Chapter Text
When he stumbles from the keep’s main hall into the sticky heat, Aloth’s chest is tight and his thoughts are a garbled mess. His breath comes in ragged gasps that belong not to exertion but to panic. The elf is dimly aware of a metallic stench rising from his armor, but he can’t bring himself to look down at the splatter of blood—not his—that marks the leather. Instead, he looks out at what’s left of the keep: a crumbling barbican, a neglected chapel, a dilapidated forum all silhouetted by the afternoon sun. The bright light makes him squint, but it clears his head.
It’s late in the day; the long shadows draw his feet forward through the grounds. His racing thoughts slow as he walks, replaced with a dull throb in his temples. Iselmyr is, for now, silent. Eventually, Aloth comes to a stop on the western side of the keep’s derelict craft shop and, leaning his grimoire against the brick wall, sits cross legged in the warm grass.
The events of the last two days replay in his mind: Gilded Vale, angry villagers; Iselmyr’s intervention a cold gap in his memory. The orlan woman, Ren: a watcher. She’s an escaped slave; says her mother was brought to Aedyr to serve a thayn. Aloth's mind drifts to Aedyr, to his childhood, his own mother...He shakes his head as if to cast the memories away. A deep breath. Think of the present; of the Dyrwood. Of yesterday: the crumbling temple and so many kith bones. The golden-haired folk man who seems, like him, to be seeking something. Then of today, the others—this watcher has strange taste in company—and Caed Nua in the morning light, and finally Maerwald’s frail form crumpling as Aloth’s own spell strikes true. Maerwald, succumbing to his past lives. Maerwald, awakened and insane…
* * * * *
Before the old watcher speaks, Aloth can sense that something is wrong. Maerwald’s gestures are too swift for his age, too wide for the dim, cramped dungeon. Ren stands before him unafraid, flanked by Kana and Edér. Her voice is almost hopeful when she asks him about her awakening. Her ears point forward to catch his whispered answer. But when the orlan asks him about his own awakening, his movements stop. There is fear in his eyes when he turns his face to hers. Though he hasn’t yet responded, the interaction seems to have drained him; when he does speak, it’s in halting half-phrases. Aloth recognizes the look of someone wresting control from a past life. The old watcher mentions Defiance Bay and—Aloth catches his breath—the Leaden Key, but there’s no time to process as he gasps and slumps over.
When Maerwald looks up again, his expression has changed. Edér’s hand moves instinctively to the hilt of his sword. Dread settles heavy as a stone in Aloth’s gut. Iselmyr is clawing at the confines of his mind, willing him to shout a warning. He bites his tongue. The violence in this man’s eyes is sickeningly familiar, and he knows for certain what will happen now. Maerwald’s head swivels on his neck until he’s staring at Ren. The moment stretches on—why isn’t she reacting?, Aloth thinks desperately—but just as Maerwald lunges, Ren shifts her weight. She dodges his spell and then she’s upon him, spiritshifted and unleashing blow after blow.
Things are happening quickly now. Edér is overwhelmed with elemental blights. Durance calls something out, there’s a blinding flash, and they are all suffused in a warm, shielding aura. Kana’s deep voice cuts clear through the chaos. A gunshot shakes the room and nearly knocks Aloth to the ground. His ears are ringing terribly. He sees Ren strike Maerwald with a mighty bear paw; she has an edge, but he can tell she’s tiring. From his vantage point, he has a clear shot to cast a lancing spell, to end this, and he takes the shot, then the hot scent of magic fills the air and Maerwald falls in a spray of dark red.
For a solid minute, the room is silent save for the sound of breathing and a distant drip. Aloth’s ears are still ringing. Dazed, he looks down to see that he is covered in what can only be Maerwald’s blood. Then Edér spits.
“As enlightening as this all was,” he growls, “I reckon I’d be havin’ more fun hangin’ from that tree back home.” The temperature in the room seems to drop. Immediately, regret writes itself onto the farmer’s face, but before he has a chance to say more, Ren rounds on him, eyes flashing. She jabs a furred finger in his chest. Her entire body is glowing faintly like she’s about to spiritshift, and, for a moment, Aloth thinks she will attack. Instead, she drops her hand and looks Edér up and down.
“I know your game,” she says. Ren is half Edér’s height, but she seems to tower over him. “You’re pretending not to care. You think I never played that one before?” Edér says nothing. The ringing in Aloth’s ears will surely deafen him. Kana tries to interject, but the watcher seems not to hear. She’s staring daggers at Edér, who stares back defiantly. “You only say what you feel when you can play it off as a joke.”
At this, Edér opens his mouth, but Ren jabs his chest again with her finger. “No, listen to me,” she growls. “Know what I think?” She lowers her voice to just above a whisper. “I think you’re acting like a jackass because the alternative is living with the reality that you hurt all the time.” Edér blanches, the anger on his face replaced by shock.
“N-now, that ain’t—I’m not,” he stammers. “That—that ain’t fair.”
The watcher’s gaze softens. Her face flickers with what might be pity. “Edér, I know you were hoping for answers about—” she pauses. “...about your brother. I’m sorry.” Suddenly, he can’t meet her gaze.
They’re silent as they make their way to the surface. Tension hangs like fog in the air. Aloth can sense Edér behind him, stony-eyed and still simmering as they clamor from the stairwell into the main hall. Things filter back into his awareness, slowly at first, then all at once. He recalls the old watcher’s mention of the Leaden Key; he feels the shock of Maerwald’s death and Edér’s anger. Worse, he senses the burgeoning grip of panic in his chest. He is far from home and covered in blood, and he does not want to be here, guarding secrets from these strangers, any longer.
Ren catches his eye and beckons as she approaches the steward, but Aloth has reached his limit. Only Iselmyr’s obstinate voice is powerful enough to disrupt his own stream of thoughts, both are telling him to get away. He mumbles something about fresh air and makes a beeline for the door.
* * * * *
Aloth isn’t sure how long he dozes off, but when he wakes, the sun has nearly set and Edér is standing across from him, holding a lantern and wearing an unreadable expression.
“Wondered where you’d gone off to. Would’ve found you sooner, but no one felt like going farther today. The others are settin’ up camp in the main hall. Watcher figures it’s safer there than outside...now that all them skuldr are taken care of.” Edér drives his sword into the soft earth and hangs his lantern on the hilt. “Mind if I join you? I get antsy bein’ cooped up so much.”
“Actually, I—” Aloth falters, grasping for an excuse. What could he say? That he was enjoying his privacy among the haunted ruins? Iselmyr cuts him short: Let him sit. Yer own nerves are more o’ a danger tae yerself than this lad is. He clears his throat and gestures at the ground beside him.
“Actually,” he says again, when he’s sure he’ll speak with his own voice and not Iselmyr’s, “I would be glad for the company.”
The two sit awkwardly for a few wordless moments. By the lantern light, Aloth can see that Edér’s face is covered with a layer of grime. He looks tired. On his right hand, a large burn has begun to blister; he traces it with a calloused finger and winces. Aloth absently thumbs a buckle on his armor and wonders what to say.
“You got a bit of a stain there, huh?” says Edér by way of an icebreaker. He cracks a sheepish grin and nods at Aloth’s chest. Aloth looks down and starts; he’d forgotten about the splatter of blood (now deep brown and cracking) on his armor. He allows himself a chuckle.
“Oh! Yes, I—” But his voice catches in his throat as he’s struck by a terrible thought: what if Edér is angry at him for killing Maerwald? Hadn’t Ren mentioned that Edér wanted to speak with the old watcher? And hadn’t Aloth dealt the killing blow? Iselmyr’s presence, ever vigilant, vibrates in his limbs.
“About that,” Aloth begins again. If his face or voice belie his panic, Edér appears not to notice. “It seems you had business with Maerwald that perhaps my actions have, ah, hindered.” Edér smirks. “I acted quickly to end the fight. I didn’t intend to prevent you from asking...whatever it is you were going to ask.”
Edér waves his hand dismissively. “You saved our skins is all. And here I thought you were some Aedyran dandy ‘fraid of a little dirt.”
Aloth opts to ignore the phrase Aedyran dandy (pledging to give it due attention later) and says, “What was your business with the man? Er, if it’s not too forward to ask.”
“Just some...stuff. About my brother. Would’ve been a dead end anyway.”
“Then,” Aloth says cautiously, “you aren’t angry?”
Edér barks a laugh. “Angry? You mean at my god for starting a fight? Or my neighbors for finishing it?” He sounds angry.
Confused, Aloth stammers, “I apologize. I thought perhaps I, or the group, that is—” he’s tripping over his words. “That is, the watcher seemed to upset you earlier.”
“Nah, it’s not her either. Ain’t a sin to speak your mind.” Edér peers over at Aloth. “I’m not angry with someone. I’m just—it’s just that—” He clenches and unclenches his fists in frustration. He looks, Aloth thinks, abjectly miserable. The man buries his face in his hands and heaves a sigh. Without raising his head, he croaks, “”s just been a long couple days, that’s all.”
“Ah.” Aloth tugs at the hem of his robe. “Yes. Well, on that much, I think we can agree.” Edér, face still buried in his hands, says nothing.
Aloth has no idea how to proceed. He’s never felt the need to fill quiet air with conversation—in fact, he enjoys a comfortable silence. Edér, though, looks anything but comfortable. The elf spends a fraction of a second entertaining the idea of making more small talk before deciding against it. He settles for feigning interest in a large iridescent beetle now marching up Edér’s sword towards the lantern. The beetle stakes a wide path around a drop of condensation. Aloth fidgets with his robe. After what feels like an eternity, Edér lifts his face and looks over at him, and Aloth is mortified to see that his eyes are shining with tears.
“I’ve been lookin’ for answers about my brother for a long time,” he says quietly. Edér’s voice is hoarse, but he’s unabashed. “Thought I’d quit dwellin’ on it. But I heard about this old watcher and got my hopes up.” He looks Aloth in the eye, and the elf can feel his ears turn red. Remembering his pretense, he looks back at the beetle. It slides a few inches down the blade.
Something Aloth has learned about himself in his 60 years is that he is not...good with feelings. Not that he doesn’t have them, of course, but he finds the whole business of describing them so painfully subjective. Books, Aloth feels, offer a comforting certainty (although Iselmyr has other opinions). He thrives in intellectual pursuits, or else in privacy; he just doesn’t do emotional conversations. Aloth knows this, and he has come to accept it. Yet, for the second time today, he finds himself party to the feelings of this unfamiliar man, at a loss. More than that, he’s nearly awestruck by Edér’s willingness to feel—his willingness to express what he’s feeling.
“After the war ended, there were these, uh, these rumors,” Edér continues. “People sayin’ he didn’t fight for the Dyrwood after all.”
“Because you were Eothasian.” It’s not a question.
“That’s right. The grief didn’t end with the war. Never does. People wanted someone to blame.”
Still staring at the beetle, Aloth asks, “Were they true?”
“I don’t know.”
Aloth’s eyes follow the beetle as it opens its jeweled wings, lifts off the hilt of the sword, and makes a series of dizzy loops before alighting on Edér’s arm. He looks up at the man’s face and is startled to see him already staring back.
“I don’t think he was a traitor, whatever side he fought for,” Edér says with a wan smile. He looks down at the beetle on his forearm. “I was just lookin’ for closure.”
Almost to himself, Aloth murmurs, “I’ve often wondered if closure is even possible. We always carry our past experiences with us. Some of us can’t even escape them in the next life.”
“I don’t envy Ren for her watcher lifestyle,” says Edér. Iselmyr is mercifully silent. “It sounds stupid,” he adds, “but...I don’t know if I want to move on.” Delicately, he scoops the beetle into a cupped hand.
For a split second, Aloth teeters on the edge of telling him everything: Iselmyr, his parents, the spellwrights, the Leaden Key—all the things he can’t seem to leave behind. He thinks Edér would understand; he’s almost certain. Instead, when he speaks, he surprises himself by asking gently, “What was he like?”
“My brother?” For a moment, Edér’s gaze is far off in some memory only he can see. “He was...good. He never cared about bein’ a hero, but somehow he always did the right thing. His name was Woden.”
“Woden,” Aloth repeats. He recognizes something in Edér’s tone. “You looked up to him.”
Nodding, Edér gives Aloth a meaningful look. “Ain’t easy to be selfless in a place like Gilded Vale,” he says. “Woden proved you still could.” A smile plays at his lips. “He saw right through me more than once. Wasn’t mean about it or anything. He just knew when I could do better.”
“A rare quality,” Aloth agrees. After a moment, he adds, “and not just in Gilded Vale.” He wonders what it would be like to feel so warmly about a family member and does his best to ignore the pang of envy in his gut.
Edér clears his throat and says, “Sorry ‘bout before. It ain’t right to make all that everyone else’s problem.”
“It’s quite alright. Ren is…” Aloth searches for a diplomatic word. “...candid. I assumed you would be angry at her for speaking out of turn.”
Edér chuckles and looks down at his lap. “Naw. She, uh, she pretty much had me clocked on that one.” He steals a glance over at Aloth. His eyes are still wet. “I miss Woden. A lot. I reckon I just don’t wanna deal with that all the time.”
Aloth is relieved: finally, they’ve arrived at something he can make sense of. “I believe I know what you mean,” he says, nodding. “It is frightening to encounter a...an emotion you can’t control.” But Edér’s expression turns puzzled.
“No, that ain’t it,” he says. “‘S not that I’m scared. It just hurts.” Eder is looking at Aloth curiously now, and suddenly he feels uncomfortably exposed. The man cocks his head. “What d—”
“Enow jabberin’ for one night,” Aloth hears himself say. “Best we’d be gettin back ‘fore that watcher-lass has her claws on ye!” He winces. Impeccable timing, as always, he thinks. Edér arches an eyebrow but says nothing, just keeps gazing at him. He’s wearing the same unreadable expression as when he arrived.
“Right,” Edér says slowly. “I been chewed out enough for th’ day. We oughta regroup, then.” He stands and extends an arm, holding his flat palm parallel to the sky. Aloth looks on, bemused, until he sees an opaline glint shifting in Edér’s hand: the beetle. For a moment, its shell is a kaleidoscope of moonlight, and then it lifts its wings and is gone in a buzz. Aloth stands too, and the two men make their way back across the grounds. It’s been a long time since Aloth had anyone to talk to, and despite everything he finds himself eager to keep the conversation going. He’s surprised by the comfort he finds in Edér’s relaxed replies. They’re both smiling when they arrive at the main hall and set up camp with the others.
The group sleeps inside, exposed to dust and spiders but shielded from the elements. Aloth lies awake long after the others, gazing at a shaft of moonlight pitched against the vaulted ceiling.
Iselmyr’s voice rises unbidden in his mind: ‘Twere close calls with that farmer. I conne ye felt it. But we cannae hide forever, not with this lot.
Aloth wrinkles his nose, annoyed. “Then what do you propose we do?” he hisses in what he hopes is an inaudible whisper.
The watcher-lass is lookin’ fer answers same as you. Mayhap she’ll lead ye to ‘em. Ye’re already doing the same for the Key.
“Maybe…”
Mayhap, lad, she could help ye find ‘em.
“And if she’s not as progressive as you seem to think? If the rest of her motley crew are after our heads?”
There’s nye shame in askin’ fer help. She’s uncharacteristically gentle. They’ll get wise to us in time. Better it happen on yer own terms.
Aloth squeezes his eyes shut. He knows there’s wisdom in her words, but he can’t help but think that if she were gone, he would spend far less time exchanging panicked whispers with no one. Still, he feels strangely lonely when she retreats and he’s left with only the shadows for company. When sleep comes for him at last, it’s restless and uneasy. Aloth dreams of an iridescent beetle circling his head, its wings a deafening drone. He tries to speak, but the beetle’s buzz drowns out his voice. To the side stands Edér, smiling warmly at something Aloth can’t see, just out of reach.