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Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2013= Finals Arena (9/17/2013 20:01:53)
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She breathed slowly, in and out, trying her best to keep from moving. Now, after the chaos had come to an end, after all the walls had fallen, each ache and pain asserted itself, vying for her attention amid the waves of emotion. Tharala felt like nothing more than a collection of aches and pains, from the sharply stinging pain on one hip and the icy numbness of the other, to the rising and receding pain rushing in waves up and down her broken wing. With an effort of will she managed to raise her head, even as her muscles and joints added their own notes of protest to the chorus of her throbbing agonies. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep, if only for a year or two.
Her golden eyes blinked slowly, and for a moment panic breached the surface of the emotional maelstrom surging through her. There was a man coming towards her. He was armed. Another opponent. But that… That wasn’t possible. She had won, she knew that she had won. No one had said anything about another opponent, another trial…
Tharala watched the man stop, a hint of tension in his stance, and her panic slowly drained away. Posture and body language were important to a skyfisher. The ability to gauge intention by the way a creature held itself, whether that be in readiness for fight or for flight, could make the difference between success and failure, life and death. Her mind caught up with her eyes, and after a moment the skyfisher realized that the man was not there to fight. He held himself with an unconscious stiffness, his feet set as though preparing to shoulder a burden that is undesirable, but nonetheless will be borne.
Her eyes slid across him quickly, taking in the pristine shirt and vest, the trousers, and the long coat that covered the ensemble. The coat shifted slightly, revealing a set of rods belted about his waist. Tharala’s gaze moved up, lingering for a moment on the erratically arranged black hair. She smiled slightly and knew, without quite being able to put a finger on the reason, that the man’s hair had never submitted, and would never submit, to his desires. She met his gaze, staring into deep blue orbs and noting the faded legacy of a scar that had probably once been very prominent.
A shiver coursed through the skyfisher as her eyes met his, and she bit down on a gasp of pain. For a long moment she watched him, gold eyes meeting blue and holding. Tharala swallowed. The man’s regard was intense, almost like staring into the sun, and when he spoke, breaking the silent tension, the skyfisher let out a soft exhalation, unaware until then that she had been holding her breath.
Tharala bowed her head for a moment, looking up at the man a moment later, her voice thin and frightened as tears glittered in her eyes. “How… How can you be so sure?”
The moments following his soft, yet firm declaration might well have been the most agonizing that Marcos had ever experienced. He’d have almost rathered any reaction, no matter how harsh or contrary, in comparison to the silence that had fallen. He started to chew on his lower lip, his eyes darting this way and that as she broke their long-held stare, not sure if he should keep staring at her or look anywhere else but there. His words … Marcos had felt so sure about them a few moments ago, but now his faith was starting to crumble, much like his mental walls had mere seconds before.
Just as his mind was ready to descend into chaos, he heard it; it was faint, but sweet, just like the song of a robin in the morning. Yet … it was shaky, almost as though the branch that the bird was standing upon was being tossed by stormy winds, the creature clinging onto the tree for dear life. Tharala’s words brought peace to the troubled storm of his thoughts, only to kick up the winds again when their meaning sunk in. Could he provide an answer for her? Could he allay her fears? The Handyman shivered, but stood firm. He’d already come this far, so there was no turning back now.
The Architect focused the storm-tossed regions of his brain as best he could, forcing them to consider the problem at hand. It was only when he paused in his ponderings that he took note of her face, of the tears threatening to fall from her melting eyes, that he realized what he must look like to her right now. He must appear nearly as shook up as she did; if anything, that was just going to make things worse, not better. Marcos steadied himself and met her eyes once more, gathering what strength he could before he opened his mouth again. Not thinking too much had worked out well for him before, despite going against everything that he knew, so maybe it would work again.
“I could say that it’s because you won … but that wouldn’t ease your heart, or mine were I in your place right now.” Going good so far, just keep it up.. “I’ve been here before, three years ago. Unlike you, I lost, and thought that my world was crumbling around me. So I ran. Ran far away and tried to make things feel better. It didn’t help.” What was that feeling - like raindrops falling upon his face, but it was a clear day. He blinked the droplets away and kept going, some strange, subtle momentum pushing him forward. “I came back here six months ago, with the intent to enter the tournament again this year. ‘To regain what I’d lost’ I told myself. Things didn’t quite work out that way, as you can see. But … that’s all right.”
“Be it a loss, a failure, or even a win, sometimes, when things don’t go as planned, the world doesn’t stop turning. There’s still a place for you in it - you just have to open your eyes so that you can see it. I found mine here designing and building the Arenas that have given all of you so much trouble, and if you’d like … I could help you find yours. First though, you have to dry your eyes - you won’t be able to see anything through all of those tears.”
Was that good enough? Who knows. Marcos just let out a sigh of relief, his body feeling as though it had just run a marathon.
He met her gaze and answered her, and his words shook her at first. Yet, he continued, and as he spoke Tharala felt, if not comforted by his words, at least supported. It was a slender reassurance, perhaps, but in the rushing confusion of her emotions, even a slender branch extended to pull her out was more than welcome. He was right, though, when he admitted he could have simply said that she had won and left it at that. He had not, and the skyfisher respected him for that, for his honesty.
She swallowed, holding his stare unwaveringly, quiet as she watched his blue eyes shed tears of their own when he spoke of his own attempt to win the crown. She was surprised at the quiet ache his words caused, at the impulsive desire to reach out and wipe away his tears, but she was even more surprised as he continued. Tharala blinked, her heart hammering in her chest as his words penetrated the distracting haze of pain. Designing, building… This, this was the Architect, the man who she had idly wished in the Fountain Arena (Years and years ago, surely?) to have the chance to meet.
Tharala exhaled a soft breath of wonder, looking up at him. “Oh Lord and Lady, y-you’re the Architect…” She lifted a hand weakly from her spear, her motion vague, encompassing the Arena and the Pillars. “You designed this. You designed the Fountain Arena.” Her hand returned to the spear, and she leaned against it for support again weakly.
“My father always told me that you could know a man by the things that he made. The Fountain…” she smiles unconsciously, “it was beautiful. I could, could feel it, the spirit of the place.” The skyfisher looked down, her voice soft. She was embarrassed, and she had probably just made a fool of herself, spouting off her thoughts as if the Architect had asked for them, as if he cared for them, and completely ignoring his kind words.
Desperate to change the subject, or at least, to change the focus, she rushed on. “I, I am very sorry, but could you… could you help me up? I don’t think they want me to just kneel here.”
Marcos had expected a lot of things in response to his words, but if you’d posed the question to him, praise certainly wouldn’t have been one of his answers. The young man fought, unsuccessfully, to prevent his free hand from tracing the line of his cheekbone. Accursed habit - it only made their subtle reddening even more obvious. This was why he didn’t like having to deal with people … though he supposed that this wasn’t so bad. The Architect cleared his throat, trying to catch her before she really made him blush in embarrassment (it wasn’t like the crowd didn’t have plenty to talk about already).
“W-well, the Pillars are the work of the Lords, glory be to them,” he began, his tone a little shaky. Come on, her voice seems calmer now. You don’t want to be the only one who’s falling apart - keep it together. “The gates are mine though, and y-yes, I also designed the Fountain Arena this year; I’m glad that you liked it, since it’s … n-not often that I get to hear appreciation for what I do.”
In a matter of seconds, she’d turned Marcos from a nervous wreck into a decidedly different kind of wreck. One that at least, wasn’t as inwardly problematic, but had more than a few problems when it came to his outward appearance. So distracted was he that he almost didn’t catch what she said next, but her sweet voice managed to pierce the veil of his thoughts again; how was she doing that?
“I, I am very sorry, but could you… could you help me up? I don’t think they want me to just kneel here.”
You idiot - she’s lying there on the ground, hurt. What are you doing? Chagrined that he’d overlooked her current condition, Marcos hurriedly fetched a healing potion out of his coat, wedging the stopper between the middle and index finger of his other hand and pulling it loose. He extended the potion to her, a bashful expression finding its way onto his face. The Handyman’s eyes flitted this way and that, unable to hold her gaze for more than a few moments, though they always found their way back.
“Drink this - it’ll take care of your wing and any other hurts that you have. Then, if you still need it, I’ll help you up.” Fate liked to play with him, that had to be it. There was no other way that he could possibly ended up in this situation, immobilized in an entirely different fashion than he was used to. Marcos supposed that he could get used to it though.
She blinked. He was… stammering? The skyfisher was confused, uncertain as to what had caused the sudden shift as the Architect replied, lightly running fingers across his cheek. Tharala smiled faintly, recognizing a habitual gesture as the man colored. Her smile faded as she swallowed nervously, suddenly a little self conscious herself as her eyes and his met, danced away, and then met again.
Relieved to have something else to focus on for the moment, she accepted the vial from him with one hand, forcing herself to move slowly and steadily to keep from shaking. She didn’t want to tremble in front of him, didn’t want to appear weak. The liquid inside was a deep red, as of congealing blood, and it reminded her for a briefly nauseating moment of the man she had killed. His body was no doubt cooling in the Fountain Arena even as they spoke. Sickened, she upended the vial, downing the potion swiftly.
It was vile, but in her experience, they always were. A taste like ashes and sour fruit stained her tongue, almost making her gag. The brew fizzed and churned down her throat, settling in her stomach like a nest of furious wasps that spread out, buzzing through her veins. “Gah…” Tharala wavered, dropping the vial to the sand and gripping her spear hard. Heat and sensation surged through her, and she spoke softly, not realizing what she said. “I never wanted to kill him. I just… I had to protect myself. Oh Lord and Lady, I’m sorry...” The skyfisher dashed a hand across her eyes, scattering the remnants of her tears, stronger already as the potion did its work, but not aware of it yet.
She looked up at the Architect, shivering. “I’m sorry, but… Can you, can you move my wing? I need to straighten it, or the bone won’t heal cleanly. I’m sorry, I can’t… I can’t get it to move right.”
Marcos’ heart leapt as her face paled; was there something wrong with the medicine? He hoped not, since he didn’t have anything else on hand, and she really needed it. Luckily, she brought the vial to her lips, and he let out a breath that he didn’t know that he’d been holding. Healing potions might taste abjectly awful, but the things did do their job; the brews had saved his life on more than one occasion. Hopefully, this one would do the same for her.
The Architect nearly closed the distance between them when he saw the glass slip from her fingers, only the sight of the girl firmly gripping her spear halting him in his tracks. Wait … since when had he been willing to do something like that for someone that he barely knew? He’d only met this girl a few minutes ago, and even if she’d been his pick for Champion this year, that didn’t mean that he really knew her. Tharala. Who in the world was this girl that she could make him forget every rule that he’d forced himself to adhere to? Things weren’t going as planned, for Energy Lord’s sake, and Marcos was oddly okay with that.
What was happening to him?
A mumble from the object of his thoughts roused him from his reverie; her words weren’t directed at him. No, they seemed to be asking forgiveness from some higher power - maybe her own Lord. The Architect’s eyes briefly glanced at the alabaster statue across the way, the manifestation of the Light Lord’s power still exuding its glorious glow. Her admission pained her, that was plain to see, but he knew that it wasn’t something that he could help her through. No, her innocent view of the world had been shattered by this tournament, and that was something that she’d have to live with, if she wanted to continue to go forward.
She caught his eyes then, the pleading look from earlier returned, only this time the urgency was far greater. Marcos acquiesced to her request with a nod and strode forward, taking her wing in his hands, his fingers curving around the appendage as gently as was possible. The young man grit his teeth; he knew that he had to do it, but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy for him. Still, he steeled himself, and when he was finally ready, uttered a brief “I’m sorry” before he snapped the wing back into place, his eyes glued to the scene before him.
Tharala watched him approach, holding onto her spear tightly as her muscles jittered and twitched. She focused on his eyes, taking slow breaths as he moved closer. The wound on her hip closed, an odd, prickling sensation as if a heated knife was pressed to her skin. First one hip, and then the other, the wounds sealing over into healthy tissue as she continued to focus on him, using the sight of him to block out the pain.
His hands reached out and took hold of her wing to either side of the break. It was an odd feeling, his calloused hands delicate as they pushed through her feathers smoothly, and wrapped around the soft down over the wing underneath. “Every pleasure in life is bought with a moment of pain.” She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.
The Architect knew what he was doing. Perhaps more accurately, the Architect knew how things worked. As the skyfisher exhaled, his hands moved firmly, levering the two pieces of broken bone back into position and pulling Tharala’s wing out straight. She fought to hold still, to remain silent, and was at least half successful. Though she loosed a shriek as bone grated against itself agonizingly, she remained mostly still. The pain rolled over her in a wave, causing her vision to darken as she sagged forward, supported by the Architect. The potion did its work, binding bone and flesh back into their correct places.
Tharala panted, opening her eyes and smiling up at the Architect gratefully. She gave her wing a very slight flex, pinion feathers ruffling. The cessation of pain itself was a pleasure only equaled by her ability to work her wing again. Yes, the Architect knew how things worked, and he had held the wing in precisely the correct spot. “Thank you, Architect, but could you help me up, please?”
Marcos had never set a wing-bone before - this was the first time that he’d even touched a wing of this size. Still, he’d seen diagrams of how they were supposed to look before, so that should be sufficient to get this task done. He hoped. The Architect winced as she screamed, the sound painful to him in more ways than one, though especially on the inside. Causing her more pain … was not something that he desired to do, but in this case he would do what he needed to. How did that old saying go: “No pain, no gain”, or something like that. If anything went wrong, he would blame those philosophers for their insufferable optimism.
Her body fell prone, but he caught her, taking a glance over at his handiwork and for the first time in a while, smiled softly. The wing was healing, and healing properly at that. Good, since he didn’t think he could take any more heart attacks today. Marcos glanced back towards her face just in time to catch the radiant smile that she was flashing at him, this one gesture seeming to melt all of his troubles away. If this didn’t stop soon, he might have to look into a career change, since a philosopher’s life suddenly seemed far more appealing than it had a few moments previous.
The girl’s sing-song voice rang out into the air again, much stronger than it had been before she’d downed the vial. The Handyman gulped, but took her nearest hand in one of his own, pulling her to her feet, the roar of the crowd all around them. He scratched the side of his cheek once again; the heat of the sun was really starting to get to him - his face was certainly hotter than he remembered.
“While it’s nice to be called “Architect” by someone other than my associates for once, I should probably introduce myself. My name is Marcos, Marcos von Nelsyren. At your service, Miss Elemental Champion.”
She rose to her taloned feet, only somewhat unsteady. The buzz of the potion in her veins faded, and she felt better, if not fully herself. A day of rest and good food should probably see her almost fully recovered. There was still a slight, jittery feeling running through her, and she felt keyed up to the fullest stop, as if everything was sharper and clearer than normal. She looked at the Architect, trying not to think too hard about everything that was happening, about the way the feeling intensified when she looked at him. The crowd roared again as he helped her stand, and she noted the reflexive gesture again as he touched his cheek.
The skyfisher stretched her wings slowly, fanning the golden appendages fully in and out several times to test their movement range. They moved, both of them, flawlessly, and it was as if her wing had never been injured in the first place. Tharala gave Marcos’ hand a reflexive squeeze before letting out a soft laugh. “Marcos, alright. Please, call me Tharala.”
Tharala looked down, realizing she still held Marcos’ hand, releasing it, and thanking the Lord and Lady that her plumage would conceal the blush rushing across her skin. She did her best to speak calmly, but was unable to keep a slight quaver from her voice. “What happens now?”
“Most like it be that what Marcos is forgettin’,” drawled a voice in answer, as the silvered disc that bore the grey-skinned Announcer touched down on the arena sands. “The healin’ of wounds be all well and good, though the reddened faces are a touch much, but you’ve forgotten the audience, oh honored Architect,” he said with a side-cocked smirk, gesturing at the people in the stands. They’d been growing restless, as the Champion and the Architect conversed, with nary a word to make the results Official. “Surely we won’t be leavin’ them hangin’, now will we?”
The sound of Wintin’s voice made Marcos practically jump out of his skin, one embarrassment momentarily forgotten for another. How much had the man seen? Better question, how much hadn’t he seen? If there was one thing that the Architect knew, it was to never let the short-legged smith get a hold of anything that he could needle you about. You’d be full of holes before you knew it. One look at the Announcer’s grey face told Marcos all that he needed to know; he was dead meat.
A soft sigh escaped his lips as he attempted to regain some semblance of control over both the situation and himself. He may have to suffer more than a few jabs from Wintin, but he didn’t intend to let the little man make a fool of him in front of a crowd of people this large. All it took was a moment, the familiar facade of the Architect falling into place over that of the emotionally-spent Marcos. His face still blushed a faint red, but he could at least think clearly for a moment, or at least until she spoke again. Seizing on his moment of clarity, Marcos turned his gaze to Wintin, his eyes boring holes into the small smith’s head.
“I haven’t forgotten, Wintin; you know me better than that. Since you’re here, and I presume that the problem has been resolved, do you want to handle this,” he gestured to the crowd, “so that I can handle this?” The young man turned back to Tharala and flashed her a brilliant smile, his left hand withdrawing the cloth bundle from where he’d stowed it inside his coat.
Tharala twitched in surprise at the new voice, her wings glittering as they extended in a reflexive motion, crooking in slightly in a posture meant to intimidate. She watched in surprise as the odd man, the announcer from the beginning of the Finals round, returned on his strangely floating disk of silvery metal. The skyfisher straightened, adjusting her wings behind her back to a decorous and proper position, and thanked the Lord and Lady again that her plumage would hide the no doubt beet-red flush of her skin from showing.
Marcos’ own face was flush, she noted, before managing to tear her eyes away from him for a moment to look out at the crowd. The man (Wintin, Marcos supplied her with the name) was right. She had been so absorbed in the Architect that she had almost forgotten about the crowd, some of whom, her keen eyes noted, were looking a little bored of the delay in proceedings.
She pushed down a little flash of resentment. After everything that happened, they still wanted more. Maybe they had paid good coin to be here, to watch the show, but did that give them the right to intrude on her wants? Did she really have to cater to their desires still? Get a hold of yourself, Tharala. Once this is over there will be plenty of time for… The skyfisher shook her head, pushing the thought away with a sigh. There would be time for many other things, but there were more things to attend to before she could do what she wished; she was suddenly more aware of that than before.
He was still speaking, and Marcos’ voice drew her attention back to him. She looked, catching his infectious smile and returning it reflexively, her heart seeming to stutter in her chest for a moment. Breathe girl, breathe. Tharala managed again, somehow, to pull her eyes away from those compelling blue orbs, looking at the package that Marcos produced from beneath his coat. The cloth bundle was slim, hiding some slender object within, but one with a definite curve to it, from the look of things. Ignoring Wintin, she looked back up at Marcos, her voice quiet. “What is it?”
Wintin’s grin just grew wider, and he turned to address the crowd, his voice booming across the sands. “Ladies and gentlemen, wenches and thugs, I apologize for the delay!” he said, giving the audience a low bow. “Our Architect here is not one for words, nor for introductions, so in the savage spirit of it all, let’s put him on display! Wave to the crowd, Marcos, and take a bow, and, fair audience, give the man behind the new arenas a round of applause!” As the crowd obliged, he gave Marcos a grin, and continued, speaking in a low, casual tone. “For those o’ you unaware, Marcos is himself a former contestant, Chosen of Energy some three years past.”
“But, enough o’ that. We’re here, after all, for our Champion!” he shouted, and the crowd roared in response. “With a grand showing o’ skill with a spear and a nasty bag o’ tricks, she’s beaten all the rest, and done it with a handicap! Yes, folks, those wings aren’t just for show; this huntress has managed to keep herself from flying around and ruining everyone’s day from the air on account o’ being told she wasn’t allowed! Rather silly from my point o’ view, but they didn’t ask me.” The crowd laughed, mostly politely, and he turned his head to the pair. “Crown cue in three seconds,” he said, his voice at the normal register, before turning back to the crowd.
“Taking the crown this year for the blinding Light, it’s our finely feathered hunter o’ the skies, your Champion, Tharala Swiftwing!” He threw his arms into the air as he said her name, and his silvered disc shattered into a thousand shimmering pieces, the cloud of metal streaming into the air above the center of the arena to spell out the Champion’s name in flashing, shining metal.
Marcos’ right fist clenched tightly shut, a grudging smile replacing the genuine article on his face as the man gave a stiff bow to the crowd. Before, he’d been willing to just suffer through the subtle insults, take all of the little jibes and jabs that the little man saw fit to send his way. Not after that. Oh no, this time the smith had gone too far, and the Handyman didn’t intend to let him get away with it. He was a person for Lords’-sake, not an animal to be put on display. Wintin was going to need to sleep with one eye open for the next couple of weeks if he wanted to avoid what was coming to him.
The Architect’s moment of anger however, quickly passed, the man choosing to put more pressing, and frankly more enjoyable thoughts to the fore. It was almost time. His gaze shifted from the crowd back to Tharala, the man silently hoping that the girl hadn’t caught too much of his “outburst”. A true smile graced his lips once more, almost as though it had manifested solely from his desire to reassure the girl that nothing was truly wrong. Sure, he was mad at the smith, but he wasn’t about to let that anger taint what had happened here on the arena sands. That, or what was to come.
At Wintin’s words, he grasped one of the stray strips of cloth that hung off of the bundle, giving the fabric a sharp tug not a couple moments later. The pristine white packaging unraveled at last, revealing the treasure that had been hidden at its center. As the crowd shouted and cheered, Marcos looked straight into the young woman’s eyes, his own blue orbs all admiration and warmth. “This,” he said ever so softly, finally choosing to address her earlier question, “is proof of your victory: a crown fit for a true princess of the battlefield.”
The “crown” as it turned out, appeared to have something more in common with a tiara than the stereotypical ruler’s headgear. It was a slender band of silver, bowing down in the front to form a v-shape. Etched into the silver was a winding script, twisting about the band, listing the names of the Champions of years past. Braced between the arms of the v where a pair of outstretched silver wings, feathers picked out in beautiful, gold-trimmed details. The wings arched upwards, feathers stretching out, and cradled between the wings was the smooth, rounded oval of a polished moonstone.
Tharala smiled as the former Champion praised the Architect, looking at him as the crowd applauded. Her smile faded slightly, noting Marcos’ moment of discomfort, only to be distracted by her own as Wintin continued. The skyfisher looked down, running her fingers over her beak in an embarrassed gesture as Wintin spoke, noting with a measure of surprise the groove running down her beak from Gabriel’s knife.
She was almost grateful to the scar for remaining despite Marcos’ healing potion, it gave her something else to think about for the moment. The small surge of pride at her accomplishment was outweighed by her embarrassment at hearing herself praised in such a way. Wintin spoke of her victory as if it was some great thing, as if she had performed some great feat of heroism. To Tharala, it sounded as if the former Champion was speaking of someone else. Surely she was not so great as his words implied?
She looked towards Marcos, wondering what he made of Wintin’s words, only to be halted, meeting his eyes as he turned his gaze to her. Tharala swallowed, distracted again from Wintin’s words and the roaring of the crowd, missing even the bursting of the silver disc and the redoubled fury of sound from the crowd as she was officially declared Champion. Golden eyes flicked down to the package in Marcos’ hand as he spoke, and then went wide as the cloth fell away to reveal the wonder within.
Her hand rose, going to her mouth as she inhaled sharply, her breath stolen by the beauty of the crown that the Architect had wrought for her. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when they opened, tears glimmered in them again. The skyfisher had thought that she was done crying, and she did not want to cry in front of Marcos, but the sight of the crown, with the moonstone set between the outstretched wings, reminded her of the pendant she had lost on the road to Bren, of her last memory of her father.
Tharala inclined her head slightly, allowing the Architect to settle the crown on her head lightly. To the skyfisher’s immense surprise, the crown felt right, as if it belonged there. Her voice was soft. “It- it’s beautiful, Marcos. Thank you…” She closed her eyes again, overwhelmed as the crowd roared, and smiling radiantly at him despite the tears. His words touched her, even if she wasn’t sure they were entirely accurate. Tharala leaned forward impulsively, throwing her arms around Marcos and hugging him. “It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you Marcos, thank you.”
The Architect was not used to praise; he’d been flattered enough when Tharala complimented his arena designs earlier, since most were unable to see the beauty that lay within the lines and layers that he created. This though, this was … just too much. Her words alone were enough to bring tears to his eyes, for even though the crown was certainly no gift, she had the kindness to treat it as one. That was not all though. The girl embraced him - him, the cold and hard man who was more used to working with stone and metal than people. Marcos knew he didn’t deserve it, and it was that that pushed him over the edge, thin wet lines soon tracing their way down his cheeks as he returned her gesture, his arms curling around her back. He might not deserve it, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t want it just the same.
The cheers and hollers from the crowd faded to the back of the Handyman’s mind, the normally unsettled man oddly at peace as he stood at the center of all of this attention. Alone, it would have been enough to drive him mad, but with her here, holding him … he just felt like things would be all right. It was a strange, alien feeling to Marcos, yet somehow he knew that he could get used to it. Could get used to not being the odd man out whenever he walked the streets of Bren, ducking his head to avoid glances from the rest of the city’s inhabitants. He wasn’t afraid of people, but neither did he feel any particular kinship toward them; to Marcos, it was almost as though they lived in a different world than he did. That they could never understand his world and he could never grasp an understanding of theirs. Somehow though, Tharala had managed to create a bridge for him - at this moment, he felt like he finally understood.
Eventually, he stopped crying and looked up, surprised to see that the crowd was slowly starting to disperse. Well, the “show” was over, so maybe he shouldn’t have been so shocked, but he had other things on his mind. More specifically one thing that stood very close to him right now, her head tilted upward towards his own, her liquid golden eyes seeming to inquisitively ask “What’s next?” Despite his tears and all the emotional turmoil that he’d been through since setting foot in the arena, Marcos still found it in himself to smile as he answered her, feeling unusually content with himself.
“So, do you feel any better now?”
She was shocked at herself, at what she had done, giving into the impulse and simply hugging Marcos. Yet, he returned the gesture, and Tharala closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath as something inside her relaxed. After everything that had happened, it was good to hold someone, to be held, and not have to worry about fighting, or struggling, or what came next. He supported her, and in that moment Marcos provided as much healing for the skyfisher’s mental state as his potion had for her body. She looked at him, ignoring the crowd streaming for the exits now that the show had ended. The lines of tears on his cheeks surprised her, but his smile was gentle, and she found herself answering it with her own.
“I… I do, thank you.” Tharala hesitated for a moment, her arms still around Marcos. She should probably release him, but found that she didn’t particularly want to. Instead, she answered his offer, the one that he had made to her much earlier. “Marcos I… I would love to stay here, to stay… so that you could help me find a place, find a purpose.” She swallowed, forcing herself to continue past the thought, the unspoken hope, because if she thought about it too longer, she could never bring herself to leave. “I would love to... but there’s something, something that I have to do first. There are people who need me, and I… I’ve realized that I have to help them, or I’ll never be able to be who I should be.” The skyfisher looked down, suddenly nervous and ashamed in equal measure. “Can you… can you forgive me if I ask you to wait?”
He’d seen it coming, even though he’d tried to ignore the nagging feeling at the back of his mind. For once, Marcos had just wanted to experience what it was to float on Cloud Nine, his concerns falling far below. The man had just wanted to feel a few seconds of that before she pulled him back to down to reality. He’d known deep down that she would have to leave; things would never work out that perfectly for him. It was a speech that he’d heard before: that there was something that she absolutely “needed” to do and that simply couldn’t be put off. They’d promise that they’d return and then walk out of his life, never to be seen again. Even though he’d heard all of this before, and acutely remembered the pain left in its wake … Marcos was surprised. He was surprised that despite all that he knew, that he’d experienced, that he still truly believed every word that Tharala had said.
Even though his few moments of ecstasy had passed, the Handyman found that he still felt unusually calm. He was going to have to say goodbye, but he was sure that this one wouldn’t last forever. He was going to see this girl again. That’s why his smile never faltered, not even for an instant, his gaze remaining steady and warm as he did his best to settle her surely turbulent emotions. “There’s no need to ask for my forgiveness, though I’ll grant it anyway. I know that you’ll keep your word, and I know that I’ll see you again. When that time comes … I’ll keep my promise to you. I’ll help you find where you’re meant to be in this crazy world of ours.” Marcos inclines his head upward, staring into the great boundless expanse of the sky; he hoped that the gesture would hide the slow, but steady reddening of his cheeks. Unfortunately for him, one of his fingers rose unbidden to scratch the right side of his face. “If you need help though, don’t hesitate to send for me. I’ve my own methods to travel quickly, though I doubt that they’re quite so … exhilarating or exciting as flight.”
Nervous and afraid, Tharala looked up to meet Marcos’ eyes again. She owed him honesty, it was why she had said she had to leave, but she also owed it to him to look him in the eye and acknowledge what she was asking of him. Everything was crazy, moving so fast, and yet, in his eyes she saw acceptance. There was pain there too, but also acceptance. The skyfisher smiled, her doubts and fears melting under Marcos’ own smile. He understood, that was what mattered, not the time, not the other complications that might occur.
The skyfisher drew back slightly, watching the Architect rub his face again. Her wings fanned lightly, and then the right one bent inward. Tharala’s hand reached out, rifling through her golden feathers and closing around one. Taking a slow, steadying breath, she jerked her hand down and away from her wing, unable to suppress a slight wince at the flash of pain. The skyfisher resettled her wings behind her, lifting her hand and holding it out to Marcos. “Thank you…” On her palm rests a long, golden pinion feather, and her voice is soft. “I… Will you take this, to remember me by, until I come back?”
Her gasp of pain drew Marcos’ eyes back to her in a flash, the blue orbs running over every inch of her body as they tried to determine what it was that had hurt her. It was only when her words reached his ears that his gaze fell on the feather, its brilliant golden sparkle enough to make anyone’s eyes shine. Slowly, hesitantly, his right hand glided upward and curved around her own, his calloused fingers rubbing softly against Tharala’s silky skin as he took hold of her gift to him. The girl’s fingers fell limp as he slowly retrieved his token, the very sight of it enough to fill him with warmth; was this what it felt like to be content?
Still, he managed to tear his eyes away from it, taking the time to stare at her face for what might be the final time. At least for a little while. Then, without thinking, his free hand slipped into the folds of his jacket, pulling free a finely wrapped roll of parchment, dashed markings faintly visible beneath the vellum’s surface. Averting his gaze ever so slightly, Marcos held the paper out to her, his words spilling forth from his lips before he was able to take them back. “While it’s … not as thoughtful as your own present, I feel that you should have something to remember me by as well. The crown, beautiful as it is, was a formality - this is a real gift from me. It’s …” he gulped, his mind finally catching up with his mouth. Well, there was no going back now. “It’s nothing much really. J-just my original sketch and plans for the Fountain Arena; since you liked the design, I thought that you might like to have them.”
Tharala smiled at Marcos, swallowing her nerves again as he took the feather from her. His hand dropped to a pocket, and she watched curiously as Marcos produced a bound scroll. The skyfisher accepted the gift with a small sound of surprise, her fingers wrapping about the vellum gently. She stared at the scroll for a moment, turning it over in her hands, picking out the markings barely seen through the back of the vellum. Tharala looked up at Marcos, her eyes blinking with the threat of fresh tears. “Marcos… Thank you Marcos, thank you for everything.”
She restrained herself from hugging him again, aware of the fact that the longer she delayed, the harder this was going to be. If she gave in now, she could never do it, never make herself do what had to be done. She would stay. It would have been wonderful, the skyfisher was certain of that. It would have been safe. And it would have been an abdication of her responsibilities, an abandonment of her reasons for coming here.
Tharala took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and dragging her eyes away from Marcos. The skyfisher took a half-step back, her hand curling around the scroll protectively. Her voice is strained, but she manages to blink back the tears. “I’ll come back Marcos, I promise. By the Lord and Lady, by everything dear in the world, I’ll come back.”
There was nothing else to say, and for the first time since her chance meeting with Snjor, Tharala flew. Turning, the skyfisher took several quick steps, and then launched herself into the sky. Golden wings glittered, spreading wide and then beating at the air hard. A hard, fierce elation surged through Tharala as she pumped her way skyward, elation and thankfulness to Marcos for setting her wing. It was glorious to be back in the air again, and she turned an elegant pirouette of joy before orienting herself and winging towards the Quicksilver Inn. There was one last matter to attend to before leaving Bren.
A gauntleted hand slapped down on the Architect’s shoulder, the Announcer’s grin replaced with furrowed brow and bemused expression. “Yanno, Marcos, if I’d known you had it in ya to draw out near-confessions o’ love from women ya’ve jus’ met,” he said, “I’d ha’ dragged you out onto the town a mite earlier.”
The Handyman remained quiet for a few seconds, his gaze still tipped up towards the sky, toward her retreating figure. Eventually though, he tilted his head toward the Announcer, giving the man a glimpse of the faint smile splayed across his lips. “If I’d told you about that, then you’d have lost all hope of ever finding a date, my friend.”
Wintin barked a laugh in response, shaking his friend’s shoulder. “Well jested! But I’ve not needed to find one for a while now. Come, we’ve a tournament to wrap up, and perhaps some plans to make,” he said, making his way towards Marcos’ portal.
Marcos took one more glance at the sky, even though Tharala was long gone, his eyes lingering on the place where he last saw her. He then shook his head ever so slightly and chuckled to himself; she’d be back, he knew she would. There was no use worrying about it now. His mood considerably improved from when he’d first walked out onto the arena sands, the Architect began to retrace his steps, following after the Announcer. Without looking back, Marcos pressed on, passing through the portal and moving on with his life, for once excited about what lay ahead.
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