I
I wish I could describe how it feels to do what I do, Jet: in a way that you would understand, but I don't think I can.
I can tell you about the pitching and rolling of the living creature beneath my feet as I stand on its back: the crisp, thin, high-altitude air which refuses to press down and cling to my body: the hot, musty breath that reeks of decaying flesh and, odd as it sounds, parsley -- a ditch effort of mine to lighten the horrific stench of dragon's breath: hard, warm, worn scales that my hand presses into -- rough and smooth at the same time: the altitude gear strapped firmly into my flesh -- you never quite forget that it's there, you know; for something that's keeping you alive, at least part of your mind is on it at all times: wind buzzing and burning and freezing and cutting against my face -- against any exposed skin -- when I hit turbulent speeds or when I dive: the way my stomach feels as if it lifts into my throat or the way my heart stops at the mercy of the g-forces created by falling.
I can tell you all that, but it won't make you understand. The exhilaration, the freedom, the absolute sense of /presence/ and awareness -- you'll never understand that. You couldn't. I couldn't describe it well enough. I'm sorry. I know how you worry. And I understand. I do, and I hope to Death that you know that.
I'm sorry to leave without saying goodbye: without looking into your eyes: without feeling your body next to mine, and your arms tight around me, and mine tight against you. But I had to leave like this.
So this is my goodbye, should our paths never cross again. I should have said it to your face -- and I'm sorry I couldn't -- but my heart is heavy and even you couldn't lift it again. And I pray that it does not weigh me down.
I love you. And I know that you know that and there is no reason for me to say it except for my heavy heart.
Until we meet again -- be it in the fields of our homeland or the jutted Planes of Demise --
Yours always,
Isa
II
It's coming back to me.
Breath. Thought. Language.
I can feel my chest rising and falling.
I'm heavy, and I can feel -- gravity. Gravity is pressing me against something solid, something warm, and against my skin it feels -- gritty. Stone.
It smells heavy. Like heat. Slow, and heavy, and I can register the source of the heat against my face: light.
Bracing for it, I effort to open my eyes and blink, letting my vision adjust to it. It's clear light, colorless -- though I can see color around it. Blue. Atmosphere, with the star at zenith. Midday. It's always blue at midday. No clouds.
With a coordinated effort of breath, muscles, ligaments, and bones -- I sit up to get a better look around. The stone beneath me is a bright color -- rusty orange. The contrast with the blue of the atmosphere is vivid and amazing.
Besides the stone below and the atmosphere above I'm in an empty space. It occurs to me that I'm not sure how I got here. The last thing I remember --
I don't remember.
I feel like I was always here, somehow. Or like this is my first moment. I know, somehow, that this is not my first moment: but it feels like it is.
This is my first moment. I remember nothing else. This doesn't scare me, or upset me: I can accept it. For now, this is my first moment, until I can remember the others.
More pulling and straining, and I stand. Standing, and then walking. To where I'm not sure. In what direction I cannot tell. Forwards.
"Welcome."
The voice comes from nowhere -- no, it comes from behind me. And when I turn there's someone standing there. He appears from the empty plain of stone all around me. I'm sure he wasn't there before.
"Welcome to where?"
"These you know as the Planes of Demise. You're welcome here."
"Oh." Looking around, and then back at him, and then down at myself, then back to him; I nod my head.
"Do you understand?"
"I am in the Planes of Demise. I am welcome here. I am -- dead."
"Yes. You know it as death."
The man nodded, and I once again looked down upon myself: at the loose grey clothes I wore. As my eyes went back to him I noticed his outfit was similar to mine, except that it was made out of a white material instead.
"What do you know it as?"
"Renewal." His voice was even, his tone soft, his inflection neutral, but not blank.
"That's a nice way to know it as." Turning my gaze around me once more, I think of his answer. Renewal. "What happens now?"
As I'm turning my eyes back to the place he was, he's gone. Vanished. As if he were never there in the first place.
This seems natural here, in the Planes of Demise.
The place of the dead. I am dead.
A place of renewal. I am renewed.
Moving my legs, I begin to walk again. Where there is to go, I'm not sure. The star is at zenith, giving me no sense of direction. I walk forwards. For now, it's the only direction I need.
III
I wonder.
As I walk, I wonder.
Here, there is a sense of acceptance, and it feels odd to wonder: to question. But I wonder all the same.
What was before the moment I call my first? I know of death, of these Planes; of these words that make up my thoughts; of concepts great and many but I know of no moments when I learned of them.
Before death -- renewal -- I was alive, and I'm sure I had many, many moments then.
But, somehow, losing them isn’t upsetting to me. The many moments I’ve left behind mean almost nothing, except that I can’t help but to wonder about them.
Perhaps I'm not meant to know them. I am renewed: I am blank. I am unburdened by the weight of the moments left behind. Perhaps --
But all the same, I wonder.
And as I wonder, I walk.
Walking and wondering, I nearly run into a jutted, ragged, platform of stone which appeared ahead of me.
How long had that been there? The moments here blend and merge and mix together: as if time was unsure of itself. Had it always been there? Or, like the man, has it simply appeared before me?
How long have I been walking?
Does it matter how long I’ve been walking?
I decide to climb.
As I climb my muscles strain, and I feel that I know this way that they strain -- the feeling of climbing.
The stone under me is freezing; burning my skin and numbing my fingers. I breathe in and the air is crisp and thin: filling my lungs but feeling like nothing. Then, when I look, the atmosphere above me is blood red with a satellite hanging in my field of vision; debris surrounding the orbiting chunk of iron and scrap that I must reach and --
And my hands are warm. My muscles still strain, but my lungs are filled with air that is hot and heavy: the atmosphere above me is bright blue and empty of all but the star, halfway between zenith and horizon now.
I continue to climb, making my way slowly to the top, and when I get there I begin to wonder again.
What was the vision I had moments before: of a place different from here and a feeling in my chest that was burning and cutting but crisp and refreshing -- exhilarating? Is it right to call it exhilaration?
Perhaps it was a vision of a moment before my first; and if so I wonder who I was at such a time to be so high up and to feel as I had about it.
I look down off the edge of the platform of stone upon which I stand, but the height is not nearly that which I had felt during my vision.
My vision. I wonder if I could feel it over again; and if I did, I wonder if I'd be able to glean more from it.
I wonder, then a noise behind me interrupts my wondering. As I turn there is a woman behind me this time: her features are pleasant, unworn, and when she speaks her voice is sugary and melodic.
"Hello."
"Hello." I return her greeting, pulling the corners of my mouth up in the semblance of a smile. Why not an actual smile? Somehow, I feel I can’t manage one. Some feeling in my core prevents it.
"Do you know how you're called?"
"I wonder that, but I do not know it. And as for yourself?"
"Now I am called Syra."
"Is that how you were called before?"
"Before matters not. There is now, and Syra is how I am called now."
The smile falls from my face, and I feel my lips pressing hard together and my brows furrow. "So you do not wonder?"
"You are young here, aren't you?"
"I am. Only but a few hours. The star was at zenith."
Looking amused, the woman nodded towards me. "There is no need to wonder. Accept and be renewed. That is all there is."
"I accept, but still, I wonder. There are many things to wonder, and no reason I shouldn't." Is there? Is there some reason I shouldn’t?
"Cease. There is no reason for it and you'll end up in grief. Here, my spirit is old, and I know this. Simply accept. Do not wonder. Choose yourself a name and be renewed completely."
She changed. No longer was her voice sweet, but harsh; her features sharper, angled, unpleasant. I do not like this, for she seems dangerous to me now. The feeling from before grows stronger, and I can’t help tensing with unease.
"I wonder and I will wonder. And until I know how it was I used to be called, I will not be called. I have no name save the one I do not know and I will not make myself a different one." The words fall from my lips, but even as they do I’m unsure of them. Why wouldn’t I choose myself another name? But, all the same, I feel as if I won’t.
Now, she looked inhuman completely: ethereal, with scales and slotted eyes and razor teeth. My resolve disappeared, then my muscles were straining and burning as I ran from her.
She did not follow, and for that I'm glad. I did not think that there were dangers such as Syra here on the Planes of Demise, but it is good to be wise of them now.
I can feel my hands shaking, and I clasp them together and take a slow breath. There’s no one around here to see, but I dislike the feeling off them tremoring and the quick beating inside my chest.
The man I met firstly, I wonder if he was a being such as Syra: but he hadn't seemed as interested in my affairs as she. But that could mean nothing, for them to be the same type of creature doesn’t mean for them to ask the same.
I wonder what she meant about being renewed. Was I not renewed now, by simply being here; or was my wondering and my visions keeping me from true renewal? What is renewal?
Wondering and wandering, I continue on until my body feels weary and the star is slipping below the horizon and making everything turn dark.
There's a low hum and a buzz filling the air around me: the song of some type of bug. Batle bugs. They whiz around on dark nights like tiny lanterns, glowing romantically violet. Sap from wisdom trees is what attracts them.
With the star below the horizon the air is turning cooler and the deep, heady aroma of wisdom tree sap fills my nostrils -- there's a pressure around my waist and a presence against my back --
Eyes snapping open I try to take measure of the area surrounding me in the dim: the star is below the horizon; the cool air smells strongly of the same dust as it had all day; there's a hum, but it comes from under the ground -- not glowing little bugs whizzing through the air; I'm alone in an empty expanse of space, and there is certainly no one behind me.
Another vision? Or some trick the Plane plays on one's senses? Or was the first a vision at all? The changing nature of this place is baffling, and it's hard to know what to believe, or if I should believe anything.
I believe that both were visions: glimpses of moments not quite left behind. This is a nicer belief that the alternative, which is that those Planes of Demise wish to create some sort of instability in me.
Two visions, and still no means of figuring out the person that I had been. But I will figure it out. The more of these which occur the more I will have to glean from; and perhaps they will become more detailed as time passes.
The more, the better.
I’m unsure as to why remembering feels so important to me, but I can’t help that it is. I will remember. It may take a while, but I will remember. I know this. I will remember.
Sitting, I decide to rest from walking; my limbs are too heavy tonight for it to be worthwhile for me to continue along this flat of stone.
My body feels weary, and I feel drowsy --
I feel --
IV
"Isa! Isa -- oh. Wow."
When I look through the mirror back at Jet I can't help but to grin at the shock on his face: the way his mouth is hanging slack and open, with his dark eyes wide, brows lifted up past his bangs. "Wow, huh? Way to make a woman feel pretty."
Smirking, I place the last of the jeweled pins into my hair and then grab the brush and paint for my face: it's still fresh from cleansing, but that needs to be corrected.
"You're right, Isa. Of course." He corrected quickly, and I could see him coming closer from the corner of my eye as I began to apply the necessary designs to my skin, beginning with the line across my right cheekbone. "You're -- well, stunning. Not just pretty. Breathtaking."
"Aw, well I appreciate that. Now why are you here? What brings you? Gorlan is meant to escort me tonight; and you're not a part of the ceremony anyways."
Steady hand; steady. I wish he would go away, and not distract me.
"Well, now I wish that I was. I mean -- well, you're gorgeous. I'd join the Brigade just to have the honor of escorting you tonight." Holding the brush down, I turn towards him; he has to leave, or I’ll never get this done.
"Jet, that's --" He crouched by me and grabbed the brush from my hand, cutting me off. I shouldn’t have released it, but his proximity always seemed to freeze me. Whilst my nerves are still affecting me, he dabbed more paint to the delicate hairs of the brush and I felt him continuing the line from my cheekbone down my cheek. My eyes fell closed, from habit; when one’s face was being painted by another, one closed their eyes and slackened their features not to upset the artist’s work.
This is absurd. I'm letting a man paint my face. A Civilian man. A Brigade man, sure; a Brigade man would have the ability to draw the intricate stylized patterns on my face for the ceremony -- but a civilian man? I'll have to wash and start anew! "Jet --"
"Shush. Keep still or you'll mess it up."
I kept still, my eyes closed, and focused on the feeling of the brush strokes over my face to imagine the pattern his hand was making over it; down my cheek, swirling to my chin, across my nose. "Jet --" I whined, protesting, after some time had passed.
"Shush. I'm almost done." A few more short strokes to my left cheek, then a quick swipe of his thumb over my brows, and I felt him move back. "There. Finished."
Immediately I opened my eyes to survey the damage in the mirror, only to find that he'd done a fair job of it. A sigh escaped, then I pushed him. "What were you thinking?! If you had put it on wrong -- !"
He silenced me by shoving a single finger against my lips, dangerously close to the fresh paint; I stiffened and scowled in response. How dare he touch me without my permission!
"Calm down. I was sent by the Council to apply your ceremonial paint. I paint in my spare time, you know."
"No. I didn't know that." Huffing, I crossed my arms; then quickly uncrossed them and fixed my sleeves: the silvery short gown I was wearing kept slipping down and bothering me. "Well go on then; I'm sure you have the other ladies to attend to now."
"I saved you for last, actually." He offered a smile towards me, trying to be flirtatious.
"Oh you're a smothering romantic type, aren't you?"
"I might be. Your cheeks are coloring, you know." He responded to my scorn, and I looked away from him.
"Well you did just cover them in scarlet paint didn't you? Of course they're colored." Why did my face have to go hot now? It doesn't do for a Brigade member to be flustered; and so close to a ceremony; and by a Civilian.
"Different type of color. You wouldn't find me handsome, would you?" His smirk is infuriating; especially with his white teeth against his coal-dark skin.
"Don't tease. It's not becoming."
"Then why do your cheeks color like you find it to be so?"
"They don't. It's simply hot beneath the paint."
Jet smiled and leaned towards me, and I leaned back in response. "Hold still." He hissed, hand coming up. I froze like stone and watched as he picked a strand of silvery hair from my face: a dot of red near the end of it -- it must have been stuck to a line of the paint from my cheek. "Give me a second and I'll fix that."
His breath whispered against my skin and he drew away to grab the paint again. Watching as he did this, blinking and giving a hard swallow, I held still again as he fixed the line before drawing back again.
"There. Perfect. You'll do your home proud."
Looking in the mirror, I studied the patterns on my face, made vivid by the lightness of my skin. Against my pale flesh the red looked more of a berry color than the blood red it would look on the others.
"Don't frown like that. You'll mess the paint up."
"Oh quiet." Shaking my head, I looked to the sand clock in the corner for a sense of the time. "I ought to leave. I will see you in the crowd?"
"Always." He offered his hand to help me to stand, and I decided not to refuse him; he kept my knuckles in a light grip and forced my eyes into his own dark ones for a short moment after I was standing, but I disengaged quickly and headed for the main hall, damning my flustered disposition and attempting to get my color under control.
Damn him and his relentless teasing.
V
I feel --
Light. There's light on my face again now; but it's not harsh and hot and glaring as it had been when the star was at zenith: it was cool and diffuse -- the light of morning.
And now, somehow, the air is misty -- there's something wet and cool and soft against my back. When I open my eyes the atmosphere above is a soft yellow. With my hand, I feel the smooth and cool strands of whatever I am lying in; closing my fingers around them, I break a sample away and bring it to my face to examine.
Grass. Bright, soft, new grass.
How long had I been asleep?
Was I transported here; or had the Plane around me changed to this cool new world, so different from the hot, dry place I was in last?
Asleep. I'd had a dream last night while I was asleep.
Jet. The Brigade. A ceremony --
Jet.
He'd painted my face with a cool brush and teased me until I was red from embarrassment; who was he? Who were we?
Friends? Lovers? Certainly we weren't siblings. I can know that for certain; with my paleness and his darkness we could not have come from the same parents.
Isa! He'd called me Isa!
"My name is Isa."
The words fall from my lips and the next thing I know I am sitting up. "Isa. I'm called Isa."
I try the sounds over and over: testing them; tasting them; feeling the way they sit in my mouth and on my tongue. Isa. Isa. Isa.
Eventually my astonishment fades and my eyes focus again on my surroundings: bright green grass and pastel yellow atmosphere. No longer am I in a flat, empty plain, but the land is full of rocky outcrops of grey, sloping here and there towards the atmosphere and down into the ground. In the distance, I spy a copse of trees like a dark blot against the horizon.
This pleases me. The terrain has personality now; and the promise of fresh water and possibility of food causes my dry mouth to water and my stomach to rumble.
Had I been hungry before the possibility of food? Or thirsty before the possibility of water?
I'm not sure. I don't believe so. But now that I feel these I must deal with them.
Standing, I start towards the trees. If there were water or food around I bet that they would be there. Trees shelter life, after all. Life of all sorts. Life sustained by water. From batle bugs to tamaranths.
Is it odd to expect that this place of death or renewal would hold life? I feel that it isn't.
Am I alive? What sense can I make of that word and concept here?
Pushing two of my fingers into the side of my neck I can feel the beat of life beneath them; but does that constitute life? Actual life? Or just some pseudo-life?
The trees get closer and I let my mind wander away from the great question of life and onto other things: if I should find food, a creature -- a living creature, should I kill it? What would happen to a creature if it should die on the Planes of Demise? Could I do that to such a creature?
I've done it before.
This I feel certain of. I have killed before; before I was killed myself. Killed? Was I killed? How did I die and end up here, in this place?
What did I leave behind?
Jet.
His skin was dark ebony and his hair beautifully pulled into tight ringlets; a far cry from my paleness and flatness. I don't remember, but I feel as if his extreme had been the standard to strive for: darkness instead of lightness. And he was dark.
Dark. Dark. Dark, and teasing; something that had charmed me for him. I wish I knew more of him than that, so I might focus on things other than his color.
At least I could be certain of one thing; he was dark, dark and beautiful.
Or is he? Is he still there or does he wander the Planes as I do?
Who was I and who is he? What were we to each other?
When next I notice my surroundings the tall, dark figures of the trees rise all around in front of me and when I turn back around they expand behind me a great distance as well. This makes my chest feel tight and starts the harsh beating in it again, as when I’d fled from Syra, but I hold a breath and the beating slows until I release it.
Once more, I wonder about the time and space of this place I'm in; had I simply been walking awhile, or had the distance warped and bent to bring me here faster than I should have arrived?
Remembering that I had been hungry, I felt my stomach turn again and think about how I should find food.
Whistling, and creaking, and groaning, the trees offer nothing forwards as I search through them more consciously for sustenance; no creatures or sprouts or recognizable edible roots. Only the groaning, creaking, and whistling that I held my breath to; and then learned to tune out.
There must be something. I'll go so far as taking the bark from the many trees if I have to. Heading deeper and deeper into the forest I begin hearing odd things: groans and whispers, scratches and creaks, babels and footfall; sounds falling away from the pattern I’d grown used to. A little further in and I smell smoke.
Is there someone who lives out here? Or perhaps it is a creature like Syra. Or the first man. Or it could be a person like myself.
Deciding to investigate takes no effort at all. Sure, it could be a terrible creature, and who knows the chances that it is, but it's not as if I have a lot else to do or even how much trouble it's possible to get into.
The smell of the smoke grows ever stronger and the cracking and popping and orange glow which are the tell-tale signs of a fire are soon evident; moving as stealthily as I can I follow a little clear trail to the edge of the clearing and look out into it.
Is that a house?
Sitting behind the fire at the other end of the clearing is a mound of earth, only about to my chest height, all covered in the same grass as before -- but it appears to have a round door and a window set into the front. There's a small divot leading up to the door.
What type of being lives here? Strangely, the whimsical house reminds me about the tales of gnomes and redcaps. Would such a creature live here or am I being naive?
"Well don't just stand there and stare; come on, come on." A shove from behind prompts me to walk into the clearing, and I turn to discover that the man behind me is nearly my height, maybe taller; with dark leather skin and white fuzz for hair, betraying age. Surprisingly, despite this, he was strong and spry on his feet.
"Who are you?" Comes my startled response, but I press my hands to my thighs and their quivering stops. I need to steel myself; I loathe this rushed feeling of fear.
"I can ask you the same thing; you were the one who was spying, after all."
"Investigating. I smelled the smoke and I came to investigate. I'm called Isa."
"Now, or before?" His dark eyes were serious on mine. They felt intimidating.
"Both." I met them head on for a few moments, forcing myself to swallow my nerves, and I saw him slowly crack a crooked smile and then laugh heartily towards me; I joined in, but to a much lesser degree.
"Good answer, Isa. I'm called Chrom."
What makes that a good answer? "Pleasure. Chrom. Dare I question, but what type of creature are you?"
"None like Syra."
"You know of her?"
"Here, it is impossible to go without meeting her. She comes to all of us."
"Why?" I could feel my brows furrowed in confusion. How did he know I was thinking of her? What was she?
What was he? Could I trust him to be telling me the truth?
"She wants to make others like herself. You see -- she didn't question. She never did. She chose herself the name Syra and became the thing she is."
"What is she?"
How does he know this?
"A monster of the Planes: a soul who's accepted the loss of its identity. There are lots of creatures like her; but only she takes it upon herself to make others suffer as she is."
"She suffers for it? For forgetting?"
"Deep inside. In ways she nor anyone could name."
"Oh."
I thought on this. On her. On the pain of identity and of loss and on him. These thoughts ring in my head.
Here, on the Planes of Demise, are we meant to be like Syra?
I'm sitting. When did I sit? The house is bigger on the inside than it looked to be from the outside. It's dark in here, with nothing but flame lanterns to cut the earthy dim: it's claustrophobic. I don't like it; the feeling of space pressing in on me.
"Sorry about that." Sorry about what? Chrom came and handed me a mug of brown liquid. "You haven't been here long, have you?"
"No." Looking at the liquid, I tried to determine what it was; it was fairly clear, and the smell was reminiscent of cooked flesh. Some sort of broth? I took a sip.
"Then you don't understand zoning yet."
"Zoning?" The liquid tastes good, soothing on my throat and settling for my stomach.
"Do you remember getting here? Inside the house?"
"No."
"That's zoning. You were thinking, and then you were in here; I took you inside, but you don't remember it. When you 'zone out', your mind isn't on how your body is moving, so when you come out of it you can be in a completely different area."
Frowning, I thought on that. "I've heard 'zone out' before. Doesn't that happen in the living realm as well?"
"Not to the same extent. Here on the Planes you are either present altogether or lost in your thought; there is no middle ground or half focus."
"Ah." I nod, contemplating this reality until I can firmly grasp at the concept; sipping at my half mug of broth.
Sipping at air. My mug's empty now. I must have 'zoned out'; how long has it been like that? "Chrom? Where did the plane go? I was in a flat expanse of orange stone, firstly. And now I'm in this place."
"That's the entry plane. It's the first plane of existence here. This is the second."
"Are you forced to move from one to the next?"
"Only the first time, when you're taken off of the entry plane. Now it's your choice to move freely between the nine planes; so long as you can find the gates between them."
"Have you ever been off this plane?"
"Yes, but I came back here."
"Which plane did you visit?"
"The third. Then I came back."
"Are there more people there?"
"Many more. But they're mostly like Syra."
"Oh." The corners of my mouth turned down at the thought; were really so many creatures like Syra?
"You may rest here the night, if you wish. I wouldn't advise travelling here in the darkness."
"Is it that late yet? It feels like it were only morning just a few hours ago."
"Aye. You've been zoning a lot."
"Have I?"
This idea disturbs me. That I can so easily lose so much time, and not even know it is happening or has happened.
I have many more questions for Chrom: how long has he been here? Is there age here, or is it fixed at the point when you came into this existence? How is it he's the only soul I've met, when I know that thousands -- billions -- of beings die every day; yet my passage through the entry plane and this has been one person short of lonely. What happened to the others? Will I ever remember everything? Does he?
When I feel as if one of these questions is about to pass my lips I notice that I'm alone again, prone on a bed in a tiny, dimmer, closer room than before. Damn.
Thinking about what I've done today, it's like I've done nothing; but I can feel my limbs are heavy against the mattress. Am I tired? How can this be?
I do not like it here.
VI
"-- of course, that never would have happened in the first place if Isa hadn't thought to jump off of her dragon while we were over Tyrse Lagoon." Gorlan clapped my back hard enough that I would have been sent sprawling if I were standing upright; but, thankfully, in my seated position, I managed to only fall into the heavy table in front of me. My stomach hurt, but I couldn't tell whether it was from laughing or the impact against the table.
"Hey, it was your idea in the first place, thank you. And we got the job done, didn't we?"
"Aye, we did. And you nearly got eaten by fevered naids, too. I'd say it was a good enough run."
"Good thing they didn't manage a swallow; pyroburst like her going down their throats and they might've combusted on the spot."
"Hey!" Punching Lys in the arm, I offered him a glare. "Are you meaning to be insulting?"
"Ha. No. 'Course not. I mean, Brigade lads like us gotta respect a member in your -- well -- condition."
"What? The light skin or the breasts?"
"Both. It's a wonder you managed to climb the ranks this high. You know what they say : A woman can clear anything except a crystal ceiling.”
"Aye. I do."
For a moment, we all sat and considered this failed wisdom and its implication on society. "Aye! Another round over here!" Rian called, meeting the scathing gaze of one of the barmaids a few moments later; he was the heaviest drinker of us.
"Calm down! I'll be right over." The burly woman sent a young boy carrying a tray laden with bowls full of stew over -- the food we'd ordered half the hour before -- and when he came to the table I helped him to pass it all out. A moment later, the barmaid came over and set down our drinks.
"Aw, look who's nice to the little ones. I'm not going to have to worry about you going off and --" Phyris began tauntingly, with that evil expression on his face.
I nearly spit my stew. "Ew. No."
"What? It's not gross; it's natural for one as yourself to want little mites of their own."
"Not for me, thanks. Those things are all snotty and smelly and disgusting. I'd never stoop to having one."
"Not even with that Civilian man who hangs on you: Jet?"
I don't think I'm ever going to eat my stew at this rate -- which is a shame, since Lokly's has the best tamaranth stew this side of Terran -- as soon as Jet was mentioned I drew in a breath reflexively, not a good idea since a swallow of the hot liquid was already halfway down my throat, and now I was hacking violently to clear my airway. At least the redness in my face looked to be from lack of oxygen more than embarrassment.
"Now, now; no need to kill yourself because we know about you and him." Lys pounded my back, as if that was actually helping, laughing with all of the other men at the table.
"I don't know what you're thinking or who you got your information from, but Jet and I are certainly not a pair!"
"You definitely are though. It's as obvious as a bilbird's beard. Ever since your ceremony I've seen you pining over him."
"I have not been pining over him!"
"Yes you have. You hide it well, but for, like, a millisecond when you first see him you go soft eyed and ice nerved."
I felt my face heating again and scowled at him. "I do not go soft eyed, and I do not freeze. Not even for a millisecond." Not when I see him, anyways. Only when he gets close.
"Maybe not, but your face does change colors."
"Come on, I told you when I was enamored with that girl on Vral."
"Because you wanted me to talk you up with her; I'm not enamored with anyone, and especially not with a Civilian man named Jet." They were beginning to ignore me with this; couldn’t they take my word for it? Or at least rest their case? The table went eerily quiet, so that I was able to hear the commotion of the rest of the pub for the second time that night. Glaring at the boys, I settled back to sip at my chilling stew and try to relax a little in the aftermath of their ill-guided teasing.
A few moments passed, and their silence grew unsettling. "What?"
A hand came down on my shoulder, and instinctively I turned, batting the hand aside; only to come face to face with Jet. He looked angry, and the intense expression caused me to freeze, shocked. "Jet?" When did he get behind me? How did he even get here?
The next thing I knew I was being escorted out of the pub with a hand on my wrist, fingers firmly pressing against my flesh. Perhaps I should have fought against him -- after all, he was only a Civilian; surely he'd be no match for a Brigade trained fighter as myself -- but I submitted as I was pulled away from the rest of my team.
"Why must you bluster, Isa?"
He was pissed. Beyond pissed: infuriated. Releasing my wrist, he paced a single round away before turning towards me, gesturing sharply. I let him get back into my face, silent and watching. I've never seen anger like this from him before.
"Why must you act as if you have zero affection for me?! I know that relationships between Civilians and Brigade members are complicated; I know that! But why do you have to pretend that you don't like me? I know that you do! Why must you act like I'm so beneath you; like I'm not worthy, or disgusting! Why, Isa?!"
"I don't know what makes you think that I hold affection for you, Jet. Honestly, I have no clue. I realize that you've been hanging around me more recently, but --"
"Isa."
Stopping, I studied his face again. The fury was gone, at least momentarily, but the intensity remained in his dark eyes.
"Do you really not realize it? Is that what you think? How you feel? Truly?"
He seemed soulbroken as he stepped forwards, closer to me; and I allowed his approach, even as it left only a few inches of space between us.
I felt the ice in my nerves travel up and down my spine at his proximity, but I knew this didn’t affect me visually, and set my face for him. "I don't know what to tell you Jet. I --"
"Your cheeks are coloring, Isa. They always do when I get close to you."
Were they colored? I'd been so focused on him, that I hadn't noticed the buzzing heat in my own cheeks, but I felt it now. Did they always color when I felt my nerves ice?
"And that's supposed to mean something?"
What happened to my voice? The defiant tone I'd meant? The scowl that had been supposed to cross my features? Why was I soft voiced and smooth faced?
Jet leaned a little forwards and I jerked back. Why did I do that? I should've held my ground!
"Look, I'll admit to enjoying your company, but I have zero affections on this planet, and that includes --" as my lips puckered to say the word "you", I felt the touch of his own lips against them.
Both of our eyes were open, and we watched each other as the contact persisted; a long moment until he pulled away.
"I --" I tried to comprehend the sensation left in my face, bringing my fingertips to my lips; focusing at empty space. When my eyes returned to him my palm was connecting hard to his cheek. "I can't believe that you thought a kiss would change my feelings for you!"
Huffing, I turned on my heel and back to the pub; sitting back down with the others and ordering a bottle of fire water.
"What happened?" Gorlan questioned, and I tore the cork from the top of the bottle and swallowed a few gulps.
"That bad, huh?" Lys pat my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Do you want us to take care of him?" Phyris scowled.
"I took care of him. Just drop it."
“Here, eat this.” Rian tore a chunk from the loaf of hard bread on the table and set it in front of me; he knew me as I drank, and he knew the solid matter would be needed to soak up the alcohol already churning in my stomach.
I still can’t believe that Jet would touch me like that without my permission; that he would think it would do anything save for make me angry. The nerve.
