The moment between them didn’t end so much as it folded gently into the next, like the final note of a song before the world picks up its rhythm again.

A gust of wind carried the scent of wood smoke and budding festivities through the trees, mingling with the soft trill of flutes and the low thrum of drums. Around them, the feast had unfurled.

Paper lanterns swung from tall poles driven into the soil, their casings made from thin-stripped bark and pressed deer horn, etched with spirals and animal sigils that cast moving shadows when lit.

At the heart of the glade, a ringed table formation had been carefully arranged. Made of wide concentric circles of low wooden tables, laden with fur-lined cushions and handwoven mats. No one table was more important than the next; every space was open, made for shared glances and easier laughter. This was a meal meant for mingling, for toasts shouted across rings and stories traded like salt.

Of the banquet tables, there was one catered to the diet of the Bell Keepers like Farren. Their fare, though meatless, was anything but spare. Wooden platters bore roasted root vegetables caramelized with smoke and sweet sap, thick loaves of oat and seed bread still warm from the coal fires that had gone all day, and bowls of cracked barley tossed with bitter greens and charred leeks. Clay jugs of pine-needle tea steamed beside crocks of soft fell deer cheese, infused with wild garlic and sorrel. Beside them, a heaping tray of dried stonefruits, plums, cherry, and apricot, with a dusting of spice and crushed nuts.

At the other table was laid the dishes for the fell deer shepherds: spit-roasted venison glazed in juniper and wild honey, smoked over pinewood until the meat darkened and gleamed. There were skewers of liver and offal wrapped in flatbread, pots of thick marrow stew, and fire-seared mushrooms with dried sage and fermented horseradish. In easy reach at every table was coarse salt, piled in small carved bowls, alongside pickled ramps, shaved radish, and a thick paste of ground black seed and vinegar for spreading.

Farren wove through the rings with a lightness in her step that stemmed from not knowing which of the two had refused to let go of the other's hand. But there was no hesitation in the continued gesture, no fanfare. Just the comfort of being tethered.

She pointed out her favorites as they walked. Stopping to lift lids here and there. This one from a clay pot that revealed a barley rich with broth and charred greens, or another from a bowl of pickled onions, closing it with a distasteful hum.

“Oh, and these,” she cooed, reaching for an empty wooden plate and gesturing to a heap of fire-roasted carrots, split and glazed in sweetroot vinegar. “They only make them for the festival. The skin blisters just enough to—”

She stopped mid-sentence, brows knitting slightly as she glanced down at the plate in her free hand, then up at Aarno.

“…Wait,” Farren paused, a sheepish laugh caught behind her teeth. “Do you even like carrots?”

“I’ve just been dragging you through all my favorites,” she said, voice low, apologetic and amused all at once. “What would you have picked?”

@Aarno
 
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To better secure what he’d won by daring declaration alone, he’d laced his fingers into hers. Loosely, but firmly enough that he’d not lose her when she was bound to tug him along. Sure as Spring, she did just so as they circled about the banquet tables, himself in her wake making a poor attempt at not seeming as self-assured and satisfied as he was.

What was there but to smile, listening to her enthusiasm that kept pouring from a boundless pitcher into his bottomless cup. He roused to her sudden question with raised brows, surveying her expression and then the tables.

“ No— I like carrots. “ He admitted in a laugh, squeezing her hand. His grip fell to the tips of her fingers, slowly letting go even as he sidled closer, hip to hip. Following her lead, he picked up a plate for himself, free hand landing to the small of her back encouragingly.

“ It is your way, to speak what you prefer— Saves me the effort of wondering. “ He continued assuringly, twice over, and a little smug for it. “ But since you’ve now asked— We’ll just have to pick something and find out. “

He shrugged, not so much indecisive as falsely coy, reaching for a slice of the warm bread. Next, some of that white, crumbly cheese, cut into small wheels. A bit of dried fruit, as as a treat, apricot and plums. No cherry.

“ Can’t say I’ve had the opportunity to partake in a bounty as this for a bit. Generally we just steal something away to the workshop, eat and drink our coffee at our feet. The stone dust is its own flavour. “ He popped an apricot in his mouth on the sly, winking at her.

“ If you’re having those caramelized vegetables, mind heaping some on here too? “ He urged from alongside, pointing them out from where they lay across from her. “ Did you see any cups about— We ought get something to drink before I wantonly choke on something.
 
Farren huffed a laugh, a sharp exhale through her nose as she piled the vegetables high on his plate.

“Careful,” she warned, placing a charred leek with a little flourish. “You joke about choking, but these have a vengeance to them. That sweetroot glaze will sneak up on you.”

She leaned, just slightly, into the glow of his hand at her back. Feeling no need to name the comfort, or the way her body answered it with ease. Her smile softened as she turned, eyes sweeping the table before catching on a pair of carved mugs stacked beside a clay jug, condensation beading along its sides.

“There,” she nodded, nudging his arm with her elbow. “You get the drinks. And I’ll keep you alive.”
It didn’t take long to settle. She claimed a spot at one of the outside rings of tables, not wanting to throw him into the fray and risk being overwhelmed. Or suffer a familial interrogation. Which, if the curious eyes of her various aunties and cousins were anything to go by, would be happening against her will at some point.

Internally, she groaned but chose to ignore the coming storm and instead bask in their simple intimacy. They sat close. Shoulder to shoulder. Her knee knocking lightly against his as she adjusted the fall of her dress.

There was a stalled moment between them where she felt a rising anxiety of being unable to find something interesting to say, for fear Aarno would think her boring.
But before she could fumble for anything to say, the silence broke like a dropped plate.

“Oi!”

Two figures came crashing into the empty mats around them— Farren’s twin brothers, all limbs and sharp grins, the same pale blonde hair, voices pitched at the volume only teenage boys and crows ever quite mastered. One with a smudge of soot across his cheek and the other holding what looked suspiciously like a mangled oatcake in his teeth.
“Tam,” Farren groaned.

“Soren,” she added as the second shoved the rest of his pastry into his mouth without preamble.

“Nice to see you too, sister dearest,” Tam said with a grin, nodding toward Aarno as if he were a tool on a workbench they were both considering.

Soren jabbed a thumb in their direction. “So this is the guy, huh? You brought him here?”

“We didn’t even know she liked people,” Tam whispered loudly, as if confiding in Aarno.

Farren shot them both a flat look. “Don’t you two have a fell deer to argue with?”

“Oh no,” Soren said, unfazed. “That limping doe’s already kicked Deya in the shin. Probably got a stone bruise or something gross in her hoof.”

“Dad says it might abscess,” Tam added solemnly, before spinning back to Aarno with the wild-eyed grin of someone about to stir a pot for sport. “You a knight, then?”

“‘Course he’s a knight,” Soren said. “Look at the jawline. You don’t grow one of those selling candles.”

“Right, right,” Tam nodded. “So. You a knight. You ever save our sister’s life?”

“Because if not,” Soren drawled, reaching for a piece of bread off Farren’s plate, which she slapped away, “we’re not saying you're not welcome, but..... the bar’s been set.”

“Real high,” Tam added, pointing with a fork full of leeks, was that from her plate? “Once she fought off that bandit on the west ridge near the summer fields, and didn’t tell anyone until we found her patching her own arm like some woodsy war-crone.”

“She told us she fell into brambles,” Soren muttered, pointing at Farren accusingly.

“I did fall into brambles,” Farren snapped, though she didn’t deny the rest.

Tam turned back to Aarno, raising an eyebrow. “So. What’s your grand tale then? Any daring rescues? You get her out of a burning tower? A wraith fight? Any mildly perilous soup-fetching incidents?”

Farren put a hand over her eyes, though her shoulders shook with laughter.

“You’re not going to get a story,” she said, voice muffled behind her palm. “He doesn’t owe you one.”

“Oh, he does now,” Soren said cheerfully, licking oat cake crumbs from his fingers. “Just not today.”

“Yeah,” Tam agreed. “We’ll get it out of him. Eventually.”

Farren groaned again and took a deep sip from her mug. “This is why I don’t bring anyone home.”

“You brought this one,” Soren said. “So we figure he must be something.”

@Aarno
 
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They hadn’t sat down long, trying to enjoy their meal and what to him was a terribly comfortable silence, until it got loud all at once. Two descended upon their table and for a good minute and a half he was allowed his place at the sidelines, watching with growing amusement as the siblings clashed, swerved, riposted and deflected. He took the time to bounce his attention betwixt the three of them, whilst forking in whatever interesting item he’d picked out from the banquet tables.

She had been right about the vegetables. He’d just made to pick up his cup to wash down some of the promised vengeance, when the collective interest did appear to finally land in his direction, rather inquisitively. As it didn’t appear to be in irredeemably bad faith, he merely smiled pleasantly at the both of them through a draught of his drink, prolonging suspense for the couple seconds it took to put the mug down again.

“ Well— Definitely no fighting off bandits or exhibiting woodsy war-crone behaviours. “ He responded impassively, the effect of the tone perfectly in conflict with how openly he’d admire the sight of Farren alongside. The perfect image of a man hideously satisfied with himself and his company, despite the mortification he sensed about her.

“ The only time I’ve encountered a burning tower was when it’d already been put out and I had to collect a team to help rebuild it. Thrilling work, construction. “ He continued, gaze shifting from Farren to the brothers. Beneath the table, he dared try her hand with the side of his, fingers gently brushing.

“ Though there was that one battle in a blizzard. “ He added, as one might a forgettable afternoon stroll. “ Quick followed by a mildly perilous potato-peeling incident. “
 
The contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and energizing, and Farren had to fight the urge to sit bolt upright. Instead, she flexed her hand and drew in a slow breath through her nose. With a tremulous sort of bravery, she slipped her pinkie around his, settling their linked fingers on her thigh while she listened to Aarno talk of their adventures, wrapped up in the calm cadence of his voice.

Her cheeks stayed flushed, and an uncharacteristic shyness kept her from looking at Aarno anywhere but out of the corner of her eye.

Was he comfortable? Was this too much? And why was her heart beating so fast? Eight above, pray he can't hear it.

It was a small gesture, but warmth bloomed like sunlight from where her thumb absently traced the outside of his palm. She used the motion to quietly learn him— the dips of his knuckles, the patchwork of calluses, the length and feel of his fingers in hers. It grounded her, even if it meant sacrificing one hand in the battle to protect her dinner from her scavenging brothers.

The siege on her plate lessened as Aarno finished his tales and her brothers finally turned their playful bickering towards each other, giving Farren the first real pause she’d had since they’d sat down.

Still not looking at him directly, she leaned in just a touch, her voice low enough to keep the conversation theirs alone.

“That was a very diplomatic retelling of events,” she murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching like it might commit to a full smirk if coaxed. “I think you even made Montbank's 'medicinal rescuing' sound charming.”

Daring a glance his way, despite the color that still echoed in her cheeks, she gave his hand the faintest squeeze beneath the table. Her eyes had steadied, brighter now, and less skittish.

“Thank you,” Farren said, softer this time. “For not rising to their bait. They don’t mean harm, but they bite like dogs when they smell blood.”

Her thumb traced the back of his hand again, more deliberate now. Familiar.

“I’d have defended myself, mind you,” she added, releasing a good-natured chuckle and waving back at her brothers, who took their leave to find mischief elsewhere. “Just maybe not without flipping the table.”

@Aarno
 
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“ Diplomatic— I like to think it naught but the truth. For my part, anyway. “ He murmured, hazarding a sidelong look as if on the sly. For how she looked, a little flushed, he regretted it just a bit and mainly for his own part. Her hand in his was too warm, inviting for him to feel how her heart beat in her chest, how the fur gently tickled her shoulders, how sure the touch that wouldn’t let go despite it all. Hers wasn’t the rushing blood of one that wanted to pull away.

Simmering, where he was practically at a rolling boil. And yet he held on and continued admiring her, despite the coiling sensation in the pit of his stomach. Fuck, if he wasn’t too old for this.

His look sough her brothers as she waved them away, a huffed laugh leaving him at her remark. Like she had, he leaned all the closer, brushing temple to temple.

“ Way to make me regret for giving my answers so willingly. “ He hummed into the inches of air, watching the processions about them. “ But I’ll take this as a warning to be mindful of whatever I might put on the table. In the future. “

With that he pulled away again, straightening and picking up his drink with his free hand. The one not so terribly comfortably tethered to hers.

“ And a promise. I do rather enjoy watching— " He brought the cup up, as if toasting her in a wolfish grin.

" The sight that you are. “
 
A surprised giggle tried to escape at his charm and the mention of the future— and traitorous thing that Farren's girlish heart was, she bit her lip to cover it. Already chiding herself for wishful thinking and for looking for meaning in things she hadn't earned. For wanting things she feared she wasn't good enough for.

But maybe... she could be.
Worthy to him, that is.
If only he'd let her try.

In the soft corners of Farren's heart, where her most guarded dreams slept, watched over by the sharpest teeth and walls slick with blood—lived a woman who wanted the kind of love that shined between her Oba and her Ona. That supported, and danced, and laughed with an old and tempered love. One built with steady hands and kind words. A balance found and strengthened from every flaw they bared for the other.

What she didn't want, was something that would consume her, like it had her parents. A part of her now always afraid of losing herself in someone else, and becoming a reflection of what broke her family.

From the memories she could recall, and if what stories she'd heard over the years could be believed— no two people in their tribe had ever been so connected. Like two halves of a whole. Never seen without the other. Her mother had even been rumored to have given up her spirits and the duty of a Bell Keeper, because she couldn't bear having something more bound with herself than her husband. Their children, more a by-product of their mutual obsession, than the result of a wanted family.

For although her mother, her ana, had died giving birth to the twins. Her grandparents had stepped in to raise the three of them while her father, her aba, had wilted into heartbreak. A place of shadows he had never come back from— leaving him a shell and as her father in name only. Growing up, Farren could hardly stomach looking at him. What little empathy she could muster, felt wasted. For there were only so many times a child could be abandoned by their father before they built their own spine with steel.

Yes, her aba had lost his wife. But she too had lost a mother. And no matter how Farren had begged, every part of her father that mattered, went with her.

The noise of the festival seemed to rush in again— music and laughter and the scent of spiced meat rising in the cooling air. Farren flexed her hand once more in his, grounding herself in the feel of his skin, the safety of it.

Then, with a quiet exhale, she reached into her shirt and withdrew a wide red ribbon, long, and tipped in gold paint. The fabric shimmered faintly in the candlelight where she smoothed out the folds with her thumb.

“I’ve been… waiting for a good time to give this to you.” Almost sheepish now, she turned it once in her hand before offering it out, laid flat across her palm, both sides blank. “It’s one of the special ones my Oba mentioned. Every Bell Keeper gets only the one to hand out.”

“You just hold it tight, and think real hard of the wish you want most, and the Shroud will write it. They don’t need ink like the other ones, so you'll know it's ready when the blue runes show up."

Her eyes finally lifted from where they hovered near the safety of his chin— a teasing smile already curling the soft edges of her mouth. "And no one else will be able to read the runes but you, although I promise to refrain from peeking. So whatever secrets you're still harboring," she tilted her head just a little, "they're safe. For now. Knight's Honor."

@Aarno
 
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Joy and— something. Like a flicker, a little sinking of the heart when her touch adjusted, hand in his. Turning tide, but for what— the uncertainty willed the widest point off his own cheer, though his face hardly fell as much as settled back to a perfectly pleasant smile. One he’d wear for any which passerby, a learned, comfortable mask.

The effect came loose once she broke the briefest little suspense with a breath and a gesture. A gift. He put his cup down, slow just so he might do it steady. For the sensation of wanton numbness at the fingertips, frightborne.

One of the special ones. He looked at it, listening as she instructed. How simple it all seemed, easy as the jest that she should’ve added to the end. His amusement was but a huff and a grin, a sidelong glance at her.

“ For now. “ He repeated, tone daring as he reached to pluck the ribbon from where it lay, hovered with so much generosity. Thinking better of it, he instead cradled her offering palm in his, the other letting go of her hand beneath the table and settling to rest beneath the bend of her wrist.

“ Pray you’re not trusting me with this too early. “ Though he’d meant it as a tease, he couldn’t muster the tone. Too sincere as he pressed the words to her temple. His grip fell belatedly, eyes on the ribbon for fear that looking at her for longer might give him ideas — all this sitting around, too damn close.

“ When are we to hang them? And where? “
 
How curious, the stark absence of his hand, already bereft without the feel of it. How quickly, Farren wondered, could one make a home in another?

She dared a glance up at the weight of his tone and was caught in his gravity. Something in the way Aarno held himself, hummed beneath her skin. His voice lingered in her ears, rich and low, like the final damning notes of a sinful prayer.

She tried to resist the pull of it, the instinct to lean in, to fall into his space, and the call of his touch. Did he feel this? Did he suffer in the same sweet agony?

His lashes, a pale brush of silver, kissed the tops of his cheeks as he looked away, careful not to meet her gaze. A cowardly part of her was grateful for that. The bolder part ached.

What Farren would give to see the guarded thoughts that moved behind those golden eyes. If only he understood the power of them—the way his attention could pin her in place, make her lungs forget how to breathe, waiting for the permission of his smile to exhale.

A white curtain of his hair slipped forward, falling over his shoulder to partially veil his face. The sight stole the last of Farren's hesitation.

Her fingers moved of their own accord, reaching forward gently to tuck the silken strands behind his ear, brushing her fingertips along the pointed shell before retreating to her lap. Her voice dropped to something warmer, softer.

“No hiding,” she murmured, almost for her own self.

Finally, recapturing his gaze, in hopes of reassuring him, she rewarded him with a smile.

And before she could answer his question, a horn sounded in the distance—brighter now, more rhythmic, a different call than the one that had heralded the fell shepherds' arrival earlier that day. Laughter and excited chatter burst from the tables around them like a wave. It was time.

Farren laughed with them, the spell of the moment breaking like sunlight through clouds, and she stood from their table, reaching down to him with a hand outstretched.

“Come on,” she said, her grin crooked with delight. “I’ll show you.”

@Aarno
 
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He stirred, like a frightless flinch, when she reached up to fix his hair. Spoke what sounded an order, such a sweet sentiment, but on what premise? Unfounded, if only she knew— How fortunate, perhaps, that she didn’t. Was he truly the image of a bashful maiden and not that of man so at the end of his restraint? Yearning to touch in a way he’d promised he wouldn’t.

I’ll join the theater, if I survive tonight.

Despite himself, some mix of shame and relief, he mirrored her perfect smile. And when she stood to lead them away, again, he paused to watch. Held the ribbon, until winding it absently around his fingers and closing the grip. Lest he lose it.

He took her hand and stood. Bounced a couple spry steps like those of a dance and rose the arm that she might spin, like they’d done once in that party.

“ Please. “ He urged her, smiling wider as a thief does, half in secret. Just to her.

“ I can’t wait. “
 

Farren nose scrunched in laughter and her feet carried her in a twirl, her hand swinging his with delight at her side as she pulled Aarno along with the crowd that carried them to the treeline.

Those paper lanterns lit the edge like a beacon, the forest beyond, the way forward darkened to their eyes.

The crowd halted where her Ona stood waiting, commanding even in stillness. Her Oba off to the side, his eyes only for his wife and the leader that she was— awaiting her speech.

Her people were a clamor of chiming silver bells and voices, rising and falling in excitement— speaking of their meals, and the dance, and the wishes they would pull from deep within their hearts in hopes they'd be granted, if not with the sheer power of will alone.

But all it took was a single finger to her Ona's lips and the crowd's hush spread like wind through tall grass. Although Farren did hide a smirk at the elbow or two she saw jostled into those loquacious few.

"Welcome, people of the Fell. And guest." Farren joined in the bout of good-natured laughter that rolled through the crowd as Ona's acknowledging nod tracked the easy stature of Aarno next to her. Farren carefully avoided the prying gazes of the aunties trying to catch her eye.

Ona waited until the energy was brought to heel before continuing. "We have made it another year. We brought our herds through the floodplains, past the blight that withered the barley in the low valleys, and over the blackstone ridge where no paths remain.”

“We survived.” Ona paused. “And we thrived.”

A softer murmur of assent this time.

“Now we honor the strength it took to make another journey around the Vayd tree. We remember those who helped carry the weight. And we offer our thanks to whatever watches over us, from root to star, the moons, and all the Shroud woven between.”

A pillar of silver fire flared upward, consuming the form of Farren’s grandmother. In her place, stood not a spirit creature of midnight pelt like the other Bell Keepers. But a wolf with white fur that gleamed from within like a moonbeam.

Without missing a beat, her Oba, standing beside his wife of the wild, addressed them all with a kind smile. “Tonight, we finally breathe out what we have held too long. And we wish for something better for those we love.”

At the edge of the wood, her grandmother stepped forward without a sound, her paws pressing gently into the mossy ground. With each step, a pulse of light radiated outward—a gentle flare like a heartbeat in the earth. The path before her bloomed into view, bright fell-flowers unfurling their luminous petals in her wake, their white bioluminescent glow lighting the forest floor with a soft inviting light, immune to the shadows of winter that clung to black bark and the snapping breath of those finally shirking winter's chill.

For it was time for rebirth, to ferry in and invite Spring into their fields.

The forest stirred in response. A soft white glow kissed the heavy canopy overhead, catching in the branches, casting shifting patterns of light like constellations overhead.

Farren felt the thrum ripple around her. Anticipation, reverence, joy. Even grief. For the things now lost to the past, and the grief of being left with only the steps ahead.

Around her, people began to move, following the illuminating path behind the wolf.

Farren joined the others, walking alongside Aarno. The path wound gently into the woods, but she was lost to its distance and how long they walked it, time unspooled and was strung between stars and roots. And the lost memories of a lullaby from days past, hummed in her throat.

But soon, the trees opened.

They entered a vast, circular grotto, the canopy arching high above them like a cathedral of branches. Heavy limbs swooped low, easy to reach. Already, hundreds upon hundreds of red ribbons fluttered there in a breeze she couldn't feel.

Amongst them, Farren could see bright threads of blue. Gold-dipped at their edges, those special, rune-marked wishes visible in this sea of red and white.

People began to break away, some in pairs, others alone, but all drifting into the glade. Farren watched as some gently touched the branches and found the old wishes of loved ones and even their past selves, spoke to them softly, and tied their wishes among the leaves. Some cried. Some laughed. Others stood in silence, holding their ribbons like small secrets. Not yet ready to give them up to the whims of fate.

Turning to Aarno, she carefully brought his knuckles to her lips. A chaste kiss landing amongst the bones. Her gaze holding his, gauging his expression without judgement.

Against his warm skin, she whispered that same question she had asked when they stood on the precipice of Urbos.

"Ready?"

@Aarno
 
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And with that little bit of play, they were off. The crowd felt more comfortable now that he wasn’t alone in it, held by the hand and that spirit he’d let carry himself away any day of the week. So sure for where to go, all in a smile.

Easy was it to stray in its wake and to settle alongside, to the dying murmurs as ceremony called to attention. His wasn’t to just stand there discreet, he noticed, but when had it ever — so he met it with a put on confidence, head held high as that of a horse aware of its beauty. A little tilt and a smile, hand tighter about that of whom should’ve granted him gifts aplenty. Did they know of the ribbon wound about his fingers, only loosely hidden as it was at this distance?

Pray, it’d be wiser to ask what the old Bell Keeper didn’t know. By some wild instinct, magic or the sight of him alone. His adoration had not been unclear nor a secret, in any measure, to anyone but himself until now. And for what?

Protection? Of whom, exactly.

There in that grove, with the speech and the magic about them, he’d toss the thought away. He’d been done an immeasurable kindness, lent hope and faith that’d give any man something to live upto. She has you by the balls, the bleeding man had said in that rocky beach. And yet, hadn’t that served him just fine enough. Was there something awful about that?

She hummed as they walked and he couldn’t even regret not being able to join in on the tune he didn’t know, rousing from tender feeling only as they ground to a halt. For his own sake he was thankful for the couple seconds they lingered, watchful of the people that’d splinter to every direction. All yet in company of one another, but more private.

The gesture she landed upon him was soft and warm as the promised Spring. How he wanted to meet it in kind, all of it writ in the look that’d seek hers. The question remained betwixt them for a moment, suspended and yet undemanding as a wishful ribbon in the breeze.

It put that feeling in his core again, one neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, just— a stir? In truth, he hadn’t been ready for any of the things he’d had the privilege to experience today, unexpected and yet so thrilling. And that was without considering the weight of the occasion at all.

What was a man to ask? A selfish instinct requested love and happiness, but old wisdom said that’d always spoil it. He should’ve known, having been granted both already by the realm’s own accord. Without asking, as if he deserved them.

Should he have wanted something material, easily gifted? Easily lost. Just as were health, prosperity, a kinder tomorrow — classics all, full of possibility, even if they were awfully large. But what else was there? At the end of the day, what was more important?

Nothing. In a smile, he bobbed his head finally.

“ Yes. “ He responded and brushed a touch on the cheek of his dearest Bell Keeper, as if assuring her. In his turning towards the large wishing tree, he uncoiled the ribbon beneath his look, inspecting it absently. Though his body moved, he felt strangely untethered, like he should’ve just been watching himself from the canopies. Step after step, despite never having taken any of them before.

The task was only as immense as he’d let it be and before it, reverent, he’d halt to stand. He smiled by himself, thinking on his gamble, his mind made by his wander. Was it too clever, perhaps even angering some spirit, or would they allow it? Was he dooming that gold tipped opportunity upon these branches for an eternity, until dust?

He could live with that. Another moment passed as he formed the exact words, arranged them lest he inscribe little more than a child’s wanton thought. The Bell Keeper’s ribbon was held tighter and hark— a little shimmer made runes emerge, ones that he was able to decipher at a glance, but not in way of actual language. He just knew, looking, feeling the sentiment.

The cavity of his chest fluttered, nervous and satisfied all at once. Resisting a glance at Farren, lest she witness the depth of feeling about him, he approached the tree and reached up to tie his ardent thought. Amongst so much hope.

+ Whatever they should need most, to whomever neither asks nor imposes for it. +
 
"I can already tell that was a good wish." Came a voice from behind Farren that was like ice down her spine.

Why now? Why here?

She took a deep breath to steel herself before turning, schooling her expression to one of cool indifference, in case the anxious hitching of her heart gave her away.

Before her, was a dark-haired man with the same green eyes as her Oba— yet with none of the inherited kindness that had once lived there. Now, they were like shattered sea-glass on a beach. Fogged by too much wear, and made brittle by the relentless passing of the tides.

Tired. Her father just looked tired.

"Kevir." She slowly drawled. Dragging the acknowledgment from her mouth with force.

The man’s face grimaced in a flinch.

“Farren,” Kevir replied, her name spoken like a wound reopened. His voice was coarse, more wind than warmth, and held none of the strength she remembered threading through his old lullabies.

A silence fell between them, sharp as broken bone.

He shifted his weight, awkward in a way he never used to be. “You know, whenever we migrated past the monastery, I asked for news of you.”

Farren didn’t answer. Her arms crossed over her chest, tight. Protective.

He tried again, softer this time. “You’ve done well, I hear. All the amazing things you’ve accomplished...” The words faded out. Hung there like a half-built bridge between them.

“Mm,” she hummed noncommittally, mouth pursed. “I suppose it was asking too much to write to me, let alone stop by Astenvale.”

“And that man?” he asked, ignoring her question, and instead lifting his chin ever so slightly toward where Aarno still lingered in the hush behind her. “The one who smiles for you. He’s good to you, I hope?”

Farren’s jaw flexed. “Would you even care if he wasn't?”

He flinched again, visibly. “Farren, please, I’m trying.”

“Is that what this is?!” she snapped, tilting her head like she was poising to strike. "You trying? What do you want, a fucking medal? Great job, Aba. So glad to see you've finally decided to give a shit. We've been waiting." Something old and awful churned in her chest— like a grief that had curdled into rot. And yet still, through her anger, something gentler tried to reach for him inside her, weak and stupid and stubborn.

“I just wanted to know how you were.”

She snuffed it out before it could reach him. “I’m as fine as I ever was. You can go. Guilt free.”

Her father's eyes lingered on her a moment longer, tracing the edges of the woman she’d become. Finally, he sighed heavily, a breath that seemed to deflate him all at once. “You look so much like her.”

A cracking fissure split her chest.

Before she could speak again, he gave a shallow nod, turned, and walked away, toward the deeper shadows of the grotto.

He left her rooted in place. Motionless, as if she'd been carved from stone, trying to breathe through this foreign emotion that she was sure, if only she could name it, would be anger.

Her throat closed and tears pushed uninvited at the edges of her eyes, blurring the light into halos. She refused to look at Aarno. Not now. Not like this.

“That was…” Her voice cracked, so she swallowed and started again. “That was my father.”

She exhaled hard through her nose and stared at a tree, blinking furiously. "My mother used to give him a special ribbon, an asha, every year. But he never used a single one." She chuckled humorlessly. "He would tell her that he didn't need any ashas, that she was all he had ever wished for." A deep breath, as if to gather herself. "That is... until she died. Now... he comes every year. To visit the tree where we move the wishes of the dead to." Farren's hand drifted upwards to trail a finger down the script of ribbon that hung close to her face. "When an asha wish comes true, the runes disappear, so we may reuse them. My mother's ribbon, though, is still there, amongst the others of the dead. And from what I've been told, he took all the ashas she'd ever given him and wished on every single one in a single day. And hung them with the dead.” Her voice wavered again. "And because none of us but him can read what he wished for, I-I don’t know if he wishes for her to come back. Or if he wishes to f-follow her. And it kills me not knowing which I'd prefer.”

Her hands trembled and she pressed them over her face, ashamed. Her shoulders folding in. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I am kind. I promise I am. But eight above, he makes me cruel.”

@Aarno
 
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A gust was in the creaking branches, catching on the myriad ribbons that swished and whipped like banners. He swept aside a wisp of hair from where it’d escaped from behind his ear, pretending to stare at the canopy and its bounty of wishes even as something else called to attention.

Behind his back, a voice. And Farren’s, like he’d never heard her speak before. Alarm stretched it’s wings in his chest, fluttering with anxious energy as he eavesdropped the first long seconds, caught off guard. How innocently it had begun — prying for an angle where there was none. At the anger in his fellow Dusk Knight’s retorts, he finally turned on heel from the tree.

So, that’s her Father. Though he had his curiousity, there wasn’t a trace of it in his look, an arch of the brows colouring his concern. Questions he’d never ask. He made return to haunt the space behind Farren’s shoulder just as the man turned to leave, with that one last remark. It sparked his ire in turn, face drawing to a disappointed frown.

What a thing to say. So — revealing.

The words therein, so much to explain, did nothing to despirit his irritation. It wasn’t the easy kind he’d have for stupidity and everyday banalities, but something deeper. Simmering in the pit of the stomach and the back of the throat, hot and corrosive. The sentiment left him in a huff as he hovered but an inch away, made angrier by the way her voice wavered and staring at distant air for it.

The apology was too much. His breath held, mouth pressed even as his brows twisted to lament, sincere and sympathetic, eyes softer when they finally fell upon her. He reached out gently, pulling her to an embrace.

“ I know you’re kind. “ He affirmed, speaking lower and purely from experience. His own voice sounded strange in his ears, so sure even as his breaths shallowed out. Careful.

“ But there is such a thing as too kind. And being angry isn’t cruelty. “ He added, glancing down at the side of her face. How unused to voicing such profound discontent was she, for feeling this way? He’d complained and felt quite the cleansing rage for much less.

It was a strange contradiction. The things done to him that were actually horrible and altering had been so much easier to bury, perhaps for how they aged and fused with one’s marrow. Are we just angry people, or is it something we forgot that wrought it? If I never speak it, will it go away?

Yes. Maybe. Not really. His chest expanded in a deep breath.

“ Is it against the rules to ask what another may have wished for? “ He tried, belatedly.

If the not knowing is so painful, truly.
 

Surrendering into his comfort was the permission Farren needed to let go, at least... for a little while. For here she could lay down her shield, and let rest her sword. To hide away the teeth that wanted to bite the hand that fed.

Her hands held prayer between them, cradled against a traitorous heart that ached. Her forehead rested against Aarno's chest, her tears soaking the front of his shirt. This was twice in a day that she had been held, and the evidence of its great lack was enough in the way she could feel it fill the empty cup within her. How long had it been before this day? Why had she let it go so long? And when did she stop noticing that her cup had run dry?

His words pressed against the tangled knot inside her. Her own emotions too heavy to respond to the soft breath of his air that warmed against her cheek. She clung to it all the same, and said nothing.

Instead, she let the memories rise. A small woman with hair like wheat, who braided her own hair the same way Farren did now. A laugh that came easy and often.

But it was the small details now that were fading— the exact tattoos of her mother's hands, the grey steel of her eyes. Even the earth of her smell.

Not her voice though. Never her voice. The way she scolded and praised her. Chased the monsters of the night away with every story she could muster. Farren could even hear her mother in the way she had yelled at her father. The thought brought bittersweet levity, and with it she breathed in, slow and deep. Letting the weight of grief soften against the strength Aarno lent her, helping her find her voice once again.

"Hmmm. I wouldn't exactly say rules, you're allowed to share your wishes with whomever. It just happens to be more fun when you're left to guess." She half-mumbled against him, starting the process of collecting her pieces back, preparing herself to be a person again. Shield, in hand. But lowered now. Sword, sheathed. But ready. And teeth... unwilling to break any more flesh. For now.

Leaning back, she startled a laugh. Half-embarrassed and half-miffed that even in her sorrow, the world kept spinning, despite the gravity of her own.

"Oh gods. I smeared my ochre paint all over your shirt. Look! Ah- and my face, I must be a mess." Her hand drifted self-consciously to her cheek, no doubt where tears had streaked paths through her face paint. Still, she stayed in Aarno's embrace, peeking at him from 'neath water-clumped lashes, a familiar grin finding its way back to the home of her mouth, "I'm sorry... Not exactly how I imagined our first festival to go."

@Aarno
 
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