#athre

Athrë lays supine across a fainting chair, her head wreathed in smoke, her eyes fixed to some point beyond the ceiling above her. “Dismal question, that,” she judges, but answers nonetheless: “Despite what I’m sure was popular belief at the time, I didn’t wanna leave the Grove. I just wanted to fit in there, I did.” She pulls one leg into a pointed arch. “Didn’t, though. So I left. No point fightin’ it. Wasn’t fuckin’ happy about it or anythin’, but it had to be done.” She takes another drag, exhales a long wisp of smoke, and finishes, “Don’t ask me shit like that, mate.”

—

Ashing her cigarette into her empty glass, Athrë tips her head this way and that as if trying to decide. “Fucked if I know.” One more suck of smoke and she says, “Forget, I s’pose. I’m still right fucked off at most my exes despite not rememberin’ the details anymore.” Grinning, she blows a smoky chuff from her nose. “I’ve got a feelin’ they’re madder at themselves than I am.” Her skirt slips conveniently away from her thigh. “Looky there,” mumbles she.

—

Her own misfortune had not wholly changed her; beyond her hard-earned wisdom she remained the same as she had always been. But she worried for Sevyrin. She wondered what he had been like before his misuse in hands he trusted. He was so quiet—and while normally she would dismiss that as stupidity or insipidity she knew rather it was a sign of his vigilance. Whether he was thoughtful or fearful, though, she could not guess.

It was out of fear and shame that he hid his face behind scarves and scraps of cloth, plainly, but on that very same token she found something to be proud of: He had not changed those features he’d learned to hide. In that he stood his ground and preserved himself, though she had to speculate that he had paid for it too dearly.

He had been in a deathlike sleep for days now. If the doctor caring for him knew half as much as he acted Sevyrin would be out for some weeks to follow. Athrë spent those days in a useless, drug-addled haze. It kept her from losing her temper.

V’Zael must have always been there, she reflected, even when Ysgrimarcy was the subject of Athrë’s affections—she simply hadn’t needed to intervene to ensure her twin’s misery—and she must have known better than to trouble Nero (beyond her uncomfortably close attempt to drown him). This time she’d truly outdone herself. Athrë did not even know if that had been on purpose.

She didn’t think she’d ever forget the sickening sound of Sevyrin’s bones cracking, or the timbre of the terrible voice in which he had spoken. There could be no doubt, though, that she would never escape the sight of the creature he had become. That haunted her more than her own proverbial demons. Maybe it would ease with time. She had to hope so.

Athrë had no idea how their relationship, if one could truly call it that, had developed at all. She was a bully to him to start with; she had detected and preyed upon his weakness in order to elevate herself. Why, she wondered, had he tolerated that? He’d had no allegiance and no obligation to her then.

And where were they now? Not knowing didn’t let her rest, not without the help of the pills the doctor had palmed her, but with Sevyrin necessarily sedated that thought was a maze without an end. If he truly was some kind of beast capable of no one knew what horrors, she deemed that she would leave him. But were one to ask her whether she genuinely believed that her answer would be a resounding no. The real rub was wondering whether he had control of his own powers—and whether she could trust the monster he could become.

Garlic - What is your favorite thing to cook?

The dark sylvari curls her lip as though that’s the most ridiculous question ever dreamt up. “Do I look like a cook to you?” she crows. “I hired someone to cook for me. Ever tried it?”

—

Pedestrian at Best by Courtney Barnett. Athrë is the picture of a nihilist.

Put me on a pedestal and I’ll only disappoint youTell me I’m exceptional, I promise to exploit youGive me all your money and I’ll make some origami, honeyI think you’re a joke but I don’t find you very funny

Athrë had almost never gone when summoned by V’Zael; though they had acceded to inviolable peace upon that spot of land, they were not obligated to answer summons. That had merely given the latter an excuse to hunt down her profligate twin, however, and off that speck of sacred sand they were bound by no contract of civility.

Meet me was all the letter said. This time it had come from Athrë. V’Zael thought she had better go.

Standing upon the mound V’Zael observed, “You’re early.”

Athrë was angry. That was nothing new, but it was different than the norm. It was raw. Sharp. “‘F I could trust you not to have some bullshit trick waitin’ for me I might not feel compelled to get here with a few hours to spare,” she spat.

V’Zael’s heart sank. “When have I ever harmed you here?”

“You’ve not had the chance.” Athrë walked the few paces between her and V’Zael to take her by the throat. V’Zael’s voice choked into silence as the pressure of her sister’s fingers closed her windpipe. Athrë’s anger had grown as searing and malevolent as a blade fresh from the forge. “Send Fi after Sevyrin again, V’Zael,” she warned, her grip tightening vengefully, “and I’ll do to you exactly what he does to him.”

V’Zael stood in growing terror, clawing uselessly against the strength of Athrë’s arm. Athrë could feel her trying to escape, but her magic fizzled out, balanced and absorbed by her own fibers as it had always been. “I don’t give the slightest shit ‘f he burns the whole world up when I’m done,” she finished before releasing V’Zael, just as stars were beginning to crowd the corners of her eyes.

V’Zael blinked to the opposite side of the shoal and found her twin, having anticipated this, already turning to face her. “I did not send Laidre after your love,” she protested, cupping her aching throat. “He must have gone to ensure your safety.”

“Horseshit,” asserted Athrë from her side of the island.

V’Zael put up her palms. “I swear to you I didn’t know.” Thereafter she folded her hands and straightened her posture diplomatically. “I’ll ask him not to interject further, but he may react unfavorably if he finds out about this.”

“Oh, ‘unfavorably,’ is it? And what’s that look like? He gonna come after me, yeah? Maybe Sev’ll not be so gentle with him this time.” Athrë had a point: For once, it was she who had the upper hand. “‘S up to you, V. Call off your dog or let him get killed.”

V’Zael lapsed into silence. Just as her sister turned to leave she added, “I think I know how to fix this.”

Athrë panned a glance over her shoulder. “Eh?”

“Truce.”

Her eyes launched into an immediate roll. “Right. What kinda poison can I expect in my gift basket, then?”

Now it was V’Zael’s turn to be angry. “Who are you?” she demanded. “You’re quite proud of yourself because nobody gets to tell you what to think or make up your mind for you, yet you buy wholeheartedly into all the baseless myths you’ve ever heard about the Nightmare. You think every Courtier is two steps ahead of you, luring you into some awful plot. I know you do. But listen to me. I’m your sister. I’m you. What do you know about me?”

Though Athrë was annoyed to be checked that way, she knew V’Zael was right. She turned toward her fully, undecided. “You’re askin’ me to trust you.”

“And why shouldn’t I? Have I ever led you into a trap? Yes, I have attacked you—and I regret it now, for what that is worth—but have I ever employed subterfuge? Credit me this. I am a noonbloom, the same as you.”

Athrë merely rocked her jaw in lingering apprehension.

“Hear me,” implored V’Zael, her voice lowered. “I was wrong. I was misled and shortsighted. What I’ve done to you is inexcusable, no matter the intention. I’m sorry.”

Athrë sieved V’Zael’s empathy for signs of trickery, pride, or anger, but all she could feel was remorse, sincere and authentic.

“I was wrong,” she repeated. “I can’t change that now. I shouldn’t have blamed you for how things happened. You deserve to be accepted, Athrë. Especially by me.”

It had been the better part of a decade since Athrë had taken that name and this was the first time V’Zael had called her by it. To hear her acknowledge and accept the distance Athrë had put between them swayed her that her sister was being genuine. “So...” she conceded, “what are you suggestin’?”

V’Zael shook her head to signal nothing. “I’ve decided everything all our lives. Now it is your turn. I won’t pursue you or yours again. I want peace between us, if we cannot have love.”

She was right not to demand immediate redemption. It had been so long since they’d been on good terms that Athrë was far from sure what that meant. But it was easy to agree to the end of a war she had never wanted. “Aye,” she mumbled, her voice sounding far away.

“Privileged? No.” Shaking her head, Athrë exhales a column of smoke and ashes her cigarette. “Aye, I’ve got a couple nice big houses right on the bay with boats tied up out front, and yeah, you can bet I’ve got more than what I need inside ‘em. I’d not say ‘privileged,’ though. That implies—to me, anyway—I was already inclined to have this shit when I hit the ground.” She bunches her shoulders and states, “Not so. Had a long way to go. Lotta learnin’ and a hell of a lotta work. ‘F you think anyone was lookin’ to hand me this shit, I can tell you: ‘S not how it happened.”

Not that she planned to admit it, but Athrë couldn’t remember why she was mad at Nero. All she knew was that he’d been hovering on her bad side all day. Even so, she didn’t want to argue with him—she knew well their potential for explosive fights.

She opted instead to spend the day diving in the lake. Well into the evening, when her limbs were tired and sore, she happened upon the thought to simply pass the night beneath the surface, but she felt that would only insult him. Offending Nero did nothing to serve her.

She emerged under the stars and climbed onto the porch to push past the door, and after drying off slipped into bed. Without a word he soon followed.

On a normal night they’d lay together, but for now they stayed separated on their respective halves of the mattress. Nero reclined on his back, not yet sleeping though his eyes were shut. Athrë lounged on her side and gazed thoughtfully across the gap.

She wanted to join him, but her pride kept her rooted. Laying beside him, staring in turns at the cusp of his shoulder, the column of his neck, and the healthy bulk of his bicep, Athrë came to the realization that it simply didn’t matter why she was irked at him; she didn’t want to be anymore. Not that it made her swallow that pride.

Still, it was hard to see him and not touch him. She reached across and brushed her fingertips along his arm. Nero folded his elbow to take her hand. She paused, put to shame, and finally pulled herself across to rest her head against his shoulder.