Somewhere else, a soft flame.
Two bowls, one cracked, the other still warm.
Nashi's hand reaching to snuff the light, just like she told him to.
And then she's alone again, in the smoke.

She didn't know the name of the shrine. She knew the smell. Same cheap candles they used when they were kids. Walls had no memory. The floorboards were foreign. But there was warmth enough to keep death at a polite distance. Enough for pain to set back in. Her breath caught, then rasped. And her mouth opened even before the eyes fully knew how to.

„Nashi, I know it's dark. But put it out.“ Voice barely audible. More exhale than tone.

„You know we only have one.“ A curl of familiar scent grabbed at her nose. Little tallow stub they used to ration at bedtime.

„I know you're scared.“ A swallow. It hurt. But then, everything did. „But we'll need it later.“ Hand twitched on the floor for something that was there a long time ago. Small, limp motion. Not enough to ever reach. But enough to remember. „Nothing bad will happen.“

A breath in her chest held too tight. „I promise.“ Then silence.

Her eyes opened wide, then wider. A small flicker of fear. The one beside her wasn't Nashi.
 
He raised his hands to show he wasn't going to harm her.

"Relax."

Hawkflesh had seen it before, lived it. The Sudden shock of reality from a dream, even a bad one, can be jarring so he helped her with some water he carried with him, it was the last of it but it was enough for a mouthful.

"You're not dying anymore but I'm no healer, you need to rest or you'll open yourself again."

He sat back on his ass and leaned against the shrine in relief that she was awake which he took as a good sign that she was recovering. The display before she woke weighed on him but he should expect her to have her own life lived, didn't everyone?
It wasn't his place to pry but perhaps it would help if she spoke of it.

"You know you talk more when you are asleep than when you are awake."
He jested with her but of course he was curious. The smell of the candle was everywhere in the small shrine, it clung to the air as if desperate to not be let out by the morning breeze.
Light began to peak over the buildings of the mighty city and Hawkflesh could not doubt the majesty of it.

@Kuuga
 
She flinched at the words, trying to shift to a more guarded stance, but the body betrayed her. So she settled back down, another failure, insult to injury. Eyes tried to take in the unfamiliar detail. She had not been here before. But she knew places like this. A lesser shrine, of a lesser thing, in the lower tiers. This was not of Ash. Wherever he'd taken her, he'd done so alone. She wasn't sure what to make of that. The smell lingered, not for quality, but for memory. She hoped he mistook her grimace for pain. There was plenty of pain to go around.

And his words – no healer – he took care of the wound?

Her eyes returned to the Elf. „Why do I smell like lemonade, Na...“ No. That wasn't right. Her lips parted again. She had never asked his name. It hadn't seemed important at the time. „I don't know your name.“

Her jaw grew stiffer, still biting onto the last remnants of the fading dream. What else had she said while she was out? Even what she could remember felt too open.
 
"It's Hawkflesh."

His name felt like another admittance but he was not going to deny her when she was so helpless now.
Shifting as he fought the tired creeping behind his eyes he could not help but wonder at the name, Nashi.

"You smell like lemonade because I washed you in it. I had to keep your wounds clean and it was all I had."

As he explained he leaned on his sword lazily, tired as the worry ebbed away.

"Listen, this God of yours. It's not a very good one, for what it's worth I think you should consider finding a new religion!"

Not that he could blame her. From what he could piece together this Nashi and her grew up poor as dirt. Lives full of cold fear and furious hungers. The kind no child, no person should ever have.
Kuuga would not be the first person to pray to the darkness and find a reply there.

@Kuuga
 
There should've been a blush from having been washed, treated and undressed. But she was red enough from where the thread still barely held together. Too tired for thoughts of impropriety or shame.

Hawkflesh seemed to be drifting to sleep. How long had she been out? The Sun was just shy of the roofs. She wondered if it smelled like the mountain to those not bathed in zest and smoke.

„They're all shit, Hawkflesh.“ Eyes narrowed, not in anger, in clarity. „But this one will do what we need.“ There was no we in that moment. Only her. Only need.

She could see the sad state of him. Wondered how much worse she looked. It had to be quite bad if he still hugged the sword and played at watch.

„You can close your eyes, Hawkflesh.“ Her own needed a moment too. „No one will dare touch us here.“

„I promise.“ The sour smile pulled both lip and stitching.
 
Tired, yes but he did not miss Kuuga's words.

"I know what I need this thing to do for me, what does it do for you? What do you get from all of this?"

His hand, long and thin gestured languidly at her and and her wounded form before it flopped to the ground as he felt the shroud of sleep waft over him, his eyes drooped a bit and he felt comfort in the oblivion of real rest.

In the dark he felt his senses dim, sound became and echo of a whisper and smell sharpened to a point before growing dull in the haze of candle scent. It smelled warm.

He was still there, just for a moment he held on in an infinite instant and then he was gone. Unable to hear the answer to his own question.
The wood underneath them creaked in the light and morning birds visited headstones and graves heedless of the sanctity they intruded upon. The last loll of his head hid his face from the world as curtains of hair blocked out all but the faint glow of the suns rays.

Hawkflesh snored softly.
 
She heard him right away. Still took a moment for an answer to form. It was easy to pretend it was pain and delirium. But the simple words were difficult – and that was the truth of it. She regretted them before they fully left her mouth:

„It could give him back.“ Only she didn't know if there was a him left to give. The voice barely carried. Maybe it didn't have to. The space was small. Quiet.

Once the dam broke, she had more to say, but the soft snore caught up. Perhaps it was better that way. She always talked too much.

Hawkflesh drifting off was all the sign she needed. Had she the strength, she would get up and put the damn candle out. But it wouldn't happen today. Today she just drifted off. Eyes closed. Not for peace. For stillness.

Bliss, or as close as the dream would take her.
 
Sleep, that endless nothing.
Hawkflesh woke with a startle and for a moment was no longer in the small shrine of wood and stone but the forest, he'd delayed too long. Stayed when he needed to move and now he had doomed himself, Kuuga and any other soul unfortunate enough to be close.

Then his eyes opened and he was indeed in the dark, warm dim of the shrine. Kuuga was there and he wondered if some minor miracle had happened. If perhaps the Forest feared these stones. This spirit that he did not know the name of.

Perhaps it was the hungry thing that Kuuga kept with her. The Forest now like those spirits that kept their distance from the one they destroyed yesterday, or the day before.

Whatever the reason, for now it was not a concern though Hawkflesh did not dare think it gone from him forever.

Kuuga, the wounded woman lay still in the dark, he did not know if she was awake.

"Kuuga? Are you awake yet?"

Perhaps he simply wanted to hear a voice, some confirmation that he was not alone.

"Kuuga?"

@Kuuga
 
She'd woken before him. Not with peace or strength – but clarity. The sharp turn that came from pain and quieter things. She didn't move. Told herself she couldn't. And maybe that was the truth. The body rested, one eye half-lidded – shadows playing games with the corners.

The candle had finally gone out. Thank the dead. She hadn't the strength to do it herself or the confidence to ask him. But the flame had done what no kindness could. Snuffed itself.

Somewhere nearby, she could hear his breath. She was glad for the drag of it, the hollow presence. And would never admit to it. It wasn't comfort – merely confirmation. That the world hadn't changed entirely without her. That someone else was still here.

And strange how things grew when paired. Fire with oil. Salt with wound. Even silence with memory. But fear? Fear shrank when there were two of you. No one knew why. It just did. Maybe that was poof enough.

„Barely.“ She would've smiled, but the previous awakening had pointed out this error.

„Why do you carry the sword even in your sleep?“ She knew why. Or thought she did. But maybe he needed a chance to lie to himself. Maybe they both did.
 
"Habit."
A half truth. What started as a practical need for it to be close by had manifested itself as a type of paranoid reliance on its presence. Even in safety he reached for it, the comfort of its weight and warmth of his hand on the grip.
"... mostly. I need to be ready in case I wake up and..."
*and it has found me.*
"...and I get into trouble. Travelling alone, most people think twice before trying to rob an armed man, even a sleeping one."

Had lying become such a habit that he did not even know anymore?
It was plausible and certainly a solid reason but it was not THE reason. The reason was because he could no longer sleep without it. It was like a part of him. A totem that his minds rest weighed on to find peace. A crutch for his soul.

It felt hollow, not saying it and knowing he'd feel better if he did but instead he sat in the cold wet lie and thought again of Rhosyn and not being able to sleep. Of staring at the wooden roofbeams, mind screaming white hot fear into his ears like the crash of waves on the shore.
*Where is it?*
It's by the barn, where we left it.
*We're going to die without it.*
No we won't, we are safe here.
*SHE CANNOT KEEP US SAFE, ONLY THE SWORD CAN ONLY A WEAPON ONLY THAT WEAPON!*
Be silent.
*GET THE SWORD!*

The fear beat at him until the morning and he had an excuse to move again.
He didn't tell her.

Now he didn't tell Kuuga, which somehow felt bad in its own way.
He was getting attached, sentimental.

"Trust is hard earned I think. Not something people like us come by much."
Even as he spoke he wondered what he meant by *people like us*. The damaged? The Cursed? Broken people who slip through the cracks of a shattering world.
Gods below he was being dramatic.

@Kuuga
 
Lies always felt hungrier than the truth, needing constant feeding just to stay covered. But she didn't press. You learned that with time. You only pressed when you had guts to swallow the answer.

„People like us.“ But they didn't have anything in common. Not really. Only the things all people had in common.

She turned towards him, slowly working her way into the smallest of movements. Maybe that's how it went. At some point you were too old for toys. Too young to let them go. He had his sword. She had... THE BOWL!

„Hawkflesh, what happened with the bowl we used for the ritual?“ She didn't mean to sound panicked, but fear outpaced sense. She shot up to a sit and immediately regretted it. Teeth clenched. Breath hissed.

The question hung there, heavy and foolish. But the bowl mattered.

It was the last gift.

Kuuga wanted to lie and say it didn't. Say it was only a tool. But lies needed feeding. And she was fresh out of things to throw in.
 
"Easy, easy, you're still hurt bad. The bowl?"

His mind affirmed it, he had forgotten all about the thing, it ceased to matter in the presence of Kuuga's injuries.

"I must have left it in the graveyard. Where it fell."

She had used it to "feed" the thing that she summoned, perhaps it was magical.

"Is it important? Does your magic not work without it?

Already he was rising and silently chastising himself for not having the forethought to go get it when he had taken care of her. Once on his feet he began to work the stiff from his body, head to toe. He had no idea what was waiting outside those wooden sliding doors but he expected the worst.

"I'll find it."

Maybe he just wanted something to do, or to feel useful. Even seeing kuuga well enough to worry was not enough to give his mind cause to think he had done enough so his mind latched onto the thought of retrieval like a mental lifeline. A thing he could control, a thing he could fix and make right again.
His steps moved him hollow through the dark and the slot of sliding wood broke in the evening light which sparkled with so many fireflies it was as though the stars danced among the headstones.
Sparing a look back at her he realised he had left his sword behind.
Perhaps on some level he thought she might need it more.

Saying anything felt trite at that moment and he was certainly not going to head back for the sword, not now.
So he dipped into the dark and slid the door back, leaving it open a crack for some fresh air to get in.

@Kuuga
 
She had no time to respond, to explain. He was already rising. Door slid open.

That unsettled her more than it should. She had no strength to judge gratitude from fear – only knew that it had been quick. Too quick. He moved like someone used to following orders. Or someone who needed to believe her, before she gave him reason not to.

Sword stayed by the mat.

That scared her most of all.


*​


They arrived with daybreak. Not many. Just enough to know the story wasn't done yet. Their robes damp with dew and fingers stained with ink and chalk. They walked the grove like mourners who had no one to grieve.

Nothing was left of the corrupted thing. But the air remembered. One of them grabbed a handful of mud and rolled it around his mouth.
„Tastes different.“ His voice muffled by lack of space. „Salt and sweet.“ Brow furrowed. „...and burned.“

Nods from the others.

One of the younger ones touched the tree and hissed: „This is hollow!“

Another checked the wards. „This is shattered at the joining sigil.“ She said. „Whatever it was, it was not sent back to the cycle.“
They shared looks. The implication was troubling.

None of them looked towards the far shrine. Not yet. But the scent of it remained. And something else was out of place. The spirits. They hadn't returned fully. Where wind used to carry song of lilies and whisper of grass, only quiet remained. The larger inhabitants were nowhere to be seen apart from the birch Raakgui who did its best impression of a tree, hidden behind several others. Even the thumbles and rootlings, the smallest denizens, had shied away. Not from the clearing. From them.

„Why do they flinch?“ a voice whispered.
But no one had an answer.

Near the edge, half tucked in moss and rot, a bowl sat – flipped over and cracked at the rim. Still damp, still warm. Not quite empty. They gathered around in silence.

One of the elders knelt, but didn't touch it.

„Who brought this?“ But once again, no one spoke.

It didn't belong here. But it had stayed.

And something had eaten from it.
 
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It took him longer to get to the site than he remembered and when he got their he saw the strangers rummaging about. Letting out a long held sigh that seemed to start from the bottom of his boots he cursed himself again for having left his sword behind.

They looked homeless, he himself had no home to speak of but he did not look it. They were grubby and awkward like things out of place and it occurred to him that perhaps homelessness was more state of being than a fact of home ownership but philosophising on the particulars of that would need to wait.

Striding forward he tried to look less hungry and more pleasant than he felt of either.

"Hello," He started in his limited Sonshan "Fine day to you. Excuse myself I lost a thing." He made a gesture of his hands like a bowl, or what he hoped would emulate one well enough for them.
"Seen?"

Language barriers being what they were he did not give his odds much hope of getting them to help but if perchance one of them did he supposed the easier way would be preferable.
He could even "pay" for it if needed. He had a few silver left.

But that faded as he drew close and noticed the smell of ink and chalk, it gave him a bad feeling. Poverty did not lend itself to these smells. Something else was happening here and he needed to extract himself and the bowl from the situation.

@Kuuga
 
Hawkflesh was close enough to see the group for the seven they were. Four in ashen robes like Kuuga's, and three wrapped themselves in lighter hues. One of the robed came over and sniffed at the elf as he spoke – tusks lazily grinding on top teeth, testing.

„Smells of spirits... and burned.“ The voice seemed uncertain.
„A foreign shaman?“ a quiet voice suggested from the back.
„No.“ Came the elder's certain rasp. „Smells like us, still.“

They exchanged looks. Then, in silent agreement, all eyes turned to Kyu – the youngest among them. Beastblooded and barely more than a boy. A small nod.

Then Kyu stepped forward. His robe hung loose, hiding how narrow his frame truly was. Steps slow and eyes avoiding the foreigner's. It wasn't deference. It was caution. He looked at the the grove and its frightened denizens, noting how the spirits flinched harder from this man than from the rest of them. When the voice finally came, it was almost as quiet as his steps.

„Your bowl is here.“ His tradecant was clumsy, but he was by far the most fluent among the group. Probably why they kept bringing him despite his lack of years. „But it's not yours.“ The bowl was clearly Aetochi. Too crude for Sonshan hands...something more rural, perhaps.

„You smell like one of us.“ Gaze finally rose to meet Hawkflesh's. „Explain.“

He stepped aside, signaling it wasn't just Kyu he was addressing.
 
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