speak to me, sages

✦ 𝐈 𝐏𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔, '𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄. ✦

#𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐒— an independent & highly selective 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 for percy jackson & the olympians, as adored by tally (he/it, 25).

tell me, then, of the gloam prince, of the hundred souls in his ribs. he who would bring woe and ruin to all of caer-ilim.

in sooth, this hedge - knight need not have asked kindly. he could have come up to rhae, shoved him aside, and devoured the food, and rhae wouldn't have resisted. he is too small to duel, and too scared to argue.

war brewing beneath winter's gaze, it is eat or be eaten ( rhae is used to being eaten. )

but he has not. not everyone is so ruthless in their hunger. the knight has done something worse : begged. not in the groveling, kneeling way of city beggars, hands outstretched in passing, rhae's heart aching at the lightness of his pockets, bemoaning at how his masters drank his earnings dry under the guise of expenses owed for his housing, clothing, feeding and still somehow left him hunger - panged and cold. but begged, nonetheless, out of hunger. it strikes in rhae the chord of sympathy. this is deadlier than a sword in the stomach : this is how you lose your head.

he has none of the three gold dragons he's stolen when he'd run : spent them all already. only five silver remaining. a handful of coppers. and these pieces of fresh brown bread, the stew with chunks of meat he's delicately eaten around. " i've not much to spare . . .

𝐇𝐈𝐒 mother-maker  had  said  once,  with  full  confidence,  that  it  was  in  food  which  men  found  their  first  comfort.  be  it  fresh  from  their  mother  or  offered  to  them  on  a  plate  warmed  by  the  summer  sun,  or  even  strips  of  still-bloodied  meat,  the  first  moment  of  peace  in  a  life  came  when  one  had  food  in  their  belly.  how  strange  it  was  that  not  even  the  most  knowledgeable  of  witches  knew  why  such  was  the  case;  they  supposed,  he  had  heard,  that  it  was  simply  the  nature  of  all  living  things.  nobody  wanted  to  be  empty.  nobody  wanted  to  hunger.  

if  you  can  save  someone  from  hunger  pains,  why  wouldn’t  you?  it’s  a  far  easier  beast  to  beat  than  dragons  or  lords.  

he  expects  to  be  turned  away  as  a  mercy.  his  instinct  is  not  that  of  a  beaten  hound,  but  a  beast  of  burden:  the  low  groan  of  cattle  in  hunger  is  not  one  often  heeded,  for  their  meat  will  sustain  others  even  if  it  clings  to  their  frame.  he  braces  for  it  and  readies  an  apology  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  for  he  knows  better  than  most  the  annoyance  which  comes  at  intruded  meals  -  but  the  rejection  never  comes.  

instead  there  is  an  offer  of  spared  meat.  he  blinks  and,  before  he  has  the  mind  to  stop  it,  a  soft  chuckle  rolls  out  from  between  his  lips.  

❛  you  needn’t  apologize,  it’s  more  than  enough.  i  owe  you.  ❜  anything  is  enough,  truthfully.  any  food  in  his  stomach  will  be  enough  for  a  few  precious  hours  until  his  body  begins  consuming  itself  again.  

and  yet,  a  question  arises.  why  only  the  meat?  his  brows  furrow  and,  perhaps  overstepping  the  careful  boundaries  between  strangers,  he  asks,  ❛  is  the  meat  not  one  of  your  liking  ??  i’ll  repay  you  if  you’d  like,  i’m  quite  the  hunter.  ❜  

and what had rhaelar waters, the not - quite - dragonborn found, once his heart had stopped racing and he'd stopped glancing over his shoulder ( as if anyone cared to chase someone as lowly as he? ) each town much the same as the last. a tavern, a blacksmith, barns and stables and homes. down - thrust eyes, most of which did not bear to notice him. there is no intrigue in this land, no reason to stare at a ghost ( lines smeared and ugly, reborn through bastardy and coincidence, and not politics, ) no reason to notice anything more than the cooler winds, the smaller crops . . . whispers had reached his ear that a dragon had attacked some villages over. he's far from home, indeed.

so far now, in fact, rhae had taken to coming into inns and treating himself to a warm meal instead of starving in the woods ---- now regaining the meager resilience he'd lost in the first fearful days of his journey. rebuilding within himself a flame that had been diminishing, weaker and colder and farther, until he'd found himself terrified he'd lose it entirely. the food helps, even when it is poor. ( he'll soon need coin : need to find a city, somewhere to work, to lay himself out once more for survival's sake. but not yet. )

𝐀 shame  that  he  is  not  as  he  once  was,  bright-eyed  and  eager  and  wearing  all  manner  of  hedge  knight  signifiers  with  pride.  he  would  have  gone  to  war  for  any  lesser  or  greater  house  which  called  upon  him,  if  only  for  the  glory  of  putting  his  blade  through  someone’s  sternum.  let  his  steel  find  a  sheath  in  someone’s  ribs  -  such  is  only  fitting  of  his  station  (that,  of  course,  being  of  the  desperate  and  motley).  would  that  he  was  as  he  was  in  his  younger  years,  for  he  can  feel  the  tugging  of  a  child’s  soul  in  the  back  of  his  chest,  urging  him  to  peer  ‘neath  the  stranger’s  hood.  

what  secrets  does  it  hide?  whispers  his  younger  self,  why’s  he  daring  to  wear  a  hood  in  public?  is  he  wanted?  sought  after?  in  need?  

no  better  or  worse  than  anywhere  else  is  reassuring.  gourmet  food  would  rip  the  ghost  of  coin  from  his  pockets,  and  poor  food  is  not  worth  fantasizing  about.  if  the  food  is  merely  decent,  then  that  is  good  enough  for  him.  he  can  dream  about  that  with  little  guilt  or  remorse;  better  to  waste  his  daydreams  on  food  than  on  crowns,  lest  the  gods  get  the  impression  that  he  truly  wishes  for  such  a  thing  and  nudge  him  further  along  that  damned  rancid  path.  

he  drums  his  fingers  ‘gainst  the  table  in  a  slow  rhythm.  his  stomach  growls.  a  spark  of  envy  nearly  catches  for  the  far-off  dragon  in  a  cave,  but  he  swiftly  smothers  it.  no  point  in  thinking  about  such  things.  not  here,  at  least.  

❛  stale  bread  is  a  poor  man’s  blessing,  ❜  it’s  said  with  no  great  inspiration  or  kindness  behind  it,  recited  like  a  bored  monk  would  old  and  ignorable  prayers.  cinaed  weighs  his  options,  then  casts  consideration  to  the  side  in  favor  of  action,  as  he  was  so  taught.  

❛  i  hope  you’ll  forgive  my  asking,  but  traveler  to  traveler…  i’m  damn  starved.  i’d  give  anything  for  even  a  mote  of  food  or  gold  to  pay  for  it  with,  if  you’d  feel  inclined.  ❜  he  hates  asking.  he  hates  begging.  it  comes  so  naturally,  however,  that  he  cannot  help  but  loathe  the  lessons  he  was  given  on  the  matter  by  a  long-dead  knight.  would  that  the  poor  man’s  ghost  would  stop  nagging  at  him.  would  that  he  was  his  younger  self.  

Going into the city to look at a possible location for her flower shop was something of an ordeal in itself, so when Katie had noticed an advertisement for a bakery and bistro promising Greek cuisine, she had to admit that she was curious if she would meet a demigod or not. The problem is, of course, that the directions given were muddled at best; to someone like Katie who had dyscalculia reversing left for right and right for left, there is a chance that the directions would actually have made more sense if written in Ancient Greek than from a hastily drawn map. Still, the offer of food connecting to her mother’s home (or at least, the country where her mother was once worshipped) is enough to encourage her onwards.

Pausing a moment — only a moment — and ignoring the glares and grumbles and outright profanity from some of the fellow pedestrians, Katie tries to mentally retrace her steps. When bumped into by another individual, her hand instinctively goes to her side. Most surprising for one who normally prides herself on wearing her heart on her sleeve, she hopes that the wince isn’t too obvious. Even if the scar tissue underneath the floral cotton blouse is.

“Yes. I—“

Though barely any glance their direction, Katie notices that while other people comment about how unusual it is to see a St. Bernard in the city, she is distinctly and obviously seeing a dragon. Throat suddenly feeling dry, her initial explanation is lost when Katie remembers previous encounters with very similar looking creatures. Almost defensively, and definitely subconsciously, Katie’s fingers curl around her previous injury.

Nearby flowers and the stems deliberately crawl towards the two when Katie’s fingers tremble faintly, and the world is temporarily muffled. A car horn blasts angrily as the car zooms down the street, and the full-body flinch that Katie gives in reply is entirely unintentional. At her feet, the crack in the concrete yawns, and surprisingly resilient nature waits to decide whether or not to provide her with a means of self defense.

𝐏𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍 is  a  nosy  bastard  of  a  creature.  it  wags  its  tail  not  too  much  unlike  a  dog,  but  the  motion  is  slow  despite  whatever  warped  enthusiasm  it  feels  for  catching  someone  who  sees  it  as  it  truly  is;  the  slow  swishing  is  much  more  akin  to  a  cat  fixating  on  a  toy  to  pounce  on.  it  scrapes  one  paw  against  the  ground,  maybe  in  preparation  or  in  play,  but  cinaed  sharply  clucks  his  tongue  and  the  dragon  lets  out  a  low  huff  of  displeasure.  

the  flinch  isn’t  missed.  nor  is  the  way  the  world  seems  to  crawl  towards  them,  flowers  and  their  budding  faces  turning  to  face  the  two  like  onlookers  eager  for  a  fight.  his  weight  shifts  from  foot  to  foot  and,  not  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  cinaed  recognizes  how  startling  it  must  be  to  see  a  dragon  out  and  about  in  the  city.  a  dozen  questions  pop  up  in  his  mind,  but  he  has  no  heart  to  ask  any  of  them.  it  isn’t  his  business,  even  if  he  does  want  to  know  why  the  woman  is  so  quick  to  tense  up.

he’s  perfectly  tame,  he  wants  to  say,  he  only  ever  bites  sometimes.

he  rests  his  palm  on  pamon’s  head  and  idly  rubs  circles  against  the  scales.  a  throaty  pleased  sound  sails  up  from  the  dragon’s  maw,  and  a  few  flames  dance  around  it’s  snout.  

❛  you  didn’t  startle  him,  ❜  he  offers  with  a  shrug,  returning  his  attention  to  the  stranger.  he  thinks  for  a  moment  on  her  question,  then  nods  and  points  further  down  the  street  with  his  free  hand.  ❛  it’s  further  down  the  street.  take  a  right  at  the  stopsign,  go  straight  for  a  block,  left  at  the  flower  shop  -❜  he  cuts  himself  off,  realizing  that  the  length  of  the  directions  might  be  better  written  down…  or…

❛  if  you  want,  we  can  show  you  the  way.  kinda  hungry  anyways.  ❜  he  glances  to  the  dragon  which,  at  the  opportunity  to  get  a  snack,  bobs  its  head  up  and  down  in  a  sharp  nod.  gods,  he  loathes  how  smart  the  blasted  thing  can  be  at  times. 

there is much that he explains and much that he does not. if what he says is true, he is right to be concerned for the fallout impact on the people of the realm, a concern that they should all share, but how can she take this man at his word? that he speaks of having house yule's trust should be a ringing endorsement and yet, adela finds herself inclined to question whether he is not embarking upon some grand scheme of deception.

perhaps he thinks that house hightower has become so mired in obscurity that they would have no desire to actually corroborate his claim of being knighted by house yule. though the thought is painful, adela has to admit to herself that her father would probably take the hedge knight at his word. fortunately, fate has smiled upon her and allowed her to instead serve as the first line of defense for whatever few fortunes her family still clings to. 'and how is it that you have come by this information? do you simply have extraordinary powers of observation or has someone disclosed all of this to you?'

the explanation does sound outlandish but perhaps that very quality is what gives the tale some credence (a reluctant admission she refuses to speak aloud) for how could anyone concoct such a tale from their imagination? her impression of cináed is a bleak one indeed but even so, it must be conceded that he does not seem the type for feverish ramblings.

'and even if everything you say is true, why is it that you have taken it upon yourself to deal with the problem? surely this would be a matter for the great houses?'

had it been anyone else, adela might have been flattered by the way in which he seemed to believe that her family could still bring some weight to bear but it almost felt like a barb coming from him, an unwelcome and emphatic reminder of how little influence her family currently held. of course, he wasn't entirely wrong. the other great houses would certainly believe the word of a hightower over that of a hedge knight but would that even be enough?

'i think you vastly overestimate how highly the word of my family is regarded in the realm. i suspect those of other great houses would feel more inclined to believe us to be delusional to make such claims rather than sincere and i suspect the king would hardly thank us for our efforts.' even so...might this not be an opportunity to show the rest of the realm that house hightower was not yet an irrelevance consigned to the shadows? and if they could engineer a solution that would protect people and their livelihoods, well the ensuing gratitude could certainly be turned into political capital.

𝐋𝐄𝐓 it  be  known:  if  he  were  going  to  deceive  anyone,  he  would  already  done  so.  deceit  is  the  easiest  path  to  take  and  the  shortest  one  to  walk,  it  brings  you  to  crossroads  wherein  honesty  and  blades  oft  meet.  gods,  if  only  he  had  decided  to  lie.  cináed briefly  reckons  that  his  regret  may  very  well  still  be  classed  by  the  reward  for  honesty,  that  being  the  willing  ear  of  house  hightower,  but  the  silence  between  them  gives  him  every  reason  to  think  otherwise.  

thank  goodness,  then,  that  her  objection  is  pointed  at  how  he  gained  such  information.  an  unseen  tension  ebbs  out  from  his  shoulders,  hidden  ‘neath  his  cloak,  and  he  finds  himself  strangely  relaxed.  this  is  the  easiest  part  to  explain  and  involves  no  greater  deceit  nor  thought,  for  it  is  also  the  most  rehearsed.  

❛  i  know  it  to  be  true  because  it  was  delivered  by  a  knight  of  the  king  himself,  albeit  far  from  directly  to  me.  i’ve  a  good  ear  for  listening  to  matters  best  left  behind  closed  doors,  and  they  thought  the  walls  thicker  than  they  were.  ❜  he  raises  a  hand  and  taps  the  top  of  his  ear,  ❛  they  never  heard  warnings  not  to  speak  of  sensitive  matters  ‘round  hedge  knights.  ❜  mostly  for  the  fact  that  his  ilk  were  prone  to  gossip,  as  he  did  now.  though  the  warning  is  based  in  old  stereotypes,  it  still  holds  truth  -  more  over,  his  better  hearing  is  still  a  mark  of  pride  for  him,  if  the  faint  smile  tugging  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth  is  in  anything  to  go  by.  

❛  it  is  a  matter  for  me  because  the  great  houses  would  not  listen  to  me,  my  lady.  i  am  a  hedge  knight  with  no  great  connection  to  any  outside  of  house  yule,  only  those  whose  ears  are  not  stuffed  with  arrogance  or  gold  would  heed  me.  i  overestimate  nothing,  either.  the  houses  may  deem  you  delusional  to  the  public  ear,  they  may  not  say  they  listen,  but  once  one  breaks  the  ice  ??  they  will  fall  in  line,  or  at  least  grow  cautious  enough  to  investigate  of  their  own  accord.  ❜      

he  shifts  his  weight  from  foot  to  foot,  then  tugs  at  his  cloak.  the  soft  fabric  runs  between  his  fingers  and,  for  a  second,  he’s  almost  pleased  by  his  efforts  to  get  such  information  across.  her  question  of  care  makes  his  eyes  dart  back  to  her  and,  for  all  of  a  moment,  those  damningly  dead  black  hues  have  a  spark  of  something  like  life  in  them.  

❛  i  do  not  want  to  be  a  hero.  i  just  do  not  want  people  to  starve  or  suffer.  it  is  not  an  extreme  position,  despite  what  the  lords  beyond  would  say.  ❜  

there  is  a  fierceness  there,  an  honesty  and  chivalry  his  fellow  hedge  knights  would  either  rid  themselves  of  by  drenching  their  hands  in  gold-paid  blood  or  by  shrugging  it  off  as  a  child’s  pursuit.  a  hundred  children  wanted  to  be  knights  and  saviors  and  see  the  world  good;  is  it  not  his  duty,  then,  to  see  that  brought  to  fruition  ??  not  of  the  accord  of  the  damned  in  his  ribs,  then  of  the  accord  of  the  libras.  a  weapon  of  children  is  an  optimistic  thing,  isn’t  he  ??

cináed’s  shoulders  slouch,  and  the  fire  briefly  kindled  within  him  is  extinguished  as  quick  as  it  comes.  his  smile  widens  just  a  touch  at  the  notion  that  her  father  will  listen,  even  if  he  will  not  act.  

❛  and  that  is  all  i  could  ask.  now,  you’ve  lended  me  an  ear  and  listened…  so,  is  there  anything  i  can  do  for  your  house  by  means  of  repayment  for  your  time  ??  ❜