[DH] A Coward, Too

Outside, it’s warm.

The sun has just risen, still hiding behind the far mountains. But it lights up the sky in a wash of pinks and oranges, illuminating soft fluffy clouds that laze about over the peaks. 

They are framed by enormous trees, branches wide and laden with flowers. A rainbow of colors has blossomed, enjoyed by the honeynesters flitting over the nectar and the chitter of birds pecking at a nest. Their sweet smell wafts across the valley, and I close my eyes.

Good morning, spring, I think. 

I imagine - the words slipping out of me. They float out of my mind and out the delicate carved window, carried on that gentle breeze. Pulled in a slow spiral over the trees, their kind intentions brush over the bugs and the birds and the branches. 

I imagine the animals still for a second at the feeling - at the brief touch of unabashed admiration, love, incredulous awe. And, it passes, and they resume their songs and chirps. 

I imagine that the trees stretch out to catch the vestiges of my well-wishes, and as the sensation leaves them, they shake in acknowledgment and delight. 

And off they go, up into the limitless sky, up to snuggle into clouds and kiss the sun’s cheek and up and up until they reach the stars, which are so far it almost hurts to think about.

But a thought can travel much faster and much further than a person. And to every inch of the world it reaches, it exudes love.

And the world speaks back. It’s all saying - we’re here. We see you. 

And good morning to you, too.

I open my eyes again.

None of that happens. Of course not. The birds never stilled, my thoughts never caressed the blooms. My thoughts, my words - they don’t have that power. 

But it’s nice to imagine they do. It’s nice to think that, if I could just feel strongly enough, that feeling could communicate to the world. That I could express myself by just dreaming hard enough, by forcing the intangible into a knowable shape.

Maybe it really is jealousy. I lean on the window sill, arms crossed to form a pillow for my chin. 

One of the birds launches off the branch and lands on the ground in a flurry of feathers. They poke at the grass, their head moving in that jerky-too-fast way birds do. 

After a moment, their beak snaps shut around a small twig. They tilt their head a little.

I tuck fingers into my mouth and whistle a perfect mimicry of their song.

The bird’s eye lands solidly on me. It studies me, frozen, twig still clutched tightly. I whistle back a few more notes. It doesn’t move for a long few seconds.

And, then, it bursts into frantic flapping, and it’s up in the branch in a split second. It tucks its wings close to its body, hops across the wood, and impatiently sticks the twig into the growing nest. It takes several pokes before it tilts back, satisfied.

My fingers drum against the window sill. I wish I’d brought the birdwatching book with me. 

Heart had been so apologetic - out of date by fifty years, practically worthless in his eyes. 

But it was something. A thick, huge volume with glossy pages and full-color illustrations. Someone had sat down to lovingly paint each little animal, strokes of the wingtips and tails and delicate little white dots in the eyes for shine. 

In the front, the authors and painters and photographers and researchers had all written their names personally. Each one’s handwriting looping, the ink slightly faded with age.

And they’d drawn a big heart in the center, and inscribed in the most careful font, ‘To You, Our Heart, A Gift We Hope Finds Use In Your Hands’. 

Beautiful illustrations. A gorgeous hand-drawn map of where Clearwaters and the Gardens intersected. A transparent page overlaid showed the different climate regions, with a whole key for what birds nested when and where and why. 

But you could brush that page aside, and admire the intricacies of each little mountain marked by brush, and the way they ran out of ink a little in the middle of drawing the river and had to mark over it again with the fresh pot’s. 

I wonder if they’re embarrassed by it, or the way that a few of the cities are just slightly off, or that the mountain range dips a little too low. I wonder if they sometimes think of it, and give a little grimace. 

Or are they satisfied, happy? Does the sum of their work outweigh the little contrivances? Do they maybe hope that Heart finds charm in those errors, knowing that they were penned by a mortal hand?

I’ve stared for a long time at the list of contributors. I know most of them are probably still alive. I could write a letter to them. It doesn’t matter what name I write on it, as long as the return address is the Rose Castle. They would answer.

But wouldn’t it be a waste - to get a letter from the Rose Castle, filled with stupid questions like: “Do you think about how you ran out of blue ink?”

Well.

I think it’s charming.

The birds sense he’s coming before I do. They’re both turned towards the window now, their song quieted in eager glee. The trees, too, have shifted, and splay out leaves towards me.

Not for me. Really, I’m in the way. 

The staircase creaks in the hall. I peel away from the window and turn. The old doorknob squeaks as it turns, the metal aging. 

And he enters, a resplendent smile on his face, a box under his arm. 

“I found it!” his exclamation is so exuberant that even the birds outside sing along to his voice. He thrusts out the box towards me, a worn thing of cardboard and faded paint. 

The Conquest of Clearwaters! it boasts, overlaid on a bright magink image of two people making exaggerated faces at a board game. There is a list of piece count - seventy-five cards, fifty tokens, two dice - and a suggested age range. 

“I can’t believe the anti-mold is still holding on this old thing,” he says, with a laugh that would soothe lions. He glances down to it, eyes sparkling, “Found it in a tucked-away little corner in the basement, right where I thought it’d be.”

I smile at him. I can’t help it. It’s a little sheepish, anxious, placating. I don’t really know how to smile any other way. 

He catches it in the corner of his eyes. His head tilts up, and the brief astonishment gives way to adoration that bursts out of every corner of his beam and his beautiful eyes.

It’s a sight I don’t deserve, I know. You don’t have to tell me that.

“Do you still want to play?” he asks, hopeful.

It’s staggering, that he bothers to ask. That my comfort, my desires, are so forefront in his mind. It’s like he can’t see the power gap between us, the ravenous cavern that stretches for miles. He is so far beyond me, I cannot even fathom the other shore.

Yet, he so naturally thinks of me. Includes me. It comes so naturally to him - do you want this? As if he cannot even dream that I would do whatever he asks, that the world bends its knee to him. 

How wonderful a person, that power has not poisoned him. How strong his values, how incredible his soul, that even now selfish corruption cannot choke him. 

He doesn’t even know it.

“Yes,” I say, and smile a little shyly. 

His grin widens, and he sets it down on the table in front of me. The window provides well enough light as he sets out tossing the lid to the floor and prying the board free. 

It takes me a moment. We are going to play a game, us two. A little board game. Us. Creator of everything, the basis of the world. And the avatar of destruction, he who will tear creation apart at the seams.

I don’t want to be presumptuous. But surely the Source-All is smiling up in its kingdom, chuckling behind a hand at the great joke it’s playing on all of creation.

What other explanation could be posited?

I fish out the worn rulebook. It’s little more than a sheet of paper, wrinkled and faded. The bullet points tell me of how to win, of how each space works, of which cards to draw and the use of a token and special caveats for duos. 

In a way, it’s beyond me. Not in the sense that I couldn’t play, but in the sense that I couldn’t create something like this. A tiny little system, operating under its own governance, interlocking with the goal of entertainment. 

Even that is scary. Did its creators fear that they would fail to amuse anyone who went through the effort? How many nights were spent refining this little book, pouring over edge cases to optimize the experience? 

Did confidence come to them over the course of a long career, over many successful games and on the backs of dozens of failures? The idea is enviable, to be given time to forge yourself into something greater. To be given chances to grow and spread wings, to be caught when you fail to fly....

“Oh, don’t worry about those,” Heart says. He’s got both player pawns held in his fist and is in the midst of awkwardly trying to release them to the board without them toppling. “I have a bunch of house rules anyways.”

“Well...” I glance down, but put the book back in the box. “Okay.”

The dice clatter against the board. Heart leans forwards, wings perking slightly, to inspect his roll. With a grin, he sits back, wings flaring slightly. 

He picks up his pawn - shaped like a meutin - and taps it against the board with a flourish, counting to seven. Then- “So this tile is called a Check tile. I’m going to roll again, and if it’s a double, we’ll pull from this stack.”

He points to one of the lopsided card decks, and scoops the die with another hand. While he shakes them, I reach to adjust the cards to be neater. 

The dice spill. A five and a four. 

Heart pouts at them, but shrugs. “My turn’s basically over. Your roll now.”

“Basically?” I ask, but reach to scoop the dice. “What’s the goal of the game?”

“Oh, that’s the same. You’re trying to collect six artifacts to defeat Silfra.” he says it so casually. His mind doesn’t even connect the implications of me playing such a game. “If I had any cards in my hand I could’ve played them, but obviously I haven’t drawn anything.”

“What’re some of the cards?” the dice clatter. Nine. 

“Mostly stuff that can interfere with artifact production, some stealing and stuff,” he says, counting on his hands. “Some of them reduce resource costs for artifact-making.”

I have to stand to reach the other side of the table. Heart gawks for a second at his own inconsideration, and scrambles to rotate the board’s start to a more equitable side. 

I don’t mention to him that this just shifts the problem around. I merely move my pawn, a little sphinx, appropriately, and squint at the tile. 

“Oooh, you’ve landed on a mine, that’s good,” he says, pointing a finger. “You can draw from the resource pile. A few of the artifacts can be crafted with mine stuff, but you’ll probably want to invest in farming properties if you’re going the craft route. You don’t have any money, so you can’t buy this territory yet, either.”

I pause, mid-draw. “...How do I get money?”

“Bank tiles.”

I glance at the card. It’s wider than it is tall, and glossy. There’s a picture of a happy Underworlder brandishing a pick, and a proclamation that my branch of the army has acquired fifty pounds of iron ore.

“Fifty!” Heart echoes, his eyes wide. His hand shoots into the box to grab five little tokens. “That’s an amazing first draw, Worm!”

No sooner has my name left his mouth than he freezes. Judging by the way his wings have all puffed and his eyes have gone wide, it’s embarrassment. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask, setting the card down in the discard. 

“I, uh-” he chokes over his words. 

And in an instant, he’s not Heart - crown jewel of existence, whose very hands molded the world from nothing, whose booming voice commands the Dragonhost best he can from his ivory tower.

In an instant, instead, he’s just Heart - a lonely, overeager, sweet, and thoughtful man with a heart of platinum and endless grace. 

He sheepishly hands me my tokens. I arrange them neatly on my side of the board, but keep my stare on him. 

He can only hold it for a few seconds before his head tilts to the floor and he rubs at the back of his neck.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he starts, still awkward. His hands tap against the table’s edge. “You’ve had a lot longer time to settle and - integrate, than when you first emerged.”

Emerged is probably the best word for it. I nod, but he doesn’t lift his head.

“I’m sure your self-perception has changed,” he continues, “hopefully... for the better. And I don’t mean to sound like I’m judging or pressuring you, but....”

“But?”

“Worm is kind of a loaded name,” he says, finally looking at me again. He also reaches for the dice, the weight of the point off his shoulders. “I mean... it makes you sound like you’re... I mean....”

It is. I don’t disagree with him. I chose it very deliberately.

He rolls a three, and reaches for his pawn. “I thought maybe - you’d want to change it, or try out another name. One that suits you more.”

No, it suits me. I’m not sure that I can say that out loud, though. It might actually break his heart. 

I’m not ready for that yet.

I hum, watching him draw a card. His military earned two lumber tokens, which he collects a little too quickly. 

Ah. He’s still a little shaken by what he’s said.

He probably feels bad, implying that my chosen name is demeaning. It is, though. It’s supposed to be that way. It reflects how I feel. But of course he struggles with such an idea. 

Well, I can still humor him.

“Did you have suggestions?” I ask, shaking the dice in my hands.

He lights up in relief and excitement. “Just - a few. I was thinking, you and I, we’re-”

He compares us so easily. As if we’re equal.

“-both fond of nouns as names, as far as I can tell. So I did some digging for things that might suit you, or remind me of you. Like - your hair colors. Blue and yellow like that? It reminds me of the sea, especially at sunrise.”

“My fur’s kind of worm-colored,” I blurt out. 

Heart blinks. And then a hand flies up to his chest as he chuckles, a harmony so sweet that the birds outside trill along. A second later, and he snorts, and bursts into proper laughter, head leaning back slightly.

“I - I mean, that’s kind of true!” he manages, eyes closed. He doesn’t notice me stealing a few extra lumber tokens out of the box. “But, ah, maybe something that isn’t - well the first thing I thought of was Coast.”

“Coast?”

“Because of your hair!” he gestures to his own, then to mine. “But I had a few others, actually, too, if that doesn’t stick. It looks like it’s not sticking.”

I realize, belatedly, that I’m scrunching my muzzle up. I unscrunch. “It’s not sticking.”

“I played around with ‘Egg’ for a while.” of course, Heart is undeterred. He points at my eyes. “But then I thought-”

“-Too close to the Dragonhost,” we say in unison.

Clink-clink-clink went his pawn. “So then - Angel, maybe? Or a bird’s name? But none have the right feather colors. Swans, maybe, but a swan seemed too - aggressive.”

His voice catches, just a little. He calls a would-be murderer, to its face, unaggressive. Children would wither for that kind of innocent naivety. 

“I think I would expect someone named Swan to be loud,” I say.

He recovers quickly. “Yes, exactly! It felt wrong as soon as I thought of it. I flipped through encyclopedias, picking every word that felt vaguely possible. None of them really clicked... I really did consider Opal for a while, then I went full cheese-”

“-Oh no,” I say, smiling, “never go full cheese.”

Heart snorts. “W-Well, I ended up discarding it anyways. But for a long while there, I was thinking ‘Hope’.”

Hope. 

It doesn’t suit me. But it’s sweet. A kind sentiment, wasted on my name. I lean elbows on the table and hum. Is there an easy way to dismiss this?

“I do have one more trick up my sleeve.” he grins.

Well, it helps if he’s redirecting. I raise an eyebrow. 

“How about Sunshine?”

I blink. “That... that’s even cheesier, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he admits. He still hasn’t drawn a card, instead leaning back, wings fluttering slightly. “I realized - if I’m going to come up with these, I’ve got to commit. I’ve got to look inside and unlatch the trapdoor of my darkest thoughts. It has to be meaningful. Y’know?”

Darkest thoughts? Oh, Heart.

“I think you’re closer to sunshine,” I say, carefully. “Much closer than I am.”

“But you’re my Sunshine.”

He says it so easily. So, so easily. With the flippant casualness of a discussion of the weather. Automatic, reckless, the blast of a quick-drawn hip-fired gun. 

“Too cheesy,” he says, mournfully. I unscrunch my face, and he laughs. “It’s okay that none of them worked! A name deserves weight.”

“I don’t mind my name,” I tell him.

“But I’m sure there’s something more befitting of you,” he says, thoughtful, a hand on his chin. His eyes scan the ceiling, narrowed slightly in their focus. 

Befitting of me.

I try not to question him. Partly because... if I ask myself, “Why isn’t he scared of me?”, I run out of good answers quickly. If I were in his shoes, I can’t say I’d be graceful and welcoming and - loving, no. 

Well, I think I would’ve just rolled over and accepted the Dragonhost locking me in a castle. Laid on my back in the main hall and stared at the ceiling and waited to die. 

So... it’s a good thing we’re so different.

Anyways... partially... it feels arrogant, to question Heart. I don’t really know anything, not the way he knows things. 

The world tells him secrets every morning. Every beast of the earth lifts its head to watch his passing. And the Dragonhost fret over his well-being at their long table, as if he didn’t mold its wood out of raw magic like clay eons ago.

So it just seems presumptuous, to tilt a head at his judgment. I don’t even entirely understand him fully. There’s just no room for me to say - “Why haven’t you told the Dragonhost yet?”.

I think a small part of me is scared, too. As if asking that direct question, as if avoiding tiptoeing around it, would shatter the tenuous agreement we have. Calling attention to the elephant in the room, and thus necessitating its removal. 

It’s funny I’m still so worried. I mean, he’s told me why, in explicit terms. Yet - I trust myself so little, I think, that the idea is different if it’s coming out of my mouth. 

“Calling me sunshine,” he mutters under his breath, mouth upturned. “I’m not even yellow.”

“I’m not that yellow, either,” I protest. “I’m... beige.”

“Beige? You’re more of a... pale pink, aren’t you?”

“That’s more thought than I’ve ever put into my appearance,” I inform him, with wide eyes.

He snorts again, this time hitting the table with a fist. We are not going to play any more board games today, I fear. “I still need to get you a proper wardrobe made!”

“A wardrobe?” the corners of my mouth tug upwards into a smirk. “You mean you know of clothes that aren’t robes?”

“Worm!” he exclaims, and doesn’t flinch this time, “Oh, you should’ve seen what I wore ages ago - I probably have a box of pictures somewhere around here....”

He stands, ready to scurry down into the castle basement again. But I lift a shy hand, uncertain if it’s alright for me to ask him to stay or not. 

He sees the gesture in the corners of his eyes. And rather than dart out of the room, he turns in a flourish of too many wings and grasps my hand in both of his. 

“I’m sure you can imagine it.” he shakes my hand with every eager syllable. “Once I wore a feather boa over a dress made of - well it was originally a nice dress, but it was made out of memule wool and it’d been washed one too many times...”

“It can’t have been that bad.”

“Yes, it was worse than it sounds,” he says, somberly patting my hand. “It was several sizes too small by then.”

“Maybe you could get dressed up again like that,” I say. “I wouldn’t mind you in - that.”

I almost stepped on that landmine. Almost. There are still words I really shouldn’t say, or even think about. Of course I still think about them, but....

Heart is smiling anyways. It’s wide and pretty on his face as he snickers. “I could! If it’s all still around somewhere. Odds are good that it is.”

“Why did you stop?” 

Not that I mind the plain yellow robes, of course. The texture is heavenly soft, and the way the sleeves swish when he gestures is... enrapturing. 

He lets go of my hand to sigh and stare distantly askew at the floor. “Well - no point dressing up if no one’s around to see it, I suppose. Not worth the effort.”

The silence fills in like a thick fog. It permeates, chokes with a profound sadness. 

The world itself has paused to weep, to lay weary head at Heart’s feet and whine. It’s sorry. It’s so sorry. Please don’t be sad.

“Well I’m here now,” I blurt out. “So... you have an excuse again.”

There is a beat.

Heart turns, slowly. His eyes are wide, a grin is spread over his face. The look he is giving me is staggering.

It is of utter adoration. 

Raw, unfiltered, as all his emotions are. On his sleeve? No, splattered across his face, lacking any discipline in stoicism.

It’s deserved. He deserves to feel good, even if he scoops me up and spins me around slightly and I let out a startled yelp. 

Sheepish, he sets me down a second later. But the mad grin won’t leave, even when he rubs at the back of his neck. “You’re a good excuse. I guess I’ll just have to go on another odyssey into the basement!”

“I’ll be more surprised if you can’t find something down there,” I tell him. 

He flicks at the air. “Oh, the mold and the bugs get into everything eventually. Most enchantments only last so long, after all.”

“Maybe we could refresh them,” I say, before catching myself. 

We. How presumptuous. 

Something in the air shifts. Even I can sense it. 

At first, fear stabs into my heart. I’ve finally transgressed, made an assumption I shouldn’t have, imposed myself in an entitled fashion. 

My fate flickers over my eyes like a slow-motion film, my head shoved onto the executioner’s block. Who would be burdened with such a cruel display of power? 

Madera, of course. She would fight for the right to behead me, and would brandish that axe with a ferocity unmatched. 

Heart’s smile fades, too. He cranes his neck to stare out the window, ears poised to catch the faint sounds of carriage wheels clattering and the snort of a draft dragonid. 

I did not make a mistake. It’s not me. Someone’s coming up the path, and if someone’s coming up the path, there are very few options to guess. 

His face darkens in irritation for a brief second as he stands, clicks his tongue. 

But, it’s gentle again when his gaze falls on me - a sheepish little grin as he says, “I can’t fathom why they insisted on installing those teleports, but still come up the mountain on foot.”

It’s a good question. I glance out the window, even though the road isn’t visible from here. 

But it’s still fresh in my memory, long and winding and full of sharp pebbles. The steepness as it rose up into the mountains separating the two provinces and the sudden stab of cold that rattled down my frame... the refreshing smell of fruits and flowers as we crested the last peak, and my eyes feasting on the view of the bountiful valley. 

And, there in the center, an old building made of thick, pale pink stone. Its age was clear in its simple architecture and humble appearance, but - there was a profoundness in the air around it that I’d never tasted before. Sharp and stark enough that I’d almost broke out of the pilgrim’s caravan, scrambled back down the mountain. 

But I hadn’t. I’d kept pace, my eyes sliding up to a window framed by gentle curtains, and our eyes had locked in unrepentant understanding.

I look back to Heart. “I suppose they like the scenic route.”

“As if she’d open her windows,” he says, leaning out his own to try to catch a glimpse of her carriage. “The sea air might desiccate her.”

“Is it Madera, then?”

His tone is short. “Yes.”

Then - he realizes how irritable he is. He lets out a long exhale to steady himself, and peels away from the sill, adjusting a sleeve. 

That he doesn’t want to go is obvious. 

I glance down at the board game, forgotten. He has an excuse, of sorts. He could say he’s busy. But then they’d want to know what with, and who with, and then the question of my identity would be framed front-and-center. 

So it’s best to simply let him go.

Yet look at me, making up little excuses for Heart and I to shun a Dragonhost.

“I can’t imagine she’ll take long,” he says, tone polite and a little distant. “You can stay here - I’ll be back.”

Then, he pauses. Then, he turns, a little sharply, and holds my stare with a piercing determination. “In fact, I’ll be right back. You can depend on that.”

“Okay,” I say, “but it’s okay if you need to-”

Silly me, I think, as the door clicks shut and his footsteps recede. To think that I could command around the mighty Heart of the World. To think I had even a modicum of that authority. 

Or maybe I’m just worried about him. 

It’s a little colder without him in the room. Just a little. But he’ll be back. In just a little bit.

I pick up a few of the iron tokens to turn them over in my hands. They’re small and cardboard, clearly punched out of a sheet - with those little nubs on the top and bottom, where it’d been attached. 

The little drawing is cute. Just a red rock in a cartoony, simplified style. There’s nothing on the backside. 

I set it back down. 

This game... it was clearly sourced from the Gardens. Of course they would come up with military-based conquests of their neighbor for entertainment.

Perhaps, in Clearwaters, there was a ‘Gentrification of the Gardens’ equivalent. If such a thing existed, then Heart surely had a copy somewhere in the castle. It would be interesting to compare the two, to delineate the differences between the provinces’ perceptions of each other.

That is, if they truly differed. 

Not that I would know.

The wind shifts in the valley. I don’t turn, even as my magic lets out a pang of attention and turns. 

A lizard scales the outer wall with impressive speed and a startling amount of intention. Its red scales flash in the sunlight, revealing dull yellowed markings.

The animals watch it, trepidation and fear obvious in their poise, bent ready to bound away should the threat become clear.

But it curls over the sill and leaps into the room, all legs splayed out - and lands with a thud as a person kneeling before me. I catch the dice from rolling off the table, but he doesn’t react.

My chair creaks as I push myself away from the table and regard him.

“Worm.” his voice drips with reverence and respect. Unearned, of course, but that wouldn’t stop him.

“Rise,” I say to him, quietly.

Jezerca’s sword clinks against his leg as he stands, reaches to adjust one of his shoulderplates. He’s a little distracted - eyes not on me yet, instead on the door Heart had left through. 

But it’s only brief. He stands at attention, a hand on his pommel, a familiar and worn smile on his face. 

I hold the look he’s giving me. 

Part of me wants to break the tension - a joke, maybe a ribbing one. Cutting it awful close, aren’t you, lingering around here? He’s only been gone a few minutes at best. What would he say?

But... the authority for that kind of statement is a little beyond me, I think. 

Jezerca finds a place to sit. He noticeably avoids the chair that had held Heart, and instead slumps in some rickety wooden one by a few shelves. The sword clanks. 

“Hello,” I finally manage.

He dips his head in greeting. Then- “Still holding down the fort. Your people gather, Worm. We await your orders faithfully.”

They do. I fall silent. 

Jezerca winces. “But Valamara....”

Authority finds me anyways. I bite my lip, but try to keep a neutral face. “Has he done anything?”

“No, not yet, but he’s going around drumming up that he wants - something.” Jezerca motioned with his hands a mouth chomping. “But he still respects the natural order. A reminder of your expectations, and he shuts, but bitterly.”

Bitterly. “Well... that’s good... for now.”

He nods, then rounds a fond smile on me. “His rhetoric does not spread, and his brutishness makes him unpopular. Don’t fret.”

That’s a tall order, I think. Not that I think - that Valamara would ever truly move against me. He’d never drive a sword through my gut, or rally legions against my name. He’d never spit my name, derisively, as he condemns the affection I’ve built up for everything.

But he’ll take bites where he can, like a wolf nipping at a faunt. Accidents, loopholes, opportunities. They’re a buffet to him, and he’s famished. 

It’s mean of me, isn’t it? To ask him to hold back his nature. To put a slicked roast in front of a panting dog, and then hold their muzzle shut. Anyone would expect its patience to wane into a painful bite. 

“Enough of that,” Jezerca says, as if he’s thinking the same things. “How have you been?”

I shift in my chair slightly, and look out the window. 

Beyond the trees of the manicured garden, between teal leaves, there are flickers of blue spilling down the side of the mountain. Even with the distance, I can imagine the spray of the waterfall, the aching thunder of its power, and the coolness of the pool at its feet.

And the smile on Heart’s face, innocently joyous, as his hands swept through water and launched a splash across my face.

“Good,” I say, a little distantly. Then I turn back to him, and speak more definitively. “Good.”

Jezerca’s smile softens. Almost parental, I think, or something like that. Watching someone you fret over settle into a nice life, I think. 

It’s funny he feels that way. I’m older than him. I’m older than any of them. 

“Has your boyfriend been treating you well?” he asks, lifting his head a little. 

Boyfriend. It’s a strong word. It feels wrong to lay claim to it. But what’s the use in protesting a gentle tease?

Still... it’s... exhilarating to hear someone call him that for me.

“Eheh.” I can’t keep the redness from rising on my face. “Yes... of course.”

“I suppose it’s not in his nature to be cruel or uncaring. Good.”

No, I want to say, but my mouth doesn’t move. He’s a person, just like me. He can be cruel, he can be hurt, he can be heartless. He just chooses not to be. 

Though, the distaste that darkens his face at the mention of the Dragonhost - I wonder, sometimes, if we are all hurtling towards a terrible revelation. What will happen, the first time Heart snaps at Madera, his hate acrid on his tongue? 

Will they remember the sightings of the Omens, the ruin of Jezerca’s birth? Will they realize what’s already happened, and rush into the castle with brooms to beat out the vermin? Will they think that my presence has corrupted his, warped him into a tiny hateful beast - as if I had that power?

I lace my fingers together in my lap. 

Jezerca looks towards the board game. He scans it, briefly, drinking in the cards and the little tokens, and tries- “You’re winning.”

“Sometimes I think he lets me.”

Is the alternative too scary - the idea that part of me is already surpassing him? That my mind is already honed for strategy, for winning, for defeating him? Will I reach a tipping point, driven on by an insatiable hunger to break him, and take teeth to his throat?

“You could show me how to play,” Jezerca says, tapping his temple, “then I guess we could really find out.”

A smile cracks over my face. “Maybe... Heart often only has the one set, though....”

“Does it have a name? I can go look in markets.”

Such a visual - Jezerca wandering in a throng of mortals, dressed in armor and sword and death, peering into stalls to search for a board game - is almost too silly to imagine. 

That kind of normalcy... is unsuited for us. It’s absurd, for fell beasts of the end, to want and desire in that way. I don’t know why the Source-All gave us the capacity. 

Unless they hadn’t. Unless, when my magic was crawling in the dark cramped compressed earth, crying and struggling...

...Now isn’t the time.

I bend over to pick up the discarded lid, and show it to Jezerca. “It’s The Conquest of Clearwaters.”

He leans forwards, squinting, before settling back. The chair creaks as he crosses his legs. “It sounds familiar. It’s probably not a custom, then. They might’ve changed the rulebook since that edition, though. How old is that thing?”

The thought of it being custom hadn’t even occurred to me. Silly, considering how most of Heart’s belongings were handmade gifts... brought here by pilgrims filled to the brim with love, who poured their life into a small thing they hoped could be of use to him. 

Once upon a time, they had flooded in to the Castle. It’s hard to fathom them, stretching a line out from the gates of the main hall all the way down the mountain, but it’s true. 

They tucked gifts under one arm, and held their children steady with the other. Some set up stalls on the path, spooning great helpings of soup into bowls to pass out, and sang strong songs even as the cold mountain wind funneled around them. 

And all their souls had sung out in love and admiration, in gratitude and reverence, to Heart’s. And his, in turn, wrapped lovingly around theirs, and comforted them, and smiled in the wise way of gods. 

None could escape his sweeping gaze, for the magic of the world - his magic - always chirped in greeting to him.

Still, a part of me speculates - can’t Heart sense the Omens, the same way he senses the Dragonhost and senses me? Doesn’t the world whisper to him their presence? 

Shouldn’t that scare him - that I might be conspiring against him, drawing my armies close to my chest as we formulate a plan in the depths of his home?

But, ah, I try not to to question him. 

Jezerca has wilted slightly under my accidental stare. The reminder of my authority, at times, is more like a beating-stick than the serene aura of Heart. 

I avert my eyes.

“You’re right,” he says, unable to look at me. He misunderstands, but there’s no stopping the confession. “This isn’t a visit just - for levity.”

Now I, too, wilt. I suppose a part of me should’ve expected as much. But sometimes Jezerca bends the rules - arrives, even when there’s no news, just to see me, despite his orders. 

It’s... nice... to be treated like a person.

“Valamara -” he starts, then stops, then lets out a slight sigh. “It’s not suspected as our doing, as far as I know. But he - a mine in the Gardens, he ‘accidentally’ felled a wall that was holding back a vein of silver.”

“Ah,” I say. 

Hopefully... they had sealed that by now. Any miner would know how, of course. Basic safety in the caves, a known hazard of the job. And... hopefully... no one had gotten hurt before they’d discovered it.

“I don’t know the state of the mortals,” Jezerca continues, “but the fact that Madera is here....”

My eyes widen. “You think she’s- asking Heart for help?”

He lifts his hands placatingly. “Not help - probably a speech, or words of encouragement for the community. They probably wouldn’t let him go there himself.”

The unspoken question hangs in the air for only a second. “Do you think they suspect it’s-?”

Jezerca frowns. “I don’t know.”

The conclusion is obvious. I slump back in the chair. “I... should probably go listen in, then.”

Jezerca nods. It’s not insistent, it’s not demanding. If I’d said no, he’d have slinked off and never brought it up again. That’s just the dynamic truly at play here. 

But I said yes.

I stand, and he heads for the window. In a blink, he’s skittering down the side of the castle in a hasty escape, disappearing into the rosebushes far below. 

My escape is not so easy. The heavy door creaks loudly, the hinges old, as I step into the quiet hallway. Here, windowless, the only illumination is from candlesticks, casting lit circles onto the red rug.

I’m careful to step over the exposed stone and stand on the carpet instead, which has been slightly folded. Someone probably hurried down its path, kicking it up, and the few servants hadn’t gotten around to straightening it out again. 

I stop myself, mid-crouch, hands outstretched. There’s no time for that, I remind myself, and straighten again. 

Even in times of duress as these, I find myself admiring the design of the castle. It is exquisite - clear, functional, winding paths of sense. Capillaries to the artery of the entire structure - the main hall, with vaulted ceilings stretching beyond the imagination.

I am halfway down the stairs to it when I hear Madera’s voice. Distaste governs it, echoing through the empty space. She is not yelling, but speaking in a firm tone, too distant for words yet. 

I pause at the landing. The stairs turn at ninety degrees, and lead into a stone-bricked archway. Beyond that veil is the main hall. Do I continue?

There are pillars and statues that provide easy hiding places, close enough to the threshold. With the sun where it is, I could easily scurry behind one, clear of the stained glass windows’ light. 

My ears swivel. Heart’s voice is even quieter than Madera’s. I’ll hear nothing here.

I step carefully, feet creeping against the cold stone slowly. One hand trails on the wall, guiding me. My ears stay pressed forwards, catching the whispers as they begin to form proper words.

“-Just a week,” Madera says, and she huffs. “I’ll keep out of your way, Heart. I know you like your privacy.”

I stop, short of the doorway. I can linger here, not crossing the precipice.

“How much of your entourage?” he asks. Despite his distaste, he speaks with such resigned gentleness. He knows he can’t say no, but his displeasure is clear in the tenor of his speech. 

“I left most of them behind,” she replies, “have to leave some guards in place, lest she does something. It’s just a few servants and my pet mage.”

“I suppose we’ve the room,” Heart says, tongue-in-cheek.

For what it’s worth, Madera snorts. And then, in a softer voice, “Thank you.”

To outsiders, such words from the Queen of the Jungle would be offensively alien. Her, creature of primal violence, thanking the Heart? Is it not by her orders that he is subjugated and caged?

But there are complexities there. A dynamic I do not pretend to fully understand. Creations, tasked with the protection of their maker, yet fully aware that his power dwarfs theirs. How does one begin to navigate that?

My Omens... they are weaker than I. They defer to me. Jezerca plays at a true friendship - only because I allow it. 

If I were the Harbinger of lore, sharp-toothed and violent and erratic, there would be nothing between us. They would obey of fear, cowering in terror, aware that displeasing me could result in chewing up their souls. 

But - they learned quickly that I was not a beast. That I did not lord my status over them, and was not yet ready to crack open the world as an egg. Instead, they shared a confused look among themselves as I ordered their hands to stay - their swords to stay sheathed, their claws filed. 

Yet, there is still an imbalance there that they dare not cross. Yes, Valamara tests the line... but he only tests. 

Did the Dragonhosts test once? Did they press at Heart’s boundaries, and see how far he bent to accommodate? Did he allow it out of deference to creation, or did he not see their encroachment until it was too late?

His voice is so soft. “Of course, Madera. The usual rooms?”

I hear a servant plodding off down another hallway, likely to rally the troops to beat the dust from Madera’s guest quarters. 

“That would be best,” she says. “I’ll go tell the mortals.”

Her footsteps recede, much in the same way, albeit towards the hall’s entrance. Heart sighs, and I can imagine his shoulders slumping slightly, his wings sagging. 

I step down and through the archway.

The hall is colder than it should be, at this time of year. The magic of the air has sensed Heart’s depression, and weeps to match. 

He stands in the center of the long room, framed by the curved pillars and a shaft of light streaming in from the high windows. One of his wings is open, half-draped against the floor. His head is low, eyes half-lidded and distant, staring at the bland stone. 

Radiance clings to him as a blanket. But even radiance dims, at times.

My impulse is to comfort him. How presumptuous, that the Heart of the World can nestle against a worm and be soothed.

 But I dismiss that thought, and cough into a hand as I come around one of the pillars.

He turns, and surprise explodes over him. But it’s a gleeful surprise, accompanied by all his wings flaring. “Worm!”

Said without flinching. It does suit me.

“Hi,” I manage. “I just wanted to-”

“Don’t worry,” he says, gentle and rushed, as if soothing me is the most important thing in the world. “They don’t suspect a speck of you. Madera, she - she thought Silfra had come to talk to me.”

“Politics?” I ask.

Heart nods, a little too quickly. Then, he catches himself - hurried, anxious - and laughs a little. It rejuvinates him, soothes him, eases his strain. “As it always is, isn’t it, Worm? She’ll be here for a week - she wants to see if Silfra’ll appear.”

Nothing to do with Valamara. Nothing at all. Barely a blip on their radar, to the point where Madera would abandon her country for a week for a silly Dragonhost spat.

I let out a breath that tastes like relief. “And if she does?”

“Well, they’ll have a spat, I suppose,” he murmurs, hand on his chin. “She says Clearwaters is enforcing illegal taxation of some of her shipments. I asked her why her ships have to go through Clearwater, but I think my concern fell on deaf ears....”

“I suppose if they start fighting, I can just eat one of them.” the words leave my mouth before my brain can manage.

Heart bursts into laughter, doubling over. I let out a hiss of a breath, which transforms into an open-mouthed, dumb grin.

You’re so radiant, is all I can think. Resplendent and wonderful, caring and kind. The first thing out of your mouth, the second you saw me, was reassurance. You knew what I would be worried about. You took care of it without question.

I wish I could hold his hand.

Do you know, Heart, how scared I am? How terrified I am to lose you? How much fear grips me at the thought that - that this could’ve been the first string to unravel us, our secret? 

That the hammer would’ve come down, and you would’ve been forced to out me, and we’d have to draw daggers? That this tenuous little peace we share is - so fragile?

Surely you do. You’re intelligent, observant, kind. You know all of this. I know it must keep you up at night, too.

What are we doing?

I reach out my hand uncertainly. But you grab it with an eager firmness, and squeeze lovingly. 

Whatever it is... I don’t want it to end. I stare up with wide eyes, hoping that feeling can be conveyed with just a look. 

Heart’s smile softens at the edges. Beautiful, as always. He’s a treasure, a thing to cherish. A part of me understands the Dragonhost’s desperation to keep him safe. 

And I suppose... in a way... I understand his own desire to keep me here, far away from their prying eyes and judgmental stares. 

I think both of us know it can’t last forever. That one day, our roles will catch up to us, and fate will laugh over our corpses. 

But until then... I squeeze his hand back.