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Her hands shake as she tries to pull off her armor. The urge to empty her stomach has thankfully subsided, but somehow the ache that echoes throughout her body has worsened. All she can think of is laying down and pressing her pulsing head against a pillow. Despite the snow outside, she's drenched in sweat; her erratic heartbeat pounds in her ears. It takes everything to keep herself from crying in frustration as she finally pulls off the last of her armor.
Lying down does not help; if anything, the change in position makes her feel worse. She feels the room spin, and every muscle in her body cries out from the fight earlier. She wants nothing more than to numb the pain, and there's a part of her that curses Dalin for pushing her down this path.
Staying still and trying to distract herself from the nausea and aching only pulls to mind everything she’s trying to forget. The statue from the day before haunts her, taunting her with a future she had never considered and now couldn’t stop thinking of. Her mind bounces from memory to idea to conjecture, desperately searching for something that won’t make her want to scream. Nothing quiets her mind.
In desperation, she hurriedly exits the room, making her way outside as carefully as she is capable of being. She's several feet out the door before she realizes she doesn't have a coat, but the cold air is the first thing that has managed to pierce the fog around her mind, so she pushes on. She walks to the far side of town, the deserted area devoid of noise and life. She hopes to find some sort of peace in the dead silence of the city's ghost.
The memory feels like an old piece of artwork, blurred by years of dust, each attempt at cleaning it simply marring the details bit by bit until all that remains is a memory of what it once was, an approximation filling in the gaps with whatever seems to fit. It's a memory of a daydream of a memory. She sees that now. A rusted music box pulled out of storage to reminisce for a moment before it's forgotten for another five years.
She goes back, still, to that moment. To those sturdy arms, that serene face, those warm eyes. The feeling in her stomach of desire and need so strong it scared her.
She sees it now for what it is. The scene opens up, the two of them frozen in this moment. The backdrop sharpens, solidifies. She thinks back to that mysterious job and sees now the threads behind, this pull to come and go from town to town. The punch, which she had barely seen before and always imagined in this golden, holy light, suddenly the hardened fist of a woman who's used it to fell more people than she can conceive of.
The rest of the memory, playing on through the days faster and faster, tugs on these threads, pulling them this way and that until it's a web, and then they're cracks, and suddenly this perfect memory is fractured.
In her mind's eye she sees herself. The mask is still there, cracked and missing pieces, but it hangs on through sheer force of will.
Underneath, though, she knows it has failed, this fragile protection unable to shield her from the layer she keeps closest to her heart. The doubt pours out, thick and angry and burning red, through the cuts torn across her skin by the threads of that memory.
It's a familiar feeling, this pain. Feeling used, wondering if any part of it had been genuine. She'd used the memory to cover wounds before, but now that this is causing the ache, she doesn't know what to do.
So she turns to the best solution she has, that trusty medicine. She burns the cuts away with alcohol. Every time she tries it takes away less and less of the grime, so she drinks more and more, until the edges dull enough for her to push them down again. And again. And again. Eventually she'll forget. She'll fix the mask, pull away the muddied layer beneath. Next time she won't let anyone in. And she'll be fine.
**********
Still.
This voice is quiet. She hears it so rarely. It comes around so rarely, and only ever in these moments, when she's bleeding and desperate and terrified.
Still.
She hates this voice. She only believed it once. It pulled away the mask, tugged her into the light. Gave away everything she guarded.
Still.
It is foolish. Childish. Hopeful in a way that only ever ends in pain.
Still.
She tried to drown it. Burn it away.
Still.
She stopped trusting it years ago.
Still.
She always listens.
Why would she have turned around and asked for the meeting if she didn't want it? Why not just walk away and be done with me?
Eventually, she gets it to fall silent. She always does. Enough alcohol will burn anything.
As she packs to head back to the City of Bridges, her mother enters the room. Yumi carries several packages wrapped in worn cloth and bundled with twine. Da-Rae bursts in after her, giggling as she runs at her mother. Seong-Min catches the toddler in a hug with a soft oof before turning her attention to Yumi. “What’s this?”
Yumi smiles and kneels beside her, setting the packages down. She studies the pile and hands Seong-Min one of the parcels, wrapped in what she recognizes is a swatch from an old dress of hers. “This one is for you,” Yumi says with a beaming smile as Ki-Ha slowly steps into the room behind her.
Confused but excited, Seong-Min unties the binding. Peeling back the fabric, she reveals a pair of mittens. Made of what she quickly deduces is rabbit, the inside is a soft, warm fur. Outside, the leather has been decorated with purple embroidery. She recognizes a simplified picture retelling of one of her favorite legends. Her name is embroidered onto the palms in its Celestial form, one syllable on each mitten.
Excitedly, Da-Rae cries “Look!” and thrusts her hands forward. The mittens haven’t left her hands since she received them, and Seong-Min realizes that the same violet thread makes their mittens look very similar.
Too proud to stay silent any longer, Yumi gestures to the pile of packages. “I’ve got a pair for each of your friends.”
Seong-Min tries not to flinch, instead focusing her attention on studying the mitten. Her eyes are pulled to the minute stitching on the side. Squinting, she studies the seam for a moment. “Did you get Old Neeka to help you? This looks like-”
“Goblin stitching? Yes!” Yumi beams. “I finally convinced her to teach me how to do it. Had to swear not to share the secret, but it made finishing the mittens so easy.” She leans forward and picks up the other mitten. “Zarzushmek caught the rabbits and gave me the fur, and Alba Winthers has been teaching her children the family trade, so they helped me with the embroidery.” She turns the mitten in her hand, marveling at her own handiwork.
“Wow. That’s… a lot.” Seong-Min runs her fingers along the leather, feeling the smooth lines of decoration. “How much did you have to spend on-”
Ki-Ha interrupts now, clearing his throat. “She didn’t spend a cent. Folks around town wanted to thank you and the rest of the, ah, Honeybears.” He moves to let Da-Rae race in and out of the room. “People around here are proud of you.”
Seong-Min blinks back a tear and sets down the mitten next to the rest of her gear. “Please pass along my gratitude.”
Seong-Min leaves for home on the ninth of Kuthona, arriving just in time for lunch the next day. She travels alone; this is her chance to spend some time with her family before the party leaves for the Celestial Isle.
The days pass as uneventfully as they ever do. She bounces between chores, helping her father with his woodwork and her mother with the painting. Da-Rae is more active and talkative each day, and Seong-Min spends hours playing with her daughter. They bundle up and trudge through the snow to the forest, where the canopy of leaves above keep their trails mostly free from the heavier snow. She travels into the village for supplies and deliveries, catching up with old neighbors and classmates excited to hear of her adventures; for the first time, she finds herself on the other side, regaling her captive audience with colorful stories.
The nights are not so kind.
She spends hours pouring over her notes, searching for an answer she knows she doesn't have yet. She tries not to read the entry, but she finds herself going back, the events she’s tried so hard to erase haunting her in every shadow she sees cast around her. There’s something sinister that she can’t ignore anymore, and it terrifies her.
It’s worse when she closes her eyes.
The Darkness returns, swirling on the horizon, somehow darker than the void around it. Tendrils reach for her like smoke curling through the air. Her muscles ache from instinct compelling her to run, but she cannot command her body to comply. Whispers and shouts and screams fill the air, a million voices blending into a cacophony of pain.
She scans for the figure who defended her before, a resolute point of light against the rolling Darkness. Even as her searching grows more frantic, though, the truth echoes in her mind: She isn’t there. You hurt her. She won’t save you. She sees the body on the ground just before it is enveloped by the Darkness, and she screams.
Her family falls next. They stand there, unmoving, facing the roiling cloud. She calls for them until her voice is raw, but the Darkness takes them nonetheless.
She doesn’t expect to see the party. As with the others, they stand frozen before the chaos. Her shouts turn to pleas, directed at the all-consuming Darkness. You can’t take them. This isn’t fair. I’ve pushed them away. Kept them safe. The Darkness does not relent. Its punishment is a clear reminder: you cannot love. You can only hurt.
It comes for her at last, but the Darkness does not allow her the mercy of dissolution. It embraces her, tender and cold. The noises stop, and all she feels is the connection.
She wakes with a scream. Sleep and terror cloud her mind, and she fumbles for her shifting weapon, intending to summon a knife to cut the symbol from her belly, to sever the hold of whatever has anchored itself to her. Her hand finds a handle and she swings her arm around, bringing the weapon into view.
She didn’t mean to grab the starknife. The sight of its blades, shining in what moonlight filters into the room, causes Seong-Min to freeze. She stares at the metal, lost for a moment in the memories the careful detailing evokes. And then she begins to sob.
Yumi throws the door open a moment later. In a single fluid motion she drops to her daughter’s side, tugging the knife from her fingers as she presses Seong-Min’s head to her shoulder. They sit together, mother holding daughter in a tight embrace. Yumi sings quietly until Seong-Min’s sobbing stills.
“It came back,” Seong-Min whispers, her voice hoarse from crying.
Yumi lets a moment pass. “Do you want to stay up? Or come into our room? I can grab-”
Seong-Min shakes her head. “I’m alright now. Thank you.” She gives a weak smile and lays down, pulling the blanket tight around herself once more.
“Goodnight, my star,” Yumi whispers, placing a gentle kiss on Seong-Min’s forehead before quietly leaving the room.
Seong-Min finds her flask and takes a sip before falling into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
Ki-Ha steps from Da-Rae’s room just as Yumi exits Seong-Min’s room. Wordlessly, the two walk to the kitchen, stepping down onto the dirt flooring. With the casual coordination of two people long tied together, they move about the room in silence, stoking the fire and fixing a small pot of tea. It isn’t until both sit before the fire warming their hands with teacups that Ki-Ha speaks.
“Is she okay?”
Yumi sighs and looks back towards the other rooms. “I’m not certain.”
“Was it-”
She nods solemnly, blowing on the tea and taking a small sip.
Ki-Ha grimaces and studies his own cup, watching the steam curl in the chilly air. “I thought they stopped. She hasn’t had that nightmare in more than two years, not since Da-Rae was born.” He takes a sip. “At least, not that I know of.”
Yumi nods and lowers her hands to her lap. “She seemed almost surprised, so I don’t think she’s been keeping it from us.”
They pass another few minutes in silence, each filling their cups once more. This time, Yumi is the one who interrupts the calm.
“Can’t we tell her to stay? Surely this adventuring is weighing on her. Something must have happened. If she just stays home-”
Ki-Ha shakes his head and Yumi falls silent. “You know as well as I do that she isn’t ready.”
“I know,” Yumi whispers as Ki-Ha continues.
“Whatever chased her away before hasn’t been fixed. She still doesn’t know what she’s doing. I think she’s smiled, what, 3 times in the last few days?” Ki-Ha sighs and sets his empty cup down. “She isn’t happy here.”
They don’t mention it in the morning, and Seong-Min doesn’t bring the matter up. The nightmare returns again and again, and when she awakes in a cold sweat, she chases the terror away with the familiar fog of alcohol and prays for a quiet mind.
Da-Rae’s birthday is a simple affair. Seong-Min had purchased a colorful dress that’s still a bit big for the two-year-old, but she hopes this means she’ll be able to wear it a little longer. Yumi proudly presents a tiny pair of mittens, and Ki-Ha lays a necklace of small, ornately carved wooden beads around Da-Rae’s neck. They play games and tell stories, and for once Seong-Min gives in to the joy of family and the simple life she misses when she’s gone. For a day, she forgets to worry and pretend.
She’s blessed with a peaceful dream before the nightmare resumes.
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She can feel the mask shatter again, shards of porcelain cutting her hands as she hurries to push the pieces back into place. Her terror is just visible from beneath the painted smile she presents to the world.
She's always run before. Well, usually she runs at the first sign of a chip in the fragile surface. It almost never gets this bad.
She cannot run this time, she knows. They know too much of the people behind her, and as scared as she is to lose the mask, her love for her family pulls her forward. It's a ribbon knotted around her neck, this fear of bringing something terrible back home.
She doesn't know how to move if the mask is gone. She tries to put them back together, using her bright personality and sharp wit to blind everyone else from seeing her patchwork job. It won’t work for long, she knows.
How long until the last front breaks? Until they realize she’s just a shell of a shell of a shell, wrapped around an empty core? Nothing.
She takes another long swallow from the flask, drinking until she’s burned the thoughts away again.
Seong-Min can feel the creature drain her — some part of her life force, her essence. It's an odd sensation; where the energy from the elemental had been painful, this just leaves her feeling tired. She can hear her party behind her dispatching the other orbs, leaving only the one before her. It buzzes and bounces erratically, winding up for another attack.
Her eyes dart back and forth, and between the waves of energy she senses a point of weakness. Though she knows it's risky, the possibility of chipping away at its core is too great an opportunity to miss. Seong-Min strikes forward, putting her force behind her beloved starknife. Satisfied with the apparent hit, she turns to run back to her allies.
The orb hits faster than she expects, a painful wave of energy knocking her to the ground.
She doesn't see anything, but she can feel it: an exhaustion deep in her bones, something beyond anything she's felt before. The sensation quickens, intensifies, until the ache consumes her.
She knows of nothing more than a tearing sensation that rips her from herself. It's as though she's been torn to pieces and crushed within herself and pulled taut. Nothing but the pain seems real — the pain of this tearing and the deep shame and regret she feels, a promise unfulfilled. The sensation lasts for what must be an eternity. And then it stops.
Seong-min is herself again, separated from the force that had tried to consume her. Something is wrong, though. It takes her a moment to realize what exactly that is, until she realizes she hasn't simply stopped feeling pain; she doesn't feel anything. Searching about in a panic, it takes only moments to realize her body lies at her feet. It's still sprawled out where she fell, petrified with the slightest grimace of pain across her face.
Her party muddles about, their movements slow and alien to her. Their mumbled words barely reach her. They react to something down the road, something she can't place; it takes several minutes for her to realize they're guardians, but the importance of this eludes her. It's as if her very being is focused on her body, drawn to it and yet held at bay.
She follows effortlessly, unconsciously. Her thoughts are nebulous and nearly impossible to register. She's left with very little awareness of the situation at hand; instead, her mind drifts back on the only other thing she can remember. It ties her to the world, pulling her forward almost as much as her own body. Without the worries of the mission on her mind, Seong-Min spends every moment agonizing over her decision, uninterrupted by the distractions of sleep or need.
Had she made the right decision?
Has she stayed too long, gone too far?
Was she being selfish? Impractical? Immature?
What would happen if she did die, if she couldn't go back?
Would they be okay without her?
Would she hate her?
If she couldn't stop whatever this was, would they be torn apart as well?
She doesn't have any answers. All she can do is follow and hope for yet another chance.
She arrives in Gearstown two days before she turns eighteen. She has eight silver in her pocket (it's really five silver and almost thirty copper, but she's fine with rounding) and not much of anything else.
The money lasts a week.
Her plans for the future are crushed in less than that.
The first night there is a whirlwind of excitement. She travels throughout the city, marveling at the buildings and the bustle and the noise. Her knowledge of Common is not quite as perfect as she'd hoped, but she finds herself piecing conversations together without too much difficulty. She decides she was made for cities, for a life faster and busier than the one she's known. A stranger buys her a cocktail at the tavern, and she drinks something much stronger than anything she's been allowed to have before. Somehow she's still able to purchase a room for the night and collapses almost instantly, a giddy smile pasted on her face.
She wakes with a slight headache but presses on. With the day ahead of her, she makes the long trek to the Academy. The building nearly takes her breath away. She wanders, awestruck, enjoying the bits of lectures she overhears through open doors. Eventually, she reaches the desk of someone who seems to know how things work. With a pleasant smile, she inquires into the process of registering for classes.
It's then that she begins to understand the world.
Learning is not meant for girls from small towns with eight silver in their pockets and an imperfect understanding of Common.
Cities are not meant for girls used to open fields and forests, to the slow pace of carving wood.
She fights back tears as she returns to the tavern; she turns down the drink that day. She cries herself to sleep.
She meets the next day with renewed determination, the promise of a better year ahead of her enough to brighten the morning. Though she's written off the Academy (not like she actually cared that much anyway), she's bored enough to return to see its library.
There are more books than she's seen in her entire life, and it takes no small amount of energy to maintain her composure. Idly considering potential projects, she decides to perfect her grasp on Common, refreshing the rules she'd learned and forgotten in years of schooling. The endeavor results in a stack of books and several pages of notes, but by the end of the day she's much more confident in her skills.
That night she flirts back, keeping pace with the conversations that fly past her. She accepts more drinks than she should have, but she waves the guilt away by reminding herself of her birthday. She falls asleep in the corner of the tavern, her head swimming as the world blurs around her.
A pounding headache greets her in the morning as the barkeep rouses her from the bench. She stumbles into the street, trying to gather her wits about her. Her notes from the day before are a crumpled mess in her pocket, and before she stops to consider the practicality, she trades two silver for a notebook and pencil. The notebook is little more than a collection of pages sewn together, but they come in a leather folder she'll be able to add to. She returns to the library, at ease once again in the dark and quiet space. She assembles a small mountain of books to hide herself behind the desk she's occupied and rests her head on the desk for a quick nap.
A voice from nearby informs another patron that the library is closing soon, pulling her out of her sleep. Refreshed, she hurriedly gathers her bag and bids the librarian a pleasant farewell.
She feels invigorated as she steps into the cool night air. Weaving her way through the city, she trades smiles and friendly greetings, finding the tavern with the fastest music and loudest bursts of cheering. She dances until her feet are sore and her lungs ache, but the smile never leaves her face. Even so, she cannot shake the nagging feeling at the back of her mind; the three silver and eleven copper in her pocket seem heavier than what she'd had at the start of the week.
A woman with red hair and a crooked nose manages to catch her eye, and she hangs on to every word as she regales her with tales of dangerous sea voyages and fearsome creatures, of fights won in the last instant. Halfway through the stories, she finds herself pulling out the notebook to record what she can, jotting down bullet points in the language closest to her heart, making the words comfort her almost as much as they excite her. The conversation stretches on for hours, and at the end the woman invites her upstairs. She feels a dizzying mix of feelings swirl inside, pulling at her heart and stomach: excitement and fear and curiosity and the haze of alcohol that makes her feel too sensitive and dulled all at once. Somewhere, deep inside, something logical warns her against it. Something else, equally logical, senses safety in the promise of a bed.
She accepts.
Kisses and whispers and things she's never experienced fill the remainder of her night, and at the end of it all she collapses in a soft bed, pressed into the warm embrace of a woman she knows everything and nothing about.
She wakes early the next morning — well, relatively early. Earlier than her companion, at least. She is no fool; she knows this is not a permanent arrangement. She gathers her things quickly, bidding a quiet goodbye to the sleepy woman who wakes just before she leaves the room.
Her head spins as she drifts through the city, dozens of thoughts crossing her mind each second. Though her evening was enjoyable, the idea of repeating it nightly sours her stomach. Eventually, she finds herself in a higher-class district, lined with tall houses pushed together. Well-dressed families bustle around together, and a pang of homesickness washes over her. Another feeling washes over her, and she finds herself envious of those neat houses.
As she passes through the district, she notices a burst of activity around one house. The owner, a younger man with a lean face and haughty expression, orders about servers who scurry to and fro. Pausing nearby, rummaging through her bag to look busy, she overhears enough to piece together that the man is headed on a trip, and his house will lie empty for weeks. The kernel of an idea is planted in her mind, and she moves on.
In another area of town, one she avoids at night, she peruses the shops carefully. Finally, she sees what she needs: a set of lockpicks advertised to locksmiths and adventurers, nestled away among delving gear. She cannot afford a whole kit, but three silver is enough for a few lockpicks.
Later that night, after she's enjoyed a meal someone else purchased, she sneaks back to the house. Hugging the shadows, she makes her way to a back entrance and begins to fiddle with the lock. It takes far longer than she anticipated, and at least half of the time is spent carefully fishing a broken pick out of the lock. Finally, she hears a satisfying click as the mechanism pops open.
The house is grandiose and certainly too large for the one man who normally occupies it. She sleeps in a soft bed and steals a small, decorative dish before she leaves.
In the morning she leaves without raising attention and makes her way back through town. The two copper she has left are a terrifying reminder that she's nowhere close to finding her footing. She slinks off to the library again, wandering aimlessly through the shelves as she half-reads titles, pondering her options.
Someone nearby makes a poor attempt to speak Celestial, and without thinking she responds with a correction. Turning the corner, she finds herself face-to-face with a young man holding a well-work book surrounded by piles of similarly worn covers. He stares at her with a somewhat disgruntled expression, clearly embarrassed by the correction but in desperate need of an accurate reading. She shrugs and makes her way to the bookcase behind him, making a big show of ignoring him to read through the titles.
He turns back to the text before him, stumbling through a few more words as she mutters corrections behind him before slamming the book down and turning to face her. A look of rage crosses his face for a brief instant before he fixes it into a polite expression. Bowing his head stiffly, he introduces himself. After a reluctant sharing of research and a show of language expertise, she finds herself agreeing to help him translate Celestial writings for a project on spirits and delves.
With whatever pull the scholar has, he's able to secure greater library access for her as a research assistant. It isn't quite the degree she'd hoped for, but she's excited by the prospect of having free reign over the library.
She parts ways with her new companion before dinner, securing a meal with the remainder of her money. An old woman nearby worries about her dog, and the girl is rewarded with a pastry upon locating the escapee.
She returns to the empty house that night, gathering her wits about her and devising a strategy. She doesn't sleep long, and an excited twist in her stomach wakes her just after the sun begins to rise.
It goes like this: in the mornings, she wakes early. The occasional companion may offer breakfast, but for the most part she finds her own, swiping food from street vendors or performing a quick task for a stranger or one of the tavern owners.
On the days she is needed in the library, she spends most of the morning and afternoon pouring over texts. The Celestial is a welcome comfort, reminding her of home. She comes to know the young man rather well. They work together, him thrusting new texts under her nose and her gleefully correcting the errors she spots. It's a tense friendship at times, but a friendship nonetheless, and she is hopeful having her name connected to this work might help in some way. They sleep together, once, when she takes pity on him after a near-tearful soliloquy about his loneliness. It's uncomfortable and a bit tense, and they don't talk about it much afterwards.
The rest of her days are filled with odd jobs. She takes on everything from dog-walking to cleaning to repairing wooden furniture. When the city is particularly busy with tourists, she sets up a low table and sells paper charms with Celestial words written in her best imitation of her father's calligraphy.
It goes like this: she spends her nights divided between the taverns and houses in the merchants' district. It doesn't take long for her to become adept at scouting out the orderly buildings, searching for signs of absent owners. The schedules of the shipping yards become almost second nature, and she always knows which houses are safe. There are a few close calls, but people in the district don't seem particularly worried about people like her. She collects trinkets and knickknacks, little baubles the owners won't miss. The empty houses are a welcome respite when she needs a break, a night or two to collect herself before facing the crowds again.
It isn't long before people begin to recognize her at the taverns. She bounces between them, learning the clientele and patterns. She knows where to find the workers, the merchants, the wealthy travelers, the students, the locals. She knows which nights are busy and which are quiet. After a few weeks she begins to offer her services on the busy nights, picking up a few extra coins. It doesn't take long for her to realize she has a knack for bartending. She knows the drinks well, and with her easy conversation and flirtatious looks, patrons are willing to drink a bit more and tip a bit better.
She befriends one of the tavern owner's daughters, a bright girl with a sunshine smile and hair to match. Her new friend is awestruck by her stories, and on nights when she's too tired to find a bed, she often offers a place.
Most nights, though, she sleeps somewhere else. She's careful in choosing her partners, but she seems to find a new one almost every night. The notebook fills quickly, each encounter paid for with a worthy story (and a meal and warm bed). There's a short description of the narrator beside each entry, a careful index of each person she's stayed with over the year.
It goes like this: she tells herself she's never been happier. She has countless friends and makes new ones every night. She hears of the world, of far away lands and daring adventures. The research makes her feel connected to those roots like she's never felt before. Her purse is light, but she always finds someone willing to pay.
It goes like this: she's never felt more alone.
It goes like this:
She's spent the last three nights with the elf — a charming man who has more than enough money for anything. She enjoys his company at first, but before long he's unloading endless complaints and burdens on her. He complains of responsibility, of the weight of royalty. Every slight against him is a tirade. After three nights of luxury and his endless tears, she bids him farewell.
Her next companion is far more serious and stoic. His tales of heroics catch her attention, and the night progresses well enough. He's gentle and attentive, but in the morning he's almost up before she is.
The research thesis is turned in, and she shows up for the ceremony. The student at the door seems confused and doesn't recognize her name, but she secures a place in the back of the room, sure the error will be corrected before long. But when the scholar she's helped takes the stage to share their research, his name is the only one he mentions. She can barely hear over the white-hot anger burning in her chest, but she stays through the whole lecture to make sure. Sure enough, there isn't even an allusion to the assistance she provided.
She isn't as careful that night, doesn't watch her drink or the patrons around her. Her head starts to swim as a mysterious woman with a dangerous smile weaves a tale of demons and evil spirits. The girl is barely able to jot down a few notes, ending up with a name, a simple description, and some illegible scribbles about monsters. The last thing she remembers is pleading for water at the tavern, the woman laughing playfully and pushing down her arms. She wakes the next morning sprawled on a bed, nude. A strange symbol is drawn on her lower stomach with a substance she can't identify, and candle wax has melted down in puddles around the room. She hurriedly gathers her things, washing off her belly with the water from a basin in the corner. It doesn't take long to dress, and she leaves the room as quickly as she can. Flipping through the notebook, she finds no further details. She's never been blackout drunk before, and the gap in her memory terrifies her. She draws the symbol into her notebook, records the state of the room, and moves on.
Shaken from the previous night, she's tempted to hide in one of the merchant houses. Her usual choices are filled, though, and she doesn't have the energy to find a new one. As night falls, she makes her way to a familiar tavern. Her friend greets her with a smile. The response is lackluster, and the blonde girl asks if there's anything wrong. For some reason, she can't tell the truth. The words to describe her morning do not come, so instead she smiles and shakes her head.
That evening is a different kind of blur. She barely listens to the noise around her as she accepts drink after drink. As the action dies down and the barkeep begins to close down, she chooses at random one of the people who've been paying attention to her all night. He's a loud, boisterous warrior, and she instinctively copies down a tale or two, even though they're basic and seem inflated. The bragging never stops, even as the night becomes more "intimate," and she breathes a sigh of relief when he finally falls silent, replacing the endless chatter with a droning snore. Though the noise typically bothers her, she passes out soon after, exhausted.
In the morning, she doesn't wake as early as she means to, and she's only half-dressed when the man wakes up. He follows her out, picking up the talking where he'd left off the night before. Her polite attempts to excuse herself are ignored, and when she turns to walk away, she's surprised by the hand that clamps around her forearm. She turns to see his furious face, angry that she's turned her back on him. He opens his mouth to say something when a blur of motion collides with the side of his head, breaking his hold and sending him crashing into the wall. The force sends her stumbling forward, and a gentle arm catches her before she falls.
It goes like this:
The woman before her is steady, her casual stance seemingly unaffected by the girl's stumbling. Her smile is warm, her eyes are an intoxicating swirl of black and brown and gold, and the girl thinks this might be the most beautiful person she's ever seen.
She releases her hold quickly, respectfully, but the girl finds herself wishing she could stay in those arms, staring into those eyes forever. The woman sends the warrior to sulk off, and when she turns back, the girl asks to buy her breakfast. The offer surprises her: she's never bought anything for anyone else, and her few coins were hard-earned. Still, she's desperate to keep this woman from leaving immediately. The invitation is accepted, and she lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
The meal starts simple: polite introductions, basic details, the like. When the woman asks about the morning's confrontation, however, the girl finds herself telling the truth. All of it. She doesn't intend to, not at first; she only meant to cover the night before. As she talks, however, she can see something shift, some flicker of concern and interest across that perfect face, and she shares more and more. The words don't stop, even when she wants them to, and she finds herself breaking down in tears. She drops her gaze, covering her face with her hands, closing in on herself. She's furious with herself for the outburst, convinced she's squandered whatever chance she might have had by letting the mask slip.
She's interrupted by a comforting pressure on her back and the low melody of a familiar lullaby. It's been almost a year since she last heard pyeongmin. Even her own thoughts had been corrupted by Common, leaving only her notes as a connection to her home. Yet here was this woman, kind and strong and beautiful, singing a song she'd heard from her parents more times than she can count. It's enough to pull her from her crying; she sits up and looks at the woman, mystified.
Clearly misreading the expression, the woman begins to stammer out an apology, but the girl interrupts her with a string of pyeongmin. The words flow easily, without the stumbles she makes in the other languages. The woman's face lights up, and from then on, they speak nothing but pyeongmin, both relishing the comforting lilt of a language so few people they meet could speak.
They spend two weeks together, rarely leaving the other's company. She tells the woman nearly everything about herself: her childhood, her family, her time in Gearstown. The woman shares nearly as much; she can't speak about her job, but the pained expression on her face makes it clear that she'd share everything in a heartbeat if she could. They talk about simple pleasures and joys, about food and poetry and legends. They talk about hopes and fears, about plans for the future and personal desires.
It goes like this: she's in love. Every moment fills her with an ache she never wants to lose, and she knows she's showing parts of her soul she didn't even realize she's been hiding.
It goes like this: two weeks end all too soon, and the two part with a tearful goodbye. Before she's gotten more than thirty feet away, the woman turns and runs back. Her eyes are wild and the tears are gone, replaced with an excited smile. She asks the girl to meet her, here, one year from now, and they'll run away together. She agrees, and when the woman leaves, there's a hopeful spring in her step.
The girl watches until she fades from view. Her excitement lasts only until she returns to the tavern. The room they'd shared has been paid for for the night, and she spends the evening staring at the wall until sleep takes her.
It goes like this: she spends the next three weeks in a daze, barely noticing each day that passes by. She tries to sleep with someone once: she finds herself unwilling to go all the way once she reaches his room, and he berates her with a drunken lecture until he falls asleep. She sneaks out with his rapier, heading directly to the merchant district and finding a house to hide in again. She leaves only to hustle up a meal, accepting the purchase and quickly ducking out.
It goes like this: she throws up every morning three days in a row. She ends up getting a room at the tavern; there's no point in making a mess in a home she isn't meant to be in, and she doesn't want to try to get into someone else's bed. After a week of her stomach turning constantly, sometimes at the mere smell of food, she finds a medic, desperate for a diagnosis.
She's pregnant.
The news shocks her, and she can feel the world crashing down around her. When the ringing in her ears fades, she leaves with a polite smile. It doesn't take long to pack her things. There's a cart leaving in the morning with the mail, and she secures a spot for the journey home.
She has only one goodbye to cover, and she says it over her final meal in the tavern. She weaves a tale of adventures to come and places to see, and the barkeep's daughter listens intently. They part with the tearful farewell of schoolgirls, pledging to meet again.
It goes like this: she leaves two days before she turns nineteen with a child inside her and not much of anything else.
