Good night, good night [NARRATIVE]
Niko is up late, studying by crystal light.
It's like he used to, when he was about to be tested on an important piece of sorcery. Demons learn faster than humans or elves, but it wasn't ever quite fast enough for Niko's father, was it? There was always some new symbol, some new twist on an old symbol. He was never quite fast enough in his casting, never precise enough, never controlled enough.
Niko understands that attitude, now that there's an army full of people depending on his symbolcraft.
It's okay, though. It sucks, sometimes, and it's hard, but he's the best out there. He can handle it. And River Royal believes he can handle it, too, which makes Niko all the more eager to prove it.
He traces the curves of a new symbol, murmuring to himself.
Good thing he has his own room, now.
~*~
After nightfall, Tobin breaks into a full gallop and runs, just runs. The weight of the world, the pressing knowledge that something, something is moving, something is shifting falls away, and he's just a centaur, again. Like when he was a boy.
He returns to the camp an hour later, and settles into his corner comfortably. He sleeps, for the first time in days.
~*~
What was it they made her do?
Elimyr settles back, on her bed. Tilts her head back over the side, and lets the cloth flutter down to her face, brushing light against her cheekbones, her chin, the tip of her nose.
She lets the water flow, and it flattens, fills her nostrils with the rush of drowning.
She killed a man, like this, just a moment ago. It was an accident.
It was an accident.
Water drips off the ends of Elimyr's hair.
She closes her eyes and sleeps.
~*~
Devorah presses on, through the night.
Her anger blinds her, sometimes, but it's gotten better. More manageable.
The new Gate Guardian is somewhere ahead.
So she presses on.
~*~
Jason's dreams are usually fucked-up.
But the ones he's having right now seriously take the cake.
~*~
September has a routine.
Every night, he pulls off his coat, just so; it hangs on the hook, next to his mirror. Next the shirt, button by button, the sleeves folded, the result placed carefully, at right angles, on his desk.
And next he studies himself, in his mirror, wondering if he likes what he sees.
Today, he decides, he's more satisfied than not.
~*~
It is, perhaps, the third or fourth time he's reading these dispatches. Looking for a hint, a clue to another avenue of attack. Redinn is destroyed; the next stop has to be Forsyh. The elven city. And he will lose men - more men than he lost in taking Jhelbor, by tenfold, twentyfold.
Fiftyfold.
A quick knock on his door, a creak that meant someone had entered. Of course; only one person comes in without asking.
"Nazarene," he exhales, leaning back in his chair.
"You should get some sleep," she admonishes. Steps up beside his desk, leans back against the wall. Facing him, arms crossed over her chest.
"Not yet," he says.
"At this rate, someday you won't have anywhere left to conquer," she says, "and won't that be a fucking tragedy."
He shrugs. "I'm not in it for the conquering."
"I know," she returns. "But it helps."
Royal stretches, slowly, working his shoulders from side to side. Nazarene doesn't even give him a second glance, instead letting her eyes rove from paper to paper, on his desk.
"There are elven goods coming into the city," she says, bluntly.
Royal pauses. Slowly relaxes, his brow knitting a little. "Quinn," he says. It's not a question.
"Quinn," Nazarene confirms. "And, you know, I got to thinking. What the hell is there that could drive the elves, who are losing, retreating, and close-knit at the best of times, to fuel a trade with a demon city?"
Royal's mouth tightens. "How many times has he been to visit the sorcerer?"
"Thirteen," says Nazarene. "I counted."
Royal sighs.
"Should we forbid visitors?"
"No," he decides. "Let them keep coming. Let Quinn do what he wants."
"Even if they break him out?"
Nazarene disapproves of this. He can tell.
"They won't, I think," says Royal. "Leave Mikney to me."
She doesn't like this, but she nods. She accepts it.
"Now get some damn sleep."
He half-smiles. "As you wish."
Nazarene steps forward, and presses a brief kiss to his forehead. "Swift winds," she tells him, and she shuts the door, soft, behind her.
~*~
The wings of Tamber's sylph brush against Lhoral's face.
"Hey," she says, quiet as ever, flicking up a hand to shoo her away.
"Sorry," apologizes the sylph. "I can't sleep."
Lhoral looks down at Tamber, eyes closed, breathing even. "Yeah," she says, leaning back against the tree, still with a wary eye out for anyone approaching the elf camp, "neither can I."
Meters away, in the undergrowth, Quahl is on patrol.
She hears, but doesn't say a word.
~*~
Quinn curls on his side, his cheek cool against the pillow. His eyes are closed, but he isn't asleep. Moonlight casts a shape on the floor; wind blows, soft, through the cracked-open window. His chest rises and falls, rhythmic, with his breathing.
His head cants back, a hint, lips parting. He's remembering a time when Wainwright smoothed along those lips, a coy smile on his face, and slipped a hint of candy inside Quinn's mouth. Quinn always closed his eyes, to taste. Wainwright always watched.
Quinn shifts, restlessly.
The shape of the moonlight changes, as a cloud passes through.
Quinn still doesn't sleep.
~*~
Ezaia sprawls luxuriously back on her bed, toying with a curl in her newly styled hair. How exciting! Hopefully it would catch on.
And, to that end, she reached for her diary. It had been almost six hours without posting, after all. She could sleep later.
It's like he used to, when he was about to be tested on an important piece of sorcery. Demons learn faster than humans or elves, but it wasn't ever quite fast enough for Niko's father, was it? There was always some new symbol, some new twist on an old symbol. He was never quite fast enough in his casting, never precise enough, never controlled enough.
Niko understands that attitude, now that there's an army full of people depending on his symbolcraft.
It's okay, though. It sucks, sometimes, and it's hard, but he's the best out there. He can handle it. And River Royal believes he can handle it, too, which makes Niko all the more eager to prove it.
He traces the curves of a new symbol, murmuring to himself.
Good thing he has his own room, now.
~*~
After nightfall, Tobin breaks into a full gallop and runs, just runs. The weight of the world, the pressing knowledge that something, something is moving, something is shifting falls away, and he's just a centaur, again. Like when he was a boy.
He returns to the camp an hour later, and settles into his corner comfortably. He sleeps, for the first time in days.
~*~
What was it they made her do?
Elimyr settles back, on her bed. Tilts her head back over the side, and lets the cloth flutter down to her face, brushing light against her cheekbones, her chin, the tip of her nose.
She lets the water flow, and it flattens, fills her nostrils with the rush of drowning.
She killed a man, like this, just a moment ago. It was an accident.
It was an accident.
Water drips off the ends of Elimyr's hair.
She closes her eyes and sleeps.
~*~
Devorah presses on, through the night.
Her anger blinds her, sometimes, but it's gotten better. More manageable.
The new Gate Guardian is somewhere ahead.
So she presses on.
~*~
Jason's dreams are usually fucked-up.
But the ones he's having right now seriously take the cake.
~*~
September has a routine.
Every night, he pulls off his coat, just so; it hangs on the hook, next to his mirror. Next the shirt, button by button, the sleeves folded, the result placed carefully, at right angles, on his desk.
And next he studies himself, in his mirror, wondering if he likes what he sees.
Today, he decides, he's more satisfied than not.
~*~
It is, perhaps, the third or fourth time he's reading these dispatches. Looking for a hint, a clue to another avenue of attack. Redinn is destroyed; the next stop has to be Forsyh. The elven city. And he will lose men - more men than he lost in taking Jhelbor, by tenfold, twentyfold.
Fiftyfold.
A quick knock on his door, a creak that meant someone had entered. Of course; only one person comes in without asking.
"Nazarene," he exhales, leaning back in his chair.
"You should get some sleep," she admonishes. Steps up beside his desk, leans back against the wall. Facing him, arms crossed over her chest.
"Not yet," he says.
"At this rate, someday you won't have anywhere left to conquer," she says, "and won't that be a fucking tragedy."
He shrugs. "I'm not in it for the conquering."
"I know," she returns. "But it helps."
Royal stretches, slowly, working his shoulders from side to side. Nazarene doesn't even give him a second glance, instead letting her eyes rove from paper to paper, on his desk.
"There are elven goods coming into the city," she says, bluntly.
Royal pauses. Slowly relaxes, his brow knitting a little. "Quinn," he says. It's not a question.
"Quinn," Nazarene confirms. "And, you know, I got to thinking. What the hell is there that could drive the elves, who are losing, retreating, and close-knit at the best of times, to fuel a trade with a demon city?"
Royal's mouth tightens. "How many times has he been to visit the sorcerer?"
"Thirteen," says Nazarene. "I counted."
Royal sighs.
"Should we forbid visitors?"
"No," he decides. "Let them keep coming. Let Quinn do what he wants."
"Even if they break him out?"
Nazarene disapproves of this. He can tell.
"They won't, I think," says Royal. "Leave Mikney to me."
She doesn't like this, but she nods. She accepts it.
"Now get some damn sleep."
He half-smiles. "As you wish."
Nazarene steps forward, and presses a brief kiss to his forehead. "Swift winds," she tells him, and she shuts the door, soft, behind her.
~*~
The wings of Tamber's sylph brush against Lhoral's face.
"Hey," she says, quiet as ever, flicking up a hand to shoo her away.
"Sorry," apologizes the sylph. "I can't sleep."
Lhoral looks down at Tamber, eyes closed, breathing even. "Yeah," she says, leaning back against the tree, still with a wary eye out for anyone approaching the elf camp, "neither can I."
Meters away, in the undergrowth, Quahl is on patrol.
She hears, but doesn't say a word.
~*~
Quinn curls on his side, his cheek cool against the pillow. His eyes are closed, but he isn't asleep. Moonlight casts a shape on the floor; wind blows, soft, through the cracked-open window. His chest rises and falls, rhythmic, with his breathing.
His head cants back, a hint, lips parting. He's remembering a time when Wainwright smoothed along those lips, a coy smile on his face, and slipped a hint of candy inside Quinn's mouth. Quinn always closed his eyes, to taste. Wainwright always watched.
Quinn shifts, restlessly.
The shape of the moonlight changes, as a cloud passes through.
Quinn still doesn't sleep.
~*~
Ezaia sprawls luxuriously back on her bed, toying with a curl in her newly styled hair. How exciting! Hopefully it would catch on.
And, to that end, she reached for her diary. It had been almost six hours without posting, after all. She could sleep later.