Chapter Two | Facing the Tempest
Lord Darion Merseille liked his money where it belonged: in his coffers. Thus, when Alroy turned up at his gates requesting that Kedean's reimbursement be paid in full to Zyric – the only present, living member remaining of the Akuwa household – he declined. Alroy proceeded to politely mention that he could just as easily eat Darion's favorite stallion, reduce the rest of his stables to cinders, and possibly scoop up one of his delectable looking scullery maids for desert, if that struck him as a better deal. And Darion paid in full.
Three days later – off the island, because Alroy insisted that Zyric's father had been a victim of murder, not drunken negligence, and remaining on Ire would be unsafe at best – with more money to his name than ever before in his life, Zyric swayed on his feet, tumbling unsteadily up against the nearest solid object: a wall. Alroy caught his shoulder to further steady him, and Zyric frowned.
Or, he seemed to frown, anyway, because honestly the look came off as more all around confused than truly dissatisfied, as though it took him an extra second of intense concentration to discern why his body stopped moving in the first place.
He opened his mouth. "Alroy-"
"I think," Alroy cut in, keeping his voice purposefully even and patient, but stilling Zyric's drinking hand to emphasize his coming point, "…you've had enough."
And Zyric had. More than enough, in fact, but Alroy kept that detail to himself. Under the dim lights of the scraggly, unkempt village pub – the first they'd come across after fleeing the island colony and hitting the opposite coast – Zyric looked…out of sorts, to put it kindly. A mess, realistically, but not totally wrecked yet, and Alroy intended to keep it that way. He'd agreed to let Zyric drink, not let him wallow himself into a puking stupor.
"It's my…money," Zyric said, not
quite slurring the words, but coming very close and tugging ineffectually against Alroy's lock on his wrist. When that produced no results, his frown deepened, this time more stubbornly. "Let-"
"It's not the money I'm concerned about," Alroy said. "Any more of this and you're going to hurt yourself. Not to mention it's not good for your health if-"
"It's my…
health, too…" Zyric argued petulantly, sounding whiney or irritated or both, and he jerked more persistently under Alroy's hold. "I can do…what…I wan' withat…too. You can't…you…"
He seemed to forget where he intended to head with that sentence, and Alroy raised his eyebrows, helping him up off the wall. Without the extra support of the solid surface however, Zyric's body swayed, instantly slumping off balance, and the next moment, Alroy found himself with an armful of wobbling, frustrated, and cursing teenager, all blonde hair and lean muscle pressed flat up against him in a firm line of heat and pressure that-
Alroy shut his eyes, firmly reminded himself that there was a very dark, very
wicked place in the spirit keeper's seventh hell for him if strayed long down that mental path, and made himself focus on conversation instead. Conversation, lifting Zyric to a more upright, presentable position, and putting one foot in front of the other. "You can do what you want with your health?"
"Y…" Zyric took a moment to process that. Then: "Yes." He frowned again, a long pause stretching out between them as Alroy guided them out of the pub and into the night air. Crisp, cool night air, and when Zyric shivered, Alroy slipped an arm around him on impulse, sharing his heat until his chill faded. Then, abruptly, already halfway back to their inn, Zyric asked, "D'you actually…eat…people? I mean 'ave you ever…'ave you eaten…"
Alroy blinked, startled by the out-of-nowhere inquiry. And then, once over his surprise, he wanted ever, ever so much to say yes. But, since he figured harassing drunk teenagers for sport ought to be below even his standards, he settled for a compromise, eyes dancing with amusement as he helped Zyric move along. "What do you think?" he asked. "Can you imagine me eating someone?"
Zyric spared him a squinting, half speculative half bleary glance. He pursed his lips. "I dunno…you don' really look 'alf dangerous like this now…s'only when you've got…teeth 'n…claws…scales…"
Alroy drew his lips back in a toothy grin. "Still got teeth," he pointed out.
Zyric gave an unimpressed snort. "Not…" he muttered, "…the…scary kin'…"
After thinking on that for a moment, Alroy asked curiously, "Do you think I'm scary? The other way?"
Zyric took his time answering, his eyes distant and surprisingly contemplative for a kid who couldn't stand, let alone walk in a straight line unassisted. Eventually he responded, "Maybe t' other people I guess…" A pause. "Not t'me though…I mean…how I figger it…seein' as you've already saved me once, even if you
wanted t' hurt me…" He shrugged, an easy roll of movement that somehow managed to press him up closer against Alroy's side, held up only by Alroy's arm at his waist now, "…my life's yours t' take…"
Alroy's heart wasn't used to this kind of exercise—knotting and twisting as though Zyric were physically trying to see how many different ways he could bend it. Finally, schooling himself and swallowing down the clump of unwelcome emotion in his throat, Alroy stopped, catching Zyric by the shoulders to hold him at arms' length in front of him. For his trouble, he got two, blinking blue eyes staring patiently up at him. "Zyric…" The words dried up on his tongue.
After a moment, Zyric tilted his head. "What is it? You a'right?"
"I…will never,
ever…hurt you," Alroy said, because in that instant he felt it needed saying more than anything else, and to his surprise, the corner of Zyric's lip curved up, his eyes softening with a look Alroy wasn't sure he'd ever seen on him before.
"I know," was all the response he got. Fortunately, it was all the response he needed.
Somehow, they made it back to the inn.
The next two weeks passed similarly. Zyric didn't drink every night, but during the day and when he was sober, he kept quiet, rarely talking and keeping relatively to himself. His behavior never struck Alroy as standoffish or even strictly reclusive, but nonetheless a dramatic shift from his characteristic bursting charisma and ceaseless talkative good humor. Not that Alroy blamed him. Or wondered for an instant what caused the changed. He only wished for a better means to assuage his persistent guilt (which remained no matter how many times Alroy assured him there was nothing he could have done were he there) and quiet suffering.
Three weeks after the incident, Alroy finally made the mistake of letting Zyric drink more than his body could handle.
They stood a good ways behind the pub of choice for that night, on the outskirts of the village whose name Alroy had forgotten the name of, and he stood patiently, carefully holding back the stray locks of blonde hair that might attempt to fall forward otherwise as Zyric retched. In between his soft, pained groans and the noise of him losing the contents of his stomach, night birds called out, nocturnal insects chirped, and the babble of rushing water sounded in the distance. Thus, when he finished, Alroy guided him back, towards the sound of the water. On locating the creek bed, Zyric gratefully washed his mouth and face.
"Sleep?" Alroy offered after Zyric's washing stilled, and his younger companion gave a noncommittal grunt, flopping back to a sit on the pebbles of the creek bed. It must have been wet, and muddy, but he seemed unbothered.
"This is…the second time 'n…couple weeks you've been standin' over me watchin' me toss up my lunch…" The rippling surface of the water cast dancing reflections of moonlight and shadow over Zyric's face. He looked weary beyond his years, and Alroy wanted nothing more than to wash the rest of the world away for him.
Aloud, he said, "I've seen worse." And Zyric huffed, but remained quiet again for some time before saying, softly.
"Y'know…" He gave a tight swallow and a shake of the head, "…I don' even…remember what the las' thing I said to 'im was…s'like…I was so focused on leavin'…so focused on gettin'
out, 'n bein' mad wit' Dee for keepin' me back I never…it never 'ccured to me I might not ever even…see 'im 'gain…"
Alroy lingered, torn between stooping to offer some form of physical comfort and holding back to give Zyric room. "He loved you," Alroy said eventually. "Both you and Kedean…he loved you dearly, and I'm sure that never faltered to his last breath…"
Zyric's lower lip disappeared between his teeth, his eyes shutting and shoulders hunching as he wrapped his arms around his knees. Abruptly, he gave a brittle, chopped laugh. "I…" He drew a long breath, and then whispered, like an embarrassed confession, "I miss my mother…"
Giving in, Alroy approached, and knelt, laying a hand on the small of Zyric's back.
"An' I'm too…old for-"
"You're never too old for grief."
"'M too old t' be mopin' around like a pup 'at's lost its mum, okay?" Zyric snapped, but he seemed angrier with himself than anything else. "I can'…keep…goin' on like…I…" A shuddery breath fell from his lips, and he gave up on that sentence, closing his eyes again. Maybe Alroy imagined the faint glisten beneath his lashes, because no tears stained his cheeks. Then, Zyric said, "Need t' stop loosin' it 'n cryin' aroun' you…feels like s'all I'm doin'…lately…" He shook his head. "Wish I could stop…
feelin'…just…all together. Don' seem worth it…"
"There's no shame in tears," Alroy said.
A snort. Then, in another, whispered confession, "And what 'bout wakin' up and wishin' you didn' have to at all? Wishin' you could just go on sleepin' forever…never wake up, ever…s'there shame in that?"
Alroy's gut knotted, lurching painfully, and he lifted his hand from Zyric's back to the back of his neck, brushing his fingers in past his hair and shaking his head. "Zyric-"
In a move that caught Alroy entirely by surprise, Zyric jerked suddenly, turning, looping his arms behind Alroy's neck, and clutching. Instinctively, Alroy tensed, completely at a loss as to how to respond, but as he came down from his initial shock, his perfunctory tension eased, and his hands came to a gradual rest around Zyric's shoulders and behind his back, simply holding on as Zyric shook, faintly, in his arms. He lost track of how long they sat like that: crouched in mud and pebbles and holding to each other as though the rest of the world would fall apart around them if they didn't.
Then, Zyric said something—whispered words pressed into the front of Alroy's chest that he couldn't make out.
"What?" he questioned, and Zyric's fingers clenched once, tighter, before loosening enough for him to put an inch of space between them and speak.
"Don't…go, a'right? Just…" He shuddered, and his voice dropped quieter still, "…you're the only person who hasn'…left me behind…only person who's…
always been there…dunno 'f I'd even bother t' keep goin' 'f you left me…"
Alroy shut his eyes. When he spoke, he tucked his words against Zyric's temple, soft but audible and drenched with intent. "I'm not going anywhere. I will swear to it on whatever you'd like me to, Zyric, I will never leave you behind…"
After that night, Zyric drank significantly less. As the days wound on – Alroy lost track eventually – it came to a point where Zyric gave up on drinking almost entirely (which Alroy considered fortunate seeing as Zyric struck him as an upset, verging on angry drunk, and certainly not a happy one). Then, Alroy made the mistake of taking back up the bottle himself for a night.
In his defense, he didn't get
drunk. He got…tipsy. Just enough alcohol to warm his body, hush his buzzing thoughts, and paint the world in slightly softer hues. It was a familiar ritual and an old habit, and one he figured he deserved to indulge in for a few hours since Zyric could take care of himself well enough while sober, after all, and the past slurry of weeks had been rough, to put it mildly.
Zyric found him at sunset with his back to a brick wall and drink dangling lazily from one hand. Alroy greeted his approach with a head tilt and inquisitive rise of the eyebrows. "There you are," he said. "Where've you been off to?"
"Around," Zyric answered. "Y'know, talking to folk…figuring out where we are…" He eyed Alroy's bottle as he lifted it to his lips, and then might have lingered an instant or two too long on Alroy's mouth afterwards, but perhaps Alroy's head was playing tricks on him. "Flirting with local girls."
"Oi, you flirt with girls now, too?" Alroy responded, and Zyric huffed, approaching to lean up against the wall beside him.
"Not sure who you been talkin' to," Zyric quipped, "but far as I know, girls are
all I flirt with…"
"Rhyan?"
"He looked like a girl, if you squinted."
Alroy snorted into his beer, but took another sip. "Me?"
"You're a special case."
Alroy choked on his mouthful. When he regained his composure, he shot Zyric a look. "I
was kidding, to clarify that…when was the last time you flirted with me?"
"Probably the last time you flirted with me," Zyric said with a noncommittal shrug. "Usually works like that, I mean, if you're doin' it right…a sort of back and forth kind of thing…"
"Hn." Alroy refocused his stare on the horizon. "And you're the expert now? At sixteen, you're an authority on what constitutes…'doing it right' as far as flirting's concerned?"
"Seventeen," Zyric said. "I was born during the first week of the gathering season, so I'm seventeen now, and yes," he added, "I'm definitely an expert. For your information, I'm irresistibly charming, if you hadn't noticed."
Alroy laughed—or meant to, anyway, but it only came out in the form of half-laugh coupled with a shit-eating grin that he turned into another sip of his drink. "Right," he said when he took it back down, "if you mean in the…abandoned puppy…please take me home and
love me sort of way…"
If Zyric took offense to that, his only retort was to steal Alroy's beer. Alroy frowned, watching his only form of sustenance yet that night disappear from his grasp.
"You should have told me you were passing another year marker," he said instead of complaining. "We could have…celebrated…or something."
"Didn't really feel like celebrating then," Zyric pointed out, and well,
that was true. Before Alroy came up with anything else to say, though, Zyric lifted the bottle. His fingers circled the neck, lips curling over the mouth of it and eyes dipping to half-mast, throat working as he swallowed-
Alroy looked sharply away, and Zyric might have drunk the whole bottle and Alroy wouldn't have noticed.
This, a tiny muted voice in the back of his mind pointed out, was why he hadn't been allowing himself to drink around Zyric. Far too many ideas that he had no right to entertain flit unwarranted through his mind.
Unfortunately, he looked back just in time to see Zyric
lick the
rim.
In Zyric's defense, it was a tiny lick. Just the briefest flick of a pink tongue from between wet lips, but it was
there, and Alroy
saw it, and that was, frankly, all that mattered. Throat suddenly dry, he swallowed. "You-" That came out too coarse, and Alroy cleared his throat to try again. "Zyric…"
Zyric blinked over at him, big innocent eyes as he gathered a dollop of moisture from his lip with his knuckle and
sucked the bend of his finger. "Yeah?"
Alroy stared. "You're doing that on purpose."
He hadn't said it in earnest. In fact, it more or less popped out because he was frustrated with himself for seeing things that weren't there and honestly he oughtn't have been thinking along those lines to begin with-
Except that Zyric's cheeks heated the instant he made the accusation, his expression morphing into some combination of guilty and abashed. Thus, by the time he blurted, "Doin' what?" Alroy wasn't having it.
"You
were doing that on purpose!"
Zyric opened his mouth.
"Are you trying to
seduce me?"
Zyric's blush was gorgeous—a rich, glowing red-brown that warmed half his face and part of his neck. His voice on the other hand, surprisingly, didn't waver in the slightest. "I dunno," he answered. "Guess it depends…is it working?"
'No,' perhaps would have sufficed, or 'You shouldn't be doing that in the first place.' In fact, just about
anything but, "Subtlety isn't your strong suit…but you have the licking thing down." Wincing at his own poor choice of statements, Alroy stole his beer back because he was not drunk enough to be having this conversation. Actually, he really wasn't hardly drunk at all, certainly not so much as to merit the things going through his head and—what? Drinking more now would
fix that?
Well, no, but-
"Alright," Zyric said, pushing up off the wall, catching his drinking hand to still the bottle on its way to his lips and stepping up in front of him, "…I'll give up on subtle."
"Ah…" Alroy fumbled, caught between frowning at having his alcohol removed from reach—again—and blinking because Zyric was
right there—far too close, really, personal boundaries and all that, "…that…wasn't actually exactly what I mean-"
Fingers settled into the niche at his neck and shoulder and soft, alcohol-damp lips closed over his own, swallowing up the last of that sentence.
North Country, Castle of Tyrius Goldwind Baisyl blinked up at his guard. After a long, puzzled moment, he responded, "Bled? What," he asked, seeking clarification, "…the last…scratch? Or the last significant injury? I'm sure I've bled at least a drop or two-"
"No." Rapidly, looking almost embarrassed, Natara shook her head, and her frown only served to puzzle Baisyl further. "
Womanly bleeding," she emphasized, quieting her voice as though this were a private matter. At his continued incomprehension, she went on, "Related to…the cycles of the moon? Monthly…?" Her frown deepened, suddenly uncertain. "Does your body not even-"
Comprehension dawned, and Baisyl yelped, "
All women have that?"
Natara looked at him as though he'd grown another appendage. "Ah…yes?" Then, after another second, the implications of his statement sank in, because she abruptly added, "No one
explained to you?"
"Well, I wasn't about to
ask…" Baisyl burst back. "Oh, by the way," he mimicked, "…I'm bleeding
between my legs, and my entire body is in pain, is that normal? Do you have a cure for that?" He shook his head. "I thought I was
dying…but then, you know, at that point I was fairly ready to die anyway…it was just a sort of…added humiliation…"
"You don't have a…sister?" Natara asked, looking shocked and far too pitying for Baisyl's taste.
"Two younger brothers, no sisters," he answered.
"But surely…your mother—?"
"Fire breathing lizard witch who cursed me with this body to begin with," Baisyl said. "Apparently, she didn't see fit to mention any added inconveniences that came with the territory…"
"And you were a young woman in your twenties…" Natara said quietly, as if musing to herself now, "…of course no maid would think to mention…" There, her expression softened,
definitely turning to pity. "You poor thing…"
Baisyl grit his teeth. "Yes, well, I survived," he grumped, and then, eager to change the subject, he went on, "…and, to answer your previous question, it was some time ago. Over…two months, at least," he decided. "If it had kept to its monthly schedule I ought to have bled…probably the last day we were in Carthak." At her look, he frowned. "Why? What's the significance?"
"Baisyl…bleeding is a sign of a girl entering womanhood," Natara said, treading very carefully with her words. "It typically begins when she is thirteen or fourteen summers…sometimes as early as twelve or younger…and it marks the time when her body is mature enough to become with child. A young woman will bleed every month of her life until she becomes too old to bear children…or until a man gives her his baby."
And Baisyl's world dropped out from under him. It was a slow drop, like the ground under his feet disintegrating to sand even as his heart reared up like a battle horse, pounding its hooves against the inner walls of his chest in wild panic. He must have swayed, because a second later he blinked and Natara was holding his wrists, supporting half his weight.
"Baisyl?"
He shook his head. "I can't-" His voice felt brittle and dry in his throat, but he forced more words out. "I'm not—that's not
possible, we never-"
But even as attempted to shake his belief in it – deny it, tell himself that it couldn't be because he never shared Kedean's bed as a woman, not fully – the reality of it sank deeper with each passing moment. Trying to convince himself otherwise felt like trying to swim upwards with a stone chained to his foot and being pulled impossibly farther down no matter how he struggled. He remembered Kedean, that night in the fairy captain's ship, retelling the words of the prophecy given to him all too clearly. And his body
had been changing—small enough changes that he had ignored them and chocked them up to shifts in the weather and location and dietary habits, but this conclusion made all the pieces fit together at once.
It made perfect, terrifying
sense.
Baisyl realized he was trembling, and jerked his wrists free of Natara's grip, taking a step back.
"Baisyl-"
"I'll just have to get rid of it," he said, speaking in a quiet, distracted tone, more to himself than anyone else, and the thought gave him a moment's peace, so he repeated it. "I'll get rid of it. I'm in a castle full of magic users. Surely, there is
someone with a spell, or potion, or pill-"
"Get…rid of it?" Natara's tone prompted him to look up, and he found her expression a tumultuous combination of confusion, disbelief and rapidly dawning incredulous fury as his meaning sunk in. "That is a child—
your child-"
"It would be a child," Baisyl growled, hardening his words defensively, "…
if I chose to carry it to term."
"You can't-"
"I can," Baisyl snapped, "and you may feel free to
watch me, if you feel so inclined." He spun, pivoting and making to exit the room immediately, but a hand snatched him back, and he rounded on her. "If you do not
unhand me-"
"You would
murder your own child?" Natara accused, sounding somehow simultaneously venomous and devastated by the concept alone, and Baisyl's insides roiled sickeningly – a deep, lurching dread – but he twisted against her hold regardless, to no avail.
"I would make my own decisions on how to govern
my body," he retorted just as forcefully.
"That is Kedean's baby-"
"It is
mine-"
"It is his as much as it is your own!"
Baisyl shook his head. "You don't know that…" Though he knew it to be true himself – there was no way it could be anyone but Kedean's – he felt vicious, vulnerable, and more terrified than he could ever remember being in his life, and the desire to strike out at anything available prevailed blindly over everything else. "Maybe I fucked a thousand men before him with this body…maybe I fucked others while I was
with him-"
"You didn't." Natara's voice came out sharp and low, but brittle as frozen shoots of new grass or a thin mirror. "You were timid as an infant
mouse in that skin. You never would have let another man touch you…"
"Perhaps I was raped." A raw, humorless laugh escaped him without his choosing, and Baisyl shook his head. "And regardless,
whatever the case is, whether it's Kedean's or the spawn of some filthy…staggering lowlife throwing pennies a whorehouse a thousand miles from here, it has
nothing to do with you…" His throat hurt; his
heart hurt, but he wasn't going to fall apart here—not in front of Natara, not in front of anyone. "It's not yours…and Kedean is an ocean and a continent away. He
left-"
The word wavered, catching on its way up his throat, and Baisyl shut his eyes, steeling himself.
"He left," he repeated. "He left me, and he left you long before he left me, and I may
never see him again…and that's a reality I have to contend with. I cannot afford to second guess myself, and I most certainly am
not going to curl up in a heap and snivel and mourn my lost lover like a
useless-"
"Woman?" Natara asked, frigidly to the point.
Baisyl closed his fingers, gripping until his nails dug into his palms because he was
angry, not because he felt control slipping away like too many feathers tossed into the wind, and his entire body was trembling again. "I can't carry his baby," he whispered. "I
can't. I-" The remainder of his breath left him in a ragged shudder, and Natara's grip fell loose from his wrists. "He's not even
here."
That last point, perhaps, was the most important of all.
She let him go, and he fled the room.
Everyone around him had known. After reading as much as he could get his hands on for two months, he knew that much about the races gifted with magic. Everyone around him had known and
not one of them had breathed a word. Baisyl couldn't figure out where to direct his anger.
At himself, for getting himself into this and pursuing Kedean after hearing of the prophecy? At Kedean, for helping that along? At Kedean for
leaving him like this? At every inhabitant of the castle he'd come across who must all have
collectively kept the secret from him for the entirety of his stay?
He felt like a teacup trying to contain the writhing, unbridled ferocity of a typhoon: all infinite, sightless energy beating at thin, breakable walls ready to shatter at any unpredictable instant. And worse than that was the hurt.
He
hurt, not physically, but in a hundred ways bandages could never heal. From the morning he'd woken without Kedean at his side he had shoved the hurt away, hiding under a rug in the farthest corner of his conscious that he could manage, piling a thousand other rugs on top of the first shutting doors behind the thought and locking it there. He'd buried himself in learning, in fighting, in thinking about anything but Kedean, and it had
worked. Better than he could have possibly hoped, it had worked, and he had missed him, yes, but it was something he never let himself dwell on; something he trained himself not to think about.
Now, conversely, he felt exposed. Blatantly and helplessly exposed and
alone. Stripped of every defense and aching with his vulnerability. And he
hated it. It burned under his skin – that metaphorical, unscratchable itch – and he wanted to shred everything in his path, tear the castle to sand piece by piece and make
everyone he saw suffer just to vent his own pain, regardless of guilt or lack thereof.
He made it to his room, shut and locked the door behind him, and then threw two locking charms on it, not because he thought anyone in the castle wouldn't be able to undo them and get in, but because he knew it would stop any casual passerby and slow even the most determined one down if nothing else. Only then, finally alone, did he allow his thin veneer of composure to start to crumble.
Snatching his pendant from his dresser, Baisyl laid the thin chain over his head and around his neck with shaking fingers, and then held the weight of it in one fist. As the wash of returning to his designated body rippled over him, he drew a slow breath, eyes shut, but even that familiar comfort did little to stay the yawning dread in his gut, not to mention the
want.
Kedean's baby.
He shuddered. Kedean
left. Kedean was
gone. Kedean was a
world away.
But fuck if Baisyl didn't want him—desperately, hopelessly, more than anything. More than
everything. And the fact that the wanting did nothing to change reality made it infinitely sharper, a jagged edge dragged back and forth over a barely healed wound.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way, you know," he whispered, speaking to no one, since the only person who mattered in that instant would never hear him. "I was supposed to be alright without you. I
was alright without you. Not…happy, precisely," he admitted, quieter, and frowning, "…but…fine. I got on, and days passed, and the world kept turning…it was a perfectly acceptable existence. But
then…"
He approached the bed, reaching out and pursing his lips in thought as he traced a thumb over the patterns woven into the comforter: delicate, intricate twists and loops of thread. What once looked like mere artistic embroidery, he now recognized – at least in bits and pieces – as spellwork. Rhyan had not been joking when he said it was buried in everything here, and Baisyl drew his finger along the shape of one he knew to be specifically designed for peace of mind.
"In retrospect," he murmured, "I suppose it was foolish of me to think things might go as simply as intended…but of all the things I wanted to avoid,
needing you must have been nearest the top…and it seems now, I'm failing at even so simple a task as that."
A moment after that, he let his hand drop from the cloth and moved around the bed, approaching the wide window looking out over the expansive territory below. A second, he waited in front of it, two, and then he threw it open. Fully spread, it went wider than his arms by about a foot and reached higher than he was tall by close to half again his height. He eyed the sill, and then the world outside it. Buildings, the bay, miles of forest beyond that and mountains that reached into the clouds further still.
How far down? He wondered. Another shielding spell clearly kept out most of the wind this high up, but not all of it, and not all of the cold, either, so a chill nipped at his cheeks as he looked. A hundred feet? A thousand? More, less?
Shivering, he pushed up. One easy motion, one hand on the window frame, and he was up, on the sill, and standing fully upright with hundreds of feet of empty air within the reach of a single step. His heart gave a single stuttered leap at the sight, but he drew a slow breath and held his ground. It reminded him, fittingly, of his second night out at sea after leaving for Brittaney. Of the moments before Kedean appeared at his side; of staring down at the sea and wondering what it would be like to sink into oblivion, never to surface.
He wondered if he would have jumped that night, if it hadn't been for Kedean.
Someone was at his door. First knocking, then pounding, and his brother's voice registered vaguely, but Baisyl tuned him out. Instead, he shut his eyes, trying to draw up an image of Kedean as he'd looked standing at the bow of the boat beside him, watching him with eyes that were already gentle despite him not knowing a whit about Baisyl yet.
How many times since meeting Kedean had Baisyl wound up on the lip of a potentially deadly precipice?
The door opened with a crash.
"
Baisyl-"
"Stay where you are," Baisyl cautioned, pleased that his voice came out sounding impeccably neutral—calm without a flicker of intonation, positive or negative. "I somehow doubt you'd want to startle me at this point…"
"Baisyl…" Rhyan's voice cracked on his name, panicked and wrecked, but he held his ground as directed, and Baisyl's heart twisted in his chest at the sound. He didn't dare look back. "Baisyl,
please…"
"Tell me, brother," Baisyl said, his voice far more difficult to come by now, with Rhyan's panic and grief rolling up against him in waves, sloshing into his own and melding into a tumultuous sea of suffocating
helplessness that rose ever higher in his chest with each pass, "…have you ever dreamt of flying?"
A/N: If anyone's wondering why a grown, intelligent man like Baisyl didn't know anything about something as basic as the menstrual cycle, think of it this way: he had no sisters to explain it to him when he got cursed, he has a distant fairly negative relationship with his mother, he never took any female lovers for any extended period of time (one girl one time doesn't count for much), and anyone in his family who knew (his father, most likely, and possibly Myles, since he's interested in girls and more active on that front than Rhyan) were unlikely to come up to him and have a "talk" about it. It's an awkward enough topic in today's society, and I can only imagine it would be more taboo for men in a more chauvinistic culture/"old fashioned" culture. Not to mention, they weren't exactly a close knit, talk-about-anything-with-each-other type of family. And finally, the women around him (if he even trusted any of them; unlikely, since they were all new servants) would have thought he was a grown woman who knew how his body worked.
Kedean should be making his appearance (finally) next chapter. :)
ALSO, special thanks to
attackegg for explaining. I intended to explain in this A/N but it was frustrating not being able to do so quickly, and you covered basically all of the important points. So kudos to you! :D
