#dcdnd

“No. You’re not coming.”

It’s rare that Emis presumes to give orders – even rarer that he gives them to Kalsang. The woman had, over the past several months, made herself a paragon in his eyes; capable, clever, deadly, and with a rebellious streak that Tritherion’s devoted cleric would be hard-pressed not to admire.

But now there is steel in his silver eyes and a sharp edge to his normally lilting voice, and he punctuates the command with a roll of his shoulders and the quiet, rustling scrape of maille scales shifting against each other.

“It’s my temple!” she protests indignantly, and strides after him as he turns tail and proceeds through the corridor of the Cow and Feather Inn toward the open main floor where Tabitha and Leroy are presumably waiting. “And whether or not I accompany you is not for you to decide.”

“You’re not coming!” Emis snarls, whipping around and leaning forward so that he no longer towers over his friend. A lack of pupils makes the Tiefling’s expressions particularly difficult to read, but he has not quite mastered the art of masking the intention in his voice – and he certainly is no nearer to mastering his ki. And for all of the apparent anger in his words every fiber of his being and every note of his voice betrays his fear. The emotion coursing through his veins is enough to make Kalsang blink, and she tilts her head and regards him with the apparently passive evaluation he had come to understand is her way of expressing concern. The familiarity is soothing, and Emis takes a deep breath and swallows hard.

“What’s this about?” Kalsang says, in that gently affirming voice she usually reserves for Leroy on his bad days, and Emis gives his head a small shake.

“If you go in there you might not come back out.”

Her brow furrows and she blinks again, and Emis bites his tongue in frustration and casts his gaze elsewhere. Anywhere but his tiny, deadly, and infuriatingly stubborn confidante.

“And what does that matter?”

Were Kalsang anyone else the question might have shocked the Tiefling into a silence that would have given the monk the opportunity to slip past him, join their companions, and effectively eliminate any chance that Emis might win this argument. But his heart does not plummet far and fast enough to stun him, and he seizes his friend gently by the arm and regards her with wide, pleading eyes.

“Of course it matters, Kalsang! You’re not… you’re not just a monk anymore. You don’t belong to them…”

“So what you’re saying is that I belong to you.” The accusation in her voice – subtle though it is – is cutting, and Emis pulls his hand away from her arm as though he had been stung.

“No, that’s not… I just don’t want you to die. I don’t want to gain my charge and lose my friend!” He huffs in frustration and veils his eyes with his hand for a moment, then settles it at the back of his neck. “It’d be different if you decided you were just going back to… just to stay. To be an assassin-for-hire again. That I could live with. But I can’t stop thinking about what you said to me about being… wrong. And how you were going to let them ‘end’ you because you think your very existence is wrong and I just… I can’t let that happen to you. I’d honestly prefer you hate me and be alive than love me and be dead.”

“Fortunately, that’s not your choice to make.” The words come out cold. Colder than she intended, but she doesn’t attempt to compensate. “I appreciate your sincerity, because I know that you could not possibly understand. This is something that must be done.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand. Probably never will. But have you ever considered that maybe – just maybe – that’s not because I’m the one who’s wrong?”

“I’ve considered it,” she replies coolly, “and discarded it. Everything else I learned at the Temple makes sense, and it has made me what I am. I am strong because of it. I’ve saved your life because of it. And if every other Temple teaching aligns with what is visible and palpable throughout the multiverse, then why should this one thing be less true?”

“Maybe it’s not that simple,” Emis says softly, and drops his gaze to his feet. “Maybe there’s more than one version of the truth, and maybe you just… got lucky enough to stumble on a second version.”

“Unlucky,” Kalsang corrects, but ends her protestations there.

Emis nods slowly, and does not lift his gaze. Then, with extreme caution – as though her skin might be made of razors – he takes Kalsang’s hand in his and leads her back to the room they had shared for the night. Once the door is shut he lets go of her and sits down cross-legged on his bed, curls his tail around him, and folds his hands in his lap.

“Please don’t come,” he says quietly, and now the fear that he had initially masked with anger pushes its way to the fore. “You’re my friend – maybe my only friend, and certainly my only close one – and I love you like a sister. I want to protect you like a sister.”

“My sister was the one who sold me to the temple in the first place…?”

Emis buries his face in his hands to stifle a snort of laughter as her pointedly perplexed bemusement cracks the solemnity in the room like ice, and he’s half-smiling when he meets her eyes again.

“Like my sister. I’ve told you about how I and my sisters get along…”

“So you want me to punch you?”

She’s smirking now, and Emis’ lopsided smile stretches into a small grin.

“If it makes you feel better.”

She steps forward, and for a split second Emis wonders if maybe she’s about to actually take him up on the offer. But there is no tell-tale strain in the movement of her muscles, and she sits down beside him on the bed, loops her arm in his, and lays her head on his shoulder.

“Tabitha and Leroy are probably wondering where we are,” she says, with so little concern that Emis nearly laughs.

“They’ll be fine for a few more minutes, I think.”

Silence falls, and for a long moment they sit in stillness, Kalsang listening to the way Emis’ ki flows through him, and Emis focused on the soft sound of her breathing.

He had been meaning to return.

He must remind himself of this as he and his charge approach the gates of a city that looms at once entirely familiar and heartbreakingly foreign. The salt heaviness of sweat on his brow and sun on his cheeks, dust in his accustomed eyes make him think of home, and he remembers that there is no more need for homesickness.

With a host’s trepidation he ventures a sidelong glance at Kiriel. The boy still plods listlessly along beside him, as he had been doing more or less since they had crossed the border into Dakaret from Malen – or at least since the climate had begun to shift. They had stopped a few days ago to resupply in a small town with a massive, vibrant market to which the former tailor’s apprentice had sometimes accompanied his parents in his youth. And, fearing for how the Elf’s pale complexion would fare in the ever-waxing sun, the Tiefling had managed to barter for a single set of long-sleeved, hooded robes. Simple, but enough in the tradition of local fashions that they would protect Kiriel’s skin without making him stand out. He himself had invested in a scarf – a long, plain length of sturdy cloth – to drape over his head and wrap about his nose and mouth. Sadly, nothing could be done to hide his tail or the utter lack of pupils in his star-silver eyes – but those were a burden he had borne since his infancy, and at least his throat would remain free of grit.

Kiriel had grumbled about the new attire; Emis brought it along anyway. And when the dust from the road began to fill the air and stick in the noses and mouths of the strange pair and it seemed as though the sun had decided to make them the focal point of its attention, Emis offered the robes again, and made sure his mouth was safely concealed behind his scarf before he let himself look smug.

If you had asked him why he bothered to protect the Elf-boy’s feelings – why he cared enough to do so – he could not have given you a simple answer. Tritherion had given him a task; the bare minimum of the priest’s obligations was that the task be fulfilled, and the god obeyed. And he had asked himself over and over, night after night, month after breathless month, why he cared so much – because care he did, beyond the call of duty. And eventually he had come to the utterly reductive conclusion that Kiriel reminded him of Harriet – his nearest sister, who was in her mid-teens when Emis had (in his own words) ‘escaped’ to Thavia, and of whom Emis had always been particularly protective. And the interpretation felt right, and so until further information became forthcoming, it was the one the Tiefling had chosen – regardless of how much truth was actually in it.

“Almost there,” he ventures, as they pass unhindered across the threshold of the city gate. “How are you holding up?”

“Still hot,” mutters Kiriel, and tugs his hood further over his head to deepen the shadow.

“You’ll adapt. Anyway,” Emis adds with a small shrug, “this is only temporary. A surrogate family to tide you over until we can get you back to your real one.”

“Yeah.”

It’s uncertain confirmation at best, and both know it. But the elder will not press the issue (for want of convincing evidence), and so he falls silent once more. For all of the time they have spent together, they have spoken precious little – and while there is part of Emis that would like to remedy that during their stay with his parents, he’s not overly optimistic.

And as they walk the streets through which he once ran and in which he once played – and onto which he had later bled – the Tiefling’s thoughts are wholly diverted. His body knows the route and leaves his mind to wander, and his silence grows somehow softer – less stoic, and more nostalgic. And he pretends not to see Kiriel gauging him as his eyes rove across the rooftops and through the streets – and when their eyes do accidentally meet, Kiriel watches him unflinchingly, and Emis is the first to look away.

The silence which hangs over them as they wind their way through the city seems thicker than usual – and maybe it’s just the press of people, or maybe it’s anticipation, but Emis is entirely convinced that he is to blame. And he may very well be right – for his throat is tight and his mouth is dry in spite of the scarf, and his very blood is so aflame that he wonders whether Tieflings have ever spontaneously burst into flame from the sheer heat they carry within themselves.

And before he knows it, they are standing before a colorfully-painted door with a piece of green ribbon wrapped around the handle. A large wooden sign hangs in the window before a richly-embroidered tapestry, and, in bold, crimson text, reads Fine Garments and Leather Goods: Quality Products and Service Guaranteed. The knot in the cleric’s throat has now widened, and he is visibly fighting to swallow it back. His backward shift, however, does not go unnoticed by his companion, and Emis manages a weak smile and nod of gratitude as Kiriel touches his arm in what is probably meant to be reassurance.

“Okay,” Emis breathes, “here goes nothing.” And he pulls his scarf down from his mouth, squares his shoulders, and turns the handle. The jingle of the bell that alerts the household to the presence of a customer is as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, and he moves into the well-lit interior, ushers Kiriel past him, and closes the door.

“Good morning!” Says a cheerful voice from the other side of the room, and strikes the long-absent son like a thunderbolt.

“Good morning,” he replies quietly, and turns away from the door to see Kiriel standing awkwardly to one side with his hands behind his back and his attention shifting between the two Tieflings.

And there is his mother who, upon seeing who her customer is, stops dead in her tracks, her crimson eyes wide and gleaming and her lips parted in shock.

“Emis?” she croaks, voice catching on a rasp. She clears her throat with the intention of repeating the question, but her son doesn’t give her the opportunity.

“Hi mum.” A faint smile crosses his lips, and he picks at a crease in his trousers and awaits her reaction. “I’m home.”

“You’re dead.”

“What?” He blinks twice, and gives his head an uncomprehending shake. “No I… I’m… I’m right here…”

“I thought you were dead…” she clarifies, and continues to stare blankly at her son, lithe body rigid with apprehension and tail curled around her, its tip gripped tightly in one strong hand.

“I don’t understand…” Emis has taken a step back, and glanced at Kiriel. Finding no clarification there he returns his gaze to Danielle, and gives his head another small shake, his own eyes wide with the myriad implications of his mother’s words and his heart beating blood so swiftly through him that he wonders if he should follow its lead and attempt to flee.

“…The train… your letter… you said you were on the train…”

Several oaths slip off his tongue as the fear goes out of his muscles and guilt takes its place, and his head drops into his hands. “Gods… oh gods! Mum… I… I didn’t…”

“If you’ve been alive all this time… why…? – No. It doesn’t matter.” She cuts herself off, jerking her head to clear it and dropping her tail to let it slowly unwind. “Emis…”

“Yes, mum?”

“If I touch you, are you going to disappear?”

“No, mum.”

“Is my hand going to go through you?”

“No, mum. I’m alive. Very much alive.”

The Tiefling woman takes a step forward. And then another, and another, with agonizing slowness, until she comes to stand so close to him that she can see the subtle rise and fall of his chest, and the faint white fire that blazes behind the eyes of her entire family. And then – and only then – does she dare to lift a hand. Her fingertips, calloused and worn from too many pricks with sewing needles, graze softly against his cheek. He smiles faintly, and she – confident now that if he is an apparition, he is a very convincing one indeed – takes his face in her hands, forces his head down a few inches, kisses him between the horns, and flings her strong arms around him. He reciprocates the gesture with every ounce of force he has and buries his face in Danielle’s greying curls so that Kiriel will not see the tears that gather there.

“Don’t get too used to me being alive… I still have to tell dad,” Emis murmurs, his usual edge and mirth somehow audible through the salt that gathers in his windpipe.

He can feel his mother laugh more than he can hear it. “You’ve got nothing to worry about from him,” she says, and finally draws away, though she keeps one hand on his shoulder and one upon his cheek. “It’s Harriet you’ll want to watch out for,” she adds with a small smirk, and gives his cheek a chiding tap.

“…She took it badly, didn’t she.”

“Well, what did you expect?”

“I expected to return without being thought a ghost.”

Danielle releases him with a frown, and shifts backward to scrutinize him. He looks, in her opinion, genuinely apologetic. But still, the urge to ream him for negligence has risen hot in her – and in spite of his decade of absence, Emis can still read his mother’s body language like a book.

Fortunately, he doesn’t need to run preemptive interference, as Danielle decides that their guest provides an excellent incentive both to keep her temper and also change the subject.

“We will discuss this later,” she says sternly, and her gaze switches between Emis and Kiriel, softening as it alights upon the elf. “But for the moment… come upstairs. The pair of you look exhausted. Emis, you can inform your father that you’re alive and introduce us both to your companion… and then eat something… and maybe rest… before you have to face the wrath of your sisters.”

“…You mean Harriet?”

“Well. Yes.” She shoos her son and his guest towards the back door as she opens the front, undoes the green ribbon on the handle and fastens a red one in its place. “Her most of all.” The door swings shut, emphasizing her words, and she strides past the two and beckons them to follow her up the stairs. “But believe you me, Mabel and Elsbat will be equally displeased.”

“…Don’t you mean pleased?”

“You let us believe that you were dead, Emis. What is there to be pleased about?”

“That I’m not…?”

Danielle does not respond immediately, and Emis cannot see her lips pressed into a grim line. “Perhaps,” she muses, and Emis’ heart plummets as her lack of conviction turns it to solid ice. But there is no time to ask for clarification, for she has already turned the handle on the door on the landing, and daylight floods the dark stairwell as she pushes it open and slips through, turning to keep Emis and Kiriel from following.

“Wait here. I need to… warn… your father.”

Emis nods, but she has already turned, and the sound of creaking floorboards and hushed voices can be heard from where they wait.

“Your mother didn’t seem too pleased,” ventures Kiriel, and Emis grits his teeth in chagrin.

“Can you blame her?”

“Are we safe here?”

The question surprises Emis into turning, and in the dim light that spills through the crack between the door and its jamb, the Tiefling’s features soften in amusement.

“Yes.” His reply is immediate, and without hesitation. “This is my family, Kiriel. For what that word may or may not be worth to you, it is as good as gold to me. They may be angry – rightfully so, perhaps – but the anger will pass. It’s born of affection, after all; they would not be so furious with me if my supposed death hadn’t…”

The bell on the shop door rings, and Emis falls silent to listen. Apparently Danielle had heard it too, for as the new footsteps draw close to the door at the bottom of the stairway, so too can Danielle’s footsteps be heard hastening towards where Emis and Kiriel wait. Both doors open nearly simultaneously, and Emis turns from his mother with trepidation – for he had recognized the new footsteps as they crossed the shop floor, and he knows whose familiar silhouette he will see framed in the bottom doorway.

Light now spills into the stairway from both ends, and there is nowhere to hide. There is a pause, thick and heavy, as brother and sister size each other up… and with eerie calmness Harriet sets down her baskets, unslings her satchel from around her shoulders, and unwinds her headscarf from around her horns. And then, with a cry of rage, she launches herself up the stairs, hands and feet propelling her forward as Emis moves to the step beneath Kiriel and Danielle attempts to force her way down the stairs to get between her son and her youngest daughter.

“You slimy, deceitful son of a bitch!” Harriet shouts, and as Emis pleads her name in a quiet attempt to avert this conflict before it begins, she hurtles up the remaining stairs and uses her accumulated forward momentum to carry her into the punch. Her arm sweeps around in a fluid arc towards his cheek, and the force of the blow knocks his head against the stairwell wall. He breaks his fall with his elbow, and swears through his teeth as it cracks against the corner of a step. And – preoccupied as he is with the pain now shooting up his arm – he doesn’t manage to keep her from seizing him by the throat or avoid the second punch she lands squarely on his other cheek.

“Harriet and Emis! Mind your language!” shouts Danielle, and shuffles Kiriel behind her as she moves down the stairs and attempts to get enough leverage to tear her daughter’s hand from the throat of her son.

“Make us think you dead? I’ll fucking kill you, you selfish, cowardly piece of shit!” Harriet snarls, replaces one hand around Emis’ throat with the other, and punches him again on the first cheek, shaking off her struggling mother’s unbalanced attempts to separate them. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, and as they begin to fall on the face of her brother beneath her he wraps his arms around her and holds her close against him. The hand at his throat doesn’t matter. The blood seeping from his nose doesn’t matter. He has not seen his sister in a decade, and he hugs her as though he could close the temporal distance with physical proximity.

“Sister, I can’t breathe,” he whispers, though he makes no attempt to free his windpipe from her grasp.

“Good,” she growls, and drops her horned forehead against his shoulder with enough force to leave a sizeable bruise. “You bastard son of a donkey. You let us think you were dead. Dead! Do you know how much I fucking cried, you ass? DO YOU?”

“I’m sorry,” he rasps again. And now he unwinds one arm from around her and gently pries her fingers from his neck. “I didn’t mean… I didn’t deceive you intentionally. I swear I didn’t, Harriet.”

“You think that makes it better?”

“It hardly makes it worse…” He moves to sit up, but his sister has leverage, and betrayal blazes in her silver eyes as she drives her knee into his chest to keep him pinned to the stairs.

“Fuck you,” she spits, and launches herself to her feet by her knee, driving any remaining breath from her brother’s lungs. “What’s dead should fucking stay dead. Now, if you’ll excuse me brother, I have shit to do.” And without another word – and with hardly more than a passing glance at Kiriel – she pushes past her mother and the Tiefling man who had appeared in the doorway and storms off into the house proper.

“Well,” remarks Emis as his father crouches beside him, pulls him to his feet, and draws him into a fond embrace, “that went better than expected.”

The quip is met with incredulous snorts from both his parents, and Raes draws away to hold him almost at arm’s length. “How do you figure?”

“I’m still alive. And more or less intact, which is… miraculous.”

“I’ll say,” mutters Raes, and Danielle sighs. “In that case, Emis, go fetch Harriet’s shopping from the bottom of the stair. Your nose can wait; some of those ingredients cannot.”

“Yes mother,” he replies, draws away from his father with a small bow to both parents, and cautiously makes his way downstairs as Danielle and Raes disappear into the house and Kiriel slips back to his companion’s side.

“So… what was that about your family not being dangerous?”

“They’re not,” the Tiefling replies without pause, even as a drop of blood trickles into the crease between his lips. He licks it away impatiently and (in spite of the aching of his shoulder and elbow) dons his sister’s satchel, picks up her scarf, and lifts the baskets. Kiriel reaches for one, but Emis shakes his head and moves it out of reach, and proceeds to climb the stair once more.

“Well, they’re not dangerous to you. And they’re not really dangerous to me…”

“She was trying to kill you.”

“She was choking me. There’s a difference.”

He can practically feel Kiriel’s judgmental look boring into his back, and he sighs. “She is my sister. We used to get into much worse skirmishes than that as children, and made up easily afterwards. This is a somewhat exceptional case, because I am actually at fault this time."

“So you’ll let her beat you up?”