Content: Mention of captivity and torture, mention of PTSD and trauma (and its effects)
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We sat in silence for a few moments, lit by the orange fire in front of us, surrounded by the gentle sound of popping and cracking wood.
Then I cautiously asked, “What about you?”
Saber hummed non-commitably, leaning on his knuckles and looking away.
“I-I’ve found that…,” I carefully started, eyes down on the needle passing through the light blue fabric, “the most frustrating part of being immortal… is the lack of scarring.” Saber glanced at me curiously, although I didn’t meet his eyes. “I know I’m young; not even a century. I’m a baby. And everyone acts like it. But I’ve been through quite a bit. A lot of missions. And…. Maybe it’s just something about me,” I gestured broadly to my chest and my eyes, “but I always seem to draw the attention of some rather… unsavory characters. Leading to a lot of captivity.”
Something almost like a smile fought its way onto Saber’s face. “Rite of passage.”
I half-scoffed and half-laughed, checking my cuneiform embroidery against my reference page, “Yeah, I suppose so. I’m young, so the injuries tend to stick around for a bit. But I still heal quickly, the scars still fade quickly and completely…. And by that time the following year, it’s as though nothing happened. For my body, at least.”
Saber let out a steady, calculated breath.
“You’ve been in captivity longer than I’ve been alive,” I muttered. “And you’ve only been out for, what, a year? Perfectly understandable that you’d have nightmares. But one thing that Robert always tells me, is that our minds can only hold so much. That is‒”
“One has to express what they think, sometimes,” Saber finished. “I know. I taught him that.”
“...Oh,” I choked, voice suddenly hoarse.
Saber managed a weak, almost genuinely amused chuckle. Then his tired smile faltered, and he let out a long breath. “It’s been difficult,” he signed. “Adam tried to get me to paint again. To draw. To play an instrument. He told me to start from the beginning: still life, anatomy, the simple fundamentals.” He scoffed, signing in a frustrated manner, “I am a god of art who cannot create art.”
“Well… how much have you tried?” I cautiously said. “I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be for you, of course. All of it. How frustrating, how upsetting, how scary.” Saber looked away at the last word. I was quiet for a moment, stopping my stitching. “What sort of art do you want to create? Right now, at this moment, what do you want to draw or paint?”
Saber thought for a long moment. I went back to stitching.
“A portrait,” Saber finally signed. “I did a lot of life sketching, back at Adam’s manor. The gardens. The architecture. But I want someone to sit still and let me paint them.”
“Then a model you shall have,” I whispered. “I’m sure we can find someone who can sit still for a few hours. Maybe someone with a lot of tattoos.”
Saber managed a bit of a stronger laugh.
His fangs glistened in the firelight, strong and slightly yellowed, and not just because of the flame. His saturated tawny brown skin seemed to glow. I noticed that he had various piercings in his ears, and at least one in his nose. I tried to imagine him decorated in gold, perhaps in an elaborately-embroidered black and white outfit akin to various Slavic designs. Lord Saber was also called the father of the näcken, the nixies, the rusalka.
I winced as the needle lodged itself deep in my index finger.
Saber’s smile dropped, eyes going wide, as his face snapped to me.
“I’m okay, I’m okay, it’s just a prick,” I said, sticking my finger in my mouth. It was just a prick, but it was bleeding a decent amount.
My father had bled out quickly.
“Let me see,” Saber whispered, gently reaching forward.
I hesitated, but gave him my hand. He held it gently, skin warm in a cold sort of way, like being submerged in icy waters for so long that it became second nature. I couldn’t tell if he was shielding his magical signature, or if it was just that weak.
His golden eyes flickered red, like fresh blood splattered on coins. He took a shuddering breath, lips parted, holding my hand a bit tighter.
I swallowed. “Saber. My blood is toxic to vampires.”
He glanced up at me curiously.
“B-but I’m sure a drop or two won’t hurt you,” I whispered.
In which Brian and Saber have their first proper discussion
Part 1 of 3
Content: Mention of captivity and torture, mention of genocide (planet destruction, dying species), mention of familial death
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I woke up sweaty and scared. The memories burned into my mind were already fading, to the point where I couldn’t tell what exactly they had been: my father’s death, my first wartime experience, any of the many times I had been held captive, some random amalgamation of fears and hopes.
The room wasn’t entirely dark. Aside from the gentle amber light of a bundle of star-shaped string lights, my own UV-sensitive eyes gave off a faint white glow.
Helion had been a bright planet. Even in the night. Bright and warm. So creatures like me, even with my Earthen Gemheart genetics, weren’t meant for the dark. Or for the colder northern lands.
Sometimes I wondered how, or why, I ended up in Frosted Web.
I put on my slippers and the silk-like robe I had gotten from my only visit to Helion; a soft and gentle material colored a sort of periwinkle or thistle purple. I kept glancing back at Darkin’s sleeping form as I carefully gathered up my sewing project. My steps were nearly silent on the old wooden floors as I softly exited our bedroom.
The hallway was brighter, sparsely lit with sconces that gave off warm light. I let out a breath, leaning on the wall, feeling the smooth wallpaper behind me, holding my sewing project to my chest.
Once I regained my breath, I padded down the hallway. I was going to just sit in the lounge, but as I got there I saw a bright, flickering light from downstairs. There was a fire built in the great room. I cautiously walked down the stairs, creaking below my feet, and found a not-yet-familiar black-haired figured sitting on one of the sofas.
“...Saber?” I softly said.
He jumped in his seat, spinning around in shock.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I thought you would hear me. Or smell me. Lost in thought?”
Saber looked down, humming, turning back towards the fire. He was dressed in a shift-like cotton night dress, with a knitted blanket tucked over his legs. His inky black braid, slightly frazzled, hung weakly over one shoulder.
“May I sit?” I quietly asked, standing beside the sofa.
Saber nodded, looking perhaps a bit dumbfounded.
I sat, putting my sewing project in my lap. “Bad dreams?” I guessed.
Saber hummed an affirmative.
“Me too,” I sighed, mindlessly picking at the edge of the unfinished fabric.
Saber looked curiously at it, golden eyes dancing across the cuneiform script, trying to read it but being unsuccessful; yet recognizing it. “Helionian,” he softly said, with a note of fascination.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I… only visited Helion once. It was, um…. It was destroyed… maybe 15, 20, years ago.”
I could’ve heard Saber’s heart break. “Please don’t look at me like that,” I whispered towards his stricken expression. “It was never really home to me. I feel very little kinship. No doubt helped by the fact that I… have never met another P’ral. Aside from the visit to Helion. But that was….” I looked away from him, ignoring the ache in my soul. My grandfather had been a P’ral; but I knew him only from my father’s stories, an old painting, and a gravestone.
I had never gotten to see the land of Gemhearts in its heyday. But I had seen Helion in its heyday. But I had Gemheart friends. I had no P’ral friends.
As far as I knew, my brother and I were the last remnants of P’ral blood.
It was awfully lonely, being a member of two of the rarest species.
“Can you speak it?” Saber’s voice surprised me, quiet but weighted.
“I‒ I think so,” I whispered, choking. Saber stared at me gently, expectantly. I took a breath and unfolded the piece of paper that acted as my guide for the cuneiform I was so delicately stitching. The only Helionian I knew. I spoke it softly, less as what it was meant to be and more as a poem, some string of words that hardly meant anything to me and yet meant everything.
“It’s a prayer,” Saber breathed when I finished. “Isn’t it?”
“...Yes,” I whispered, voice thick. “O sir Kendu, guardian of the golden pelt, bless this hunt, that we may walk freely across your fields, and return to our homes with bounty a-plenty, that we shall not hunger.”
“A hunting prayer,” Saber hummed curiously, looking me up and down, no doubt wondering how much of a hunter I was. “Kendu?”
I shrugged. “As far as I learned, he’s a sort of… hunting god. Or, hero. Something of that ilk. When…. When my brother and I were there… they called us Kenduan. I don’t know what it means. But I know it feels right.”
Saber lightly shrugged. “Perhaps that is all that matters.”
