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b-a-pigeon · 1 year

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What From the Water Rises #1

Check out yesterday's intro post if you missed it—but tl;dr, @fellamarsh and I have a new project consisting of interconnected shorts taking place in the same fantasy world, and we're planning on releasing them for free on a biweekly basis!

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That night, Phaeon guarded the prince in silence.

For any other monarch, this was the norm; royals inevitably came to ignore the constant presence of their guard, and Phaeon’s training had emphasized the importance of disappearing into the background. In the prince’s antechamber, especially, he could’ve vanished among the clutter with little effort. The narrow space was almost overwhelmingly ornate, its walls crowded with ancient tapestries, paintings, and mirrors in gold-lacquered frames all the way up to the high, curved ceiling, which was itself inlaid with bright patterns of tilework.

It would have been easy for him to press his back against the wall and pretend he did not exist.

But the prince, unlike his relatives, always wanted to speak with Phaeon when he stood guard—sharing something he’d read, asking about what happened outside of the palace walls, inquiring about Phaeon himself. It was one of his little quirks, his quiet rejections of etiquette, like the way he insisted upon oiling his own hair, and demanded the royal guard sit while watching over him.

That night, though, he had yet to say a word after they greeted each other. He wasn’t ignoring Phaeon, which would have been easy enough to accept—but instead staring unsettlingly at him through his reflection in the vanity mirror, working a thin oil into his dark, wavy hair from the roots.

Phaeon recognized the silent demand to meet his eyes and did so, though he secretly wished the prince would turn away. It was inappropriate for someone of his station to look so directly at a royal, even through the barrier, even on the prince’s orders. It felt wrong, just as it felt wrong to sit on a cushioned stool with his sword leaning against the wall, rather than standing with the weapon heavy and secure on his hip. He’d learned to cope with that by reaching out to touch his sword every few minutes—and now he was coping with the prince’s scrutiny by occasionally letting his attention drift upward to the line of portraits depicting his ancestors above.

Circled by the gold frame of his mirror, the prince struck Phaeon as the most beautiful and most intense of them all. His features were so soft, so delicate—but his eyes were keen and piercing.

He was studying the prince’s face, running an absent finger along the curve of the pommel, when he finally spoke.

“You talked to the king about me today.”

Phaeon could not decipher the tone of his silky voice beyond recognizing that this was not a question. “I did, your highness.”

“What about?”

He hesitated, glancing up at the portraits again, weighing the expectation of confidentiality with the king against refusing the prince’s request. Certainly it was worse, in theory, to defy the king—but the prince was the one here to witness him, and Phaeon had to admit he was curious. “The king asked if I, or any other member of the guard, might teach you swordsmanship. He didn’t say why.”

At this, the prince’s sharp eyes fluttered shut; his fingers stilled where they ran through his hair and dropped to his lap. He breathed out a slow sigh. “He’s putting me on display, then,” he murmured.

“I’m not sure—”

“What’s the point of swordsmanship?” the prince asked derisively—though his glare softened as soon as the words left his mouth. “I mean no offense. It’s a noble art, and it would be an honor to learn from you.”

“The honor would be mine.”

The prince ignored this obligatory show of deference and said, “If he wants me to learn, it’s for ceremonial purposes. Staging a public victory as a show of strength, or something.” He reached up to braid his hair, his nimble fingers working slower than usual. “A few days ago, one of the kitchen servants told me I’m expected to attend a dinner with some envoy next week; someone came up to my room to measure me for new clothes, but refused to tell me what they were for; my tutor has suddenly become much more concerned with my elocution. You know what all of that means.”

Phaeon did not, in fact, know what any of it meant, nor how to respond. The prince had slipped into the candid tone that subtly prompted his audience to do the same, but their conversation felt too strange for Phaeon to abandon the comforts of formality.

The prince half-turned, catching Phaeon’s eye from the corner of his; though Phaeon, on instinct, lowered his gaze to the floor, the prince must’ve recognized his ignorance in that glance alone.

“He wants to prepare me for the throne.” His lips pressed together in a bitter smile; the motions of his fingers, as he braided his hair, grew quicker and more aggressive. “It’s incredible that I made it almost to twenty-two without even a hint of my public debut—but my time is up. He wants me to be visible now, and he’s preparing to introduce me to the populace as the next king. It’s all happening soon.” The thin smile twisted into a grimace. “It won’t be long before he starts searching for a suitable wife so I can produce an heir of my own.”

With each word, Phaeon’s uncertainty mounted. Why would discussing his duty to continue the royal bloodline make the prince frown like this—make his voice sound almost hollow, as if in despair? The prince so rarely brought up his future, and on those infrequent occasions when he addressed it, Phaeon politely pretended not to notice his hesitance or insecurity. This resentment was something else altogether, and the only answer that came to mind was uselessly vague. “As is your birthright.”

The prince sighed with displeasure and lapsed back into quiet. After finishing his braid and tying off the end with a ribbon, he opened the top drawer of the vanity to return the crystal vial of oil. Phaeon watched, as still and silent as he was meant to be, while the prince examined the contents of his drawer and began to halfheartedly rearrange them, pulling out little pots of kohl and multicolored glass containers of powders and oils.

It was almost like he was stalling, Phaeon thought, reaching out to run a finger along the carvings on his sword’s hilt for reassurance; for a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the clinking of glass and the crackling of the fireplace on the wall between them.

Then the prince abruptly broke the silence. “Phaeon, what do you know about Ezu-anvashe’s island?”

Phaeon’s hand froze on his sword, startled by the drastic change of subject. “I know it’s a dangerous place,” he said, barely managing to keep his voice even, “full of criminals and wizards—”

“I’ve been doing some research,” the prince interrupted, “and I’m starting to doubt the narrative we’ve heard.” He slammed the drawer of his vanity shut and met Phaeon’s eyes through the mirror again, his jaw set. “Would you check the hallway for me? I’d prefer our conversation remain private from here.”

Phaeon’s training overtook his blank confusion. He stood, lifting his sword and clipping its scabbard to his belt in one fluid, practiced motion, and crossed the room to its sole exit. There was no one in the hall, as he expected; nobody came to the prince’s private chambers except to guard him. Still, he lingered in the doorway, taking in a slow breath to steady his heart. Something strange was happening; the prince was up to something, and not one of his typical schemes, either. He was being too vague, his choice of topics oddly disjointed, leaving Phaeon no room to glean what he was after.

When he shut the door and returned to his post, he found the prince leaning forward on his elbows, narrowed eyes searching Phaeon’s face through the mirror.

“The records from the earliest explorations of the island still exist in the archives of the imperial college,” he said, as if there had been no interruption. “I bribed someone to hunt them down a few months ago, and now I have everything—all of the reports sent from those first settlers to my grandfather before they declared their independence from Sehmera. Since then, I’ve had a courier intercept letters to the king on my behalf—and I caught a few from some distant cousin of mine, an ex-viceroy from one of those expeditions who never left.”

The prince’s eyes were bright with excitement as he spoke, but Phaeon was too wary to find his intellectual curiosity as charming as usual. “His descriptions of life there have been very… illuminating. It’s not half as violent as we’ve been told.”

An expectant pause followed, like the prince wanted Phaeon to express his curiosity—but, still nervous in unfamiliar territory, he was careful to keep his interest purely practical. “May I ask why the king is corresponding with a resident of Isle Ezu?”

“Oh, it’s not a correspondence, as far as I’m aware. I doubt any of those letters even make it to the king. They’re all about trying to convince him to open trade, which is too absurd to acknowledge. Even if he wanted to legitimize it as a state by trading with them, Ezu-anvashe would never allow it.”

“I’ve heard the sea god is volatile.”

The prince frowned, drumming his fingers on the surface of the vanity—impatient as he always was when he recognized the way his servants were trained to speak to him, repeating and lightly elaborating on his points rather than truly responding to them. But Phaeon could not guess what conclusion the prince was angling toward with enough accuracy for a meaningful reply, anyway.

“Not volatile, I don’t think,” the prince said. His frown had vanished—but enthusiasm no longer shone in his eyes, either, leaving him expressionless. “I’ve read enough by now to understand that his motives are consistent. It offends him when we travel through his domain for what he considers petty human desires—conquest, profit. As long as our causes are pure, and we play by his rules, he’s perfectly accepting.”

“I see,” Phaeon said, failing to glean any insight from the prince’s impassive face. He would have to guess where this was headed. “Are you suggesting, your highness, that you might delay your debut by… visiting this place?”

The prince laughed humorlessly. “I’m not suggesting anything. Certainly the king would never permit me to vacation there, and we couldn’t exactly send an envoy. It’s just interesting to learn about the roles the gods play. Did you know, on the island, there aren’t any real leaders other than their patron god? They have elections, but their positions only last three years. They have no kings—and no money, and no wars.”

“No laws, either.”

“There are laws! Fewer than we have, but there are some, both divine and human. I don’t mean to suggest it’s perfect. It’s a flawed place—but so is this one.” With that, the prince finally broke eye contact, studying the hands he’d interlaced on top of the vanity; Phaeon, unable to hide his confusion now, was grateful for the reprieve. “It would be unwise of me to critique the empire my ancestors have built, wouldn’t it?”

Phaeon chose his words with great care. “To critique without purpose, perhaps, but using those critiques to improve—”

“If I’m going to become king, I have to first accept that I have no freedom here. Do you understand?” He grew softer, quieter as he spoke. “I can talk about change all I want, but my future is set in stone: the king will find me a suitable wife so I can have a son, and abdicate the throne as soon as I am eligible. I’m not ready. Not now—and I don’t think I ever will be.”

“I’m sure it’s frightening to have so much responsibility.” Phaeon’s head spun; none of this made sense, and he knew his words were useless, but he kept stammering them out. “The burden—your sacrifice—”

“It’s not about that. I’ve studied statecraft long enough to recognize that I cannot rule over this empire. I’m no warrior—or maybe I’m just a coward. But there is no empire without war; we’ve pushed too far, too hard, and now if we relent on the borders we’ll be swallowed up, colony by colony, until Sehmera is destroyed and I’m killed along with it. I can’t preside over that bloodshed, and I can’t accept my death knowing how many others would first die in my name.”

“You’ll make an excellent king,” Phaeon said, because he had to.

“I won’t.” The prince spat out the words, but his tone softened when he said, “There is no need to lie to me. Please, Phaeon, forget your duty to defend the empire for one moment and listen to what I’m telling you. I cannot and will not be king; after all these years, you know me well enough to understand why. I’ve made the decision to reject it.”

Phaeon’s lips parted, but he could not manage even the most banal of polite responses. What other option had the prince imagined? To continue the bloodline was his obligation; as the king’s firstborn son, he was the true and only successor. His anxieties were understandable, but rejecting his responsibility could only mean one thing.

The horror of this realization must have shown on his face, because the prince’s expression tightened with anticipation.

He meant to abandon the throne, ending a dynasty spanning centuries out of childish fear.

“This is high treason,” Phaeon breathed.

The prince sighed and shook his head, looking almost disappointed. “Yes, it is. You can tell the king if you’re so concerned with my defying him. I might do it now, if I were you. Stay too long and they’ll consider you complicit, won’t they?”

Phaeon suspected this to be true—but he remained firmly in his seat, despite the consequences. He wasn’t sure why. A decade of training in the royal guard and a lifetime of loyalty to Sehmera screamed at him to run straight to the king, throw himself to his knees, and confess everything he’d heard, begging mercy for them both. At the very least, he should have implored the prince to swallow his misgivings and take the secrets he’d revealed to his grave.

Surely, though he’d sworn an oath to protect all three, his loyalties to king and country should outweigh his commitment to the prince—

But Phaeon stayed, and could not imagine doing anything else. He stayed, knowing his presence here for the death sentence it was, letting his personal feelings cloud his judgment and not caring.

“You mean to abandon your destiny,” he said quietly.

The prince spun around on his stool to face Phaeon—who froze under the blazing intensity of the eye contact, of the starkness of his fierce beauty seen directly, his conflicted mind going blank with shock. “I mean,” he snapped, “I believe my destiny lies elsewhere.”

“Where? Ezu?”

“Anywhere. Not here. I can’t do it, Phaeon, and if I want to live, my one chance at freedom is running away before it’s too late.”

“Your highness, if you want to change the empire, you can do that by becoming king,” Phaeon urged, almost dizzy with desperation to change his mind. “You can reshape the empire to your desire. That’s what it means to be king! You have responsibilities, but you also have ultimate power.”

With a bitter laugh, the prince said, “It’s truly not possible, I promise you. I’ll spare you a lecture on statecraft, but there will be no more empire for me to rule if we stop waging war. I could handle responsibility, Phaeon, but I can’t live with being at the helm of a machine that runs on blood.”

“Who taught you all this?”

“I concluded it myself from everything I’ve learned. Nobody could’ve taught me; questioning the empire would be treason. Do you see my problem here? What does it say if the second most powerful man in this nation doesn’t have the freedom to interrogate the necessity of bloodshed? I can’t stand it—any of it. Setting aside my moral objections, I’m a captive here. If I want my freedom, I have to let them put me on display, like an object—and get some poor stranger pregnant before she has the chance to decide if she wants to. It’s all so horrible. It’s suffocating.”

“I hear you, your highness,” Phaeon said, his voice shaking, “and I understand your discomfort, but please consider everything you would have to give up. Even if you were allowed to live, after defying the king—once you leave here, you’ll have nothing.”

“Of course I understand,” the prince said coolly, gesturing at their surroundings with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “The entire problem is that all of this is the spoils of war. Do you want me to tell you what I’ve learned in the dispatches from the frontlines? Do you want to know what our army is doing to civilians in the colonies?”

Phaeon did not need to be told; he already knew. When he thought of the sweet, sheltered prince learning the realities of war, of conquest, his breath caught in his chest. There would be no changing his mind. “Your highness—”

“Should I read you the reports from the viceroys, out in the borderlands, bragging about impoverishing and enslaving people on their own land?” Below the prince’s practiced calm was an unmistakable fury; his dark eyes blazed, their unobstructed intensity as overwhelming as looking into the sun.

“To be frank—if I’m entertaining the idea of you leaving—I’m not sure you do understand all it would entail,” Phaeon said, a harsh edge to his tight voice, all his courtesy stripped away under the prince’s radiance. “Never mind wealth, you would have to work to survive for the first time in your life. You’re guaranteed nothing in this world if you aren’t a prince. Not food. Not shelter.”

“In Sehmera, perhaps, I would die in the streets and no one would care—but that’s not how things work on Ezu.”

“Ezu!” Phaeon groaned, screwing his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. He let out a shaky breath; the prince said nothing, but Phaeon could feel the sharpness of his gaze as he attempted to collect himself. “You know nothing of that place beyond fifty-year-old dispatches and letters from some mad viceroy, correct?”

“I know about their patron god.”

“But their god isn’t always watching! Would he be able to stop them from kidnapping you for ransom? Killing you on sight?” He dared to drop his hand from his face, to look up at the prince again—and found his eyebrows raised in surprise at Phaeon’s vehemence.

“I’ll disguise myself.” His tone was gentler now; Phaeon felt a flash of guilt for letting his emotion overwhelm him. “I can abandon my identity. Nobody outside of the walls of this palace has seen me in over a decade. They haven’t even learned my name.”

Perhaps—but the prince looked royal, his skin the pale color of sand, flawless and uncalloused. Everything about him was soft and youthful in a way that spoke to his isolation as well as his station. “They might guess. You don’t look like a commoner.”

“Well, viceroys are living happily on the island, so as long as I’m not taken for a crown prince, I assume it won’t be a problem.” The prince’s brow knitted as he studied Phaeon’s face, so far beyond the point of polite composure that he could not imagine how distressed he looked. “I’ve done my research and thought this through. I understand you think I’m being foolish, but—but could you give me a moment to explain myself?” When Phaeon gave a weak nod, he said, “Come here, please.”

Without thought, Phaeon obeyed, lifting his sword and approaching the prince to kneel before him, face pointed toward the floor. The prince dragged his chair toward him, leaning forward—coming close enough that Phaeon could’ve reached out and touched him. Close enough that, when the prince leaned forward and his long braid fell over his shoulder, Phaeon could smell the lightly floral scent of the oil in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” the prince whispered. “I don’t want to frighten you. Please look at me.”

Phaeon could not—but the prince’s soft hand cupped his jaw, lifted his chin so their faces were impossibly close. Those eyes were now more imploring than intense.

“Listen. I’ve thought about this for so many years, and the island presents my best option for escape. As soon as I swear my allegiance to Ezu-anvashe and commit to living on his land, according to his law, I belong to him. If the king were to send men to claim me—to attempt to take ownership of Anvashe’s possession, one of his precious few worshippers—he would retaliate. He’ll capsize ships to protect his land, his people. He always has.”

Phaeon swallowed hard. It was never easy to argue with the prince when he was so sincere, but he had little recourse. “Your ancestors conquered gods before.”

“One god,” the prince corrected him. “One god, whose domain was limited to the original Sehmeri territory—not the entire ocean. I am going to take refuge with Ezu-anvashe, and I’ll find my freedom there.”

“But if any of the people on the island who are hostile to the empire—and there are many, displaced by our imperial efforts, exiled by your father, forced to flee to continue practicing their cultist rituals or magic—”

The prince’s eyebrows shot up. “You know a lot more about the world than you’ve let on.”

“It’s my job to know your enemies.”

Though he looked thoroughly pleased by this, the prince shook his head. “They won’t find out.”

“What if they did? I’ve sworn to protect you, your highness—and in the interest of keeping you safe, I cannot allow you to run away to some lawless place to seek the mercy of a mad god.”

“So come with me.”

How difficult it was to suppress the first instinct to obey—to swear he would follow the prince and keep him safe no matter where he went.

“You can come with me,” the prince added when Phaeon said nothing, “or you can flee elsewhere, but you can’t stop me—and either way, you shouldn’t stay here. You’re a traitor now.” The prince straightened in his seat, averting his attention to the fireplace. “I haven’t just told you this because I trust you, but also because I don’t want to betray you. I knew you wouldn’t defy me—”

“Did you?” Phaeon murmured.

“Of course.” He looked back at Phaeon, his head tilting to one side. “I was certain you’d listen; I suspected you might even help me—but in telling you, I have sealed your fate. You will be the last person to see me before my disappearance. If they don’t kill you outright for letting me leave, they’ll torture you into confessing all that you’ve heard, and then they’ll kill you for withholding it.” The prince’s jaw tightened; his pale hands seized the loose fabric of his pants, clenching into fists. “You can refuse my request to join me. I’m not your prince anymore—or, if I am, it’s just for the night. But please, take my advice and run. If not with me, then anywhere else.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“I know.” A faint note of desperation crept into his voice and shone openly across his eyes when he said, “So tell me you’ll come.”

Phaeon’s breath caught in his chest. Never before had he felt so conflicted. Logic and emotion struggled within him; the instinctive loyalty instilled by years of service would not allow him to accept, but when the prince looked at him with such hope, it was impossible to imagine doing what his duty demanded.

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his defenses wane. How typical for the prince to cling so stubbornly to an idea that sounded good in theory, and carefully construct his arguments to dismiss all criticism. How utterly unsurprising that this boy, hidden behind lock and key with little company but his books and teachers, was so naive and yet so capable of arguing his position with ironclad confidence.

“Your father always said you were overeducated,” Phaeon murmured, partly to himself. “Now I see what he meant.”

The prince let out a startled laugh. “How can he complain when he chose my tutors?” he asked, flashing a slight, nervous smile. “He could’ve curated my books better.”

“Not with you bribing servants to raid the college’s library on your behalf.”

“I never bribed, I just asked,” the prince objected, as if his favor was not a reward in itself. “To the point, though—I notice you have not yet said no or run for help. Should I take this as acceptance of my offer? Will you come?”

“It’s… it’s a lot to consider,” Phaeon said, though he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. No amount of stalling would coerce the prince to abandon his grand plan—and he, himself, had already made his decision by staying. “You are asking me to choose between my sworn loyalties.”

“It would be wise to choose your country over me.”

“I know that, but I still can’t.”

“No?” Some of the tension melted from the prince’s body. “Well, I’ll tell you my plan, at least. I already stole some peasant’s clothes from the servant’s quarters and planned to cut my hair; maybe you could do that for me. We might consider cutting yours, too—if you decide to come, that is. Obviously, you won’t be marked as royal, but it might draw attention.” He reached out to tap one of Phaeon’s coiled red-brown curls; his touch was so gentle, so tentative, it made Phaeon hold his breath until his hand withdrew.

“Tonight,” the prince continued, “I’ve arranged a disturbance to draw the guards from their posts on the eastern side of the building, about an hour before dawn. The people responsible for that distraction don’t know who requested it, or why, by the way—just that they’ll receive their payment only if they succeed. I can slip out then; it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve snuck past the guard, so I’m not worried.”

“Tonight?” Phaeon echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes—I’m sorry. I really couldn’t risk telling you until the last minute. Do you have anything you need to take care of before we go?”

Of course, his answer was no; Phaeon’s highest priority was the prince, and even if he cared to say goodbye to his colleagues and mentors in the guard, he could not tell them where he was going or why. But his hand, out of habit, went to the iron hilt of his sword as he considered—and he ran his fingertip over the inlaid jewel shining from the pommel, remembering with a shock of disappointment that it was not his to take. “I can’t leave with a sword of the royal guard. I’ll have to exchange it for another from the armory.”

The prince nodded, but his brow knitted with uncertainty. “Phaeon, I know we’re talking about our plans, but—but you haven’t said yes yet. Would you tell me, for my sake?”

“Yes.”

Just saying the word filled him with relief and terror in equal measure; it brought his entire future into sharp clarity. No longer one of many guards serving a future king in this palace for the rest of his life, but the prince’s sole protector elsewhere—and an enemy of the state, besides, a traitor with no choice but to die or flee.

He said it again, stronger: “Yes. Of course. If I may be honest with you, your highness, I am still not convinced this is wise—but I’m sure it’s too late for me to change your mind, and I will not allow you to leave without me.”

“You have my eternal permission to be honest with me,” the prince said, half-smiling, “but my final order to you will be to never call me ‘your highness’ again. We’re equals now.” His eyes brimmed with such shining gratitude that Phaeon could hardly bear to hold them; it would take some time for him to accept the prince as an equal, as a vulnerable human like himself. “I’m sure you’d like to prepare, but could I have another minute of your time before you go?”

“Of course, Azarion.”

His eyes widened for a moment at hearing his own name, but he grinned before turning back to the vanity and searching through one of its drawers. Phaeon watched him, unguarded and shameless, trying to wrap his head around the reality that they were going to run away together—that he would see this angelic face up close, without a barrier, every day, and keep the prince all to himself. Was this, he wondered distantly, the selfish desire that made him stay?

The prince—Azarion—made a triumphant little noise and whirled back to face Phaeon, a thin pair of scissors dangling from one extended finger. “Will you think I’m childish if I ask you for this? Will you humor me anyway?”

“I’m sorry—what are you asking for?”

“Oh, do you not remember?” Azarion frowned, lowering the scissors. “When I was young—young enough that I could play with other children, I mean—we’d exchange locks of hair when we made promises.”

“Really?” Phaeon tried to mask his distaste at the faint whiff of magic in the ritual. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“Yes, really! I’m not sure if it’s true, but they say that’s how we used to make oaths, back when Sehmera had gods and magic. I’m not saying this is a spell, but—but it’s something sort of mystical, and it feels right, if we’re putting our fates in the hands of a god.” He glanced down at the scissors as he ran a finger along the parted blades. “And I don’t mean to imply I don’t trust you, but if we’re letting each other out of our sights…”

He trailed off—and, without waiting for Phaeon’s answer, pulled a perfect lock from the ribbon binding his braid and snipped off the tip. He extended it toward Phaeon, who gingerly accepted, holding the loose curl between two fingers. “What do I do with this?”

“Hold on to it for now—and give me some of yours, too. Maybe we’ll throw them into the ocean once we’re on the island.” He shrugged, holding out the scissors. “I don’t know if it matters; I think it’s the symbolism that’s important.”

Phaeon just stared for a moment, then tucked the prince’s hair into the pouch on his sword belt and accepted the scissors for himself. Absurd as it was, he kept his expression solemn as he cut off a coil of auburn hair from behind his ear, then dropped it into the prince’s expectant palm. Azarion wrapped his fingers gently around it and nodded, equally serious.

“Now you can go exchange your sword. Make sure nobody follows you—but of course, I don’t have to tell you that. Remember, our opportunity to escape will come an hour before dawn.” He glanced up at the enormous wooden clock on the mantel, frowning. “We have a few hours, I suppose—but return soon. We’ll need to disguise ourselves, and I need your help finding something valuable enough to bribe a sailor to drop us at Ezu.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Phaeon promised, and turned to leave.

Part of him had wondered whether some sort of spell would be broken along with their eye contact—if, when he wasn’t looking directly at the prince, the commitment to abandoning his life, his king, his country, might waver.

But he found his conviction growing stronger as he crossed the room and reality began to descend over him. The faint twinge of sadness that he would have to persist without his favorite sword was his only regret as he pushed out of the room, heading down the hall and sealing his own fate.

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b-a-pigeon · 1 year

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What From the Water Rises #2

Thank you all for your feedback on how to share these stories! For now the plan is to post external links & the full text under a read more in the same post. Let us know if you have any thoughts & feel free check out the intro post for context if you're new to WFTWR!

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He was revising his map of the shallow bay, collecting shells and dead coral in the shadow of the volcano he called the older brother, when he discovered the caves.

Cataloging every fold and fissure, every hill and valley of the island, had taken him years—and for years after, he thought he’d known it all. The island was the only place that existed, and all of it was his, and like him, it didn’t have a name—only a body, one he was intimately familiar with.

Finding the caves, then, was like discovering a new part of himself. When he spotted their entrance peaking above the uncharacteristically low tide, and took the opportunity to duck inside and see how extensive they were, excitement seized him like never before. It was strong enough to send tingles from the top of his head down to his fingers and toes; strong enough to erase the tiny kernel of bored agitation that had, as of late, begun prickling at the base of his skull; strong enough to make him stupid.

During that initial exploration, he forgot the tides, and almost drowned.

But the island saved him.

Afterwards, hazy with fever, he collapsed on a bedroll in the nearest drifthome and tried to decide if it had been a dream. He could remember slipping and hitting his head, feeling the ocean drag him into the darkness like a fist. That had definitely happened; the throbbing knot on the back of his head confirmed it. But waking up in a massive cave among a colony of seals, everything lit by an eerie green glow—the journey back, through black, frigid waters, to the bay—his escort, communicating without language, as he did, and in a way that felt so human—all of it was too strange to be real.

However he had survived didn’t matter, though. He was alive; he couldn’t squander that gift. And even as he lay there, delirious, the caves called for his return.

He swore then, giddy with newfound purpose, that he would know every part of them—even if it meant returning to the city.

Like the island, the city had a name he never bothered to remember. He didn’t like to visit it. He’d left ten years ago for a reason; it was the only part of the island that belonged to the other people just as much as it belonged to him.

As he stalked through the outskirts of the city, he focused as best he could on mapping any new additions, distracting himself from what he so disliked about the place. Even here, where the surrounding grasslands had yet to be swallowed by an ever-growing human footprint, the streets were too tightly packed, the buildings on their squat stilts crowded too close for his comfort.

Not even ducking down alleyways, circling the city’s perimeter to avoid the streets, provided an escape from the smells and the smoke and the noise—and he still had to keep his eye out for anyone else with the same idea. Usually, it was the kids who pestered him, more often than grown people; they always wanted him to join their games or their gangs.

But he wasn’t like them. He’d taken care of himself for too long to relate to them, and didn’t need friends, anyway. What could they give him that the island couldn’t?

Luckily, he made it to his old hideaway without encountering anyone. An empty attic space above a condemned house, it was out of sight of the streets, and the ventilation gaps caught the breeze nicely. When he clambered up the porch pole and crawled over to one of those gaps, poking his head inside, he was glad to find it occupied only by a handful of spiders.

He shimmied inside and ate a quick lunch, emptied everything from his bag but his waterskin into his gunny sack, and headed out to find the supplies he needed to properly explore the caves.

By the next morning, his sack was stuffed almost full. It had taken an afternoon of staking out workshops, creeping down narrow alleyways—scaling the outside of a building, fitting his fingers in the tiny ridges around trim or between wood panels, and peeking through the windows. Whenever he found one unoccupied, he’d swing inside to search for what he needed.

This time, he’d been lucky enough to find a trove of useful items. A roll of waterproof hide and thread and a few extra waterskins in one workshop; a sheaf of waxed reed paper in another; a collection of resealable clay jars reinforced with straw, fresh from firing; and an algae lantern, a real treasure left carelessly in the open while its owner smoked on the porch.

Stealing came easy to him. He’d seen some close calls, but it had been years since he was caught in the act.

And sure, he could have traded for most of those things. Could have spent a few weeks up on the older brother’s shoulders, collecting some of the rarer herbs and flowers coveted by wizards, and in turn by non-magical folk who always sought out items to exchange for spells. But he did not have the patience for it, with the caves calling—that, and people didn’t like to trade with him. He didn’t like to trade with people, either. They always expected him to speak.

What he was after that morning, though, he had to steal.

There was one problem with his plan that he’d worried at like teeth on a particularly tough piece of fish jerky, ever since his bout of fever in the drifthome. Parts of the sprawling cave system were totally underwater, tunnels so deep and long he certainly did not have the lung capacity to explore them; the route the seal had pulled him through on his surreal journey back to the surface had confirmed as much. If he wanted even a chance of getting through them, he needed some way to swim faster, farther.

What that solution might be, he didn’t know. A set of fins would help, but, he suspected, not be nearly enough.

Either way, he needed to stake out the divers’ guild.

The sun was barely up when he crawled out of his hideaway and set off across the city toward the water. He pilfered some breakfast on his way to the wharf, where the big ships anchored, then followed along the shore to the shallower waters where the divers and the smaller fisher fleets docked.

Drawing up to the guild’s headquarters in the thin morning light, though—the docks already empty, everyone out on the water—he started to doubt. Didn’t most of the divers work in the shallows, harvesting pearls and oysters and sponges?

He managed to maintain a careful optimism until he swung inside the unoccupied building. The second floor was mostly empty, a meeting room and a desk full of papers, and the majority of the first floor consisted of lockers that contained nothing but clothes and other uninteresting personal items. Beyond a curtain dividing the room was only a long, narrow bath. The pair of fins he dug out of one of the lockers, both worn with use and much too large, were as close as he got to finding anything useful.

Now what?

After scaling a porch pole to hide on top of the slanted roof, he sat with his face turned into the salty wind. Maybe he could wait until the divers returned near sundown and follow one home, go through their possessions while they slept; maybe he could sneak back into the guild before dawn to check all their supplies when no one was working.

But the thought of spending an extra day waiting around in the city made his stomach churn with anxiety—and the more he considered it, the more convinced he was that they wouldn’t have what he needed, anyway.

It was as he was about to abandon hope and return to his hideaway that he heard people approaching, and flattened himself against the porch roof, holding his breath.

“I try to avoid bartering with wizards, if I can help it,” a gruff voice said.

“Joolaan’s very fair,” a second voice said, lighter and softer than the first. The two were beneath him now, the wooden stairs creaking under their footsteps, but they didn’t go inside yet. One of them was smoking something; he could smell it, at once floral and bitter, almost overpowering. “I’ve traded with them before and never had a problem. It’s just a rumor, besides—and even if they are designing a breathing mask, there’s no guarantee we’ll have access to them.”

That caught his interest—but the other person below gave a disapproving snort at the notion. “If they’re making one, they can make more, can’t they?”

“Maybe, but I hear they’re working for Rasilos. I’m guessing he’s supplying the materials, so unless you have the resources to trade for those and a wizard’s labor both…”

They trailed off, and their partner only made another annoyed sound before stomping out the embers of whatever they were smoking. The door swung open and slammed shut behind them; their conversation continued inside, too muffled to decipher.

Now alone, he sat up and scrambled back down the porch pole and started toward the center of the city. The promise of a breathing mask, a magical tool that would allow him to explore the underwater portion of the caves without coming up for air, was too compelling to pass up. The problem, of course, was how to acquire one.

It seemed, from what he had overheard, that the masks were not yet available to the public. He could keep dropping by the city until they were, or sneak into the artificers’ workshop and try to find one—though stealing from a wizard could be dangerous, especially when he didn’t know what he was looking for or whether it was even finished yet.

Or he could cut out the guesswork, and ask the artificers themselves.

He shook his head, his entire body, to dispel the horrible, creeping sensation that rose up his spine at the mere idea. He hadn’t spoken in ten years, had never wanted to in the first place, and he didn’t want to now! Just the thought made his breathing erratic, his legs feel weak—

Unable to continue, he ducked out of the alley and into the cool, cramped shade beneath a house on particularly squat stilts. He pressed his hands to his face, pulled his knees to his chest.

What other option did he have, besides asking? Putting off his exploration hurt; staying in the city hurt; and more than anything, the notion of abandoning all hope, giving up on the caves and going back to the routines that had lately made him itch with boredom, hurt deeply enough to take his breath away. For so long, updating his maps had been his one true source of joy, but for reasons he didn’t understand, that joy had gone stale… until he found the caves.

No, there was no other way; he would be squandering the island’s gift if he didn’t try his hardest to map the caves. Exchanging one temporary pain to save himself from the pain of delaying or losing his purpose was an objectively good bargain. Regardless of the difficulty speaking presented, he would have to try.

The sun had reached its zenith before he found the strength to crawl back out into the alley.

He took the long way through the bustling streets to the artificers’ workshop, dawdling around the market, stealing scraps of food while he tried to talk courage into himself. Only a few words would be necessary, he reassured the part of him giving in to panic. Only two, really: ”breathe underwater.” The rest could be accomplished with gestures. Like most wizards, artificers were strange folk, but they were often smart, too; surely they would be able to decipher his meaning and tell him whether the mask truly existed. Maybe they would even show it to him. That would make stealing it a cinch.

Just a few simple words, and he could leave the city tonight. He could return to the bay—to the caves—and do the one thing that made him happy.

The sight of the steep street where the artificers had their workshop brought him up short, so sharply that he stumbled—but he forced himself to keep going. If he stopped now, he would never make it.

He ducked into the alleyway and crept over to the workshop. Turning sideways to fit into the gap between it and the neighboring building, he edged around to the porch; he wanted to get in and get out without having to deal with anyone or anything else. Silently, he scurried up one of the porchpoles and vaulted over the railing.

“Whoa! Where’d you come from?”

He skidded to a stop right in front of the door. His mind went completely blank. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Were you hiding back there? That’s fun. My dad tells me not to climb up the porch like that, since I’ll fall, but it’s not like I don’t fall on the stairs or in the street all the time already.”

He slowly tore his eyes from the door and turned to see a person, maybe close to his age, sprawled under an adjacent window. They wore a loose, sleeveless shift cinched with a braided green and blue belt at the waist, a pair of sandals laying abandoned on the porch beside their feet. Several lengths of thin rope trailed from their fingers, into their lap, and across their legs, coiling around a small pouch sitting by their hip.

“People are always rushing around like they’re on an errand for Anvashe, you know? Expecting me to get out of their way, and then getting mad when they run into me.” As they spoke, their fingers kept up their deft, spidery movements, knotting and twisting and sliding. “I bet you don’t have that problem back there, right? I bet you probably know all kinds of secret ways through the city.”

He recoiled a bit under the pressure of all their questions, their words piercing through his empty mind, sending reverbrations through his skull and radiating out through limbs. The remnants of his momentum pressed him to step inside the artificer’s shop, but he couldn’t remember what for, and the sensation of their face pointing in his direction snared him where he stood.

“Maybe you could show me how to get around!” Without stilling their hands, they sat up—and grabbed the pouch beside them with their toes, lifting it towards him. “I’d even give you this whole bag of nuts in exchange.”

He gripped the strap of his bag and cringed away, the buzzing in his head intensifying.

“Oh, wait—you’re here for a rune device aren’t you? What’re you getting?” They dropped the bag of nuts and folded their legs beneath them, not bothering to pause between any of their questions. “I like to hang out with my entiel while they work, especially on days when my dad is busy, but they kicked me out a little while ago for being too distracting. I don’t think that’s my problem, personally—I think they’re too easily distracted—but I don’t mind helping out. There’s more people to meet out here, anyway!”

He glanced at his assailant’s face, and as suspected, found it pointed right at him. They were smiling far too wide, a bouncy curl falling from the mop tied at the back of their head—but oddly enough, their gray-blue gaze was focused not on his face, but somewhere to the right.

Their mention of rune devices, plus the sliver of relief he felt over not being stared at, suddenly summoned his objective back from the void, broadcasting over the hum: Go inside. Ask about the breathing mask.

“You don’t say much, do you? That’s okay! And you can have some of my nuts, anyway, even if you don’t want to talk. Oh, but maybe not until you’re done inside—my entiel told me not to bother anyone who came by.” With a sheepish laugh, they gestured toward the door with their hands, fingers still dancing. “Sorry!”

He remembered what he needed to do, now. He even had an excuse to leave this awful interaction.

But that wasn’t enough to release him. Lifting his foot to go inside, he took a single step—and met an impenetrable wall. The buzzing in his head, in his chest, bounced off of it and doubled back on him—dissolving what remained of his resolve.

In three racing heartbeats, he spun around and jumped from the porch, barely catching himself before he fell face first to the ground.

Without hesitating, his breath coming in uneven gasps, he bolted back across the city to his hideaway. His pulse and his feet, slapping against packed earth, vied to see who could be faster. Over their race he heard the kid call after him, just once, telling him to wait, but nothing was going to stop him, least of all them, not when they’d ruined everything—

When he finally came to his hideaway, he paused at the foot of the porch stairs, his chest heaving. The evening tradewind buffeted past, funneling down from the other side of the island and through the valley separating the two brothers, bringing with it the smell of hot grass. Bits of hair had slipped from his bun. They tickled at his skin alongside drops of sweat; he roughly pushed them out of his face, then put a hand to his eyes. It felt like the weight of the dark water that had almost drowned him in the caves was back, pressing against his lungs.

He’d been so close, so painfully close, but that kid—! This was why he hated children, why he avoided them as much as possible!

Teeth gritted, he fell into a crouch. Now he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t ask about the mask. If he tried again tomorrow, he’d just think about their stupid grin and their strange eyes, think about how their badgering was all it took to break his courage and force his voice even deeper, a wave tugging it out of his reach the one time he really needed it.

With a similar swell of shame, he realized he was crying—and that anybody who walked by would be able to see him. Angrily wiping away his tears, he made his way up the porch pole and back into the attic, taking off his bag and curling around his sack of supplies. He wanted to be out of the city already, hated that he had to stay, and it was all their fault—

“Hellooo?”

His eyes popped open, his arms tightening around his sack. The voice had come from far too close. That, and—

The kid tumbled into his hideaway with a thump and a yelp, landing flat on the reed mat floor in front of him.

He stared at them, overcome with disbelief.

“There you are!” Beaming, they let out a breathless laugh and scrambled upright, though their face stayed pointed at the wall to his left. “I finally fell, but I think that went better than expected! You’re really fast. I would have lost you if you didn’t wait for me out there. Why’d you run, anyway? Didn’t you need to trade for a device?” They blinked a few times, as if they’d forgotten something, then turned their face toward him. Their eyes shifted as they did, staying fixed on the wall. There was a sort of film over them, he realized, only really visible from up close. “I’m Lahree, by the way—at least, I am sometimes. It’s good to meet you. What’s your name? You don’t have to tell me.”

All at once his anger came rushing back. The hideaway belonged to him, and they were the last person he wanted to know about it! He sat up, too fast, smacking his head against the slanted beams. Pain bloomed behind his eyes. Scooting as far away from them as he could get, he gestured for them to leave, throwing his hands toward them with as much vehemence as he could muster.

His emotion must have shown on his face, because they drew away a little. “Oh. Sorry,” they said, still giving him their strange sidelong look. “Do you want me to leave?”

He nodded so fast and hard the pain in his head increased.

Their bright expression faltered. “Okay. I’m sorry. I thought—” They sucked in a breath. “I’ll go, then—but um, I brought these for you. You can keep them.” They set down the pouch of nuts and backed away, over to clamber awkwardly through one of the ventilation gaps.

“I’ll see you around!” they called, and he listened to them swing down from the roof and land on the porch with a quiet exclamation.

Still holding in tears, his head throbbing, he wrapped his arms around his gunny sack and turned away from their unwanted gift.

The next morning, he gathered his supplies and trekked back across the grasslands and up into the forest that clung to the slopes of the older brother. The walk took several hours, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stand another moment in the city, didn’t trust the kid to leave him alone—half-expected them to show up before he left, follow him out to his main hideaway. They didn’t, though, and he spent the day puttering about the hollow carved into the side of a giant boulder that was his home, alone. Despite all his efforts, he couldn’t stop stewing over what they had done to him, despairing over what to do next.

By turns, his conviction to learn more about this supposed breathing device returned, then waned into hopelessness. If nothing else, he would try to learn what he could about holding his breath from watching the divers… but maybe, just maybe, they would eventually come into their own set of masks, and he could take the first opportunity to steal one. After what had happened, staking out the artificer’s workshop felt impossible.

Regardless of what he chose to do, though, he had to go back to the city. He spent one more day moping, then resolved to return.

The morning dawned bright and windy, wisps of cloud tracking across the sky. He followed a different route down the volcano and across the grass; he wasn’t planning on going to his hideaway. Instead, he took his time tracing the outskirts of the city to the water, and caught himself a meal on a quiet beach while he waited for the sun to dip down. Salty fish stink prickled at his nose, buffeted his clothes. The day passed painfully slowly, and yet it was time to head into the city before he knew it.

When he arrived, the divers were already at the nearest dock, unloading their boats. He’d planned to get there before their return and stake out a good place to eavesdrop—too late, now. A palm stood near the water, hanging over the dock about halfway down, past the crowd of fisherfolk gathered at the land end. He scaled it, and sat waiting in its crown for the divers to pass.

It wasn’t long until they finished, hoisting their baskets and sauntering over the planks toward shore. He slipped silently down from his perch and trailed after them, hoping to overhear something useful on their way back to the guild—but the crowd in front of the dock caught hold of them.

He drew up short. He hated crowds—did not have it in him to brave one after his last experience with other people.

The diver in the lead—a tall, sinewy person with broad, tanned shoulders, looking powerful in their loincloth and headband—set down their basket and turned to their fellows. “Lahree’s here!” they called with a smile.

He felt his eyes widen, his fists curl. He lurched forward despite himself, jumping down to the sand and skirting around to get a closer look at the clump of fisherfolk. It couldn’t be—

But then he heard the kid’s voice, floating above the crowd. “I’m Elorus right now, actually! How was the ocean today? Did you make a good catch? I have some nets for you and Torion.”

Nets. Of course—that was what they’d been weaving on the artificers’ porch. Overcome with a sick, agitated sort of curiosity, he edged closer.

A few of the fisherfolk shuffled around, making space for the divers to join, the crowd growing thinner as it widened. A stunted old fisher near the center straightened, and revealed Lahree—or Elorus, or whoever they were—sitting on the ground, piles of carefully coiled nets surrounding them, their face turned towards the sky.

The first diver strode up and knelt beside them. “The ocean was kind to us today; we made a good haul.”

Elorus smiled. “I’m glad Anvashe was beside you. This one’s yours, Asil,” they said, laying their hand on a single coil. Asil rubbed the delicate-looking rope between their fingers, then spread a length out with their arms, revealing a section of net as tightly woven as a spider’s web. “Beautiful work as always, Elorus.”

Bodies pressed around him, too close for comfort, but he kept cautiously moving deeper, toward the kid.

Another diver slung an arm over Asil’s shoulder. “Anything interesting to share with us before we get down to business?”

The stunted fisher standing beside them chuckled. “They were just telling us about some new device their entiel is working on.”

“Oh, yes! You all will love this one especially. In fact, Joolaan wanted to ask whether any of you would want to test it out; they always like feedback. Some councilor asked them to develop it to explore the deeper wrecks, out past the reefs. It’s a kind of mask, you see”—they mimed fitting something over their mouth, then tying it behind their head—“and it helps you breathe underwater.”

He gasped, his eyes going wide. The beach, the dock, the crowd, everything around him disappeared as he focused on Lahree, their words replaying loudly in his mind.

So they were real—real, and accessible, and ready! A rush of relief, of joy, swelled up in him, his scalp tingling—

“Oh, it’s you!”

He snapped back to reality to find Elorus, standing, grinning in his direction with their sidelong gaze upon him. “Is that what you needed from Joolaan? A breathing mask?” They started toward him, and he realized with a jolt that everyone, all the divers and the fisherfolk, were looking at him. “Did you lose something in the water?”

For an instant, he couldn’t move, his mouth working uselessly.

Then he turned and ran.

Elorus called after him again, but they didn’t follow him this time. He cursed them for all the trouble they’d caused him, but he laughed as he did, not caring even a little, his body light as ocean foam all the way back to his hideaway.

Late that night, he returned to the artificers’ workshop. The moon was bright, the skies cloudless, as if the whole world had somehow conspired to help him. He spent a few minutes waiting silently on the porch, ear to the front windows to confirm what the lack of lanterns already told him—nobody was there.

Satisfied, fingers and toes beginning to tickle with anticipation, he pushed the window further open to climb inside. As soundlessly as he could, he hoisted himself up and lowered himself to the reed mat floor. He looked around for a second, listening hard for any movement, then lit the algae lantern he’d stolen and began to creep around the space.

The artificers’ workshop consisted of one wide open room, but it was crowded with storage cabinets and work tables; he swung his lantern around, scanning over the piles of supplies and debris on the tables in search of anything promising. It didn’t take him long to find something worth investigating, sitting in the middle of a pile of silver tools: an oddly shaped porcelain cup lined with a series of thin straps.

The mask. It had to be.

He padded over to it, barely suppressing his excitement. There was nothing he wanted more than to study it, strap it to his face right then and there—but it would be foolish to spend more time than necessary here. So he hooked the lantern over his wrist, opened his bag, gingerly lifted one of the sealskin straps—

“I wouldn’t take that, if I were you.”

He dropped the mask to the table and whirled around.

Across the room, a person lifted their head from a small desk pushed into a shadowed corner. Brushing their sandy, chin-length hair out of their face, they squinted over at him. “It’s not finished yet.”

Getting caught was so unexpected that he couldn’t react—could only watch, frozen in place, as the artificer rose from the desk chair, rubbing sleep from their eyes. They ambled across the room, and only when they were almost within reach could he move again, skittering over to a window.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.” They gave a sleepy chuckle. “I’m not here to guard the place—I just fell asleep working—so I’m not going to challenge you to a duel or anything like that.” Moving to the table between them, they twisted on a lantern, bathing the space in a warm glow much brighter than the dim, pale illumination of his algae lantern. “That’s my design, actually. I’m Joolaan.”

He could only offer a stiff nod in reply.

“You couldn’t have done much with this, anyway. The parts aren’t really worth anything in trade on their own and, well…” They picked up the mask and hooked a finger through a large, perfectly round hole in the ceramic. “It’s not exactly ready to function as intended.”

He relaxed a little, lowering his hand from the window catch. Curiosity urged him to step forward and get a closer look, but he remained where he was.

“My plan so far is to add a tempered bulb here, behind a plate of glass etched with runes. There’s another hole on the side for depleted air to escape—and I’m still experimenting with the best material to cover it. There aren’t a lot of options that are permeable, but sturdy enough that they won’t need to be regularly replaced.” Through their light hair, they gave a small smile. “Working with Councilor Rasilos leaves something to be desired, but it was a good design. Fun.”

When he didn’t respond, Joolaan’s smile faded, and they just squinted at him for a long, quiet moment. He extinguished his algae lantern and clutched his bag closer, averting his eyes.

“You’re the kid Lahree met, right? They told me you might be interested in one of these.” Dropping him mercifully from their gaze, Joolaan reached down and pulled open a drawer. They fished out a key that glinted in the lamplight and brought it over to a cabinet near their desk. “They also said you’ve been squatting in an attic. Is that true?”

He heard a soft click, and Joolaan pulled one of the cabinet doors open, grabbing something from inside.

When they came back to the table, they held another mask cupped in their hands—only this one looked complete.

“I’m assuming, based on that and the fact that you broke in, that you have nothing to trade for this.” They peered over at him through their hair. “Is there a reason you didn’t just ask? You heard Lahree offer them up for testing, didn’t you?”

He stared at Joolaan, shoulders rigid, hyperaware of what they held. If only he could think of what to say, force the words out—he screamed at himself to speak, but that scream was the only thing in his mind, all his words forgotten, his jaw wired shut.

Joolaan pulled out another chair and plopped into it, rubbing at their forehead. “They said you didn’t talk much, either.” They sighed, lips pressing into a frown, and looked him up and down, sitting for another silent moment.

“Listen,” they said finally. “I will give this to you, but only if you agree to two conditions. Understand?”

He gave a slow, spare nod.

“Good. Condition one: you must return it when you’re done. Sound fair?”

His nod came easier this time.

“Condition two: when you bring it back to me, you need to tell me what you used it for.” Seeing the stricken look that crossed his face, they quickly added, “You don’t have to talk; you can write it down. Or if you’re foraging for something, searching for something you lost, just bring it with you and show it to me.” Joolaan searched his face, and he was too struck by what was happening to cringe away from the intensity of their gaze. “What do you say? Deal?”

Breathless, eyes round, he nodded.

“All right. Here you go.” With that, Joolaan handed him the mask.

He stared down at it in disbelief while the artificer stood, stretching. The leather straps were so soft under his fingers, the rubber seal on the glass so smooth.

“Well, I’m awake now, so I suppose I’ll go ahead and finish this one.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Joolaan push their hair back over their forehead and strap on a pair of goggles; he barely registered what they were doing, too overcome with awe. “Don’t worry about leaving through the window,” they said, without looking up from their work. “You can just use the front door.”

Though he didn’t want to stop studying it, he slipped the mask—with great caution, like he was holding something holy—into his bag, before they could change their mind.

He was across the room, about to push out the door, when they turned back to him from their chair. “By the way—you got a name, kid? I told Lahree I’d ask if you showed up.”

He started left without a reply—because he didn’t, and he wouldn’t answer even if he did.

But for the first time in years, he had a purpose again.

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