Arc 9-45
Being woken in the middle of the night is inherently terrifying. I’m not much of a scholar regarding the mind of humanity, but if I had to guess why, I’d connect it to our primal past, a time where a sound in the night meant we were moments from death. An instinct inherited over a thousand generations defies all logic or reason.
Since meeting Kierra, being woken in the night has been a wonderful surprise. Yet, when my eyes flutter open from soft caresses on my cheek, there is a tiny bead of dread that I can’t shake. One the pink gaze looking down at me feeds, allowing it to grow.
What’s wrong?
[Khan has left the estate. He intends to escape.]
If you let him go, you must not like his chances.
[He won’t be able to leave the city. In the incredibly unlikely event that coincidence allows him to exceed his abilities, Nomad is shadowing him.]
Hm. I haven’t had a chance to witness my gloomy servant’s abilities, but I assume he’s at least as capable as Earl. Eh. At least seventy percent as capable as my steward; Geneva’s seems to have taken a special interest in the oldest of the wayward siblings. That’s more than enough to drag Khan back by his ear.
I’m not concerned, but why are we waiting? I can only imagine he’s going to get himself in trouble.
[I’m giving him room to show the depth of his intentions. There’s a difference between thinking of running and scaling the gate. And I think you would want that difference to be made plain before you speak with him.]
I would, though Khan isn’t going to like my response either way.
This isn’t a conversation to have in bed, surrounded by warmth and softness that tries to lure me into ignoring the whole mess. Regrettably, I reject that peaceful image and carefully extricate myself from a tangle of loving limbs. No one else should suffer this interruption of their dreams. Except, Kierra is a soldier. There is a part of her that is always alert.
I wonder how her sleepy mind interprets me pulling away? Probably as prey escaping. That’s what the sharpness of her gaze suggests as her eyes snap open, immediately finding me. They relax as they take in my sheepish smile, lazily moving between me and the thrall at the side of the bed. Her lips arc in a smirk before she turns her head, eyes closing as she pulls Talia closer.
Saints, those two are adorable together; Talia doesn’t have a demeanor that invites coddling, but Kierra spoils her more than me. Their relationship is special, yet entirely unthreatening. Elven culture doesn’t invite much sympathy or compassion. That doesn’t mean they don’t have those emotions; Kierra is as much as a nurturer as she is a destroyer, maybe more. The tradition of flowers is the one area of their culture where they are taught to channel those feelings. It makes sense that she, and others, would cherish that connection.
It’s a struggle to walk away from such a sight and it does nothing for my worsening mood, every step fueling my rising temper. My feet unconsciously carry me to the study; by the time I reach the chair, I finish a spell that targets the four candles throughout the room and light them with a dismissive wave. Geneva stands on the opposite side of the desk, eyes demure and arms crossed behind her back.
“Does he want to go home?”
For his sake, the answer better be no. After all that we’ve done for him, it would be a slap in the face of heinous proportions. No, it’s not about us. It’s about Victory. It’s about the intelligent race living alongside humanity under our noses and the historically insane dragon they’re guarding. That is a delicate situation, one I don’t need complicated by the duke exiling me or some other such nonsense. We’ve put our future and the futures of others at risk to keep him alive and he responds to that by heaping a heavier burden on us?
The answer better be no.
“He’s thought of it.”
The wood beneath my fingers groans as the smallest crack appears on the desk’s edge.
“And he thought of many other things. Hence, the need for him to run free for a while. I’m hoping the time away from our care will clarify his intent.”
“Then why did you wake me now?”
“I thought it best you have a chance to calm yourself before speaking with him. Unless you have no intention of talking.”
Tempting. And, as usual, she’s right. With the scenarios running through my mind, I’m in no mood to talk, merely to end the problem. There’s a large part of me wondering why I didn’t do so in the first place, saving myself the struggle, but I fight those thoughts.
“You have every right to be angry,” Geneva practically purrs. “You are a dragon among ants. That you give them any consideration at all is a blessing they have done nothing to deserve. For them to spit in the face of your generosity is beyond stupidity. It is suicidal and sinful.”
I don’t know if I’d put it in such strong terms, but I know having my efforts thrown in my face feels horrible. It makes me wonder if I should bother; the powerful people of Harvest don’t go around coddling the people who get in their way. The Grimoires didn’t usurp the Tomes by asking nicely. Marquis Guiness isn’t the richest man in the kingdom because he wasted time safeguarding other people’s futures.
I should be like them. Saints know I want to be. And sometimes, I think I grasp the edge of what it means to wield overwhelming power without compunction. Then a situation like this arises and I see a gravestone on a pleasant hill.
It would be so simple not to care…but I do. Pretending I don’t won’t help. I’m no saint, I’m not even a hero, but maybe I’m not as cold as I would like to be.
That won’t stop me from beating him black and blue. Or killing him. Family or not, I made my conditions clear.
“Are you in contact with Nomad?”
“It would be far too costly. He knows when to intervene.”
“Which is?”
“So long as he doesn’t make it past the main gate, Nomad has been instructed to give him the night to think over his decision with minimal interference.”
So, I’m forced to wait on him for hours. Geneva might have miscalculated; this does nothing to calm my anger. It does transform, the flames of an errant temper hardening into cold scorn. This is foolish and he has made everyone else look like fools with him.
Two empty platters and a bottle of one of Howie’s stronger concoctions later, Geneva perks up. “Nomad has returned to the estate with Khan.”
“Their conditions?”
“Both unharmed, though the wanderer is still tipsy.”
At least someone’s enjoying himself tonight. “Bring him.”
“Your servants already approaches.”
Moments later, the door swings open and Nomad drags himself through the door, his shambling making the man slung over his shoulder seem like a terrible burden, though I know he isn’t. He drops Khan in the middle of the floor before dipping hhis head in a shallow bow.
“Good work,” I praise; I have no idea what goes on in his strange mind, but the few glimpses I’ve had make me think existence alone is a trial for the strange man. “You can retire early.”
He gives me another nod before shambling out of the room. I forget him after his first step, gaze dropping to the latest annoyance in my life. Bastard doesn’t even have the spine to look me in the eye, pretending to be unconscious. As if that could fool my sense. “I heard your breath change, idiot. Get up.”
One eye opens, the brown orb watching me dubiously. Without him strictly controlling his breathing, I can hear the natural way it hitches; something’s making what should be natural at least somewhat strenuous. Only reason for someone as uncaring as Nomad to use violence is if he’s driven to it.
“Cheh. I don’t care how pathetic you look, idiots don’t get healing.”
He still refuses to stand.
I force him to his feet.
“What am I going to do with you?”
Khan finally makes a sound, scoffing in my face. “What you were always going to do.”
“I told you, you have options. Your life is your own.”
“So long as I do as you say,” he hisses.
“And you have a problem with that?” I ask incredulously. “Everyone spends their whole life doing things because of other people. You spent your life in technical exile because of what a bunch a dead mean said.” I barely resist the urge to shake him. “Get to the point. It’s me you have a problem with, isn’t it?”
His lips tighten; I wonder if he thinks he’s imitating his father’s world-class frown. Instead, his displeasure manifests as something closer to a pout. “What if it is? My life is my own, is it not? Then I’m free to hate who I want.”
“I suppose this is my fault. I wasn’t clear.” He winces as the grip on his shoulder tightens. “Your life is your own so long as I can trust you not to fuck up my life. But maybe that’s too hard for you to grasp. Maybe you shouldn’t have your life. It belongs to me and I’m graciously allowing you to borrow it, provided you can behave yourself. Which you’ve shown you can’t.”
“Then kill me,” he bites out and I can’t tell if it’s a thoughtless dare or a resigned plea.
Either way, it’s a call to action. One I’m damn sure going to answer.
“I will,” I promise and his gloomy eyes tell me he believes me. “If you don’t agree to your leash.”
“Leash?”
“Since I can’t trust you to stay out of trouble, someone’s going to make sure you do.”