Charming

In the lake behind the guild’s forested grounds, Näcken overbalanced. Hiraeth watched, offered a silent hand, and forced the ghost of a smile onto his face when Näcken dismissed him heartily, though the furrow between his friend’s brows did not go unnoticed.

He decided then that he would procure a wing charm for his friend, no matter what it took.

---

“You want access to our stock of wing charms?” The gearmaster eyes him warily through one pristine, monocled lens, the other eye brutally slashed and scarred shut. She’s been retired from the field for long enough that one would think she would soften out a little, but she’s just as coarse and bitter as ever. “For what purpose?”

Hiraeth stalls a little. “I simply thought—”

“What you thought,” she cuts in, “is of little significance. You should know by now that the guild’s wing charms are only lent out for specific missions. I expected you would have been trained better by your superiors. Hiraeth, was it?”

And that’s the end of that, Hiraeth left stumbling over a quiet apology as he ducks out of the room, thoroughly chastised.

Still, he’s not ready to give up. There has to be another way.

---

The black market is not somewhere a guild member should be anywhere near, official business or not. He’s been told time and time again that these crooks are not to be trusted, not even in a life or death situation. Still, the purse at his belt — concealed by a heavy cloak — is full with the promise of an imminent purchase.

He doesn’t have much luck with the first few merchants he approaches. It seems that as suspicious of them the guild may be, they are far more suspicious of any outsiders. He sees the sick and the injured, the old and the young, the wary and the wounded, all huddled in little alcoves and watching him with beady eyes. Even beneath the weight of his hooded cloak, he feels like they can somehow smell the guild’s allegiance on him.

“It’s complex magic,” one sleazy salesman croons. “Costs a pretty penny.”

Hiraeth is not short of money, but he knows from looking at the salesman’s selection that none of these objects will provide Näcken with any relief.

Wordlessly, he turns to the next stall — only to be stopped by one hand gripping his forearm with surprising strength.

He turns, prepared to draw his blade.

It’s a youth, thin with hunger and eyes bright with wonder.

“I’ve never seen someone like you in these parts,” they gasp, immediately drawing their hand back as if burnt. “And such soft fabric…”

Hiraeth looks to where bedraggled garments barely cover the youth’s shoulders. He’s a little put out by the fact that apparently the cloak did more to advertise his status than it did to conceal it, but it’s impossible to feel anything other than mild disappointment.

“You can have it. If you want.” He’s got more cloaks than he can count on two hands, this one being his least fine. Besides, it’s easy enough to get more from the gearmaster, though he shudders at the thought of facing her ire once more.

The youth shakes their head violently. “I couldn’t. I…” They glance to the side furtively. Hiraeth, following their gaze, sees the huddle of children watching their exchange with bated breath.

“I insist,” he presses, pulling the cloak from his shoulders. He shouldn’t be surprised by the gasps and murmurs that run through the market, but he’ll never get used to being a recognisable figure like this. Still, he folds the fabric carefully and presses it into the youth’s hands.

Tears well up in the child’s eyes. “Now I really know you’re not from these parts,” they hiccup. “Nothing ever comes for free here.”

Digging into a pocket with one small hand, they smile slightly at him. “I overheard what you were looking for. You won’t find many honest people in the merchants, but you can take this with you.”

It’s a burnished silver pendant, but Hiraeth can feel his feathers ruffling in response to the pulsing magic that radiates from it.

He smiles.

---

After Näcken runs through the list of reasons why he shouldn’t accept such a gift, he’s left with no option but to let Hiraeth string the polished silver around his neck on a leather cord. Simple. Temporary. But good enough, Hiraeth notes, as Näcken’s wings shimmer out of existence and his shoulders visibly relax.

Later, with Näcken swimming in the lake and Hiraeth crouched at the edge of the water, he thinks he’s never seen his friend so comfortable in his skin. The thought that he had something to do with it is a little heady and feels like some sort of forbidden knowledge, but he holds it close to his heart nonetheless.

There are some things that can’t be said out loud. As he watches Näcken shimmer beneath the still water, he wants to say all of them.