Private Tales Between Flames and Shadows

[Petra Darthinian]

Rider and dragon, bound by a shared sense of purpose and a thirst for liberation, were out flying during their nightly ritual that had become their sanctuary. In the silent depths of the forest surrounding the Monastery, they took flight, their wings slicing through the velvety darkness. Here, amidst the hallowed whispers of ancient trees, they found solace from earthly constraints and the weight of their knightly duties. It was in these nocturnal sojourns that Petra and Norvyk truly felt alive.

Tonight, as they soared through the boundless expanse above, the heavens revealed their splendor. A tapestry of stars, like precious gems scattered across an ebony canvas, beckoned them into their cosmic embrace. The moon, a pale sliver of ethereal light, chose to shy away, allowing darkness to reign supreme. It was in this absence of lunar illumination that their bond seemed to shine the brightest, their connection untethered from mortal confines.

It was in these moments, in her shared solitude of the night, that thoughts tumbled and swirled within her, sometimes settling on matters she had long tried to push aside. Among those thoughts, a name lingered—Faramund—a friend, a sparring partner, and lately, a presence that seemed to stir something deeper within her.

But Petra was a creature of resilience, shaped by years of self-imposed detachment. She had become proficient in maintaining boundaries, keeping emotions neatly compartmentalized. The notion of Faramund as anything more than a trusted comrade was met with resistance, a wariness that protected the fragile equilibrium she had constructed around her heart.

Yet, the echoes of sparring reverberated through her mind, each strike and parry etched into her memory. The clash of wooden blades and the thud of impact had stirred emotions within her, revealing vulnerabilities she had long sought to conceal. The scars of their physical encounter paralleled the rawness that they had surfaced in their shared vulnerability.

And then, there was the memory of the grand diplomatic ball, where their roles as knights were momentarily eclipsed by the enchantment of the dance floor. Petra recalled the swells of music, the gentle pressure of Faramund's hand on her waist as they twirled in perfect synchrony. In those fleeting moments, the weight of duty and expectation had momentarily lifted, replaced by the simple joy of movement and connection.

As the wind whispered through Norvyk's scales, the dragon's voice resounded in Petra's mind, a melodious echo of ancient wisdom. "Thoughts weave like starlight, Little Lark. The dance of memory and contemplation guides us through the tapestry of our lives."

Petra threw her head back and laughed, "What the fuck does that even mean?!" Her voice carrying both fondness and ridicule.

If one had never heard the strange experience that was a dragon's laughter. They would find themselves perplexed by a whirlwind of resonant harmonies and vicious snarls from within a mighty chest. It echoed with the melody of ancient riddles and the mischievous spark of a being that knew too much and gave away little.

And so, amidst the constellations that bore witness to their celestial flight, Petra and Norvyk continued their nocturnal vigil, making a final round towards the ranges of the Monastery, their laughter and shared conversations whipped away and lost to any comprehension by the wind that danced with them.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

The Doppler sat alone amongst the trees, its gaze empty as it watched the fire Faramund had built slowly burn down. A creature of the Everwatcher, it did not dwell on the simplicities of the scout's life. It thought on how to warp and lie and deceive as it had always done, and always would. It did not take much notice of the dark shadow in the sky. It had been circling for quite some time now; the storm dragon was no cause for concern.

Nor, the Doppler knew, was its rider.

The guise of Faramund had been a successful one, and had won the Doppler many a friend amongst the enemy. The Knights of Anathaeum. The Order of the Eldyr Tree some called them. A nuisance, others. The Doppler did not care either way. Its will was its own, and its will was its Master's will. Faramund, or the idea of him, was just another lie the Doppler had woven to see his goals to fruition.

It had many of them, but none were as important as the total destruction of the Order of Anathaeum. They had been a thorn in his master's side for what seemed a millennia now. The Doppler had only existed for the past five years. Enough time for it to adapt to the magnitude of its undertaking. Fortunately, it -or rather "he"- had made good headway these last few months. He had gained the trust and friendship of many an important knight. To some, those two things were the same.

Yet, the Doppler could not shake the feeling some among the Order still doubted his intentions. Rightly, of course, but that was not something it would tell them. No, come Hell or high water, the Doppler would take Master's secrets to the grave, or to whichever end it had earnt for itself after all this time.

Feeding a log to the fire, the Doppler rubbed its hands together in much the same way Faramund would have. For all its skills and hidden power, the Doppler still felt the need for warmth. One of the downsides of adopting a human body was that it-

There was a rush of wind. Faramund's eyes widened as something flew by overhead. He hadn't realised it, but he had drifted off for a moment there. A stupid mistake, one that could have gotten him killed. Pulling his sabre into his lap, the knight of dawn stood as the blur came around for another run. Confusion and hesitation kept him from drawing his sword.

A wave of familiarity soon followed, and the knight smiled as he recognised Norvyk and the woman straddling his back.

'Nice night,' he greeted Petra, sitting back down on the tree stump he had taken for a chair. 'Hope you haven't come here with the hopes of stealing my food, 'cause I haven't got any.' Reaching down between his legs, Fara held up a wineskin invitingly, gave it a shake. 'There's a drop or two left if you want some. Never known you to say no to free drink.' He had "borrowed" the wine from a distillery up in Marble Falls. Hopefully the folks in charge up there wouldn't think poorly of him for taking some.

'Sit down, why don't you! I won't bite... not unless you want me to?'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Before the fire's warmth enveloped them, Norvyk stirred restlessly beside her the moment she dismounted, pulled by a primal call into the night. Petra gently caressed his great scaled neck, her touch carrying a silent understanding between them. For while he ventured into the dark in search of prey, Petra would be on a hunt for something different. Something she hoped that would prove more substantial.

With a rumble of anticipation, her dragon unfurled his emerald-scaled wings and took flight, his powerful wings slicing through the cool night air, Petra's gaze lingering on his departing shadow, a wistful expression passing across her face.

Silently, she accepted the wineskin from Faramund, the warm leather smooth against her fingertips. Taking a healthy sip, she relished the rich taste of the borrowed wine enveloping her senses, mingling with the smoky air before she settled down across the fire from him. Its hypnotic flames spitting embers and dancing where it illuminated them with soft light.

Turning her attention back to the big dawnling, Petra found herself momentarily captivated by the interplay of flames and shadow upon his enigmatic features. The smoky tendrils weaving intricate patterns ever upwards, highlighting the shallow scars on her own face, the glint of emerald scales that dusted her right brow, and the reflection of the light in her gold cat eyes, where they stirred in quiet intensity. How in this light, she seemed every bit the elf that was her ancestry. Just this side of civilized, and with an eye, always turned to the wild and the strange. A hungry gaze for the freedoms to be found there.

A subtle smile played at the corners of her lips as she took another sip from the wineskin, the taste lingering on her tongue. The wine, like a sacred elixir, carrying the power to unlock the vaults of hidden tales and unspoken truths. At that moment, it became more than a simple beverage; it became a conduit for connection, a metaphorical bridge between kindred spirits.

Finally, her voice, velvety and inviting, floated through the hushed air. "They say wine has a way of unearthing secrets, of coaxing them from even the most guarded hearts." A pause. "Shall we test that theory?" She smiled this time. "We can start small." Resecuring the cap, she tossed back the wineskin. "Like, say, what mischief you were up to out here?"

Her simple question hung in the air, carried by the tantalizing scent of the wine and the crackling energy of the fire. But her playful demeanor held a deeper meaning, a subtle invitation for Faramund to step beyond the boundaries of casual banter and delve into the realms of genuine connection.

The fire whispered its agreement, its emberic symphony a chorus of anticipation.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

The shadowy dawnling caught the wineskin, returned it to the ground by his feet. 'Nothing you need worry about,' he replied, looking to where Petra's dragon stirred in the moonlit darkness. Norvyk had never really struck him as the restless type, but Faramund supposed he had every right to be. The skies were his domain, after all, and on a night as clear as this, well, it made sense to stretch one's wings.

Bonded as they were, Petra likely felt the same way, the same... pull.

And yet here we are. Staring across the campfire, Faramund relented with a sigh. 'I've been making the rounds,' he told her, surrendering his seat so that she wouldn't have to dirty herself. 'The elders in these parts look to our Order for protection. Stubborn old goats, the lot of 'em! But... I must say, I have yet to meet one willing to bow his head to those who claim dominion over these lands.' He smiled at Petra, bade her welcome as Norvyk rose once more into the night. 'They do, however, know how to receive a friend. Sit!'

Feeding another branch to the flames, Faramund made himself comfortable as the elf did the same. Though he had not expected any company, he was more than happy to make room for those he called friend. More so when they were easy on the eyes. 'Did intend to finish the last leg of my journey today, but time seems to have gotten away from me.'

He shrugged guiltily. It wasn't every day a man of his experience made such rookie errors. Faramund wondered how many mistakes of his had gone unnoticed over the years, then, thought better of it. To follow the path of doubt was a mistake in and of itself, and Fara believed himself a bit long in the tooth to make it.

'And what of you, friend Petra? Can a lowly Sworn like me coax a secret or two from his companion's guarded heart, or is that too much to ask?' Faramund grinned. Whether or not she chose to answer him remained to be seen, but he would not press her if she withheld her... secrets. Everyone had some.

Even him.

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

The songweaver accepted his casual chivalry without much complaint other than a withering glare that held no real ire.

Snatching a branch on her way to her seat, she sat with one knee folded against her chest, intent on whittling away at the wood with the opal-laden dagger she kept strapped to her thigh. It had been a gift from a close friend long ago. Something that could have been more, if everything hadn't fallen apart.

No. That wasn't entirely true. More like, if she hadn't mercilessly torn it all asunder in her desperation to escape herself. Her knife slipped, catching what would have been the fleshy part of her thumb, if not for the scales that took the blade without complaint. No blemish to be seen as she recovered with a swallow.

Those memories played a little too loudly in her head these last few months, and yet still she was caught by them unaware if she wasn't careful. Distractions like that could prove to be dangerous in her line of work.

The evidence of such watched her with interest from behind a wall of sparks.

In a bid to escape her thoughts, she adopted a grin. More tooth than smile. A bite to her voice, "That entirely depends on the kinds of secrets you're prepared to bear. Are you looking for something as simple as the fact that I am more like my father than my mother ever could stomach. Or were you looking for a more fun variety of the sins I've collected in the past century?"

 

[Faramund]

Petra was distracted. Faramund could see it in her eyes, the way she looked but didn't see. The fidgeting was another sign something wasn't quite right. But pretending everything was fine was a skill they both shared. 'Both,' he said, answering her venom with a small shrug. 'Neither. Whatever you feel's worth hearing. Worth... sharing.' It was easily said, that. Alas, people like Petra, well, they weren't quick to share their burdens, even with those they held near and dear.

Faramund struggled just the same.

'Sins, silence or scenes with your family. Anything would be enough for me.' We all have a cross to bear, the big dawnling thought, his scarred face a mask of flame and shadow. Sometimes you learnt to live with the weight, and sometimes it crushed you. Faramund had known more than a few people who had succumbed to wounds of the soul. The years had mended most of his, but not all.

It seemed Petra was going through something similar, though, were they ever really the same?

'Tell me about your sister,' he prompted the she-elf, 'Nihkita, was it? A fine name, and a fine swordswoman from what I hear,' Faramund smiled slyly. 'What was she like?' Meeting Petra's eye, the knight waited patiently for a reply. He would not rush her. Come sunshine or snow, he would never force a friend to do something he didn't have the guts to do himself. Like facing a painful memory in the hopes of finally putting it to rest.

Aye, that too.

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

She flinched. Another slip of her knife, this time grazing a scale along her finger.

What was she like...?

How did one even answer that question? How could she possibly take a lifetime of memories and condense them into any sort of description that encompassed the paragon that was her sister?

Those same memories flooded back, fragmentary but vivid, like rays of sunlight breaking through a dense canopy of trees.

A flicker of childhood laughter echoed in her mind, the sound of their innocent mirth as they played in the fields, chasing fireflies beneath a starlit sky. Nihkita's infectious giggles, like the tinkling of wind chimes. How they shared secret adventures, whispering plans and dreams in the darkness of their shared room, forging a bond that they promised could weather anything.

And then there were the nights when Nihkita couldn't sleep, her eyes wide with wonder as she begged Petra to recount tales of heroes and mythical creatures from the books Petra devoured. How they would huddle under a blanket, their breath creating a small cocoon of warmth, as Petra spun tales of courage and magic and transporting them to distant lands. Lands where they were brave, where their unspoken sisterly devotion to the other triumphed all at the end of her stories.

But Nihkita's story hadn't ended like that. If anything, it had been a tragedy written by a masochistic poet.

Petra felt herself on the edge of a knife. She could feel how close she was to telling him. How much she wanted this guilt to find any semblance of relief.

Her whittling had fallen to a slow halt in her lap, not realizing her fingers were tracing the shallow scars on her face, a reminder of the battles fought and the bond she still carried for the both of them.

Taking a steadying breath, she flicked her gaze back to Faramund, her eyes full of storms and vulnerability.

"First, tell me why do you care so much?"

 

[Faramund]

Why do I care so much? The question made Faramund smile. 'Why? Think I harbour some sort of ulterior motive?' Grinning now, the dawnling did his best to stifle a laugh. He did not wish to be cruel, but her refusal to simply answer the question left him at odds with himself. Did the trust they had built up mean nothing to her? Did he? Or was this just a mistake on his part?

If so, it wouldn't have been the first.

'Why do you care about Norvyk?' Faramund asked after a time spent battling his inner thoughts. He had been doing that a lot lately. Most of the time... they won. 'Because you and he are bonded, that's why.' Faramund held up his hand to forestall any protest, or interruption. 'I know there's more to your bond than meets the eye, but that's the gist of it, yes? You fight together, fly together, even live together. If not in body, then up here!' Fara tapped his temple to show her what he meant.

'I cannot claim to know you as well as he does, but I like to think we are bonded too,' the knight went on, 'by battle, yes, and bloodshed and, I s'pose, in some small measure, grief.' Looking away, Fara shrugged, let his gaze fall to the flames that separated them. The dancing firelight made dark pits of his eyes. Windows to the soul, right? Crossing his arms against his chest, the dawnling paused only long enough to find the words he felt needed saying.

Alas, he lacked the bravery to say them.

'Let's see, why else do I care?' He pondered out loud. 'Is it because you make me laugh? Perhaps. Could it be because you're beautiful? Maybe. Or perhaps it's simply the fact that whenever I see you, I can't help but feel relieved that you're still here, among the living, and not...' Faramund broke off. Nodding to himself, as if thinking something over, the big dawnling blinked the woodsmoke from his eyes. 'So many questions,' he smiled as he raised his gaze to meet Petra's. 'Will you answer mine?'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra's hand trembled, the knife momentarily forgotten as she braced herself for what lay ahead. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes, immersing herself in the hushed stillness of the night. The crackling fire became her anchor, its warmth wrapping around her like a protective cloak.

Inhaling slowly, Petra felt a surge of power welling up from deep within her, intertwining with her breath. As she exhaled, the flames responded, their radiant tongues pulsating in rhythm with her exhale, as if they were the very essence of her being. They cast a mesmerizing glow that bathed them in an otherworldly light. It flickered and swayed, mirroring the ebb and flow of her breath. Their breath now.

Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a gaze filled with intense focus. The fire now transformed into a gateway, an ethereal fiery mirror shimmering with memories.

Within the heart of the inferno, a vivid tableau emerged—a haunting montage of shadow and light. The fire's tendrils morphed into wisps of smoke, delicately intertwining to form the essence of the past. It was as if the flames themselves had become the storytellers, whispering secrets long kept.

The air crackled with anticipation as the fiery canvas unveiled the scene—a snapshot of a fateful day etched forever in Petra's soul. The fire captured the raw intensity of the moment, its heat mirroring the searing pain she had felt.

Petra's voice broke the silence, her words laced with both anguish and determination to show him this piece of herself. "Before I tell you what she was like, I need to show you how she died," she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath.

With each flicker and dance of the flames, the memory came to life. The fire became a window into the past, casting its illuminating light upon a vivid canvas of emotions, actions, and consequences.

In this transcendent space, Faramund would bear witness to the story woven within the flames, a glimpse into the tragic chain of events that had forever altered Petra's life.

***************************************************

It had been an ambush.

The bandits had fallen upon their town of Erendale in the night. Burning their houses and pillaging whatever they pleased. Striking down the innocent townsfolk and battling the mustered town guard from their beds.

The screaming of dying men and the clangs of shields and swords awoke Petra and her younger sister, Nihkita. Their mother had been gone visiting friends and collecting rare herbs for the town apothecary she worked at. While, their father had roused from his usual drunken stupor, and as the retired captain of the guard, he had donned his old armor and taken up his blade to defend the town. Before he left he demanded his daughters flee, flee on the backs of their horses behind the house. And then he took up his sword and was gone into the night.

Except in the moments before they fled. Nihkita insisted that they go and help their father. He had taught them how to fight, and they were no longer children. They had every right to fight against the bandits that thought their town to be an easy victim.

So they too had taken up arms and fought into the night, slashing through the bared teeth of men that would take from them. Murder the ones they loved if they did not stop them. So stop them they did against what seemed an endless torrent of marauders.

Looking back, the moment that had changed everything was fleeting in its passage, yet suspended in its torture. If that had been the gods’ idea of a joke, then it was a sick one. A joke that would fracture whatever was left of Petra's innocence.

The deadly dance of limbs around Petra opened briefly next to her, like an angry parting sea. She hadn’t realized she had left an opening in her rearguard until her sister had instead stepped up to intercept the enemy, with no time to lift her own sword. And as if in slow motion, Petra watched helplessly while a blade arched down like the scythe of death and stabbed into the back of her sister.

A scream tore from Petra’s throat, its pain shook the earth, and she stumbled as if it was her own impaled body. Her eyes riveted to her sister’s beloved face as the sword fully punched through her chest. Nihkita’s expression of startled agony mirrored her own. The man behind her yanked his sword from Nihkita's torso, and while her body dropped to its knees, he drew back his blade as if to behead her.

Still screaming in defiance, Petra lunged forward and caught the downward stroke of the bandit with her own steel. Magic gathered in her chest, the coiling of hot lightning begging to be released. A fleeting feeling of satisfaction when she saw the fear on his face.

He was not prepared to face her wrath alone.

Snarling her rage, she slid the length of her blade down to the hilt of his sword, pressing her might against his failing strength. She was bigger than him and so she pushed her weight against him until he stumbled back.

Taking the opening, she sent her blade through his chest. Electricity exploded from her magic and siphoned down into her hands and through her blade. Lightning arcing out into the man’s chest. Frying him internally. A bloodthirsty smile lifted around her canines, the irony of the blow mirroring how he skewered her sister.

All she could think of was having his blood quench her thirst for retaliatory violence. She wanted to bathe in it, drink it, paint her face in tattoos of war with his blood. How good it would feel in her teeth.

The better to scare weak men with.

His flesh gave a moment of resistance before it caved and welcomed the embrace of her sword. The man's quiet scream of pained denial brushed her cheek, as intimate as a lover's in the night. She drew him closer until the blade broke through his back with a slick rush of blood. Only then did she drop him like a cut puppet, feeling a wicked pleasure in seeing his body crumple into the gore, his blood coating the leather of her boots.

A diminutive wet cough broke through her bloodlust, and she whipped around to look down at Nihkita, looking now so small in her leather armor. Like a child playing at war. The sparks died on Petra’s fingertips and a distressed gasp fell from her lips, her knees giving out from the weight of despair in her chest. The moment suddenly too heavy for her to remain standing on her own two feet.

Her arms moved of their own accord, her thoughts disconnected and fragmenting as she reached down and lifted Nihkita's head from the mud. Cradling her reverently in her lap. The crown of tangled auburn locks like blood across her thighs. The reality of her sister's wounds crashing against her like a suffocating black wave.

The roar of the bloodshed around her faded from concern. She no longer cared what happened to her.

All she could do was stare into the scared grey eyes of the warrior in her lap.

Petra’s chest heaved while she tried to find a voice buried beneath the rising grief. To try and put to words a lifetime of love and laughter. Yet the best she could do was clutch Nihkita tight and try to communicate to her with her own tired eyes. And gods, was she fucking tired. She tried to take a deep breath, but the harsh taint of war choked in her throat, thick with the taste of acrid blood, sour sweat, and spilled bowels. The fading screams of townspeople as the guards turned the tides, now a distant din of a victory she no longer wanted any part of.

Petra tried to ignore the spreading trickle of blood that pooled from beneath her sister and failed when she felt it seep between her leather armor plates. It was scalding against her suddenly too-cold skin.

I’ll never be able to get this blood out, she thought disjointedly. I could bathe for days, and the taint of this blood will never leave my skin. This is all my fault.

She felt undone.

Nihkita blinked up at her, patiently receiving her useless fussing. "You knew I had that one, silly. It was all part of my plan... Y-You're just lucky I had him half-finished for you." She croaked through cracked lips—a hollow smirk pulling at her mouth.

Petra couldn't help her wet chuckle. When had she started crying? And damnnit Nihkita, even now, making her laugh. "You're the worst liar, little sparrow. Always have been." The words caught in her throat, made her sick. She was unable to think of a future where her sister wasn't in it, shining and glorious in all her joy and mischief.

Unrestrained tears were now falling from Petra's eyes and washing clean tracks down Nihkita’s face. She absently watched them drop into the fiery nest of hair that lay pillowed in her lap. She tried wiping away the grit on her sister's face with a shaking hand. The task was pointless when her own hands were equally covered in the same carnage; fuck, all she was doing was smearing it.

Her eyes flicked to the ornamented braid behind Nihkita's right ear. The opal still shining through all the mud and blood-knotted locks. She had her own braid that represented her little sister. It was something that they had started when they were kids. The meaning behind it felt perverted now in its significance. It mocked her grief.

“Listen to me, listen, look at me.” Her sister rasped, Petra refused, her focus instead on pressing her hand into the gushing wound below Nihkita’s breast. Petra was sobbing now. How did no one else hear the glass cathedral in her heart as it collapsed and shattered? She wasn’t brave enough. She couldn’t do this. Oh gods. Anything but this. Please. Fuck. How could she survive this?

“I said look at me dammit!” Their eyes locked, unable to look away. “It'll be okay. Find Father. M-make sure the others are safe. Put the fires out. And..." A pause and Nihkita swallowed. "And when you sing my ashes to the wind from my pyre. Tell Mom... tell her, I-I'm sorry. And tell her that I was brave." Her eyes focused beyond Petra, beyond even this mortal realm, to a place where Petra could not follow. Not this day. Not yet.

"She calls me home, Petra. The music, it’s so bright, so beautiful." Nihkita reverently whispered on a gargled exhale, and just like that, her chest stopped moving. The spirit that made her seem larger than life, gone.

Leaving only a small empty shell behind.

********************************

As Petra concluded her recollection, a profound silence settled over the scene. The flames, once vibrant and alive with the echoes of the past, gradually diminished, their dying embers casting feeble light upon the world around them. Transformed into a bed of smoldering ashes.

In the fading glow, tears streamed unabashedly down Petra's face, tracing rivulets along her cheeks as she wept in the solitude of her memories.

Shadows clung to her form like specters, as if the flames had breathed their last, leaving behind only remnants of their existence.

In that vulnerable moment, Petra stood in the embrace of darkness, her emotions laid bare amidst the fading remnants of the fire's warmth. A bittersweet smile touched her lips as she whispered over its fiery corpse.

"She would have been 123 in the spring. She loved to sing to foxes. Mangoes were her favorite fruit. And she never met a person she couldn't make laugh. I loved her, Faramund. And I couldn't protect her."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Expression grim, Faramund could only nod at the elf's words. He had not expected to find himself with tears in his eyes but here he sat, together yet so very much alone. Petra sat across from him. She wept openly, unashamed to show weakness now that they had broken the ice surrounding her heart. It had taken her quite some time to reach the point where she trusted him enough to do so, but now that they were here, Faramund felt honoured.

It had been a tough thing, reliving the death of her sister. But Petra had seen it through to the bitter end. Faramund was proud of her, though, he remained silent as she fought with her grief.

Climbing to his feet, the big knight moved quietly to her side. Pulling Petra up and to him Faramund hugged the she-elf tightly as she continued to sob into his chest. 'Thank you,' he whispered in her ear, stroking her hair softly. 'It was a brave thing you just did. Braver still, your sister.' Nihkita had been the one to intercept the deathblow, after all. Not all warriors would have.

She had been family, however. And family was one of the most important things in life.

You look just like him, y'know. A voice from Faramund's past spoke up, throwing his thoughts off course. I mean, exactly like him. Blinking away the moisture in his eyes, Fara continued to hush Petra. Sometimes he wandered what it would be like, to possess the longevity of elves. To live for centuries on end only to see those you loved perish in battle, or else succumb to the rigors of time.

It made him glad he was human.

Hugging Petra to him, Faramund lowered his gaze to the fire. It had begun to burn low, and the tale of Petra's sister had gotten him thinking on his own family. Or the lack of one. Faramund, for all his jovial humour and kind smiles, was a sad creature. He did not known what a mother's love felt like... nor did he think much on his father, the only parent he had had the misfortune of knowing.

Uncaring. Unmoved by his son's suffering or the suffering of others. Yeah, he had been a right piece of work!

And the cultist in Alliria had been right. They did look exactly alike, though, Faramund supposed that was to be expected. They were of the same flesh and blood, after all. Faramund wished it wasn't so. You play the cards you're dealt, the knight thought, his mood sombre. Petra could be considered lucky in that regard. For all the hurt she harboured, the she-elf had at least experienced what it meant to have a family. A mother, a father...

A sister who was brave, beautiful and willing to lay down her life for those she loved. Faramund could respect that. He did respect that.

'If you don't mind my asking, where did you lay her to rest?' The question came suddenly, catching them both by surprise. 'Was her body and spirit committed to the wind... or does she slumber peacefully, below and beyond all the pain and misery inhabiting this plain we call home?' Petra was almost as tall as him, but the dawnling still had to look down to meet her eyes.

'I only ask because, if you're up to it, we could make a detour while we're out here.' The smile that followed was tentative, almost shy. A lot smaller than the usual shit-eating grin he usually wore, like some kind of badge of honour. 'The Masters don't expect me back for another week, anyway,' he explained, 'and I would like to pay my respects.' Faramund swallowed abruptly. 'To the woman who saved your life. If not for her, we would never have met.'

Blinking away the tears forming in his eyes, Faramund cleared his throat. Dry, raw emotion threatened to overcome him. He would not let it. Would not... Fuck, too late!

'And that would have been a crying shame.'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra's tears slowly subsided as Faramund held her. The warmth of his embrace seeped into her skin and the strength of his presence grounded her amidst the tumult of emotions swirling within. But as he whispered solace into her ear, the moment mirrored when he had held her bloodied and bruised form after their spar and a gentle shiver coursed through her body at her sudden awareness of their proximity.

In the flickering firelight, his eyes shimmered with a tenderness that made her heart flutter.

But Petra, ever the guarded soul, fought against that rising tide of her own emotions. She couldn't afford to let her heart wander into uncertain territory. The weight of her responsibilities, the scars of her past, and the fear of losing another loved one kept her anchored in caution.

So, she buried those burgeoning feelings beneath layers of self-preservation, masking her growing awareness with a subtle yet purposeful detachment. She couldn't afford to let her guard down completely, especially in the presence of someone who had a habit of seeing her so clearly.

His sudden question gave her an out from her troublesome thoughts. In answer, she took a step back and reached behind her left ear into her wild tangle of curls and showed him one of her braids. This one had a golden thread woven through it, adorned with a fiery red garnet.

Into the intimate space between them, she murmured, "This braid is all I have left of her."

She took a deep breath and averted her gaze to the sky, searching pointlessly for a dragon that she knew was miles away.

"But I'm told her ashes were laid to rest at an altar in the grove behind our home in Erendale. I have not returned in many years, let alone paid my respects since she died," she confessed, her voice laced with a mix of apprehension and longing. "Facing my parents, confronting the remnants of that past, it feels like an insurmountable task, especially now, when so much has changed within me."

Petra's heart weighed heavy with a mixture of anticipation and fear whenever she thought about returning home. Since her transformation, she had been avoiding the familiar paths that led to her parents' doorstep, choosing instead to wander through the world, seeking refuge in the anonymity of distant lands. The thought of facing her parents, of revealing her changed self, sent waves of trepidation and anxiety coursing through her veins.

She wondered how they would react to the sight of her now—her once elven features marked with scars and adorned with emerald scales. Would they recognize her as their daughter, or would they recoil in disbelief and confusion? The uncertainty gnawed at her, leaving her feeling untethered and adrift.

Petra feared that the physical changes she had undergone were but a reflection of the profound transformation that had taken place within her. She had become a creature of the wild, her spirit untamed and yearning for the freedom that could only be found in the depths of the unknown. Her experiences had reshaped her perspective, broadening her horizons and challenging the boundaries of her former self.

So the very thought of her parents not recognizing her, of their disappointment or rejection, was enough to make her sick with anxiety. She couldn't bear the idea of being a stranger in their eyes, disconnected from the family she felt responsible for destroying. The fear of losing the rest of their love and acceptance haunted her, fueling her reluctance to step foot in the place she still called home.

For in her mind, she had changed too much, both physically and metaphorically, for her parents to fully understand or accept her. She had tasted the exhilaration of freedom, danced with danger, and witnessed wonders that were beyond the realm of their familiar world. How could she convey the depths of her experiences without alienating them further? Would they see her as a wayward wanderer, a lost soul detached from the values and traditions they held dear?

Petra's avoidance of returning home became a self-imposed exile, a conscious decision to shield herself and her parents from the dissonance between the person she had become and the daughter they remembered. The distance she maintained was a fragile buffer that protected them all from potential disappointment and shattered expectations.

All of this doubt and more she kept to herself, but finally, she found her courage and looked to her friend beseechingly, "Faramund, how does one even begin to ask for forgiveness? For the kind of understanding that defies logic and defies the very essence of who I am now?"

She gestured towards herself, encompassing the physical changes that mirrored her tumultuous journey.

"What do I say to my parents, to explain all of... this?"

 

[Faramund]

Faramund sighed deeply. 'There's not much you can say,' he told Petra, his expression thoughtful as he examined the braid dedicated to Nihkita. Grief was a process that everyone experienced sooner or later. One thing he knew for sure was that Petra had held on to hers for so long it would be a struggle to just... let it all go.

Were her parents the same or had they managed to come to terms with the loss of their youngest daughter? Faramund wouldn't know until he met them, and that sure as shit wouldn't happen until Petra worked up enough courage to face them again. Alas, her doubts had crippled her to the point where she no longer saw that as a viable option. No, she preferred to run rather than turn and face her fears.

The fear of rejection, and hatred for what she had become. A warrior. Nihkita had tried to be a warrior, and all it had earned her was a grave in Erendale. Still, she had chosen to fight instead of flee. Foolish, perhaps. But brave and worthy of respect just the same.

She had a place where her loved ones could go to mourn and pay tribute. Most warriors didn't even get that. Faramund certainly didn't expect it for himself.

But then he was dead already.

'Scales or scars, you are still of their flesh and blood,' he said, pushing the strange images in his mind's eye aside for a moment. 'Nihkita may have been the one to fall all those years ago, but it seems to me like your parents lost two daughters that day.' Faramund did not mean to sound harsh. Alas, some things had to be said, hurtful or no. 'The loss of Nihkita hit them hard- as hard as it hit you, I imagine. Grief makes people say and do foolish things, things they might later come to regret.'

The big dawnling nodded. Ain't that the truth, he mused, turning his eyes to the sky. The stars really were beautiful at this hour. Cold, too. Norvyk's up there somewhere. Does he sense his master's pain? Feel it as keenly as she does? Faramund did not know nor did he really want to. He had his own grief to contend with, like Petra and everyone else who had ever picked up a sword.

'Do you think they loved you any less than they did her?' Faramund asked the she-elf quietly as he searched for a moment's peace amongst the stars. 'Do you imagine their hearts do not ache for you the same way yours does for them?' Letting his gaze fall, the big man grimaced, took a seat. 'You miss them. I can see it in your eyes. What makes you think they don't miss you too?'

Looking up at Petra from where he sat, Faramund fed another stick to the fire. The camp lit up in an instant, but his features remained shrouded in shadows. 'There's only one way to rid yourself of the grief you cling so desperately to, and that's by returning to the place it originated from.' He did not think he needed to tell her exactly where that was. He did so anyway.

'Erendale. Home.'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

His words cut Petra in a way she found refreshing. And it left her more contemplative than anything.

She crouched down beside Faramund. Her arms tucked close to her chest and her eyes fixed on his face with a mix of curiosity and intensity. There was a newfound awareness in her gaze, as if she was seeing him in a different light, searching for something deeper beneath the surface. She studied the lines etched upon his weathered features, the way his eyes held both mirth and sorrow, and the complexity of emotions that left her with an eagerness to explore how deep they went.

"You're doing it again," she remarked softly, as if afraid his response would be as reactive as when she had first made the observation on that balcony. "That thing. Where you drop the facade of the oaf that you insist upon and let us see the percipient man beneath."

A flicker of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she continued, her words laden with sincerity. "You have so much wisdom, Faramund, hidden beneath your playful jests and jovial demeanor. It's both inspiring and unsettling, to be honest. I can't help but wonder about the nature of the experiences that have shaped you into such a creature. Or the trials that forged such an astuteness within you, and yet, you remain self-deprecating..." She paused, her words hung in the air, when suddenly she leaned closer, a cryptic light sparking in her eyes.

"Does this mean you'll ride the dragon?"

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Whatever Petra was looking for, she wouldn't find it. Sharp-eyed as she was, Faramund had spent so long wearing a smile, it was nigh impossible to see through it. Still, when the she-elf set her mind to something, there was little one could do to stop her. It was one of things Faramund liked about her, though, it sure as hell could be infuriating at times.

'The fuck does percipient mean?' he asked her, the smallest of smiles curling his lips.

And there he is, back again! Frowning, Faramund's gaze returned to the fire. Petra was right about the oaf part... About how he relied on it too much, like a battle-scarred shield keeping the hurt at bay. But it did the job, and would continue to do so.

Assuming no hotblooded elves decided to take it upon themselves to burrow beneath the surface and so discover the monster lurking there. For that's what I am, the big dawnling thought, a monster whose teeth are so sharp he can't help but bare them. Was that why he smiled so much?

'Does this mean you'll ride the dragon?'

Faramund chuckled. 'If that's what it takes, sure.' He turned his head, found Petra crouched beside him. The closeness he felt surprised him, but he didn't flinch away from it. She was his friend, after all. Someone he listened to, cared about and vice versa. Sometimes... Sometimes Faramund wanted more than to be just friends with Petra. But now wasn't the right time to tell her how he felt.

Now was never the right time.

'Just don't be surprised if I start crying like a baby, okay? Not sure if I told you this but... I'm afraid of heights. Dragons, too.' He smiled playfully, tilted his head to whisper conspiratorially in Petra's ear. 'Don't tell Norvyk!'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Her giggle crinkled her nose. The laughter releasing the last of the tension from the darkness of the memories in the fire.

"You should know by now, that that wouldn't be the first time I've made a man cry. And I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it." She flashed him a playfully sadistic smile before rolling to her feet in an effort to create some distance between them. The tension something she wished to try and dissipate to the best of her ability before... Well, before they rode in a saddle together. On a dragon no less. A dragon that had opinions.

Fuckkk.....

Petra walked to the edge of the light's embrace, placed two fingers between her lips and gave a long sharp succession of whistles.

Was it necessary? No. But was showing off a bit, fun, for the sake of it? Absolutely yes.

The shrill summons was answered by a long rumbling growl from the direction of the treeline behind Faramund.

Norvyk's proudly crowned head of spiraling horns emerged from the shadows. His draconian features thrown into stark relief. And for a brief moment, a thrilling ripple of fear and awe coursed through her. She made no claims to have any ability to control him. Nor did she want to. But one had a say if they were kind. So instead that instinctual fear morphed into gratitude. Gratitude at the way that the gilded cord in her chest warmed and hummed with the depth of love she had for her dragon.

For all the beauty that had been robbed from her. She was starting to realize there had yet come a day where she had regretted the payment she gave in flesh. As all great magic demanded.

"I imagine you've been eavesdropping for awhile then?" They hadn't even heard him fly back. Let alone land. Another reminder that he was indeed nothing if not a predator.

"I promise I will be gentle with him."

She cackled at his insidious tone as she sauntered over to him, where Norvyk was already crouching so she could partially climb up and retrieve her saddle harness that was rolled up and clipped onto the front of the flattened pommel.

"Oh, I don't know..."

She slid down with an elegant grunt of effort, trying not to get tangled in the leather straps.

On her feet now, she held up the jumble of straps and buckles that would wrap around one's waist and thighs.

She winked at Faramund in the dim light, reveling in the opportunity to tease and unsettle him.

"Something tells me he can take it."


Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund felt a touch nervous as he clambered to his feet after Petra. The sworn and her dragon sure liked to put on a show. Faramund wondered if it was for his benefit or theirs. 'Don't threaten me with a good time,' he replied, meeting the dragon's eyes the same way most predators did when they were looking to assert dominance. Of course, Faramund didn't exactly want to muscle in on this particular hierarchy.

Despite having beaten her to a bloody pulp in the ring, Faramund knew Petra was about as doughty a fighter as any that had graced the Monastery grounds. And as for companion, well, Fara was better off not knowing just what he could do in a scrap.

Raising his eyebrows, the knight took a few steps forwards. 'Guess Rulgak did a good job, huh?' He was no blacksmith, but he could respect the she-orc's craft. It took years of blood, sweat and toil to reach the dizzying heights of Forge Master. One glance at the harness and saddle she had made for Norvyk told Faramund all he needed to know.

So long as the storm dragon -and Petra- didn't wish him dead, he could put his trust in the tools Rulgak had built.

If but for a short time. Faramund wasn't very keen on the idea of dragon flight but a promise was a promise. If that's what it takes, he had said. Well, this was what it took. Getting dressed up was all part of the experience, he guessed. 'All right, then. Let's get on with it!'

Walking up to Petra, the big knight gestured for the harness. 'Now, let's see... this leg goes through here and-... oh, no, never mind.' Smiling, Faramund gave Petra a warm look. In the half-light, it almost looked like he was enjoying himself. 'Honestly, it's a miracle I can dress myself. Say, wouldn't mind giving me a hand, would you? Probably end up strangling myself at this rate.'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra took the harness from Faramund's hands, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

She dropped to her knees, positioning herself at his waist and thighs.

Yeah, she knew what she was doing.

The closeness between them intensified, and a surge of playful dominance pulsed through her.

"You know," Petra teased, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she began tightening the straps on his waist and thighs. "I always thought you had a certain charm in your inability to dress yourself properly."

Her fingers deftly secured each buckle. Her touch was firm, assertive, and precise, ensuring the harness was secure but not overly constricting. She tugged at a few straps to ensure they were confidently placed. And she relished the subtle power she held in that moment, being so close to him.

As she looked up at him, her eyes locked with his, and she couldn't help but notice a hint of nervousness in his expression. A playful smile on her lips as she tightened the last strap, making sure it was snug but not uncomfortable.

"You look nervous with me down here," she remarked, her voice laced with a teasing tone. "But don't worry, I promise I won't bite... unless you ask nicely." The closeness between them was palpable, and she enjoyed the subtle dance of tension and attraction that simmered in the air. She met his gaze, her eyes holding a mix of amusement and something more intense, a flicker of attraction.

As she finished, her fingers grazed his waist as she moved back with deliberate slowness, allowing a small space to linger between them.

"Alright, you're all strapped in. Think of this like riding a horse." She paused, her gaze briefly shifting to Norvyk, contemplating how to better prepare her fellow dawnling.

"That is... a bigger, stronger, snakier horse."

There was a pause. Her brow furrowed and a serious expression colored her face as she extended her hand towards him, a silent invitation to embark. "I feel like I should also tell you that I won't let you fall. That I understand that you're facing a fear. A fear on my behalf no less... and I don't take that lightly, so I'll try and make this as pleasant an experience as I can."

"You don't need to enjoy flying as much as I do. But it would be nice to show someone why I love it."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund tried not to pay too much attention to what Petra was doing. Sharing a look with Norvyk, the big knight shrugged apologetically. 'What?' The dragon asked him, its voice reminding Faramund of distant thunder. 'What?' he replied, doing his best to look innocent. Petra on the other hand...

Yeah, she knows what she's doing.

'Nervous? No, no, not at all!' Faramund's smile gave tell to the lie. If anything, he was more excited than nervous. His mind was wandering dangerously down a dark alley, and Faramund doubted he'd be able to keep from saying -or doing- something he might regret later. 'I'm just, uh, not used to an audience... know what I mean?' Fara's gaze met Norvyk's. The knight looked away, embarrassed.

Cinching off the last strap, Petra rose to admire her handiwork. The words that followed were supposed to comfort him, he knew. They almost did. Almost. 'I can see the resemblance,' he lied. 'Of course, most horses don't have wings, but I get what you're trying to do.' He smiled. 'Appreciate it.'

Walking over to the fire, Faramund doused the small ring of flame with dirt. The embers sizzled and died as he turned to snatch up his pack and weapon. In the dark, he looked bigger than he actually was, like there were two people in place of one. Norvyk rumbled low. Faramund turned to regard him, the rider by his side.

He hesitated. A moment. Two.

'Suppose we should get on with this. Want me behind you or... uh... yeah.'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

She noted his nervousness and answered it by vaulting up onto Norvyk's back with practiced grace.

Settling herself in the back half of her saddle, a draconian spine at her back, she smirked at Faramund and reached her hand part way down, offering a way up to sit in front of her.

Watching him with amusement, it took effort to keep her eyes on his face, refusing to acknowledge the way her harness stretched across the Knight's thighs.

"In front, darling. The better to keep you balanced, of course."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

The Mund eyed Petra sceptically. 'Sure,' he said, sniffing the air for any hint of an ulterior motive. 'I better not catch you staring at my ass or there'll be hell to pay!' He smiled, shouldered his pack. With quick, self-assured movement, Faramund clambered up onto Norvyk's back, taking Petra's hand as he went.

The dragon suffered the indignity in silence. Well, almost.

Fat ass, a voice whispered in Faramund's ear, the magick it was borne on tearing itself apart to get to him. 'What was that?' The dawnling asked, sitting down on the spot indicated by Petra. The doubts worming their way into his brain found nothing but empty thoughts.

Too late to turn back now.

'Just so you know, if I die, I'm coming back to haunt you! Count on it!'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

A chuckle rang from her throat, enjoying his hand warm and callused in hers. "Faramund, if I had to pay anything for your ass, it'd be a coin too many. Now—oof— up you go, come on big guy. Yehup, put your foot there, no— there. Atta boy. And stop scowling for fuck's sake, you're not dying."

She grabbed his pack from him and worked at securing it to the many leather ties that hung from rings off the back half of her saddle, double checking her knots as she always did before takeoff. Norvyk rumbled beneath them, his thoughts indignant at best and Petra was failing to temper the amusement at his churlish behavior, thanking circumstance that she was now facing Faramund's back and he couldn't see her. Which... she was now realizing that she was going to have to hug against him if they were going to be an effective flying team.

The thought had her laughter dying quickly into a heated silence as the man situated himself to where he was at least comfortable, the harness straps hanging off his waist waiting to be clipped in.

Clearing her throat, she quipped in a tone much calmer than she felt, "I need you to sit back. All the way. Oh, stop acting like I bite. I mean, I do. But it's so I can hold onto you while we're up in the air. And here, do you see your safety straps? Clip them there an—"

As she went to lean forward, her dragon rose to his feet with a dramatic lurching motion and the elf fell into Faramund's back with a loud grunt, her hands grabbing onto his shoulders as she shot an ugly elven curse at her meddling dragon.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'Where and where?' Faramund asked, half a heartbeat before he was nearly pitched head-first into a dragon's maw. Oh, shit, he thought, using his hands to brace himself as something soft and yielding crashed into his back. His face grew warm as Petra used his shoulders to steady herself.

Below them, Norvyk let out what could have been a chuckle. His head lifted as he turned to regard them with one, big serpentine eye.

Like gilted bronze, Faramund nodded, a small grin breaking his face. Crafty bastard, ain'tcha? 'You alright back there?' he asked Petra, shifting ever so slightly in his seat. This dragon riding business was new to him, after all. Forget that they hadn't even taken off yet.

The she-elf's curse had him stifling a laugh. There was something infinitely amusing about the way she said... whatever it was she said. Faramund didn't know, he couldn't speak elvish.

'There, there,' he cooed, sidling closer, 'why don't you run me through this again? Clips go here, and, here, yes?' He smiled, brushed a strand of jet black from where it had fallen across Petra's right eye. 'What else do you need me to do? Want me to take the controls?' His smile grew playful, almost wicked. A part of his he-devil persona shining through.

'Bet you've never seen someone crash a dragon before!' Norvyk's chuckle became a growl.

Thought you might like that.

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Her cheek tingled where his knuckles brushed her. It made her aware of how close their faces were.

So close that they almost shared breath. Petra could admire the way Faramund's eyes crinkled as he laughed, there was an ease in the lines of his face when he teased her.

An ache formed in her chest as her eyes flicked between both of his, intent on the small golf flecks harbored within that rich earth. But with a quick inhale, she drew back, breaking whatever spell she was falling into.

But to bridge whatever gap in intimacy she may have caused, she instead raised her hands, hovering them near Faramund's waist. Her voice soft as she asked, "Are you okay if I touch you?" Her right hand gesturing towards Faramund's loose harness, "I want to make sure the clips are right. Plus, since I have only one harness, I'll need to hang onto you. But only if you're comfortable with it." Her tone awash of any humorous nature like her normal demeanor.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'Petra, I'm sat on the back of an irritable, but also mighty, storm dragon. Comfortable shouldn't have anything to do with it!' Raising an eyebrow, Faramund rolled his wrist in the universally-known sign of get on with it. A smile accompanied the gesture, to soften such churlish remark.

He was good at making those. Jokes, too. Usually, the success of the latter relied on the ear of the beholder.

Petra Darthinian had good hearing. Not to mention beautiful eyes, the dawnling thought, turning back around so that he didn't have to look at her. It was easier to keep a hold on his thoughts that way, and the malicious glow of Norvyk's own reptilian gaze helped cool his foolish ardour, if but for a short while.

Faramund felt straps tighten, heard clips clicking into place. The whole process took Petra no longer than a minute, and only then because she was making sure everything was shipshape and ready for take-off. Her presence was the only thing that made what came next tolerable.

But only just.

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Unbeknownst to Faramund, Petra and Norvyk had been bickering since the dragon's stunt.

I will turn your scales into jewels and I will sell them for goddamn copper pieces. She hissed at him internally.

You can certainly try, Little Lark. Came his rumbling reply.

She went to answer him with another lashing thought, but Faramund's impatient words had her pausing, her full attention back on him with a sparking glare pointed at the back of his head.

"Very well." Her tone deceptively neutral. "Ready?" She cooed.

Her dragon quiet and readying beneath them, his wings tense. Like a poised viper she snaked her arms around Faramund's middle and tucked herself close, the tops of her thighs bordering the backs of his.

The songweaver leaned into his right shoulder, talons slightly digging into his stomach, her whisper coiling around his ear,
"Don't scream."

And the world fell away from them with a swift downbeat of powerful wings and dragon legs launching them into the air.

Faramund