its and bits

[Trevor]

The fire was low now. Embers really. It didn’t matter.

Trevor didn’t look up when the request came.

“Will you do it for me?” Was that pleading?

He stayed still a moment too long. A chance to reconsider. But they rarely did.

“I did it once.” Quiet. Not kind. “For my mother.”

“She was dying in the slow way of sick people.” He looked up, but his eyes wouldn’t be met. “And I’ve seen it before it happened. Couldn’t accept it! Never that!”

“So I took from others. We needed it more, you see.” His fingers wouldn’t stop twitching, so he refused to see them. “It wasn’t that bad at first. A pig breaks a leg. The barn collapses even though it was well built. And you think you could do it forever.” He swallowed for the next part. “But then the neighbor’s daughter slips. All is well you think, they have six children. And in games of meaning, one is the bigger number.” But it was never that simple.

“Then another house falls ill with the same illness mom had. All seven of them. No one intervenes on their behalf.”

“And you start to wonder.”

“But you don’t stop. You never stop. Because each act brings some color back to her cheeks. She is recovering and somehow, it’s worth it.”

“Eight people dead and you don’t flinch. Their lives have no value after all. But it doesn’t last. Soon she’s sicker again. So you take more. But Luck is fickle. Whatever is taken, is lost somewhere else in turn. Always more. Always worse.” Voice cracked. Lack of use. But this was important.

“And I took a lot”

“Then you see boulders rolling down the hill. You don’t warn them. You take what little luck they have. No one will notice. It should be quick. A celebration inside. A dozen of them I thought. Like that game with sticks and stones from when we were kids. But we aren’t kids, and the stones always win. Fortune invites balance.” And then it was him not wanting to meet eyes. Sad excuse for a fire the most interesting thing in the world. “We found twenty-two in the ruins. Some did not die in time, but they left all the same.” He remembered the smell and the number. Not their names. Never the names.

“Thirty dead and you stop worrying. Surely life pays for life. Time pays for time.” He shook his head. Some lessons were always learned too late. “But the currency is wrong, and you have still pooled too much.”

“Then Barrow burns. Shroudfiend attack you hear, but you know better. I thought I was good with numbers up to that day” His ten digits so inadequate to the task. “Had to learn new words to understand. Two hundred and seventeen dead. Fire is not kind, so sometimes you need to finish the job.” Smell and numbers, but never names.

“You come home and she stops you in the only way she knows. Because she understands. There is only one way to stop this. And what mother would choose her own child?” The wind bothered him. Hair swaying like grass. Swaying like trees. Like fire. Like feet. Up in the rafters.

“I took them all. Luck gave us near a year more.” Few days shy. Three. Exactly. Sometimes counting wasn’t soothing.

“And I would kill them all again. Twice as many. Five times. Ten. I would kill them all. I would kill you”

“And she would stop me again.

“We are who we are…”

“That’s what love does.”

“You will take the time and suffer the thoughts now. So you don’t suffer the decision later.”

“When you see me again. Ask me like you mean it.”

“All it takes is will. Will and time. And they’re all already dead.”

He left one of his last remaining friends by the sorry excuse of a fire. Hoping they never met again.

But he knew better.

 

[Vyn]

She even gave the Wagon away. And it was a fair trade. Dove needed shelter, and Vyn had a debt to pay. But now, with floorboards scrubbed and paint touched up, it's harder to picture him. Strung up curtains hid more than just the Sun. And that felt like a worse betrayal. Because it was even harder to remember what he looked like. Memories were funny. She couldn't remember his name or face, but the lie she made up – Gallen – she remembered that perfectly.

A sweet guilt. Because as she made him remembered, he was only so many of Vyn's lies away from never having existed in the first place.

Person replaced by a story.

There were years when she remembered the ghost he made out of old clothes. Flowing in the wind in a way that couldn't be mistaken for a real boy. Said it was to keep company. Used to remember what the truth was. Now she just knew the lie. She could still sometimes hear the noise of the stuck door. And she sometimes wondered – How hadn't she heard it that morning?

She had this image of the three of them, talking late. An argument over something she didn't understand. And how the one who wasn't Gallen had looked at her, more serious than she knew him to be. „We'll take care of it.“ He said. Words stayed, but the tone failed. Take care of what? She hated not being able to recall the problem, or its price. Never understood what they meant. Not then. Maybe not even now.

She knew she woke to silence. Jem was there. The ghost was gone. He told her it was going to be alright. That everything had been handled. That she shouldn't dig too deep.

And she didn't. For the longest time.

But some part of her kept the story anyway. Wrapped it in a fable at firelight. Told it like it was fiction, so that someone would remember. Even if no one remembered it right.

*​

She asked around once. Just the once.

Got shrugs and blank looks. Jem, careful with his silences. Gordar lied to her: „Must've been before your time.“ His eyes told her it was a lie, but they never suggested where to look instead. Before her time. In her own memory? Even the kids stopped playing by that Wagon. Said it gave them the creeps. No one would say why.

By winter's end, no one spoke his name. Because they never had. She was the only one who still brought it up. Only, she wasn't sure it was his name anymore. If it ever was.

And that was how forgetting worked. Slow. Rot in the wall, floor, the wheel. Spoke at a time. Until all that was left was a person sized hush.

*​

Remembered again by accident. Not all at once. Just a thought, caught in her teeth. Someone else talking about ghosts and how blankets never fold themselves. Something inside snapped. And there it was.

„Ya think the geese are strange? You haven't seen the ghost!“ Someone said it by a fire, teasing the little ones. But it didn't feel like jest. They'd pointed to a tunic flapping on the line. Not quite dance, but not not. Someone joked that's how children learned waltz.
And it could've been a waltz. If Gallen that wasn't had any rhythm. Everyone laughed. Vyn too. But it caught in her throat. Because she remembered that tunic. How it moved wrong.

The ghost had been made from spare clothes. An incomplete shape, carried by the air and slumped by stillness. He said it was to keep company. Back when they were small. Said it like a joke, but never laughed. In an instant she knew the cot it laid on during storms. The way it was never folded or put away. How it was always just there.

He said it had a name. The memory failed at edges, but the shape held. A boy she couldn't place. A voice she couldn't name. But she remembered the silence that followed.

And after that night, she started telling the story herself.

*​

The first telling was simple. Just a line tossed over stew and stronger stuff:

„Some ghosts aren't dead, they're just forgotten. Had a boy once who made his own ghost out of spare clothes. Said it kept him company. But then one day the boy was gone. Ghost stayed.“ It got some nods, and courtesy laughs. Little Wit asked her if the ghost ever learned to walk. Of course it did. Walk. Wait. Waltz on the other hand...

That's how it started.

She didn't tell them his name. Couldn't. Told herself she didn't need to. Let them fill in the gaps. Gallen became the ghost – but never the boy. A name shaped by forgetting. A hanging coat, waiting for a story to wear it.

Over time, the tale grew crooked – as do most things passed mouth to mouth, fire to fire. Sometimes the ghost was a warning for children who wandered too far. Other times, it was the reason no one slept in that Wagon. A spirit of wind and cloth and promise. A thing that seldom moved, unless you looked away.

But always there. It always stayed.

She told it a few times too many. To the point that even she started to forget which parts were real. The rhythmless waltz. The stuck door. The hush. They blurred. And memory became story.

She thought, once, about letting it fade for good. But she'd already failed his memory. Story was all she had left.

She wondered, sometimes, if that was better.

Some people left behind songs and legacies. Others only had shadows in the shape of what they almost were. If she could carry his shadow a little longer, keep it together by fear and firelight, maybe that was enough.

Maybe that was what he asked for...without ever asking.

 

[Zayad]

No one ever said it aloud, but everyone knew Lord Zayad could be terrifying. I didn't believe it. He wrote with a scholar's hand, spoke like he actually listened. Knew how to make a person feel smart even when correcting them. He even remembered the names of my sisters. Once, I'd coughed during a meeting, and he'd waited until after to pass me a wrapped root, saying
„It helps if you chew it raw.“

Others laughed at the time, but I kept it.

My lord was always kind.

So when they told me to bring the ink and follow him into the holding room, I didn't think much of it. Just another question session. We walked in silence down the north hall. The attendants outside didn't meet my eye. They simply opened the door and stepped aside. No guards. There never were, not when Lord handled things himself. He never raised his voice. Never had to. The prisoner was already bound. Shirt torn and chest bare. His eyes belonged to a caged animal.

„Set it there, please.“ Lord nodded toward the table.

And I did. He didn't check. Just unrolled his sleeves and removed the gloves, one by one. It looked like he was preparing tea.

„Wait outside, I won't be long.“ But then he paused. Glanced toward me as if he remembered something. „Actually...“ Voice almost kind. „Close the door.“

And I hesitated.

Not because I doubted him. But because I caught a glimpse of his writing. Not on parchment, but on flesh. The chisel in his hand moved like a pen, careful, efficient. Across the curve of the prisoner's thigh, I saw a word. Clean and calligraphic.

Hurt.

And another below:

Break.

The skin didn't split. It wasn't cut. It simply bent under the stylus, welcoming.

The prisoner hadn't made a sound. I didn't mean to stare. But then the third word caught my eye – right across the sternum:

Bleed.

He leaned down for a fourth.

I shut the door firmly. Like he asked.

*​

I found my way to the door, later that night. The hallway smelled of old acid. The guards were back. The prisoner wasn't. Everyone knew who he was. One of the western spies. Captured weeks ago. We'd all assumed he'd been sent south for trial.

I looked at the door. There was a mark above the frame. A smudge. It wasn't Miradi script. But it looked like Lord's hand. A single word, dried and silent.

I didn't try to read it.

I just kept walking.

*​

They called him a diplomat. A man of letters. And I suppose that's true. He never raised his voice. Never made a threat. Never gave an order he wouldn't carry out himself. Only ever asked for things...politely.

He remembered the names of my sisters.

If it's ever me in that room...

I know he'll still be kind.

 

[Adem Bin Amra]

The desert held stillness, but not peace. A drum holding breath. No wind or sand-song. Just the faint gurgle in Yira Bin Sale's throat, and the slow dark bloom beneath her tunic. Adem Bin Amra cradled her anyway. Held tighter as her breath thinned, as if pressure might coax out a few more moments loose. But she was too far gone for salves or spells. Likely it was only fear of becoming a lost song that still tethered her to the flesh. Adem wanted to stay. Amra knew better. This was the last moment they would see her as anything but weight.

„We'll take them.“ Neither Yira nor Sale replied.
„We'll take you all.“ No words. No signal to stop. Her hands were slack. But her eyes held.
Fear and pride.
And, they hoped, permission.

With hope, they drew an ashen line from her brow to her lips. Then to their own. They did not lift a tool. They had no need. Body was the vessel. Their breath the offering.

„Let your voice pass into ours“ They whispered. „Let no voice be stolen by the wind.“

Her eyes were closing, and the Adem part of them struggled to continue. „You will sing with us, until the Song recalls your note.“

Her chest rose and fell. They hoped she got to see the end. That she died without worry. Then the silence changed.

The Rite was done.

The first night, they heard Yira humming as they slept. A low, familiar tune – one she'd used to calm children and banish bad dreams. They let it wrap around them like wool, grateful.

The second day, they woke with a craving for roasted nuts. Adem's body hadn't tasted those since he was thirty. That was Yira too, they figured. Or maybe Sale, her Nameday had been near harvest.

By the third morning, they braided their beard differently. Didn't even notice until they saw their reflection in the brass lip of the water skin. Left-over-right, triple braid. Not a habit of Adem. Amra had no beard. Neither did Yira. Or Sale. That was when their self first lost harmony.

They traveled in silence, afraid to speak. Because they knew – they were out of tune.

The Sun scorched overhead, and the dunes stretched frigid. Sometimes they walked in time with their shadow. Other times, they heard footsteps that weren't their own.

The voices didn't come all at once. That might've been a mercy.
It was more like... being crowded in a small room with people who all politely waited for their turn to speak. Until they didn't.

„Turn west.“ Said a voice one evening.
„No. No. Stay to the dune spine.“ Said another.

They stopped walking. Set down the pack. Rubbed their temples with trembling fingers.

„We didn't take you.“ They complained. „We took the two of them. You were not ours to carry.“
„Take you all.“ Their own voice mocked them.
„That's not how it works.“ One tried to be helpful. Another just laughed.
„She carried us. You took her. We followed.“

By the sixth day, they no longer felt hunger at the right times. Ate because someone inside them remembered famine, and someone else panicked when the Sun dipped low.

They began sleeping upright. Less chance to wake up braided wrong again.

One afternoon, they found themselves mouthing the names. Not out loud. Not quite.
Lips still moved in silent prayer.
They didn't know who half the names belonged to.

On the ninth night, they tried to write a journal entry. Something to pin themselves to the present. They dipped the quill and began:

I am Balim Bin Herra. Then they stopped.

The quill trembled. They were not Herra. Not Balim. And that wasn't their handwriting. They scratched it out. Tried again.

We are Adem Bin Amra. I was born under the Moon of... Which Moon? Whose memory?

The ink pooled. And somehow the page got torn. And they didn't cry. Not really.

But that night, when the wind came back, they left the journal in the sand. Let the sand have it. Like it was a body no one wanted to burn.

„We are not harming you.“ One said gently.
„We are you now.“ Said another.

Adem stood at the ridgeline the next morning, staring toward the distant shimmer of the southern salt flats. If he could reach Songrest. If he could find a Keeper. If. Maybe they could help him sort the voices. Siphon the excess. Sing him back to harmony. He hoped it was Amra giving him thoughts.

But the way home was long. And growing louder.

They sat down one evening. And tried to count them. Rested on the dead tree and tried to offer names to it. Yira. Sale. Rin. Kethel. Herra. Balim. The boy with the stutter. The woman with the scar on her thigh. The man who hated woodsmoke. They didn't know all their names. Only that they were one now. And they didn't know how long they could carry each other before the band broke. When she was dying, it felt right to save two singers from becoming a lost song. Felt like hubris now.

„Just a little longer“ Someone spoke for them.
„Just until the Song can take us back.“
Someone inside hummed, harmony catching pitch.
„Mbaba.“ Someone said and everyone got quiet. Not because it was good, but because it fit.
They did not argue.

They all wanted something. Adem just wanted them to wait. He could barely hear Amra some days. Eyes closed and they all settled. Breath in a shared chest. They would walk tomorrow.

Until they returned to the Chorus.

Or until they forgot the shape of their own name.

Whichever came first.

 

[Ol' Ashe]

Twenty five years ago
​

The village had resisted bravely. Too bravely. Enough piss in their blood to stir the acid in his gut. And they knew what they did – he saw it in their eyes. So when they resorted to pleading and prayer – he burned the Eighthouse first. Made them all watch as thatch hissed and smoked, blotting the sky. People and chickens scattered into the woods. But they wouldn't get far tonight. Because that's what prayer gets you.

Ashfather stood in the center of it all, arms tired, breath calm. Fire gave his grayed muzzle a faint emberglow. Heat shimmered, singing at the edges of his hide armor – patched leather, bone clasps and pale fur that once belonged to Baleclaw. The badgerkin's clawed hands were streaked in elbow deep blood. Shoulders hunched with years and work. The streak of white through his fur had come early and made its home. Some claimed he'd pulled it from Baleclaw's spine. Others whispered he'd simply grown too cruel to die, so the years backpedaled.

Behind him, his men – if one could call them that – watched in twitchy silence. No units or brothers. Just an alloy of obedience, forged through violence.

„All of them.“ The fur on his back bristled as a heavier paw rested on his shoulder. He recognized the weight and the scent. Pip.

All he had for the taller man was silence. The kind that made men shift, or shit.

As if sensing what was about to happen, Pip had to talk and make it worse:

„Maybe we leave some standing. Some...“ He was winding down. Clever. But too late.

At near eight feet, Pip was too tall to fight evenly. The first stake took the offered wrist. Second cracked the elbow bone. Pip got one paw around his throat, shoved him down hard enough to shake the sky.

Five minutes and seventeen stakes later, Pip stopped speaking out of turn.

Shame. He would miss the man.

Ashfather still bled and ached from it. If Pip had won, there might've been time for rest and licking of wounds. But no. So he sat his ass down on Pip's staked back. The bearform made for good cushioning. There'd be no more questions tonight. Mutiny against Ashfather wasn't choice. It was suicide. Pulled out another stake and started sharpening it with shaky hands. Hummed his mother's old lullaby as the wood grew pointed.

„In the burrow safe and sound,
Walls of root. Hush! No sound.
Moons above watch, they stay,
Keep the teeth of dark away.“

The others didn't need to be told.

 

[Juniper]

Five cycles ago, it was still possible to blame age and the changing weather for the stiffness in her joints. Four away and she still deluded herself into thinking she'd die of old age before blight ever fully took root. Three cycles ago, the herbs she used to treat the pain began growing from the very places she applied them. She had tried burning her body to stem the plantification, but even without direct contact, there were simply too many gardens in Garthvine. Pain wasn't entirely useless; it left her more heat-resistant than she had any right to be. Even the name she carried since birth started feeling like a cruel joke – letters shifting in her mind, reshuffling into something more fitting. Pijerun. Ipjerun. Juniper. She should find a better name. If she could survive the Empire and the backstabbing of her own court, she could survive her own name. Last year, she started sensing changes in the breeze through her branches. She could feel the morningdew forming, and her own protrusions slowly straining to follow the Sun.

The Guard gave her hope – their dead flesh delaying the transformation long enough to give her more time. If she just had more time, she could figure out the answer to all her problems. If she could impose her will on the dead, then surely the living were not beyond her reach. If the absence of self was key, she might need to test on comatose subjects – but if their minds returned, they could fracture her control. Damaging the brain seemed like a weak suggestion, as it would likely cause her to trap herself within an invalid structure. Another concern was whether there was anything else besides the power of her weave keeping her alive. If she ever split the blood connection, would she disappear before the flesh could be rebound? Too much was still unknown.

Snapping back to the room and conversation, she was careful not to show her pain. The Others would not take kindly to weakness.

„You...“ The pause was unnatural. „There!.“ Everyone in Thornrise was used to her antics. Probably mistook it for haughtiness. But for the last few months, every word had been an effort. The servant startled and moved closer to obey, but was stopped with a simple raise of Bones' hand. Her oldest Guard was still functional. Sometimes the dead limbs felt more connected than her own.

„I need an...outsider.“ The vocal cords creaked as she played them. „Eyes beyond the Rise.“ The two thoughts fought each other, fracturing. She was used to being seen as something inhuman – her words merely followed suit.

„Grab. In my name.“ Whether the submissive creature fetched a single or several, her questions would still be equally answered. As the servant bowed, she represed the urge to crush his body. How could he submit so easily? Struggle was survival. If he truly cared so little for his own essence, perhaps she could enlist his meat into the Guard.

Solomon, one of the newer Guards, waved the servant off to conclude the audience before her temptation grew too large. She could almost remember a time when she still gestured with her own limbs. Almost. But such thoughts were unnecessary.

*​

The servant trembled as he took the baker's apprentice through the Rise. His pace brisk and unsteady. Words spilled from him, low and panicked. Probably didn't even know he was speaking out loud:

„Took too long. I took...too long.“ His shivers spoke of things his mind could not forget.

Juniper, however, did not notice.

Time was becoming a foreign concept. The hours and moments, and the distance between them, no longer seemed like a useful measure of things. All slipping further from her grasp. She had no use for impatience and frustration. There was only the knowledge that she had called for someone, and here they were. That was enough.

The three Guards at the center of the room bent at the waist the moment Edmund Sorenson, future baker, crossed the threshhold. They did not rise. Their heads remained low, obedient and unmoving.

The fourth Guard arrived at the door, carrying a proper throne – not for Juniper. Without looking up, without breaking his bow, he set it before Edmund. Then, just as silently, he left. The door shut behind him and the world grew smaller. The smallest pause, before two more Guards escorted the servant out. A mute procession, without commands given or looks exchanged. They simply knew.

And now, only three figures remained.

The room was bare. She had all banners and finery stripped years ago. Only stone, unsoftened by pretend comforts. The only thing breaking the silence was the distant sound or Juniper's slowly breaths. She sat on a simple stump, raised three steps from the floor. There was no cushion, or embellishment – only elevation. A single thin slit in the stone wall was generous with the morning Sun. Just enough light to fight the dark on equal footing.

Then there was the scent.

It made the air stuffy with spice and medicine. Herbs long dried. It had no clear source, but it lingered like the walls themselves were soaked. Even the Guard smelled alive. Everyone knew what they were. No one spoke of it. But they did not smell like the dead.

Juniper observed Edmund, son of Soren, carefully. She hoped the man wasn't afraid of her. But they always were.

Because fear was correct.

Juniper did not move as she spoke, arms still in folds of cloth. And yet, one lifted, with unnatural slowness, a motion more remembered than executed. Her fingers rapped her own cheek. A knock on wood. She had tried burning her own form once. But it didn't take.

The gardens of the Rise grew from her, whether she willed them or not. Fire had tried to unmake her. It failed.
Was she even human anymore?

Her fingers lowered again, though not by muscle or bone. By intent alone.

„Master Edmund.“ She greeted finally. Each word a labor. Burden. „Tell me...“

She didn't see him sit. That was troubling. She remembered the door shutting. The sound of it. But not the man taking the chair. Had he already been there? No, she would've known. She'd have noticed. Surely.

He

He

He

Juniper's cackle ran mad and long. Sandpaper against rock, against metal, against ear.

One could do little in face of madness but laugh. At least she was still sane enough to realize she was going insane. The guest did not stir. Good. Not too afraid then. Person instead of a subject. That too would be utilized. Self control. Refreshing. She needed help. Few lucid moments were left. Garthvine needed to evolve. It needed to be bent into a shape that survives. She would do the bending.

Her eyes, all of them, settled on the guest. Sitting too stiff. She liked the thronetrick, it always made them show more of themselves than they'd planned for. So formal – like bread waiting to rise. Like the dough he worked with. Juniper could understand this. Beyond mutations of the body, there were mutations of the mind. This was not blight, simply character. You shaped one too many breads, and you too became crust. Too much fire would burn, and dry. Such were breads.

No longer seeing a person. She saw a bread.

Stories spread around the city of the Triumvirate wielding several artefacts of ancient power. Those were lies. They were fearsome because they wielded hundreds and thousands of...trinkets. Many of them just like the bread beneath her. Each life a pastry of its own, waiting for its time. Its purpose. Its use.

Juniper no longer blinked. She disliked missing the light. But the room did groan, as roots shifted all round them.

He swallowed. They liked doing that. In fear. In food. She could not relate.

„...Do people still sing?“

It wasn't the kind of question one expected from death that smelled like medicine. But it came anyway. Quiet, soft as kindling.

„Sing?“ Edmund didn't know what to do with that. „Some do.“ Her quiet made him talk more. „In the bakery, sometimes. On a walk. There's a woman on my street that sings to the bread before she puts it in the oven.“ His cheeks flushed and told her more than words planned to. Cute. „Song's not always happy.“

„Good.“ She remembered nodding. But movement was wasted effort. „Songs mean breath. Mean time.“ She studied him. And wondered. Was she truly working so hard to leave the world...to this?

„What. Did you eat. Last night?“

He blinked, more certain now. „Bread.“ Few more blinks before he spilled beyond the obvious. „And stew. Cabbage and carrots. Meat was...something smoked.“

„Good?“

„It was hot.“ The voice grew uncertain.

„And did you...share?“

„No.“ He seemed to regret the answer. She wasn't sure why.

She wasn't here to judge. Merely take stock. „Leaky roofs. Who patches them?“

He wasted time, in thought. „Sometimes neighbors. Other times no one.“

„When they die.“ She asked. „Who weeps?“

„Family.“ They always got quiet about death. „Not always out loud.“

„And who do they curse?“ She smiled. Because she knew. „Those without roofs. Without tears.“

Juniper no longer held children. She had tools. Her tools would endure. She would arrange it.

He didn't answer. Not quickly. Not in a useful way. Just blinking and silence. Hands trembled in his lap. One moved. To speak, or beg, or shield – she couldn't tell. She was so tired of it all.

She had little paitence left for weakness. Her own. Garthvine's. Edmund's. When a tool was swung, it did not get asked if it hurt. Why should her implements get the courtesy? Pain shapes. Pain firms. Pain educates.

She forced herself to look away from the twitching. Why was it showing its belly? Didn't it know? Once the vine was around your neck, you only had two choices: struggle or submit.

This was to inherit the world when she was gone? THIS?!

Anger slipped its leash. Resonated with flesh. With bone. And just like that – the Guard's forearm broke with an audible crunch. The arm jiggled agaisnt gravity, dead mush and leakage mostly soaked up by the cloth wrapping. Mostly.

The Guard was too well prepared for it to be blood dripping from the crush. And yet. The fluid brought memories all the same. While she still drank blood, her voice was less painful. More human. Feminine. Too many words left to have before it was her time. She weighed taking up blood again for a mere moment. No. She knew the monster she was. She did not have time to learn another.

She hadn't named that one yet. The Guard would be known as Limp. Not for his gait. That would come later. Another opportunity before the name became correct. Became useless.

„Each fracture.“ Voice cracked with what she thought was determination. „Pains Garth.“

She examined Edmund's left hand. Did he truly need both? Perhaps she could rename him too. So many small things in the hand. So many cracks and snaps – temptations. The urge was sweet.

„Every needed break.“ She looked at the too stiff bread. „Will be made.“

„Go. Now.“ But he didn't. Couldn't. His knees stayed locked...or broken. She couldn't be sure. „Keep quiet. Or the breadsong will...cease.“

Limp had to drag bread out.

Juniper, the sanest of the Triumvirate presided over Garthvine. Sanest. Her.

The thought terrified.

 

[Ilt]

Let the others stomach it. He could not. Swaji was an insult to the memory of all the blood they'd spilt to keep this land, their land. But now everyone wanted to be civil and play at politics. Fuck that. All of this was merely weakness disguised as diplomacy. There had been a time he needed but express his displeasure with the foreigners and more volunteers than he could take with him would've been lining the cave walls – begging to be taken along. Blood and glory!

Once a Must, always a Had-To.

He'd spent so much time trying to chain back his anger. Kept himself from poisoning their wells and sinking their ships. Taught others discipline so they wouldn't lose their heads in pursuit of the enemy. And all for what? They made port anyway. Traded their goods for mainlander baubles and sickness.

Sometimes he wished he'd perished with the rest of his men back when they still had proper spines. But She-who-rests had not deemed it so. If he had a better head between his dangling ears, he would've let them make him a Speaker back when words still meant something. But he'd been too young and too angry to pretend at talking to Great Granny Nap.

But peace was easy. Peace did not interrupt Slumber. A convenient thing for a good Speaker to sell. He was so tired of good Speakers. So he spent as much time away from the peaceminded as he could justify. When the rest took herb to Slumber, he volunteered for Watcher duty and took those of a proper sort to the enemy. His knees might pop and his ligaments loosen, but it didn't slow him yet. It only hurt more.

They called him discordant for the rebellion. But they simply had too much weakness in their blood to call it anything other than harmony. Well, if that's what it was to be harmonious, perhaps he truly didn't fit. Let there be discord. He would pay any price for freedom.

Because Nechon will drown before it becomes foreign.