Private Tales Old Habits

Violence had a way of finding Nathaira.

“Scaleborn,” they had called her, after beating her mother to death. As they carted her to the deepest catacombs beneath Vel Anir. While they trained her by whip and hook to become even less than half human.

It had found her in Samskaya on her dream quest, almost killing her as she wrenched free of her rune’s control. It had followed her home, to the ones she could now call family, when Rumer murdered their captor and Kasimir sacrificed himself to save her. Nathaira had almost killed Kasimir to protect him from his own rune, and in doing so nearly lost him his shadowy companions.

For the first few months, Nathaira had been wary. Their new life was fragile, and she was convinced it would fall apart at any moment. Yet they made it through winter.

When spring came, she was certain Anirian hooves would beat the newly thawed roads to find them, that someone would have reported the monsters in their midst, taken a reward to feed their families for years… but none came.

After almost a year, Nathaira finally allowed herself to accept, if not fully trust, their safety. Vel Anir had changed, so she’d heard, and had seemingly no interest in reclaiming “lost property.” They could be truly free, if they chose.

Now Nathaira cursed herself for thinking she could outrun violence forever. She cursed herself for finally feeling secure enough not to strap a dagger to her thigh at all times. She clenched her flexible jaw and scowled beside Kasimir, seated on cramped pews in the dim, dusty village chapel.

In fleeing Vel Anir’s sphere of influence, they had sacrificed its stability. Out here anyone with enough gold could fund a small army, and two such self-proclaimed lords had done just that. Their conflict had avoided the village thus far, but armies grew hungry, and boots needed filling. So it came to be that one such company had been marching north, consuming towns and settlements alike. Their small, quiet hamlet was directly along their path.

Thomas Greenwater, the closest thing to a community leader by virtue of owning most the fields and livestock, had delivered the news from the pulpit and was having a great deal of trouble controlling the ensuing chaos.

“I will not risk my family’s lives. Come sunrise, we are packing up and going as far away as possible.”

“We’ll be safer on the road together, we should form a caravan.”

“You won’t outrun their army. The only choice is to surrender peacefully and hope they will be merciful.”

“I heard they burnt Merrymire to the ground! Razed it with the people and livestock.”

“Those is rumors, those is. Armies need soldiers, food. Make ourselves useful to ‘em.”

“I’ll be dead before I give up my land!”

Thomas held up his hands for order, but none would come. Nathaira remained silent, grinding her sharp teeth even harder.

Kasimir's hand did not console her as much as he might have hoped. It helped to bring her thoughts back to the here and now and away from shadows past, but the here and now was still noisy and panicked. Her tongue flicked out of her mouth twice in quick succession. This whole room reeked of sweat and fear, and she hated the sweetness it left in her mouth.

Monsters do not change.

She hissed beneath her breath at the intrusive thought and turned to Kasimir. He was so... calm. It wasn't his practiced mask of indifference, Nathaira had learned the difference. No, he was actually unbothered. All will be well? How?

"Thesse people are not ssoldierss," she retorted. "They will be sslaughtered." They had both seen what happened when the common man rose against an armored hand. Good intentions did not guide blades. She took another look around the room where half the people were arguing, the other half holding their families close.

She sighed, sending a few braids slipped over her shoulder at the motion. She hadn't covered her head, hadn't done so in several months. The people here were kind and didn't recoil from her appearance. They didn't snicker at her lisp or comment on the copious amounts of furs she wore when days were cold. They had offered her a grace she did not deserve. And now they would suffer.

She rested her own hand atop Kasimir's and laced her fingers with his. "They do not know our passt." She swallowed. "They will assk how we know what we know."

Kasimir was right, of course, he was annoyingly consistent in that. Their newfound friends were not fools, they were simply too kind to let their curiosity get the better of them. Even kind people had limits, though, and Nathaira would not fault them if they withdrew that kindness after learning the truth.

She had done terrible things. They both had. Yes, they had been under the yoke of Vel Anir and near-unbreakable magic shackles, but Nathaira did not grant herself these excuses. She had rarely been given an order more specific than to kill a target. It had been her choice to kill others along the way. It had been her choice to torture, extort, and terrorize. And she had enjoyed it. She did not deserve kindness.

Perhaps not even Kasimir, as steady and warm as he was, did not deserve kindness either. But Rumer did. Nathaira would not let Rumer’s second chance be taken.

Her brooding took her to the end of the village meeting, and they followed the throng out into the night. She watched the crowd thin out, viper pupils dilated wide against the dim. Her lip curled as the small recesses along its upper edge traced their fading heat. To her right, the unmistakable brilliance of Kasimir’s constant warmth blinded her.

”We cannot fight a whole army for them.” She finally answered to Kasimir’s statement, and her tongue flickered in and out in agitation. ”Even if we teach them, many will die.” Her jaw twitched, and every part of her felt sick for what she was about to suggest. She pointed her amber eyes directly at Kasimir. ”Or… we could do what we do. Remove the leadership. Destabilize the army before it arrives.” No one would need to know it was them, no one here would have to die.

If they acted quickly enough, the army might fall apart before reaching the village. She hoped it would, a roving band of desperate mercenaries was not much better than a fed army.

Nathaira allowed herself to be shuffled to the darkened wood's edge. The night air was cooling, and Kasimir's hand was blessedly warm. It would be difficult to argue with him when she couldn't help but lean against him, and his voice was so damned... calming all the time. She sucked her fangs in a nervous tic as he spoke. Her whole body wanted to squirm away at the notion of teaching these people how to fight and kill, not because of some moral quandary, but because she was so much better at killing humans than conversing with them.

"How do you ssuggest we do that?" She was so close that her tongue tickled Kasimir's collar. "Hello, we are the strange half-breeds from the woods that you welcomed into your homess, and by the way we've been able to kill all of you thiss whole time?"

She was not used to acceptance, nor was she keen on losing it once gained. She had almost made a friend, even, a plump older woman named Greta who traded her herbs and greens for the rabbits she caught, and who taught her new braids for her hair every so often. Was she now to teach her how to hold a knife?

She sighed, sucking in the cool night air and hissing it back out. "You'll need to make a lot of armor."

Nathaira literally watched Kasimir's temperature rise. Despite its lovely warmth, she diminished slightly from it. Kasimir was so scarcely vexed that Nathaira had, perhaps, forgotten to consider it a possibility. Though she did not apologize (she was still too miffed for that) her face did soften around the edges.

She didn't speak right away. If she did, something snarky or cruel may come out. That is what snakes did, after all, when cornered: lash out. People should not ask questions when their lives are saved, and they shouldn't go looking for problems when they have been spared them. But that is what people did. At least one villager would dig where they should not, and if they discovered the truth...

She swallowed. The people would be far less forgiving to killers discovered hiding in their midst than they would be to those offering their knowledge openly. Fuck it all... Kasimir was right.

She took a breath, and then another, letting the cool night air slow her thoughts and her heartbeat. Assassins or instructors? Both were terrible beneath Vel Anir, and Nathaira had been cruel in both roles. Rumer could forgive as many times as she pleased, Nat knew she did not deserve it. Still, maybe she could be better this time.

She leaned her head on "husband's" chest. "Can we talk about it tomorrow?"