by D. Fischer
He’s quiet for a very long time, allowing the crickets to rule the silence. Gripping my chin with his free hand, he angles my face so my eyes squarely meet his, searching their depths. “I see you, Katriane DuPont. I see you for what you are, for your fears, for your compassionate heart, for the mercy you give to others even if you can’t give it to yourself. I’m not asking you to choose me over the realms. I’m asking you to find room for me in your heart. I’m asking for you to allow yourself to be loved. For what is love if not fear?”
He shifts in his seated position, angling his body more toward mine. Our knees touch and a shiver runs through my thighs, over my rump, and up my spine. “Without love, all would decimate.”
“Decimating is what we’re supposed to be doing to the enemy,” I whisper, weak for words.
“And we shall,” he answers in kind. “When the time is right. But, for this very moment, my affection for you is the only thing that matters. I can’t save the realms today; you can’t save the realms today. But I can, and I will . . .” he trails off, leaning forward with his eyes on my lips, “kiss you.”
I open my mouth to protest, to say there’s no time for such behavior, but he hushes me with a thumb over my lips. “Let me fall for you, Kat.”
And with that, he leans forward and feathers his lips against mine.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TEMBER
GUARDIAN REALM
It didn’t take long to arrive at the first village – it was the closest of the three. As an entourage of fee, elf, dwarves, and Sandman, we stand on the grassy hill just before the Yoki tribe’s black tree forest. A warm dry breeze whips our clothes at our backs, urging us forward, but instead of heeding to the request, we only stare.
The long grass is damp with past rain, soaking into our clothes, but none of the group seems bothered by it. The trees before us sway in the gale, and the droplets on their leaves create a mist as they’re carried away, causing the air to look as though sparkles drop from the sky.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. I’ve been here before but only for battle. When fighting for my life, I don’t take the time to soak in the lands, to drink in the atmosphere and observe what beauty lies before me. My only job was to kill on these lands when the wars broke among the Guardian Realm’s people.
“Yes,” Nally murmurs at my left in awe. His too big head bobbing in agreement, and then he looks to me, glee puffing his cheeks over this great adventure of new discoveries.
“Don’t even ask it, Tember,” Jaemes mumbles as he steps up to my right, having chosen to walk instead of riding his matua the entire trek. The dwarves poke their heads around my body to gaze at Jaemes with curious, expectant twists to their bushy eyebrows.
“Ask what?” I ask.
“Don’t you dare ask if I’m ‘ready.’”
I smirk. “You stole the words right out of my mouth.” I had, indeed, been about to ask him that question. I think I ask it more for myself than to see if he’s mentally prepared for what’s to come. It’s a reassurance to know I’m not alone, to have the words repeated back to me as a pledge.
“Are we in danger?” Nally inquires with a hint of anticipation at the possible aspect as he grips his self-drawn map tighter in his hand.
“I shouldn’t believe so,” I say.
The Sandman lifts a hand and scratches his jaw, complete disinterest in his white eyes. I observe him with mild concern. The further and further we get from the Igna Tribe’s village, the more sour and silent he becomes. I believe depression is the root. After all, he’s lost a great deal - his home, his friends, his second home. And then, he’s had to fight for his life on numerous occasions. It makes me wonder if he would have handled this easier in the company of better acquaintances, such as Dyson and Kat, who seem to understand him on a mutual level. He trusts them and has every reason to do so. But me? Perhaps I am nothing to him. I understand the feeling of being left behind, and I don’t blame him for the emotions crippling his mood.
“Little faith,” Jaemes grumbles to the group, readjusting his bow across his chest.
“When it comes to you, always.”
As I take the first step forward, I search for something to change the subject before Jaemes can respond with witty sarcasm. If we walk into the village seemingly bickering, it could give the wrong message. “Nally, did you know Jaemes’s bow was fashioned in this village?”
“Oh?” he asks, his thick arms swaying with each pleased tread. I grin and shake my head as he vibrates with the possible discoveries the Yoki people will provide for his insatiable appetite for knowledge. With everything these dwarves have soaked in, a normal person would be rubbing their temples right now and begging to be returned home for a long night’s rest to adjust. They’re like sponges with a constant thirst and seemingly no end for it.
Jaemes grumbles under his breath when the three dwarves pick up a feverous chat, quiet voices that are hurriedly mumbled overtop of the other.
“Now look what you did,” Jaemes quips. “Before days end, this entire village will run for the hills because of the questions they’ll have for them.”
I shrug. “Then you won’t have to fight for your position.”
He scoffs and leers at me. “What if I want to fight for it?”
“Do you?” I ask, stepping over a stray rock.
He faces forward again and thinks. “Yes. It’s my right to do so. It’s tradition and honor. I want that. I desire to earn my place, not be appointed to it.”
I nod, understanding where he’s coming from. To the elves, honor, and honesty are held with the utmost respect. My shoulder bumps into his as my footfall lands unevenly on a lump of dirt hidden in the tall grass. “Except you don’t want to be the leader of every village on the realm.”
“No,” he confirms. “I want to fight alongside them. Not lead them to their deaths.”
I frown and tuck my wings tighter to me. “Is that what you think will happen?”
He flicks me a dark, pinched look with firm lips as his braid sways down the middle of his back, too heavy to be whisked in the breeze. “Yes. We’ll be asking them to fight an enemy they know nothing about, on a realm we know nothing of, for creatures they’ve refused to protect in the past. How well do you think this is going to go over?”
Grabbing the curls whipping my cheek, I twist them and tuck the locks in the crook of my neck. “Not well,” I admit. “But we have to try. If you win the competition, they’ll have no choice. We need them, Jaemes.”
He nods, and his face softens. “I wish my father had the same ambition.”
I place a hand on his shoulder, and it jostles with each stride we take. “Your father was in an impossible position. He did what he could at the time.”
I know my words to be true, and at his nod, so does he. Mitus couldn’t have helped the situation. He couldn’t have forced the tribes to work one on one with the angels and protect the races who can’t protect themselves. But in the end, he had tried. He used Jaemes and me as an experiment to see if it could be done, forcing us to work together. I believe he did so because he knew this day would come. He laid the first bricks of a paved road to redemption for his youngest, showed the tribes it is possible for us to work hand in hand for the greater good of the realms.
We silently march into the black trunked trees where several Yoki elves dangle from the branches like whipplemonks, not bothering to hide the fact that they’re there. We step lightly, careful but rigid.
“Should we say something?” I mumble to Jaemes, itching to call upon my fee magic.
Nally takes the situation into his own hands. “Greetings!” he waves, giddy as a child absent fear. “We have come to save the realms!”
Jaemes curses under his breath. “Gag him. Gag him now.”
“Perhaps we should have left the kids at home.”
Stone-faced, they say nothing to us and, instead, silently drop from the branches as soon as we pass them on our way to the village. I bristle as they land a
t our backs, my wings rustling in agitation while I grind my teeth.
Unlike Jaemes’s Igna tribe’s black tattoos, theirs are green, matching the color of the leaves. They’re almost impossible to detect among the vast vegetation if they so choose to keep themselves hidden. I know this all too well from past battles, and my unease settles in the pit of my stomach.
Whipplemonks chirp from the vacated trees, their green, six-legged bodies a stark contrast to the black bark they cling to. Other smaller animals skitter along the path as we make our way to the village tucked in the forest not far ahead. I can see the shelters among the branches, homes built off the ground.
The Yoki Tribe prefers to travel by the very trees they harvest, and they’re skilled at doing so, hurling their bodies from one branch to the next, all the while, not making a single sound. It can be an eerie thing when you’re at war, but now, I find it irritating and rude, especially now that I hold the honor of being the fee of this realm. To treat me in such a way . . .
“You know,” Jaemes mumbles, feeling my irritation. Or perhaps he can hear the grind of my teeth. “I’m not the only one who has to win them over.”
I frown at him before glancing behind us. Our followers have begun whispering to one another, speaking only in their native tongue. They glare as each meet my hard, disapproving stare, further backing up Jaemes’s declaration. They know I’m the fee in charge now; I can tell, and I try to mentally place myself in their shoes, imagining how I would feel if the situation were reversed. Would I treat an elf with such disrespect if he or she were in charge of the realm? I’d like to think I wouldn’t, but even stating that to myself would be a lie, and I know it.
Self-conscious of my shortcomings, I tuck my wings, square my shoulders, and look forward.
Under the awning of thick leaves, the forest is dark, but each home is lit inside, the light glowing from uncovered windows. They’re built of logs, sticks, dried mud, and brittle grass. The colors – black, purple, green, and gold - are breathtaking when slabbed together in such a way. The many homes are circular in shape as they wrap around the trunks several feet in the air, held up by sturdy, supportive branches. A few tilt haphazardly, depending on the angle of the branches, and roots from the trees are erected from the soil, their middle reaching up to provide a makeshift bridge from one structure to the next before their tips dip back into the soil. How did they get the trees to do that?
“No one said this would be easy,” Jaemes mumbles while observing the village in the same awestruck fashion as the dwarves and myself.
As we enter the village, a hush whispers over those who roam the ground and the root bridges. An elf drops from a bridge. There’s no railing to hold them in, not that they’d need it. Like cats, elves are graceful. Even when they fall by accident, more often than not, they land on their feet as though the act was on purpose.
“Jaemes,” the new elf greets on a swift approach, axe swinging in his grip. “Isu-ate tire?”
“What do you think I’m doing here, Wisa?” Jaemes grips the string of his bow and lifts the weapon over his head. He passes it to Sandy, who takes it without question.
He purses his shrewd, thin lips in disapproval though I suspect he had been waiting for Jaemes arrival. After all, we did stand on that hill for some time, and no doubt, the elves in the trees carried back word faster than we took our first step.
Slowly swiveling, he pins me with a glare, swapping to a language I can understand so the insult can take the desired effect. “And the traitor?”
A rumble begins in Jaemes’s chest, his body vibrating with authority. “She is no traitor, Wisa. She saved many great people in the past days. It would do you right to show a little respect.”
“Respect must be earned,” he responds, his tone unchanging. “If this is the new creator, then I refuse to follow her lead. I will not be under the authority of such a species known to torment our people, of causing battle and war and bloodshed. They crave it, Jaemes. They desire blood to drip from their hands.” He dips his voice to a growl. “They’re all monsters, no matter their titles.”
I return his glare and lift a hand. I knew how this would go, and I knew I’d have to shoulder the threats and prejudices directed my way. He does have a valid point; war seems to flow through angels’ veins, but I’m not that way. I may crave the next adventure, but I don’t relish the deaths that follow.
A glow webs between each of my raised fingers and enlarges, pulsating. With a shove of my hand, Wisa is thrown backward and pinned to the tree’s trunk, a blanket of white light keeping him there. I stalk toward him until I’m inches from his face.
“Respect will be demanded,” I hiss. “Unlike Erma, none of you will tramp through my realm without submitting to my orders. Just as the angels, you’ll do as I say when I say. You’ll fall in line, or I’ll exile you to another realm. There’s no option here. Obey, or be abandoned.”
I lean closer, touching the tip of his hooked nose to mine. “And just so we’re clear, my monster only comes out to play when lives are on the line. You fought those wars, too. You reveled in the blood of my people, too. Don’t pretend innocence. Not. To. Me.”
We search each other’s eyes, waiting for the other to submit. The tops of the trees groan with a breeze, and the village is quiet, on edge about what may happen next. But then, he nods. It’s subtle and done grudgingly with a sneer on his lips, but it’s there nonetheless.
Satisfied, I step away, and the glow releases in a pulsing wave spreading over the forest floor before it dissipates entirely. “Good,” I say louder for the entire gathering village to hear. “Any more questions?”
Wisa takes a deep breath and flings his long hair over his shoulder, exposing more of his green tattoos. He looks at Jaemes while rubbing his neck. “Am I correct in assuming you’re here for the challenge as leader of the Tribe Council?”
“Yim,” he says, and I know it to mean yes. With the amount of time I’ve spent with the elves of late, I’m beginning to pick up their language. I’m going to need it in the coming days, and if we don’t all die, I’ll need it for days after.
At the nod of Wisa’s head to another above, a ladder is unrolled and dropped to the ground. The wooden steps sway precariously as the wind dips and blow along the forest floor, shifting the twined ropes.
“Come,” Wisa demands in elfish. He considers me sidelong and then switches to English. “We’ll feast and then battle for the position.” He grips the rung level with his head and begins his brisk climb effortlessly. Despite the sway from his weight, his years of practiced movements living in these trees make it look easier than it is.
As customary to elf tradition, it is the leader of the tribe who challenges for the position, no matter who the position was left to. It’s about honor and sacrifice and earning your place among the people as a whole. Often, death is the result. Though Mitus had been leader of the council for some time, in the past, I’ve heard of a few winners who have let the opposing side live, Mitus counted among them.
I wonder which Jaemes will be. I study his sturdy set jaw as he grabs at the ladder and climbs after Wisa. Will he kill his friend? Or will he let him live?
Time will tell.
For hours, I stand observing the nature of this tribe and their manners from the window of the tribe leader’s hut while positioned behind a seated Jaemes and Wisa. It’s subtly different than Jaemes’s tribe, and I suspect it is because of how they live. They converse less and use actions more as though words would break the serene calm and silence of the forest.
In Jaemes’s tribe, fire pits are often lit to chase away the chill. But here, in the warmth of the climate, no such fire is needed, and the trees seemingly give off their own heated temperature. Instead, lantern-like objects hang from the hut’s dried mud and grass ceiling, the single flame too bright to make out the material holding it. I don’t dare go observe it for fear I’ll offend, but I do question what would happen if someone came along and simply . . . bumped it from
where it dangles. The hut would go up like a tiki torch.
In the middle of the hut, the tree’s trunk takes up the entire space, forcing the occupant to travel in a circle to reach the other side. Spider’s webs spread across each window, and I’ve thought many times about swiping them away for a better view but have refrained from doing so with my hands crossed tightly across my chest. Even now, as I stand before it, a bug is caught. I wait for the spider to show up and have its meal, but none ever do. The bug has been tugging and pulling, beating its wings as hard as it can to try and extract itself. Eventually, it gives up and sits still, stuck to the glossy strings.
I frown when I realize I’m drawing a parallel to the spider’s next meal, and with a deep sigh, I refocus my vision, past the defeated bug, and push it from my mind.
The trees’ tops sway in the breeze, and the huts built atop them do as well. At times, when the gale is strong, it causes my stomach to lurch, and I brace myself against the home’s wall. But the structure stands solid, and my nausea always settles when it’s over.
Standing outside the hut, the Sandman and the dwarves try to chat quietly, but their deep voices and many questions carry inside through the window, causing several smiles to grace my face. They love it here, and sometimes, that glee can be contagious.
Jaemes and Wisa are settled on piles of oxtra fur, conversing in their own language about the events that had transpired on his end of the realm. The conversation often moves to memories or past battles while Wisa’s attention flicks my direction from time to time. I’ve been silent, and I think this causes him concern. After all, an angel on his land, here on good terms, is highly unusual. Does he believe me to be plotting an attack on his village, or is he simply viewing one of the creatures that he’s fought against in the past? Perhaps his thoughts drift to my black wings instead and how I received such an abnormal gift. Over my dead body will I betray Kat by telling him that tale.
