit. He realized he was looking, and brought his eyes back up. She still smiled, though, and he realized with a start that it was not a kind smile, or an indulgent one--it was friendly, maybe a little inviting, not a look he often (ever?) saw directed at himself.  Then again, he hadn’t really been himself until last week. “Care to join me?” she said. “I was just going to watch the sunset.” He did want to join her, though it would have been rude to invite himself to sit down. He sat beside her, a good three feet away, mirrored her posture. She was looking at him, too. All the muscle he’d built up from years of wearing heavy armor had carried over, for which he’d been grateful. But muscle that had looked a little strange on his old frame, he realized now, had a number of aesthetic advantages. And being asked to sit down and watch the sunset with a pretty girl was one of these.  They talked, a little, as the sea went orange, with a mercury-white path dancing over the waves leading straight to the sun. They talked more as the sun slipped out of sight and the first stars came out, the sky violet-indigo now.  She huddled a little tighter, wrapping her arms around her knees.  “Sorry,” he said. “I’d offer you my shirt, but...”  She laughed. “That’s all right.” Then she tipped her head. “Maybe you could scoot a little closer, though.” He did, heart pounding.  “You’re awfully shy,” she she said softly in his ear, “for such a good looking fella.” It crossed his mind to tell her the whole story. What he’d looked like before. But then he realized, none of it mattered. Going forward, that was all that mattered now.  So instead he turned his head and let his lips brush hers. The tide was coming in, and he made no objection when she took his hand and walked him into the waves.

She hopped on his back, grabbed him by the ears, and slammed his head down again. And again. And again. The announcer was screaming and the crowd ate it up, but eventually some burly fellows had to come in and pull her off, because the lad hadn’t moved in a minute. She blinked and tried not to rub her eye; she’d only get the glass in deeper.  Once they got her off, she settled down, though she did spit on the lad as they dragged him into the shade. The rocks were red and the dust wet with blood and little bits that might’ve been teeth. “Not personal,” she muttered, as she shook the other fighters off and went to collect her purse.

She turned this over for a moment. This was a habit she’d acquired from him, actually: he didn’t like talking unless he was sure of what he was going to say. “Would you do it again?” He slid out from under the chassis and sat up. “Of course I would.” He looked perplexed, and not a little upset. “J’alani, why are you asking me this?” That, she wasn’t sure herself, other than natural curiosity. She liked to know how things worked. That had made them a good fit. But the one thing she’d never quite been able to understand was Decius himself. “I think...” she said, slowly, “sometimes...” But it was no good. If there were words to explain, she didn’t have them.  Decius stared at her a moment longer, then stood up. He went to the sink and washed his hands and dried them on a half-clean cloth, then came to sit on the grating beside her, cross-legged. “I’ve never regretted you,” he said, with an intensity that surprised her. He was never intense, expect when he was struggling with some engineering problem, but now his face had that focused, determined look he got when bent over his workbench at two in the morning. “Not once. Not even when things were difficult.” “But did you want to? Or was it the right thing to do?” He paused. “At the time? ...at the time...” He looked away. “I think I was in a place where I needed to do something good. We’d...there was so much that wasn’t.” He glanced at her, briefly. “It was a good thing to do and I’ve always been glad that I did it. I can’t tell you I wanted a child because I wasn’t planning on it, but once I had you, yes, I wanted very much to keep you.” They were edging dangerously close to things they didn’t talk about, but... “Did it help?” “It helped you, I hope.” He smiled, but it was a faint smile, crooked, quickly gone. “I don’t know, Lani. People make mistakes. We do terrible things, and maybe we didn’t mean to, but that doesn’t fix the problem. All we can do is try to balance out. That might not fix the problem either, but it’s all we’ve got.” He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “This is why I stick to machines.”  J’alani considered this.  “But if I did something good,” she said, “it might balance out even more.” Long pause, then, before he finally spoke. “You should always try to do good things,” he said. “But sometimes you don’t have good choices. You never know what might tip the scale, or which way.” He smiled again, but it stuck this time. “But hey, you turned out all right. Enough philosophy--hand me that spanner, would you?”

“...didn’t exactly come up the traditional way, so I suppose it’s understandable.” Darien studied his fellow conjurer with an expression that--he hoped--conveyed polite confusion rather than instant annoyance. This was something he’d been working on.  “Sorry,” he said, “but I’m not sure I take your meaning?” “Well,” said the elderly Elezen woman, “you’ve been honing your abilities here--” She swept a hand around Maelstrom command. “--instead of the Twelveswood.” Smile that was certainly meant to be kind but which he only saw as patronizing. “Here you’re all focused on getting the job done--commendable, dear, very commendable!--but you don’t ask yourselves if it’s a job that should be done. You see the difference?” Darien tilted his head as if he were considering this statement--and he was. My job is to make people better, and you want to ask me if that’s a job worth doing? Malia Tressaux was a conjurer of some age and skill. She was there because the Maelstrom had reached out to the Twin Adders about an exchange program--something about building stronger relations between the Grand Companies, which Darien thought was a fine idea, but he’d had a hell of a hangover that morning and might’ve missed the finer points of the meeting. Malia seemed to have attended a very different meeting: she seemed to believe her job was to “correct” all the “flaws” in Darien’s approach to conjury. Which included gently chiding him with a number of asinine questions about whether he was quite sure that this was all in line with what the Elements would have wanted, which gave him about as much of a headache as the gods-damned hangover. “I realize my techniques may seem a little unusual,” he said. “You have to understand, though, that in a combat situation--out in the field--there often isn’t time for more than a snap decision. And since some of the techniques of conjury can be a little, ah...more deliberately paced...I have, as you pointed out, adapted some of those techniques. There’s a really interesting treatise on Sharlayan aetherology that I think...” But she was looking at him in horror. “Oh no, no no no!” She shook her head as vigorously as eighty years would allow. “To deviate from these techniques...you must understand, our magic comes directly from the Elementals--” “Actually,” he said, and this time he couldn’t hide the impatient clip in his tone, “it doesn’t. The only thing that comes from them is permission, not knowledge.”  A tight-lipped look. “Yes. Well. Still, to mingle these techniques with others is simply...well. It’s...not particularly in line with tradition.” “Neither am I,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some patients to attend.”

She stared at him. He spoke easily, as if they were friends (if children and adults could ever be friends).  He lay on his back as if there was all the time in the world. Carefully, she ilmed over and reached up. She saw the plate with the lines etched on it, reached behind, and felt something rough. She grabbed it and rocked it back and forth until it came loose. “Excellent.” He sounded pleased. “Now let’s see about this broken line.” From that point on he kept up a steady stream of chatter that was almost reassuring, because it had nothing to do with J’alani or the soldiers outside. Finally, once a new tube was in place, he put his tools back in the tray and turned his head, awkwardly, to get a good look at her. He had a little silver dot in the middle of his forehead. For a long time they stared at one another. He looked sad, then worried, then-- “Come with me, slowly,” he said. “There’ll be some yelling but don’t run, all right? I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.” * There was yelling, and pointing, and J’alani did her best to hide behind the man’s leg, which was more or less as tall as a tree and nearly as wide, to her eyes.  Eventually, the yelling died down. The man never yelled, but he spoke firmly, and angrily, and as he was leading her away she looked back and saw the soldiers shaking their heads. One snickered. “I’m Decius,” he said. “For the next few days I want you to stick close, all right? Don’t get out of my sight. If anyone asks you a question, just point to me--you don’t need to talk to them.” He glanced down and suddenly stopped. “Are you all right?” She blinked, and nodded, even though tears were streaking down her cheeks and she was sniffling. The man patted his pockets and eventually found a rag--there was some oil on it, but he dropped to one knee and patted clumsily at her cheeks.  “Better?”  She nodded.  “Good.” He sounded relieved as he stood. “Come on. I’ll show you where we’ll stay.”