#mayvn

A leather-clad arm rose and welcomed her arrival. The hawk was paid for her troubles in a nibble of raw meat.

“Topaz. What’re ye doin’ here, girl?” Dayne’s bird. Griff, she supposed she should call him, for her part in who he became. “They make ye bear word o’ his death t’ me, did they.”

She’d been waiting on it since Loash apprised her of Griff’s circumstances. Either they’d kill him themselves, send him to someone who’d do the job for them, or he’d take matters into his own hands.

It had been a matter of when.

Finding the letter furled up alongside Topaz’s leg, she loosened it free and broke the seal. Her thumb unrolled it. The scent of it had survived the rains Topaz had braved. Behind her mask, she grimaced.

You always looked so happy when you laughed at one of my dumb jokes back in the day. I wonder when last you felt, well, anything.

“Fuck ye, Sven,” she muttered under her breath. “Shove yer sympathy.”

The next line made the parchment under her thumb dimple where she held it.

“Nah.”

Cadmus is dead.

“…nah.”

She’d no clue how long she was stuck there, rereading the same three words. She willed herself past them when Topaz nipped at the page corner.

Cadmus was just a man … and he paid the price for thinking otherwise.

It was a load of tripe, she had decided, but that line stuck with her.

The rest of it looked like a blur on the page. Letters smudged and blending together like chalk on wet paving. No matter how many times she read the missive, it wouldn’t make sense. Her mind was numb.

Then, she was at her desk. Topaz slept with her head tucked low against her breast. A lantern cast flickering light across the page.

The sheltered shelf had become her refuge. There was only one tent pitched there now—hers. Everyone else was gone. Everyone who mattered.

Sven, she began. The quill’s tip rested heavily against the comma. Her furore soaked through the parchment, black blood.

I don’t believe you.

And I won’t believe you until I hear you say it.

Was it possible to grieve someone you hated? What was left of her rational mind knew from experience that it began with denial. Fangs kissed the carotid as she killed that thought, strangled it between clenched jaws.

The others weren’t theirs to punish.

She wrote more legibly than she spoke, but Sven could feel her accent through the way she rendered each word, with the bold strokes and brash curves characteristic of Ala Mhigan signage… and grave markers.

They weren’t ‘just’ kids. They did what they did. And I’ll make them pay for it, every one.

Don’t tell me what kind of fight this is. I made my terms clear. You knew what it meant to break them.

The deal’s not yours to change.

When you’re back, we’ll sort this out. Face to face.

Don’t keep me waiting.

Mayvn

The letter was rolled and sealed. It was attached to Topaz’s leg, the hawk sent on her way. Mayvn watched her go.

Winds rustled and whipped at canvas as the bird swept in, her feet scraping stone to slow her descent. A few hopping bounds brought her nearer to the encampment, and her rider’s boots hit the ground before she came to a standstill.

“Mama!” a small boy bleated, waddling over to her as fast as his little legs could carry him. She bent down and scooped him up into her arms, squeezing him tight.

“Mornin’, Elb,” she cooed, laughing. “Look how ye’ve grown, lad! Last time ah saw ye, hells, ye were no bigger than a popoto.” She pretended to hold one for illustrative purposes.

“No I was-ent,” he protested, giggling.

“Oh, aye, y’were. Pulled ye up out th’ garden. Ah were goin’ t’ boil ye up fer a stew. But yer father saved ye. Where is ‘e? An’ Lin?”

Sticking his thumb in his mouth, the boy thought about it for a beat and pointed to one of the tents near the rear of the outpost. There were about a half dozen shelters pitched throughout the dusty shelf. It was shadowed by an arching stone plateau, and it overlooked the source of the water she’d crossed on her way in, some hundred fulms below.

The camp was cluttered with crated materiel and sacks of supplies. A few figures had poked out their heads and waved to note her arrival, but none approached. They got on with their work, loading up carts pointing eastward. She’d gotten back just in time.

“Run back an’ let ‘im know ah’m here. There’s a good lad.” She set the boy down, but he hesitated by her flank.

“Y’won’t go away again, mama?”

“Not fer a while, nah. Run on, now. Ah’ve got t’ pay Cirrus her fare an’ take her tack off.” With a nod, he did. She fished a hare wrapped in leather out from the lanner’s saddle pack and let the bird snatch it from her hands, swallowing it down in one. She unfastened straps and loosened buckles until the saddle and reins slid off. With an appreciative shake, Cirrus turned and hopped to the shelf’s ledge, taking off again with one beat of her mighty wings.

Opening the flap, she stepped into the tent and pulled down her feathered hood. It was spacious, with several sturdy posts propping up each wing of the interior. One curtained off, where the bedrolls lay, another for storage, and a desk at the corner, all but buried in stacked documents. The various quarters were centred around a hearth with a vent funnelled up through the tent’s peak.

“Sorry love, had my hands full.” He was wiping them down on cloth, sitting cross-legged amongst trays of chopped vegetables and salted stock fish. A girl, older than the young boy, was already on her feet and leapt at her mother the moment she saw her. She smelt of carrots and the sea; she’d obviously been helping her father.

He was next on his feet, waiting while she lifted the girl into an embrace, kissed her cheek, and set her down again. Then it was his turn to get pulled in, and the way he wrapped his arms around her and dug his fingers into her back for the longest while made her feel like he’d missed her more than the pups had.

He alone knew where she’d been.

A little black kitten mewed, weaving between their legs as it pleaded its case for becoming the centre of attention. “Well, now. What’s this?” she rumbled sternly, scooping the sooty mote of whiskers up in one hand and scowling at it with exaggerated scepticism.

Arlinda quickly took the furball from her and cuddled him protectively against her chest. “He’s called Fizzlewhiskers, and pa’ said we could keep him. We can, can’t we?”

“Tsch. We’ll see. Fizz—hells, an’ who gave ‘im that name, ah wonder…”

Her husband flushed.

They regaled her with what she’d missed while she was away over dinner and its preparations: A few more of Elbric’s firsts. It stung, but she let herself get swept up in their joy and excitement. Arlinda reeled off the names of the flora she’d learnt of from her father, their favoured places to grow, the time of year they budded and blossomed, and of course, their practical applications when crushed up and dried. She took after him with her wide-enchantment when it came to all things relating to the natural world.

Then she showed them what she’d brought back for them. For Elbric, a small wooden slingshot. He was too young for it, and her husband’s face was a pallid picture when he realised he was going to have to police his usage of it as the boy immediately started pinging little rocks around the tent. For Arlinda, a dozen pouches of seeds and special sandy soil that some of them needed to grow in. Only her little gardener could squeal with pure, earnest joy at being gifted with dirt.

“You didn’t bring anything for me,” Bertrand had pointed out, a little tender, after the dishes were cleaned away and the little ones put to bed to sleep off their meal. They were curled up together in the furs, legs entwined. She cradled his frame in her arms while he studied a new scar on her shoulder, tracing his thumb over it. The question of where it came from was in his eyes, but never made it to his lips.

“Di’n’t ah? Huh. Must’ve slipped me mind.”

Reaching behind her into the leathers she’d left in a puddle beside the bedroll, she dug around while he clicked his tongue and shoved at her middle. But he sat up, seeking a glimpse of what she was up to. Whatever she retrieved, she had it hidden away in her palm, wrapped up in a linen handkerchief. She presented it to him, letting him unravel it eagerly.

“Feels wrong t’ give ye a gift that were always rightfully yers, but…”

Bertrand found the ring, and his eyes welled up. It was a plain gold band, inscribed with angular lettering in an archaic style of Eorzean. He turned it over in his trembling hand.

“How...?”

“Cut off th’ finger o’ th’ hand what stole it.” He went pale, and she guilt stabbed her in the side.

“Gods, Bert. Jus’ a jape.” He didn’t look like he knew whether to believe her or not, but he relented, smiling, and wiped at his eyes. Sliding the ring down onto his forefinger, he admired it with contented relief. It had been returned whence it belonged, whatever the circumstances. He kissed her, always so hesitant, like he barely dared.

“Have ye missed me,” she whispered, letting him hear her smile.

“Desperately.”

Rolling, she pinned him to the bedding under her weight, and tenderly brushed dishevelled red curls from his eyes. He was the smaller and lighter of the two, half-midlander. Pretty, pale and freckled, and hers. She loved making him blush. He turned the cutest shade of pink.

“Ah’ve been thinkin’ it’s time fer another. Whaddya reckon?” His eyes lit up, but she silenced him with another kiss that led into a slow series.

“Another lass. With yer hair. Yer eyes. My fire.” His nails bit into her back. “I ferget how it’s done, Bert. Like this…?”

“Mayvn—” he shuddered.

A blade of light sliced the comfortable shadows, and she rose up, looking over her shoulder. A sniffling sob announced Elb’s arrival.

“I had- a nightmare,” the lad whimpered weakly.

“Awh, li’l love. C’mere. Let’s go fer a walk. Nah, stay ‘ere. Ah’ve got ‘im.” She urged Bertrand back down onto his elbows as he tried to get up. He sighed, combing his hair back, but smiled fondly as he watched her gather the boy up in her arms like he weighed nothing, and rocked him like she had when he was still a babe.

“Ah’ve got ye. Nothin’ll hurt ye now.” The boy hiccupped as they stepped out into the cool night air.

“Were you an’ pa’ wrestlin’?” he asked. She snorted.

“Aye.”

“Does pa’ ever win?”

She barked a hearty laugh.