Puts the 'romance' in 'necromancy'

Ice-cold air that had their breath streaming from their mouths pale and white like mist. Sickly purple light from fires that burned yet graced no warmth. Floors sweat-slick but still tacky underfoot, like drying blood. Walls hemming them in… And all around, above, below: the roots. Branching like veins, reaching like fingers, pallid like flesh. Something watched. Something waited. Something reached into their very minds, past conscious awareness and right down into every dark chamber of terror and shame and guilt. From what it gleaned from those depths, it played its torments; visions perfectly curated to wound. And from those wounds it drank, greedily, their fear. Yet. It was a temple, was it not? A holy place, hallowed through age and deeds afoul… Their families were there, were they not? Hated and reviled, perhaps. Visions of unmerciful deaths, perhaps. But still… They had spoken sacred vows, had they not? Declared their unerring loyalty? His end, or ours! Well, neither He nor they had ended in that temple, nor on that cliff. Regardless… All that was missing was the rings.

-

At fifteen summers, I’d not expected to reach my twenties. At twenty-five, staring at the twisted metal of that fucking Beacon, death within the year seemed a certainty. So passing thirty was really rather unexpected.

Even now, I was quite prepared to meet my inevitable death by the sword - though as time wore on, it seemed I only got better at outmaneuvering the various people who wanted to kill me, usually by employing the reliable standard of killing them first.

My old age (thirty-one) had me considering what I’d leave behind, when I finally went, especially since I now owned assets actually worth giving a damn about. It was these thoughts that sent me down the bank.

Samael Silren was still a ridiculous sing-song man, though I had always appreciated that he’d never once asked from where my money came. Still, he would often try to entice me with temptations I had no interest in, such as a loan or investments, which had me avoiding his company if I could help it. His son was of the age to man the bank’s counter on Turdas, now. He wasn’t yet infected with whatever rot made bankers so exhausting, so on the rare occasion I needed financial assistance beyond withdrawing or depositing my gold, I preferred to do business with him.

Silren Jr greeted me with a polite nod as I approached. “I want to talk about my house.” I told him. “Of course, mysir. How may I assist?” “What happens to it, when I die?” “It will pass to your next of kin.” He informed me promptly. “Any spouses, foremost. Then children.” “I don’t have any of those.” “Parents?” I shook my head. “Siblings?” “Not by blood.” “Grandparents, aunts, uncles…” He trailed off, seeing my expression. “Well, mysir, if you were to die intestate… Bona vacantia - your estate will be decreed by the Tribunal as the property of Ark, and taken into the city’s Treasury.” I considered this. “Everything goes to a spouse, you said?” “Oh, yes. Legally it’s quite simple, especially when there are no other inheritors.” “Alright.”

-

“Did you get the house-deed sorted?” Tharaêl asked, by way of greeting, as I returned home. “Do you want to get married? They said you’ll get everything automatically, that way.” He gave this a brief consideration. “Yeah, sure.”

-

The next day had us down the registry office.

The clerk gave us a wary look, which was rather rude as neither of us had anything more than our casual ‘about town’ weapons on us. “One marriage certificate, please.” I said. 

He sighed, exhausted as if he'd fought a great battle. I took offense at that - sitting at a desk bothering bits of paper about was hardly a difficult job. “Date and place of wedding?” He asked, in an odd and hopeless tone. “We’re not having one.” Tharaêl answered. “Just the certificate.” “Mysirs, it's really rather mandatory.” “I've seen weddings.” I said - which was true, I tended to go look if one was happening. “Someone has to wear a dress. I'm not doing that.” “Really?” Tharaêl turned to me. “I'm not doing that either.” “One of them is always in a dress.” I told him, with absolute certainty. “Apologies,” the clerk interrupted, “I assumed you were marrying each other…?” “Yes.” We said.

It seemed the clerk wanted to tell us a great number of things, but then decided not to. I concluded that he was not very helpful.

“The matter of clothing is not something my office assists with, though I do advise you continue wearing some. I can help arrange an officiant for your wedding, whereupon you may sign your marriage certificate. Note that under Nehrimese law, religious ceremonies are no longer permitted.” We nodded, and he continued, “I hope your paperwork is in order? Birth certificates?” He must’ve felt brave, because he looked to me in a manner quite pointed. “Immigration papers?” “No-one gave me those.” I said. “I just turned up.” I assumed I’d not been given any papers on account of the fact I washed ashore on Duneville’s coast after drowning, a fact I decided not to inform the clerk in case that meant I wouldn't be allowed to marry. Tharaêl also kept quiet regarding his own papers - presumably they were still at the Refuge, or even in the possession of the Rhalâta, and we certainly weren’t going to fetch them.

The clerk sighed once more.

-

We were sent on an ordeal to several different offices, all of which were staffed by people acting as if the universe had presented them with a great and personal trial in dealing with us. Eventually we ended up at the ‘Bureau for Former Pathless’ - the Paths were abolished when the Nehrimese took over, but it meant that many Enderalean citizens did not have the paperwork in a system that suddenly required it. They sent us home with said paperwork, eventually, but for some reason we had to write it all ourselves.

“How do you spell ‘Prophet’?” I asked Tharaêl, as we sat at the kitchen table with our forms. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.” He said. “Put your occupation as ‘Keeper of the First Signet’, then specify you’re retired.” “What are you putting?” “Oh, I’m telling them all about my years as a Rhalâim.” He spat, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ve just got to the part where I- hey! You cunt!” Tharaêl added, as I’d just kicked him under the table. He kicked me back, harder, to dissuade more kicking. It didn’t, but I decided to stop anyway. “We’re putting your wages as the household income, right?” “Yes. Leave it blank on your forms - the Rhalâta pay you under the table” “Gustav usually hands it over his table, though.” “No, it-” He looked up, caught my smile, and threw his pencil at me - which I dodged. Tharaêl snatched up my pencil, which was fine by me, as my wrist had started to hurt and I was done with writing for now. I went to put the kettle on.

-

We returned to the Bureau the next afternoon to turn in the paperwork, which was accepted after a cursory glance. I had worried that they’d question our birth dates - the both of us didn’t know when we were born, exactly, so we made them up - but it passed without notice.

The clerk from the registry office met with us again, today drinking out of a mug that had clearly once said ‘Thank Malphas it’s Fredas’, now with ‘Malphas’ carefully scratched off.

“Mysirs.” He greeted. “Your applications are all in order?” “They didn’t find any problems.” Tharaêl told him. “Excellent.” The clerk opened a little notepad and picked up his quill. “Do you have any specific requests for your ceremony? Vows? We can provide flowers by arrangement…” “I don’t want the church bell rang.” I said. “It’s too loud.” “And I don’t care if it’s the rules, I’m not wearing a dress.” Tharaêl insisted. “Yeah me neither.” “Yeah.”

There was a pause before the clerk spoke again. I couldn’t help but notice he was not writing any of this down. “I will… Make arrangements to allow it. In fact, I have a small form here-” I repressed a sigh “-for requests. Would you be so kind to fill this out now?”

We did so. Tharaêl wrote, I watched over his shoulder and added my suggestions, and the clerk waited with a glazed look on his face. When we finished, he added the form to a pile on his desk.

“Thank you. Now, for the wedding, do you have a specific date in mind?” I looked to Tharaêl, who shrugged. “Next Tirdas?” The clerk winced. “Ah, my apologies… Your applications will take at least two months to-” “Two months!” Tharaêl snapped. “What kind of operation are you running here?” “Mysir, please! Even these years later, the transition from the old system requires more resource that, frankly, neither the Tribunal nor the Order are willing to provide-” “When’s the soonest we can marry?” I interrupted. “Ninth of First Harvest.” He replied, a fearful glance at Tharaêl. I always forgot the order of the Enderalean months (I grew up with the Kiléan calendar, which was different), so I also looked to Tharaêl to see if that would be a problem. He shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.” “Thank you. And as for the matter of payment…” “Will you take a promissory note?” I asked. “I don’t have the gold on me right now. Silren will accept it.” “Silren? The banker?” I nodded. “You have a bank account?” “Yes.” “Without papers?” “He seemed happy enough to take my money. And sell me a house.” “He approved you for a mortgage!?” “I don’t know what that is.” I frowned. None of this seemed to be relevant to our wedding. “I paid in cash.” “Cash? Wherever did you get the mon-” The clerk stopped, looked at us, and suddenly became extremely sensible. “A promissory note will be fine. Thank you, mysirs.”

-

It was a relief to get out into the fresh air. I didn’t know how the clerk and his ilk could stand it - I’d sooner poison myself than sit at a desk all day.

“Two months!” Tharaêl complained again. “We could use the time,” I said, “to find the Honey Moon.” “Oh fuck off, you’re just making shit up now.” “No, I’ve heard about this. After your wedding, you have to go find it. But I was thinking we could get it out the way beforehand.” “And what, they un-marry you if you don’t?” He rolled his eyes scornfully. “I don’t know. But I’m certain this is a thing. We should take some time off work.”

-

On Morndas, Tharaêl went to go find the Keeper he bullied into doing his timesheets for him.

“You,” he said, having located him (and as of yet, not having bothered to learn his name), “put on the schedule I’ll be away for two months.” “Mysir Narys! A leave request? Um, how many days do you have left this year?” “What the fuck, all of them?”

At that moment, Calia arrived, handing in her own completed timesheets. She greeted him warmly. “Tharaêl! You’re going on holiday?” The Keeper chose that morning to flee, hopefully to do what he was told. “We’re-” Tharaêl stopped, suddenly unsure of what to say. “-We’ve got stuff planned.” “Wish I could get out of Ark for a bit.” She groused. “The Grandmaster’s got me training even more recruits from Nehrim.” “When I’m back, I’ll help you knock some sense into them.” She laughed. “Sa'Ira, we need them working afterwards!” “That’s what we keep Apothecarii around for.”

They walked in companionable silence around the Sun Temple’s courtyard, dodging scurrying novices. “You know more about Enderalean custom than I do…” Tharaêl began. “Maybe. What do you want to know, Sa’Ira?” “What’s a Honey Moon?” “A honeymoon? Like, after a wedding?” So his Marksman wasn’t talking shit. “Does it have to be after?” “Traditionally, but I don’t see why it has to be. Why?” She looked at him sidelong. “Is someone you know getting married?” He returned the glance. “Is someone I know getting married? You’ve been seeing that Nehrimese mage for a while now.” “Hey!” Calia hit him on the shoulder. “That’s none of your business!” But she smiled nevertheless.

-

The Rhalâta temple was empty, most other Rhalâim out on duty. The rushing waters below surged vigorously, however, swollen with snowmelt off the mountains.

I nodded to Gustav as I passed him at Sister Envy’s old desk. He waved a hand, not bothering to look up from the finances.

The High Speaker met me in his usual tower, in the tall room lined with bookshelves. Idly, I wondered how they kept the river’s moisture away from all the books.

“Greed.” I nodded in greeting. “Your lady isn’t with you?” He was usually accompanied by a Voice, ironically enough, who translated his language of hands. The new Rhalâim hadn’t bothered to learn it - except me, of course. I never had liked not knowing what was being said around me. She’s not my lady. He signed, clipped with irritation. She’s needed in the Cloud District - someone’s trying to cut into our Dust market with inferior product. If you saw fit to actually perform a Voice’s duties- “I’m not helping with the Dust, nor the Tax.” I told him. “We’re not having this argument again.” Indeed we aren’t. What do you want? No-one needs killing. He considered this. Yet. “I’ll be away for two months. Pass my duties to my apprentice.” I’ll put it on the rota, shall I? Stamp your leave request? What kind of operation do you think we’re running here? “I’m getting married.” That gave him pause, for all of a second, before he burst out laughing. No sound came out. Wonderful. When shall I expect my invite? “You’re not invited.” After all these years we’ve known each other? You wound me. He flicked his fingers in dismissal, which I permitted only on sufferance. Go. You’re only paid per kill regardless. If you’re fine with losing gold, I’m fine with not giving you any. 

-

Brother Gustav sidled into the High Speaker’s office once the Rhalâta’s assassin had left. “High Speaker, the reports.” Put them on my desk, Seer Gustav. And notify the boy he’ll be accepting contracts until our mercenary returns. “Returns? You’re sending him somewhere, High Speaker?” No. He’s getting married. Gustav nearly dropped his papers. “Him!? …To a woman?” A man. You know him. It’s Brother Wrath. He really did drop his papers, then, and scrambled to pick them up. “Piss! Begging pardon, but… Brother Wrath? How do you know?” I saw him. I went sunside. And unlike you, I don’t have family I need to avoid. “I always knew there was something going on between him and that mercenary of his.” And at the time, you did not inform the Father, because…? “Well, I mean, of course at the time-” You were running a cozy side business selling artifacts the mercenary brought you, after the Father did not want them. “I-” None of us keep the Rhalâs anymore, Gustav. It hardly matters now. You may leave.

Once he scurried away, High Speaker Greed sequestered himself at one of the tower’s many balconies. Seeing Brother Wrath that day had been a shock, but ultimately not one that changed much. The Father was gone, the Rhalâta was a shadow of its former glory and purpose, and one more hanger-on of the past meant little. It explained, at least, why the mercenary had murdered the First Seer and half the remaining Rhalâim after the Father’s Transcendence. Greed assumed he feared retaliation, if the Rhalâta learned they still lived.

It did not, however, explain why said mercenary allied himself with the Rhalâta now. With his skills, he could make more money independently, rather than the pittance they could afford. Regardless, Greed was happy to keep the man around.

Where he could keep an eye on him.

-

We set out the West gate one morning, the day unusually warm for the Bloodmoon. I welcomed it, but Tharaêl only complained - a sentiment apparently shared by many other Enderaleans we passed, who were tugging at the collars of their clothing and other such theatrics.

I’d intended to rent some horses, but it turned out Tharaêl couldn’t ride. “Where’d I fucking learn?” He said. “They don’t even take donkeys down the Undercity. They’d get stolen and then eaten.” I didn’t mind, as I liked walking. But… “You could sit in the saddle behind me. Or in front.” “I am not doing that! There’s no way you could be trusted to be… sensible… if I did.”

Well, he had me there.

-

Our route was planned to take us through the Heartlands and in a loop through the Sun Coast, where we’d turn back past Ark and head to Duneville.

It was interesting to see the farmers at work. It seemed most foods in Enderal were some kind of grass, as opposed to growing on trees. We spotted a man leaning against a fence, and curiosity had me wandering over, Tharaêl in tow.

“Why are you growing flowers?” I asked the man. The field before us was filled with yellow blooms. He gave me an odd look. “It’s rape.” “It’s what.” Tharaêl demanded, and I frowned - quite sure I’d heard the man incorrectly. “Oilseed?” “Oh. The flowers make oil?” “No… The seeds… That’s why it’s called oilseed…” I nodded, very satisfied to learn something new. I kept a bottle of oilseed on me at all times, and had always wondered where it came from. “You’re from the city?” He asked us. “Yes. How did you know?” “Your accents.” He said, but I suspected he was not being truthful. The man slapped his thighs. “Well, mysirs, I’ve got to check on the winter barley next, so if you’d please-” It was the middle of spring, but I wasn’t about to argue with an expert. We returned to the road.

-

Progress was slow, but it was nice to take our time, and the easy ground of the main roads was a pleasant change to stalking through wilderness after bandits and worse.

Speaking of, the roads were wonderfully clear. I recalled when I first came to Enderal - due to what I now knew to be the Red Madness - one couldn’t go a few yards without being attacked by wolves or brigands. We saw none of the former, and regarding the latter…

We were stopped one evening by a frankly amateur show. The setting sun cast their shadows long before them, and we didn’t even bother to hide our approach. Two swordsmen, I noted. One archer, struggling to string his bow. One wildmage, sat against a tree, shivering and looking at things that weren’t there.

“There’s a toll here.” Said one of the swordsmen, uncertainly. He had the look of a Dust addict on the cusp of nasty withdrawal. Quite casually, Tharaêl placed his palms on the pommels of Atonement. I drew my longbow from my back and, glancing significantly at the archer, stepped on one end and strung it. I’d sold the warbow I purchased from the Order back to them some years ago, but the one I used now had nearly the same draw. “But,” The second swordsman interjected desperately, “you don’t look like you’ve got anything worth taking. So fuck off.”

We fucked off.

Once out of sight, I took Tharaêl’s hand in mine, cast my precencelessness over us both, and we doubled back.

-

Another advantage of the safe main roads was the generous number of inns, many of which were new. We hardly spent a single night bereft of hot meals and a comfortable bed.

When we told the innkeepers of our journey to find the Honey Moon, they always understood the importance of the mission and made sure there was a double bed available for us (breakfast included). Many also pointed out various places of interest in the area - vineyards, breweries, scenic locations, and on one notable occasion a farmer’s wife who sold excellent cream teas. I appreciated this, since we needed something to fill the days.

Once the evenings rolled around, we’d look up at the sky to check the moon. It always seemed normal, and it didn’t help that we didn’t actually know what we were looking for. I presumed it would be obvious, when we saw it.

Entertainment at the inns was hit-and-miss. Generally there was a bard, or someone who claimed to be. I was getting thoroughly tired or hearing, specifically, ‘The Aged Man’. His house wasn’t even there anymore!

Since the music was wearing thin and we didn’t want to spend all our gold on drink, I took to dragging Tharaêl upstairs and having my fun with him instead. Generously, he allowed this, since we were on holiday and all.

Still, I started to feel a little guilty at tiring him out too much, so one night I resolved to make the monumental effort to have a quiet and restful night instead. One evening we sat at a table nursing our ales. The peaceable atmosphere held no sway over Tharaêl, who sat with his arms crossed and leg jiggling with impatience. I was about to ask him what was wrong when he snapped “Are we going upstairs or what?”

We ended up having neither a quiet nor restful night. Not that I was complaining.

-

It was nostalgic to be back in Riverville. I remembered fondly that we’d first met Jespar here, over by the bounty-board. The board was for community notices these days, and perusing them was a green-eyed knight with the largest greatsword I’d ever seen.

We spent some time idly wandering over the hills around the town. The grass was ridiculously tall, and I worried for ticks - a worry Tharaêl did not share, since his boots were so tall. Eventually we came across a strange ruin, with a grave atop the hill. There was a strongbox by the grave, too, but it was empty.

Tharaêl seemed reluctant to head back to town. Not out of any sorrow for the grave, I sensed, but for something else. I waited, content to have nothing to do for a time.

“Your family is supposed to be there.” Tharaêl said, finally. “At your wedding.” I thought of my Family, and wished I hadn’t. “I know.” “I wish Letho-” He stopped, suddenly, clenching his fists. Tharaêl didn’t finish his thought, but he didn’t need to. “I know.” I said again, with more sympathy. “I wish Jackdaw could be there, too.” He made a face at that. He always did, for some reason, whenever I mentioned my brother. I wondered if he realised that I’d noticed.

“Well they won’t be.” He snapped. With that, he turned and stomped back down the ruin’s steps. I followed.  

“We could invite our friends,” I suggested, “you invite Calia and I’ll invite Jespar. We’ll each have someone, then.” Our walk continued in silence as Tharaêl considered this. “Yeah, sure.”

-

The general store was run by a man I initially pegged as a fellow Kiléan - Kurro - though his lack of accent and surname of “Mongerson” said that his family had likely been in Enderal a long time. He sold us some good paper and ink, and we headed over to the inn to write our invitations.

“How do you spell ‘cordially’?” Tharaêl asked. “I don’t.” I told him, staring forlornly at the paper. “My handwriting’s too bad for this.” “It’s just an invitation.” “A wedding invitation. They have to be fancy. They have… loops and such.” “Loops.” “And such.” Tharaêl cast me such a suspicious look. “You know an awful lot about weddings suddenly-” he began, though was thankfully interrupted by someone saying “Excuse me.”

The green-eyed knight from earlier wandered over. “You need help writing?” “Our wedding invitations.” I explained. “They need to be fancy.” I’d heard smiles described as ‘sunny’, but I’d never before seen one. The knight gave us a brilliantly sunny smile. “I can do that.”

-

To save on time, we took a teleport scroll back to Ark - I had a number left over from my time as the Prophet, when it seemed we were travelling to the arse end of Enderal and back again every week. Looking back, I had no idea why I’d put up with it all.

We stayed only long enough to send our invitations to Calia and Jespar via courier, reprovision a little, and arrange the next part of our journey.

Tharaêl and I joined up with a Golden Sickle caravan bound for Duneville - who were happy to let us follow along, for free, on the understanding that we’d help defend the caravans if such a situation arose.

As the wagons were being made ready, I spotted a man I thought I recognised. “Hey,” I said, “Rogash, wasn’t it?” “What do you want, I’m-” He turned around. “Malphas wept, it’s you.” “Who’s this?” Tharaêl asked, and I remembered that I’d never told him the story. “About a year after I moved to Ark, I went looking for work at the Sickle.” I explained. “Rogash had a test for me, which I failed, and he said I should go work for the Rhalâta instead.” “Please tell me you don’t work for the Rhalâta.” Rogash pleaded, weakly. “Of course not.” I lied. “Anyway, I signed up for the Dust Pit, and that’s where I met Tharaêl.” I went to put my arm around his shoulders, but he sidestepped my attempt. “We’re looking for the Honey Moon.” “Amazing.” Rogash told us, though he did not sound amazed. “I’m… Congratulations. I’m needed elsewhere.” He wandered away, and we settled down to wait for the caravan’s departure.

-

During the journey, I asked many of the merchants and caravaneers about the Honey Moon. One woman said she couldn’t afford it, which concerned me, as I hadn’t been aware there was a cost. Another said she had planned to go see it, but then the Nehrimese invaded, and all these years later she’d been too busy to try again. Lastly, a man said he and his wife had seen it in Qyra.

“Can you speak Qyranese?” Tharaêl asked me, later. “A bit.” I answered reluctantly. “But I’m not getting on a boat again.” “What if we can’t find the moon?” “I’m not getting on a boat again.” I said it more sharply than I’d intended, and a few people nearby flinched at my tone. We glared at them until they stopped eavesdropping. “Alright.” Tharaêl relented. “If it comes to it, we’ll just lie and say we found it.”

-

Our journey to Duneville concluded without note. The warm weather - drier than I liked, but still welcome - had me in high spirits. It had Tharaêl in whatever the opposite of high spirits was, however. Several summers previous he’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t tolerate too much sun, or it made his skin peel off. To counter this, he had to apply a paste from the Apothecarii. 

Duneville proper was just as I remembered it from when I lived there for a time - cool and dark, though I was still disquietened by all the water. We found adequate lodgings.

The next day we went down the beach.

“Do you need help with your paste?” I asked Tharaêl. “No.” “You should let me help rub on your paste.” “Fuck off, I can put on the paste myself- Why are you taking off your clothes.” I folded up my shirt and placed it to my side. “I’m going to get a tan.” “You can do that with your clothes on!” “No I can’t, I’ll get tanlines.” “Everyone does!” “You don’t. You just go all pink.” “By the fucking sun- Ugh!” He aimed a kick at a rock, which turned out to be a little crab. It scuttled off with great affront.

I took a bottle from the rucksack I’d brought with me, and Tharaêl eyed it with deep suspicion. “What is that?” he demanded. “If you don’t need help with your paste, you can help me put on this oil.” “What? No.” “It’s just olive oil.” “No!” “It’s so I tan better.” “I am not- I’m not oiling you up!!” “Hehheh, maybe you’d-” “No! I’m not having any part of this freak behaviour! I’m leaving. Goodbye.”

I watched him leave. Sensing this, Tharaêl threw stones at me until I stopped.

Some time later - I’d turned onto my front, so couldn’t check the progress of the sun - he returned. “There’s far more people ten minutes walk that way.” He said, presumably pointing. “Apparently the beach is much nicer.” “I know.” I told him, or at least I told his boots, being all that was in my field of vision. “But it’s quieter here.” “Hm.” Lack of further complaint indicated his lack of disapproval. “There’s a mage selling strange food.” “Why’s a mage selling food?” “He uses his magic to make it cold. Are you done here?” I rolled over so I could see him properly. “Depends. How do I look?” “You’ve gone all brown.” “Then I’m done here.” I reached for my clothes. “Can we go see the mage?”

The other part of the beach was indeed far busier; it seemed that a lot of people were on holiday. I didn’t recall it being like this last time I was here, though that was admittedly several years ago at this point. Tharaêl led me to what looked to be a small market stall. I could tell the man running it was a mage, because he was casting ice magic at a metal container.

“Back for more, mysir?” He addressed Tharaêl, who wouldn’t look me in the eye. This was a shame, because I was grinning at him. “And you brought a friend!” “What is it?” I asked. “Cream made with ice.” The mage answered. “Served with fruit.” “What kind of fruit?” “Well,” he picked up a spoon and opened part of the metal container, “what kind of fruit do you like?”

The cream made with ice was served to us in wooden bowls, which we were to give back once we’d finished. Tharaêl had his with strawberries, and I had mine with everything. We wandered a short distance away to eat.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tharaêl began, angling his bowl away from me so I couldn’t steal his food, “married people have to wear rings. And you won’t wear rings.” This was true. “Good way to get your finger degloved in a fight.” “Mm.” He nodded, having heard me say this before. “What if you put your ring on a necklace?” “And provide my opponent a garrotte?” “Some kind of bracelet?” “Broken wrist if it gets caught on something.” “Well, what do you suggest?” I had put thought into this. “What we need to do is find a small piece of round metal that we can heat up. Then if we carefully apply it to our skin, so it burns, when it heals it should leave a scar. If we do that on our ring fingers, it’s like we’re always wearing a ring.” Tharaêl gave my suggestion a good amount of consideration, judging by his silence. “Or,” he suggested, “we could just get tattoos?"

-

Since a lot of sailors passed through Duneville, there was of course someone doing tattoos. Ours were done efficiently - a black band around the ring finger of our left hands - and we paid extra for a bit of Light Magic to speed the healing.

Such a small thing, but it felt… Strange. I reminded myself we were only doing all this so Tharaêl could get on the deed to our house.

-

Night fell, and I would’ve liked to take a stroll with Tharaêl. Annoyingly, however, it seemed many people - couples? - had the same idea, walking hand-in-hand under the stars. Tharaêl wouldn’t hold mine. We checked the moon - pale, normal - and went to bed.

-

The past only ever got further away. Perhaps one day we’d stop having nightmares. One day.

I stared at the ceiling, unwilling to try for more sleep in case I started dreaming again. The room was loud with the silence of two people awake.

“Tharaêl?” I whispered. He made a noise to indicate he’d heard me and was unhappy about it. “Will you keep your surname, when we marry?” “I’m not taking yours.” “I don’t have one.” I turned to look at him, but he was curled up under the covers, as was his habit. “Does that mean I’ll be Narys, too?” He emerged from the blankets to glare at me. “You can’t have my name. It’s mine.” “Okay.” I pretended that didn’t hurt. Tharaêl rolled over, so I could only see his back. “It’s-” he spoke into the dark, as if it meant he weren’t talking to me. “-Narys isn’t the surname I was born with.” There was much in my past I hadn’t told him. I assumed the same for him. I shouldn’t ask, but- “Whose was it?” It took him a long time to answer.

“Letho’s.”

He continued, “So you can’t have it. It’s- It’s all I have. Of his.” “It’s alright,” I lied, “I understand.”

-

“Mydame Sakaresh!” Jespar called, making his way across the Sun Temple’s courtyard. “Jespar!” She greeted him with a smile. “I told you to call me Calia.” “In front of all your colleagues? After your recent promotion?” he teased. “They’ll make you the next Grandmaster at this point.” They laughed, but Calia notably did not deny his words. “Do you need any help?” She asked. “I heard the mages asked for you.” “Oh, that? They just wanted to hear about my travels - they’re planning something with some colleagues in Qyra. They didn’t need anything else, though, so I’m a bit of a loose end.” He rummaged around in his armour before pulling out some paper. “No, I wanted to ask… Have you - and things are about to get extremely awkward if you haven’t - heard from our dark and mysterious friends?” “Tharaêl and- yes. Did we get the same letter?” They looked at the paper Jespar held, which read, in beautiful handwriting:

CORDIULLY INVITED TO NINTH OF FIRST HARVEST, 1PM CHURCH WE’RE NOT ALLOWED TO CALL A CHURCH ANYMORE, ARK NOBLE QUARTER (DRESS FANCY)

“I didn’t quite know what to make of it.” Jespar said, turning the paper over to see if there was any more information, which there was not. “Maybe they want to get together to tell us about their holiday?” “Oh, is that where they’d disappeared to? I feared they’d happened to someone.” “I helped Tharaêl put in his leave request. He was talking about-” Calia stopped, suddenly drawing a conclusion. “Hm.” “Hmm?” “Oh, nothing. I think- I think I need to buy a new dress.”

-

Our time in the Powder Desert was spent in much the same way as it was on the Sun Coast - filling our days with either exploring or whatever entertainment we came across, until we could check the colour of the moon when it rose.

Tharaêl - always keen for food we didn’t have to pay for - took a liking to coconuts, or at least to sending me up the trees to fetch them. “More fruits should come with drink included,” I remarked, employing my dagger in the accessing of said drink, “imagine if oranges had orange juice inside.” “Oranges do have fucking orange juice inside.” “Yeah but you have to squeeze it out. And then you just have orange mash you can’t really eat” “Wastrel.” He admonished. I’d seen him eat oranges like apples, peel and all, so I did not challenge this.

-

Unfortunately for us, ill weather cut our time in eastern Enderal short. It had been uncomfortably warm (for some) when we left Ark, and it seemed another wave of heat had reached us here. Perhaps it was folly to holiday in Duneville at the tail end of Kirla’s Treason. Perhaps I’d been in Enderal for too long, for even I had no patience for the temperature. Tharaêl complained he was dying.

Instead of journeying as planned round the coast road back to Ark, we decided to take a scroll to the Sun Coast’s Myrad tower and return home via the Penny Road, since we’d skipped this a few weeks prior by taking a scroll from Riverville to Ark.

Much the same as the roads through the Heartlands, the Penny Road was amply studded with inns across its length. I had intended to enjoy the last of our holiday, but the approach to Ark put me in a sombre mood. We hadn’t found the Honey Moon. Tharaêl would not let me take his name. And I was back here again, in this place, with the moonlight just as generous as it had been all those years ago.

We’d forgone an inn this night, intending to push past- well. The past. I failed, of course. Foolish to try. I’d never succeeded in outrunning it.

Tharaêl made no comment as I veered off the road into the woodland beyond, as if he’d expected this.

Here, where I’d laid the bell-traps. Here, where we’d made camp. And here-

I’d feared I’d find my brother’s bones, and I was grateful I did not. Nightshade and Mora tapinella grew where he’d died, which made me smile. Tharaêl appeared at my shoulder, saying nothing.

A glint of metal… 

I reached down to pick up a brooch, the shape and weight already so familiar in my hand; a circle with a line through it - the mark of our Family. Time hadn’t been kind to the metal, leaving it tarnished and scratched.

I showed it to Tharaêl, who regarded it with an emotion I couldn’t parse. “Now I have something of his.” I told him, “Like you have something of Letho’s.”

I put the brooch in my pocket, careful not to let it clink against the one - my own - already in there.

Tharaêl took my hand in his and once again led me away from this place.

-

We walked through the night and the next day, ending up once more at the abandoned scout tower on the cliff overlooking the Lake of Ark. The trading post had never been reopened, even once the Isolation had ended - I’d heard the Dual Towers nearby were being repurposed for trade, instead, rumours saying a new Myrad tower would be installed.

The sunset had the lake a-glimmer in red and gold. It felt like a tiny sliver of forgiveness, which was wasted on us.

We climbed the tower, for old time’s sake. It swayed and complained under our weight. 

Last time we were here, we’d talked about our brothers. But now there was nothing more to say, so we said nothing. I didn’t mind the silence.

Tharaêl broke it. “Look.” he said. I pulled myself back from where my mind had drifted, to follow his gaze.

The rising moon, large and low on the horizon, had a noticeably yellow hue.

“Oh thank fuck.” “Of course it only fucking appears when we’re nearly home.” Tharaêl complained. “Typical.”

-

We returned to Ark just as the month turned to the First Harvest, and spent an entire day asleep. The remaining days leading up to the ninth contained nothing much, besides unpacking from our holiday, getting food for the house, and other such trifles.

I hadn’t expected to be excited for my wedding, but the morning of the ninth had me rising early. I fetched water for a bath, cooked a large breakfast, and started setting out my clothes.

“Are you looking forward to it?” I asked Tharaêl. “Don’t be stupid, of course not.” He told me, in the tone he uses when he lies.

Nearing midday there was a knock on our front door. Tharaêl went to answer it, as I was busy applying my makeup. From downstairs, I heard Jespar’s voice: “My room at the Nomad doesn’t have a mirror. I don’t suppose I could borrow yours…?”

Tharaêl dragged the large mirror from the bedroom into the washroom, and we all crowded inside.

“My, my, gentlemen, such secrecy.” Jespar remarked. “Your invitation was rather lacking in detail. Will you be revealing the occasion?” “When we get there.” Tharaêl told him. “Ah, but how am I to know if I should clear my schedule?” Tharaêl rolled his eyes. “Your schedule full of fuck all?” “Can I have the mirror, please.” I said. Jespar and I swapped places. 

Tharaêl turned his ire to me. “You are NOT wearing that!” “Hm?” I asked, as if I didn't know what had set him off. “What’s the point of a shirt if it's so low-cut everything's on display?” “I could go without, if you like?” I offered. Jespar laughed. “No!” Tharaêl started to push me away from the mirror, towards the door. I dug my heels in. “You look like a whore!” I made a non-committal noise. ”Silver Cloud or Noble Quarter?” “What?” “A whore from the Silver Cloud, or-” “Fuck off-” “Kiléan night market.” Jespar supplied, in the tone of one speaking from authority. “Thank you, Jespar, that's what I was going for.” I pushed Tharaêl away before he could wrinkle my outfit. “I will be wearing a jacket over this.” I informed him.

Further argument was interrupted by another knock on the front door, which I answered.

“Hello!” Calia entered, carrying a bag of clothes. “How was your holiday? I see you’ve caught the sun.” “It was nice, thank you. Did you get our letter?” “Oh, yes. Speaking of which - my room at the Temple only has a small mirror. Do you mind if I use yours?”

The three of us vacated the washroom to give Calia her privacy as she changed. She rejoined us a little later in the living-room.

“So, is something happening at the chur- the community building, or were we just to meet there?” She asked. “It's happening there.” I said. “We should head out now.”

“I like your dress.” Tharaêl said, as we strolled through the Noble Quarter. “Thank you! I bought it for the occasion.” “No compliments for me?” Jespar interjected. “I also bought this outfit new for the occasion.” “Funny.” Tharaêl looked at him sidelong. “I could’ve sworn I saw it on the second-hand clearance rack at Elumund's Tailoring.” “And what, my friend, were you doing perusing the second-hand clearance rack…”

We arrived at the church. Waiting for us outside was the same clerk from the registry office, except now in fancier clothing. Apparently he was to be our officiant. “Ah, mysirs.” He greeted us. “My thanks for your punctuality. Is this all in attendance?” “Yes.” Tharaêl and I told him. “Very well. And the rings?” We showed him the tattoos on our hands as proof. “Ah- I- Very good. Very… Practical.” “Rings?” Jespar said, confused. He looked at the church. He looked at us. “You’re getting married?” Calia beamed. The clerk turned to them. “These are your witnesses, yes? I have the pleasure of addressing…?” “Calia Sakaresh.” Calia answered. Then, as Jespar seemed to be having a moment, added, “and Jespar Dal’Varek.” “Excellent. Mysirs, mydame, follow me please.”

Our wedding was not to happen in the church proper, which was good, as all the empty pews were rather sad, to my mind. Rather, we were led to a side-room, which contained a desk, two chairs (which were quickly being brought in by an assistant), and flowers tied to the torch-sconces with ribbon. I approved of the latter - the weddings I’d watched usually had flowers, so I assumed it was a requirement.

Calia and Jespar sat, Tharaêl and I stood at the front, and the clerk addressed us. “Now, I took note that you requested that, when reading your vows, I, quote, ‘get on with it’-” Tharaêl nodded “-so.” He cleared his throat, and began, in the voice of ceremony:

“Dearly beloved, we gather here today to witness the joining of these two in the legal union of matrimony. Do you, Tharaêl Narys, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” “Yes.” “And do you-” Calia hissed, “Jespar, are you crying?” “No, I have something in my eye.” He sobbed. “-take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” “I do.” I said. “Then, by the power vested in me by the Tribunal of Ark and the Nehrimese Order, I pronounce you married. You may now- Oh. I see you already are.”

I’d pulled Tharaêl into a kiss on the fear that otherwise he’d refuse, though while to my surprise he did not, he did push me off eventually. Calia and Jespar - the latter appearing to have something wrong with his face - clapped.

“If you’ll join me over here, mysirs,” the clerk led us aside to the desk, “please sign here…” We signed our marriage certificate, though the clerk would not take it after I’d signed. “Ah, wait,” he told me, “it needs your full name…” Before I could answer, Tharaêl nudged me in the side. “Put ‘Narys’.” “Are you sure?” “It’s fine.” For the first time in my life, I signed my surname.

We waited while Jespar and Calia signed as witnesses. Tharaêl was smiling, but stopped when he caught me looking. “What?” He demanded. “Nothing.” “If it’s nothing, then you can stop staring.”

“Well, that concludes the ceremony.” The clerk announced, Calia and Jespar rejoining us. “Mysirs, you will receive a copy of the certificate via courier in a few days. Thank you, everyone, it’s… It’s been an experience.”

-

We reconvened outside.

“What now?” Tharaêl asked. “Down the bank?” “Bank?” Calia enquired. “To put me on the house-deed.” He clarified. “That’s why we got married.” Jespar slung an arm round Tharaêl’s shoulders, and was too slow to dodge an elbow in the ribs in return. “And they say romance is dead.” “No.” I said, “Now we go drinking.” “Ok.” Tharaêl spun around, pointing an accusatory finger. “I’ve put up with a lot of your sudden expertise on weddings, but you’re making shit up now.” “No, I’m right.” “He is.” Jespar added. Tharaêl looked to Calia. “It’s true.” She said, not at all reluctantly, “Traditionally, there’s a celebration afterwards.” “Well,” Jespar smirked, “if you want to be traditional, these two need to-” he stopped, suddenly, because Calia had kicked him. “I am being unjustly targeted today!”

“Lets go to the False Dog?” I asked, without much hope, and indeed I was met with complaints. “How about the Dancing Nomad?” Jespar suggested. “How about,” Calia said, “we start at the Fat Leoran, since it’s over the road, and see where we go from there?”

-

Tharaêl awoke, alone, and wished he hadn’t.

With whatever passed for thought through his blinding headache, he considered killing himself. However, to his own disappointment, he couldn’t remember where he’d put Atonement, and thus going downstairs to get some water and willow-bark would be less effort than his suicide.

Blearily, as he struggled with arriving at and then opening the bedroom door, he tried to remember what happened last night… The last thing he recalled was everyone decanting themselves into his and his marksman’s house…

He found said Marksman on the stairs, having not made it to bed before passing out. He’d wedged himself horizontally across the steps in a manner comfortable only to cats, so Tharaêl teleported past him.

Jespar was located face-down on the living-room floor, and Calia was sat at the kitchen table.

“Fetched water.” She said, by way of greeting. “For tea. Head hurts.” This monumental effort of speaking took the last of her strength, and she put her head in her hands. Tharaêl filled the kettle and set a fire in the stove.

Their noise roused Jespar, who ambulated haphazardly into the kitchen. “Morning… I think.” Noticing the kettle boiling, he fetched the teapot, scraped in some tea from the brick, and poured in the boiled water. With a groan, he joined them at the table. 

The sound of someone falling down the stairs announced that, finally, the Marksman had awoken. He slithered to a halt at the bottom of the stairwell, swearing - though they were spared understanding of his curses, as he had apparently forgotten Inâl.

He, too, made his unsteady way into the kitchen. He completed the teamaking relay by fetching cups and pouring the tea. From a nearby cupboard he procured their willow-bark pastilles. The tea was gratefully accepted, and the medicine even more so.

The Marksman tried to say something, but Tharaêl interrupted him with “You’re speaking in Kiléan.” “Eurgh. Fuck you and fuck this language.” He closed his eyes before continuing, “I said: can anyone remember what happened last night?” Jespar chucked. “Words spoken since time immemorial, my friend.” “I remember…” Calia began, “I remember the Fat Leoran. That was nice. You said you’d just got married, and they gave us those sparkling wines… We had some bottles for the table, then Jespar-” “-suggested we go to the Dancing Nomad.” Jespar carried on, “Which before you say anything-” this was directed at Tharaêl “-yes it is because I get a discount as I’m renting there. There’s nothing wrong with a little frugality.” “Frugality?” Tharaêl snapped. “You drank more than any of us!” “It was an emotional evening!” “Please do not raise voices.” Marksman intoned in his weird leaden voice. Everyone quietened. “Then…” Tharaêl said, struggling under the weight of recollection. “Then…” “Then we went to the False Dog.” Calia finished, with an accompanying “Hehheh” from the Marksman.

They sat in silence for a minute, soberly remembering the point at which the night went wrong.

“Some weird bald freak kept trying to talk to me.” Tharaêl said, and everyone else carefully said nothing. “Waving his hands about. I think- He looked kind of familiar.” “Did you find out what he wanted?” Calia asked. “No, because I had to stop him-” this accusation was levelled at the Marksman “-from starting a fight.” “You should have let me glass that man in the corner. I did not like his face.” “Please tell me a myrad didn’t really hit the western watchtower.” Jespar asked, pale-faced. “No, you hallucinated that.” The Marksman told him. “I told you that nightflower was laced.” “You had some anyway!” “It would take more than some back-alley flower to poison me.” “Hmph. And the second myrad?” “If you dreamed the first one, why would the second one be real?” Tharaêl snapped. “I think that’s when we all tried to go home…” Calia knocked back the last of her tea. “I wanted to get a kebab.” The Marksman said, gathering up the empty cups. “None of you let me get a kebab.” Jespar made a half-hearted attempt at helping clear away the tea-things, but gave up. “My friend, you wanted one from the Undercity… They charge more for ‘named’ meat.” “You know it’s rat either way, right?” Tharaêl said. “You know they catch them from the waterways?” The cups were put in the sink, but no effort to clean them was made. “I like the spicy sauce.” “To hide the taste of rat!” “But we made it back here?” Calia added, getting the conversation back on track. “Nothing else happened?"

They paused to consider.

“Tharaêl got in trouble with a guardsman.” Marksman said. “Fuck off.” “You called him a cunt.” “He was being a cunt!” “You said you’d push him in the river and see if his tin-soldier armour would let him float. Then you fell over.” “I’ll push you in the fucking river-”

“I think, my friends,” Jespar began, standing, “I would like to go back to my room in the Nomad, and go to bed.” “I’d like to get some more rest too,” Calia added, “now the medicine’s kicked in. I’ll take a sick day.”

They went to the front door to say their goodbyes.

“Thank you for inviting us to your wedding.” Calia said, with a smile. “Indeed.” Jespar gave them a little bow, such as he could in his condition. “Congratulations to you, mysirs Narys.” “Oh, fuck off with that saccharine shit.” Tharaêl started pushing them out the door.