#zodiac chronicles

Not sure why I got tagged recently, but @ellierenae knocked on my coffin lid, so here I am. The words I’m meant to find I’ll be pulling from my original WIP, Book 1 of the Zodiac Chronicles, Mystery in Tauri (title subject to change). (I’ve been overworking my chapter 1 because people were paying attention to it. I’m not used to that.)

Thank you for the tag! Let’s get started.

consume

He lingered, letting the Taurus meander slowly. Something about that familiar stranger demanded his attention. He crouched by the porch, anticipating a much longer wait, but before the large Taurus could be completely consumed by the darkness, a lantern emerged from the house. He watched the lantern moved with cold confidence down the steps and several feet away from the structure. The familiar stranger paused and dug into his bag. He removed an item, allowed it to unroll, and muttered a single command word. Hunks of serrated metal along a chain came together and stiffened into a something resembling a cane. The figure adjusted his bag and lantern and continued into the darkness, compensating for a limp with the magical item. Confusion filled the Scorpio at the item, not as familiar to him as the stranger.

(This is in one of the chapters I was banging out near the end of NaNo, so uh… quality bad.)

love

Eli smiled. “Well. Do you mind staying for dinner, Isolde? Did you tell your father you’d be late?”

Silence filled the kitchen, only broken by the sound of gently sizzling meats and boiling potatoes. Tristan furrowed his brow, startled at the sudden tension.

“I’d love to stay for dinner.” Her voice had lost a bit of her excitement, though she had plenty to spare.

The old bull hummed. Something lay beneath the surface of her statement, one that both men recognized. A silent agreement formed between them; they would not ask and she would not tell. Tristan’s curiosity piqued with tales of mundanity from the other children, but he understood the precious need for secrecy from time to time.

(I have the word ‘love’ in my WIP often because Tristan and his father say “I love you” a lot. So I chose an instance that wasn’t… that.)

together

Eli lifted his head. “I thought we had a hunter in the village.”

Isolde nodded. “Oh, uh. Yeah. But Mister Eamon said he hasn’t been able to track the creatures movements for a while now and I… I don’t know if we’d even be able to afford it.”

Tristan sighed and returned to his meal. His father’s brow furrowed. “Isolde, you should let your father worry about these sorts of things.”

Her eyes fell, her spoon tapping against the plate. “He’s… He can’t.”

Eli’s voice softened. “He can’t?”

“He’s… been ill for a while now.” The rest of the table fell quiet, the gentle scrape of metal against treated clay silenced. She continued, nervous. “The… the Doctor has been treating him almost since he arrived and… some days are better than others, naturally, but most days are bad.”

A collection of isolated events came together in Tristan’s mind. Isolde’s melancholy about his father’s blindness, her sudden desire to become leader of the community and prepare herself for being mayor, her puffy eyes that one day at school, her excitement at the prospect of opening the village’s borders. He regarded her, her hands quivering, her nose red, eyes glassy. An epiphany began to crystallize in his heart: every person led a life that he could barely imagine, haunted by just as many issues as he.

And, unfortunately, I don’t have the word obsess in my WIP, though confronted with this knowledge, I may want to use it now. There are plenty of characters that might have an obsession, or appear to be obsessed with something or someone.

I don’t know that many people to tag, but uh… lessee…

@dragon-swords-prophecies@the-finch-address@enchanted-lightning-aes@athenixrose@master-duncan@n1ghtcrwler

Your words will be linger, curve, spite, lace which I chose completely randomly from a random word generator.

You are, of course, not obligated to participate. I hope that the notification at least brings you some happiness. :3

Zodiac Chronicles Book 1

Tristan attends what he thinks is a typical day at school. He does something atypical and pays the price for it with his blood. A small scratch, but enough to leave a lasting impression.

~6400 words

Trampled paths carved through a thin layer of snow in two opposite directions, converging on an old, small schoolhouse. The wider, well-trodden path of footprints led between a pair of farms to a road that led eventually to the village proper several miles off. The smaller path consisted of only one set of very large tracks, boot prints of an unusual size, that led to the small river beside the school. The owner of the large boots crouched by the bank and tucked a sealed bottle into the rocks along the river’s edge, well away from a collection of similar bottles. With any luck, the bottle would still be there by the time he got to it at lunchtime. Tristan turned back to the schoolhouse and eyed his large tracks, hoping that the midday sun might melt the snow enough to obscure them.

He lingered by the river to watch the other students funnel into the small door at the front of the schoolhouse. The door swung outward, held open by a kind bull on the verge of graduation. When the door had to be replaced some years ago, Tristan recalled the village carpenter stressed over the direction of the hinge for days before the installation. He returned every day afterward for a week to apologize for installing it wrong.

As he waited, he allowed his eyes to roam over the schoolhouse’s exterior. The paint chipped very slightly on the older slats of siding to reveal the numerous and varying colors the building had been over the years. He remembered well the year the teacher had organized the students for a day of painting the schoolhouse a vibrant green. The previous color, a faded pink, had been splashed by a graduating student’s experimental project for admittance into the doctor’s college in the capital. She had the carpenter and his wife provide her with information of how they treated the wood to maintain longevity and had the village’s merchers bring books back to describe how the paints earned their pigments.

The door cracked against the frame, the students finished filing inside. Tristan moved to join the wider path of boots and made his way to the door. He opened it gingerly and ascended the few short steps into the mudroom. He moved slowly, careful not to bump his large frame against the door or his horns against the doorframe or any of the other students. The village children paid him little mind, having their heavy woolen coats and other articles on the hooks along the wall. Stains marred the mudroom benches, the wood slightly bowed from years of harboring rain and melted snow. The floorboards creaked with every shift of weight, every step through the one-room schoolhouse. The whole building smelled of faintly of smoke from the small firepit and potbellied stove in the center of the main room, despite the pipe that extended up through the roof.

Tristan pulled the door closed, lifting up on the handle to set it properly in the frame. One step to the side and he lifted a small charcoal bit to scan for his name on the roster hung by the door. His eyes hesitated at the familiar names, ones he remembered from his first few years before the growth spurts started. After that, he stopped trying to remember the newcomers, to connect names on the list to faces. He found his name and checked the small box for his attendance that day.

Several of the girls seemed happy to see each other, giggling and shrieking with glee, leaning to whisper conspiratorially as they headed to their seats. Evelynn lead the group, smoothing and fussing with her hair as they walked, making sure her ringlets survived the morning. Tristan noted that the group appeared smaller, but the little herd never had the same numbers, its members dependent entirely on Evelynn’s whims.

The younger ones, the calves, moved awkwardly, as calves do, and climbed onto the benches to hang up their hats and scarves. Some preferred to stuff their things into the bins below the benches, too short to hang their things. After the removal of their hats, one of the calves became surrounded. Tristan just barely made out their young pronunciations of shock and amazement at the nubs protruding from the center one’s scalp. It would be several years for the nubs to turn into anything even resembling horns, but with the arrival of the nubs, that calf become the coolest and most mature among their little herd. He reflected on his brief moment of approval when his nubs arrived at a surprisingly young age. And struggled to forget the subsequent frustration and terror from his peers as the nubs grew larger and longer than normal at an alarming rate.

A frown pulled at his features and he dropped off his gear on his half of the mudroom. Despite moving to the furthest corner of the mudroom, none ever dared cross beyond the door except to check their attendance. He tried not to let it bother him. This left the boys of the class to wait to remove their gear. Ladies first, as the manners say. And calves have little sense of propriety. Having doffed his gear, Tristan gathered his materials for class, plus an ancient-looking leather journal.

As he finished pulling the drawstring on his pack, Tristan’s ear perked up at a voice that rose above the din.

“We didn’t think you or your brothers would make it today, Jorgus. Are you okay? What happened to your father?”

“Doesn’t really concern you, does it, Seamus.” A thud sounded as Jorgus threw his bag down on the bench under his hook. The adolescent bull had yet to grow properly into his limbs, gangly and long, his shaggy ginger hair left to grow over his eyes.

Seamus, a sturdy young bull with brown hair and a square jaw with the slightest bit of stubble, furrowed his brow. “I’d think it concerns all of us! The attacks have been happening more often, yeah? And with all our grandparents-”

Jorgus spun and growled at the older bull. “Seamus, I said drop it.” The tan and white splotched young bull jerked his head pointedly to his little herd of younger brothers.

The Jones boys, four young calves of varying ages and colorings, sported red and puffy eyes. Tristan glanced at the roster and wondered which brother belonged to which name. The youngest two of four sniffled openly, the older of the pair grabbing his younger brother by the shoulder to lead him to their desks. The youngest’s shoulders lifted and jerked in the obvious signs of barely contained sobs.

Seamus watched the calves, then shared a look with the other boys in Jorgus’s usual group. “We’ll… catch up on the way home, then?” He did his best to sound optimistic.

Tristan watched the boys offer support via a pat on the shoulder or some muttered promise and turn away one by one. The youngest, probably one of Jorgus’s brother’s friends, lingered, fussing with his pale splotchy fingers. Jorgus tilted his head slightly, the only indication on his shrouded face that he noticed the calf, and waited. A light thwack from another broke the calf’s resolve and he scurried through the room to his desk near the front and the younger Jones boys. Jorgus started to turn back to removing his winter gear and caught Tristan’s prying eye. He sneered and angled his horns at him. Tristan started and jerked back to his own preparations.

Part of him wished he could walk home with those boys, to make a group of friends and… do whatever friends do together. He wished he could talk about the orchard with them, about the plants along the path, about their crops, and the state of their land. He wanted to make friends his own age. But he knew how he looked, how they all looked more like his children than friends. Or perhaps younger brothers. He hadn’t grown any manner of stubble yet. The elder Lunars, those that heard the voices from beyond, told him that he had aged quickly, gaining a few years in a few months as a babe. Blessed by the Spirits, they called it. He called it a curse.

The commotion over, Tristan took barely a few steps to round the wall that split the classroom from the mudroom. He settled into the last bench at the table in the back left of the small open schoolhouse. This area in the back typically held the eldest students, the ones closer to the front reserved for the younger calves, or most in danger academically. He caught Seamus chatting with his neighbor on the other side of the aisle. Tristan held the bench in the back alone for years simply due to his size, too large to sit anywhere else in the room. He might block the view of the other students was the official reason, but mostly he took up a desk and a half on a good day. He tried not to think of the bad days.

Unbidden, he remembered vividly the pain in his chest the day the girl he typically sat next to, perhaps eight at the time, had complained before class that he had crushed her hand when attempting to use his ink and bone splinter pen. He barely remembered moving his arm out far enough to even touch her, painfully aware of his size even then. Not that the other students would let him forget it. The teacher had simply calmed the girl down and offered him the bench in the back. As he moved, he watched the girl’s best friend eagerly move up to take his seat with no objections from the teacher. He sat in the middle of the bench and spread out comfortably over the two-desk wide table. He felt his size for the first time and tears stung at his eyes. He looked up then as Miss Shaunessy moved to the blackboard and continued with class, though not without offering an apologetic smile. That remained his table for the following seven years.

He enjoyed the space the longer table provided over the years. In the early days of the schoolhouse, students normally shared one large desk, the top able to lift to reveal a compartment below. However, too many instances of one of the students at the desk lifting the table’s top without their partner’s consent resulted in broken pencils, splattered ink, or scattered papers. Deemed far too impractical for use by calves, the village’s carpenter frantically redesigned the furniture for single use. Tristan preferred the width, able to hide plenty of things in his desk that the others had to keep in the mudroom, under their desks, or in the river’s banks. He reveled in the ability to lean forward, elbows as wide as he wanted, his books and parchment and inkwell spread comfortably apart. He never had to worry about knocking over his own inkwell or his neighbor’s.

He placed the leather journal on the middle of the table, his inkwell on the corner with the bone splinter pen leaned away from the aisle, and his parchment squarely between the journal and the edge. Half the table for him. The other remained empty, as it did every day.

An aging Taurus woman, pale splotches covering more of her dark, umber skin every year, walked down the center aisle of the classroom to check the roster by the door. Wrinkles threatened at the corners of her eyes, a few locks of silvery hair escaped from the hair buns under each horn. She assessed the youngest calves first and shot harsh glances to the group of gossiping girls as she walked by. Evelynn greeted her with an overly saccharine, performative “Good morning!” Miss Shaunessy smiled to the girl, not nearly as hollow, but nothing like the warm and silent “Good morning” she mouthed to Tristan. At the head of the room once again, she smiled to the class and listed off her plans for lessons that day. Calves first, as their attention span dwindled as it grew toward lunch, then the higher education lessons for the older children.

“This morning will be the next chapter of history for the calves. After that, a bit of arithmetic as a class. After lunch, we will be going over the essays I assigned you last week, then we will work on our spells and rituals together before the end of the day.” Miss Shaunessy’s face pulled together slightly. “Please, pleaselook over the essays of your friends and neighbors. Some of you are very good with prose and could stand to share your skills with others.”

No names, but she stared very pointedly at a few of the students on the other side of the room. For Tristan she offered another warm smile, then an encouraging nod, all as she swung her attention back to the calves.

“All righty, little ones. Who can tell me what we went over yesterday?” A bright and happy smile took her face, her whole aura changing to matronly and polite.

As a calf, Tristan coveted her to act as his mother at home. When he brought the suggestion to his father, the bull fell into a melancholy. He remembered the oppressive silence that filled their small house for days afterwards, hating every tense and silent second. When his father finally broke the silence, he promised to tell Tristan more of his mother and encouraged him to seek out the journals and diaries she kept around the house. At his young age, Tristan did not understand all the words in the books he found. It became a nightly ritual to read the books together before bed, at least until he could read them on his own.

“We talked about the Bindings, Miss Shaunessy.” Aishling, Evelynn’s youngest sister and lookalike, waved a hand in the air.

“Very good Aishling!” Miss Shaunessy clapped brightly and started to pace as she lectured. “A very brief recap: The Bindings are what led to our ancestors, the Unbound, starting to evolve and change into what we are today. The result of these changes came in the form of the separation of what we now call Constellations. All of us here are called Taurus. But there are eleven others. Can anyone tell me what the other eleven are?”

For the first few years, Tristan eagerly engaged in the lectures about history and the Constellations and whatever else the teacher taught. But as the years moved on, he grew tired of the same information. Then the banishment to the back of the room. After that, his interests became focused on a different kind of history.

As the drone of teacher and student buzzed into the back of Tristan’s ears, his mind drifted to the work left in the orchard. Wasps had moved into a section of the trees that he needed to discourage from the area. An increasingly common occurrence, but nothing difficult. Fruits and flowers had been scattered under a few trees, easy enough to clean up and add to the compost bin or salvage for his jams and jellies. He still had several jars to fill. It might behoove him to check if any of the fruits and nuts could stand to be harvested. And that unknown flower at the edge of the orchard still haunted him. Once he identified it, he might be able to decide its fate. With the shorter days of the season, he pondered how much light he would have to work with.

Old leather straps creaked under the strain of turning pages after many years of neglect. Tristan loved the smell of these journals, the old paper and leather and glue. As the thin leather binding on the outside flopped open with a soft slap on the table, he jumped. He glanced up to find a few of the older students near him turn at the noise as they quietly “discussed” their papers. Their curiosity sated, they returned to their work. He focused his attention on the journal and the detailed diagrams with disproportionately scribbled but familiar handwriting.

The almanacs that littered his family’s home formed the physical connection between his father’s memories and his mother. Each one held notes in the margins, ink splotches, paints that bled through to the parchment beneath, the occasional hidden treasure of dried flowers between the pages. Curiously, every journal contained the same handwriting, no matter their age. Their sister journals contained a language so old not even Miss Shaunessy recognized it, though his father understood a few phrases. His father always dodged questions on how he knew those phrases and Tristan learned to limit his curiosity to what remained in the text.

Thumbing absently through the pages, scanning the detailed diagrams as they passed, he paused on a page and studied the flora depicted. He had started to lose hope that he might find his quarry, his stock of books running low. Only a few more journals and he would’ve had to ask Miss Shaunessy for the latest herbology almanac, though most of them contained the same information as his mother’s journals. But finally, his search had come to an end. It had to be the flower that appeared at the edge of the grove. He tugged a sheet of parchment out of his bundle and dipped his bone into the ink well on his desk to scribble the page number down. The journal contained that old language; he would have to seek his father’s guidance.

At midday, Valerie showed up for a visit. The village’s Postwatch visited Miss Shaunessy often, usually to drop off the special papers the teacher ordered for the roster, though not always. The pair seemed to be best friends. Valerie hauled the box of special order papers into the closet behind Miss Shaunessy’s desk and beckoned the older woman into the room. After a bit of whispering, Miss Shaunessy’s normally warm and grounded cadence shook slightly as she encouraged the students to take lunch outside. The class cheered and headed eagerly to the door. Tristan hesitated by the mudroom as the others filed out with their bundles and their herds. When no chuckles or insults found their way to him, he peeked outside and found the ground glistening with melted snow. He heaved a small sigh of relief, forced into a sharp exhale as Jorgus elbowed him out of the way. Tristan straightened up to allow the boy and his friends passage.

On his way to his things, Tristan caught sight of the Mayor’s daughter, Isolde, watching him from the other side of the mudroom. He furrowed his brow to her, a simple unspoken question. She stiffened, blushed, and turned back to her things to hastily throw her scarf over her head. It caught in her little female horns, the movement too fast or the girl still not used to her horns’ length. The flush moved to her ears as she untangled the knitted muffler to drape around her neck. He watched in amused confusion as she hurried outside with her wrapped bundle of food.

Tristan lingered in the building, watching through the windows as everyone else grabbed their bottles of milk or juice from the river bank. The hushed whispers from the closet gained a frantic and worried tone. Tristan resisted the urge to move closer and kept his focus through the windows. After the other students all split off into their herds and settled down for their meals, Tristan forced himself outside to grab his own bottle of juice. Despite a few snide remarks from the usual suspects, Tristan found his bottle where he had left it in the morning. A small thank you to the Spirits and he took his lunch around the back of the building. A small herd of rambunctious calves gathered around the smith’s son. Not keen to be injured by whatever tool the bull had brought that day, Tristan returned to his desk to eat his salad in peaceful loneliness.

The calves normally spent the time after lunch free to play outside as the older students took their lessons, but Miss Shaunessy herded them all inside with Valerie’s help. Afterwards, Valeria made her way back to her home at the Postwatch. Miss Shaunessy provided the younger calves with some harder math problems to focus on, a topic to discuss amongst themselves, and permission to borrow a few of the easier books from the bookshelf in the closet. She had to approve the book, of course, but everyone had to remain inside.

Dismissal marked an explosion of relief among the students as they darted from their desks and gathered their things. Today, however, the girls from that morning gathered together to whisper again, pointing to Jorgus occasionally. Tristan slowly gathered his books and papers and lifted his inkwell to stopper it.

“I told you to drop it!” Jorgus’s voice filled the small building, startling and quieting the girls for a moment.

Seamus and the herd of boys, all friends of the Jones brothers, shrunk away from their friend’s outburst. Tristan looked down to his desk, dotted with splatter from his inkwell, made by his jump at Jorgus’s shout, and pressed the stopper in. A bin under the bench in the mudroom held the spare cloths to clean spills with. He lifted his eyes back to the scene as the girls’ whispers grew again. Jorgus unceremoniously scooped up his things before Miss Shaunessy could approach him.

Seamus and the herd followed Jorgus and his brothers to the mudroom. Tristan rounded the wall behind his desk and crouched down to seek the box of throwaway cloth under the bench.

Miss Shaunessy clapped as she made her way through the classroom, checking desks for cleanliness. “Oh, and students! Miss Valerie informed me that from now on you are to travel in a herd as you head directly home.” A few of the students groaned. “It was also emphasized to not be out after dark for any reason. Winter has shorter periods of sun, which means you will have less time to dally. And there is always safety in numbers.”

She wandered the aisles, calling out names attached to messy desks. Liam Jones, Isolde Cennaire, the MacBanions, Kevin McGabhan. At one desk, she picked up a piece of paper and squinted at the top corner. “Oh, Jorgus Jones, it appears you left your essay here.” She placed the paper back down.

The called names sighed and headed back to tidy whatever Miss Shaunessy called them out for. It helped with the bodies attempting to cram through the door at the same time. Apparently one of them had managed to forget a whole tool. Must’ve been the young bull Tristan avoided at lunch.

After checking the whole room, Miss Shaunessy caught sight of Tristan. “Oh, Tristan, I noticed you weren’t paying very close attention during lectures today. Did you need help with anything I covered?”

Heat found Tristan’s cheeks. Miss Shaunessy noticed far more than he gave her credit for. He rarely gave her anything to pay attention to, after all. He shook his head in answer and grabbed a cloth stained with spots of paint and ink from the scrap bin. He brandished the cloth at her with a hopefully gentle smile by way of explanation.

As he stretched to his full height, she leaned back slightly to keep her eyes on his. No fear entered her features. She merely smiled back and patted his arm. She shifted out of his way and walked with him the few steps back to his desk. A small gasp drew his attention. “You don’t have anyone to walk home with, do you, dear?”

He shook his head absently as he cleaned off his desk. Silly question.

A soft and wrinkled hand lifted to tap her fingers against her chin. “You do live alone on the other side of those woods…” She paused, her eyes darting through her thoughts before focusing on him again. “Would you like me to go ask for an escort for you from town?”

His expression darkened immediately with all the heavy and unhealthy thoughts his father attempted desperately to cleanse him of. She pulled back slightly, eyes wide, and he tempered his expression with a gentle shake of his head.

An uneasy smile crossed her face. “No, I suppose you’re big enough to handle most things on your own. But you’re still just a boy, despite outward appearances. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of, is all.”

His breath hitched.

“You mean someone was attacked last night!?” A brown-haired girl with the smallest horns in the group lifted her fist to her chin, brow knit with concern.

Evelynn, the ringleader of the girls and owner of the largest horns, nodded as she made her way to the mudroom. “Isn’t it just awful? And the attacks are getting more frequent. That’s why they want us to walk in herds now.” She gestured to a pair of girls, both younger, as they scrambled for their things. “You heard that right, calves?”

The two calves, one girl and Aishling, chorused a “Yes, sissy!” and proceeded to haphazardly don their layers of clothing. The youngest children moved quickly, faster than their teenage counterparts, thanks to the small growths on their heads not yet formed into horns. Evelynn rolled her eyes and continued on to her hook to don her own set of weather gear. Miss Shaunessy smiled absently at the children and patted Tristan on the arm before wandering back toward her desk.

“But my father told me it was-“ Evelynn glanced at the group of boys across the mudroom and whispered loud enough for them to hear. “-Branach Jones that was attacked last night.” The girls shared a gasp with varying reactions of surprise. “Jorgus’s father-”

“You keep my family’s name out of your dirty mouth, Evelynn!” Jorgus burst through his group of friends, finger pointed sharply at the pale, splotchy ringleader of the gossipers.

Miss Shaunessy stopped in the middle of the building by the firepit. She shared a look with Isolde still at her desk as she turned to the commotion. Tristan dropped the rag on his desk and moved into the mudroom. Though he had no intention of intervening, his size intimidated most folk, forcing cool heads in tense situations. Noone had caught the quake in his hands yet, too focused on their own anger.

Evelynn swatted his hand away as she crossed her arms, big brown eyes glaring daggers into him. Her friends and sisters fanned out around her to cross their arms at Jorgus, though not all of them had their heart in it. One girl stayed behind, the brown-haired one, and glanced at Tristan.

Jorgus narrowed his dark eyes at Evelynn, his head angled to brandish his longer and sharper horns at the girls. His friends, too surprised at his actions, hesitated before stepping in beside their friend to brandish their horns, smaller than Jorgus’s but still as harmful if used properly. Though the youngest Joneses did not involve themselves in the standoff, their friends brandished their nubs as well, eyeing the older bulls for correctness.

Evelynn did not appear fazed, though the tremble of her voice betrayed her. “My father told me that yours was injured last night while they were hunting. He said they had to take him to the doctor because his injuries were so severe.”

All the posturing broke. Whispers of “The Doctor?” moved through both groups, each losing their members to gossip, conjecture, and fear.

“He’s fine. He’ll be home by dinner tonight and tomorrow we’ll work on tilling the land.” Jorgus cracked his neck.

Evelynn’s lip curled. “I’m sure the Doctor will also finally let the Lunars go home, too, then? I haven’t seen my Mamó in so long. I guess if you say so, it has to be true. But, then again, your family has been saying every harvest will be their biggest yet. Until counting day comes and you show up with barely a cartload.” She grinned, confident in her victory.

Jorgus tilted his head the other way, alone in his threats. “The doctor told me himself that Pa would be back by tonight.”

Miss Shaunessy stepped slowly down the center aisle toward the two little herds of teens. She caught Tristan’s eye and nodded at him to step down. He lowered his shoulders and stepped back a bit, but remained ready in case Jorgus made the wrong decision. He had no idea what he might do, but better that he get hurt than someone else.

Just as Miss Shaunessy crossed into the mudroom, the energy between the herds changed. Evelynn rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Young bulls and their posturing.” She grabbed her things and stormed out the door into the chilly winter air. “Come on, girls!”

Most of the girls shot hateful looks as they grabbed their things quickly to follow Evelynn. The brown-haired girl that did not join the posturing, moved slowly to grab her things and hesitated at the door. Jorgus crossed his arms at her. She squeaked and disappeared through the door.

Jorgus growled and stalked back to his desk. His small herd of friends and brothers stayed in the entrance and moved to begin dressing in their jackets and scarves. Isolde hesitated at her desk, but returned to packing up her things. Miss Shaunessy heaved a small sigh and trotted down the center aisle back to her desk.

It didn’t take long for the herds to drift outside to wait for any stragglers. Only Miss Shaunessy, Jorgus, and Isolde remained in the schoolhouse building. He hoped, despite his own solitude, that Jorgus or Isolde had a group to walk home with. Especially if the monster sightings proved to be true. He hoped that Jorgus’s father recovered and that Evelynn’s gossip proved to be only that. But in the case that Tristan’s hope had no basis in reality, he knew the only tangible thing to do. He knew the only thing he wanted his whole life.

“Uh, hey, Jorgus.” Tristan lifted a large hand to wave awkwardly to the young man.

Jorgus jumped at Tristan’s low timbre and backed away, eyeing him up and down as he jammed a few scraps of paper in his bag. “What do you want, cull bait?”

Tristan’s brow furrowed despite being used to the insult. “I just… uh, wanted t-to tell you that… um, I-I’m sorry about your father. I know how… how difficult it is to-to worry about your f-father and, uh… I guess you’re the-the man of the house while he’s injured. A-and at least you still have your-your mother and your little siblings-“

Jorgus’s mouth lifted in disgust as Tristan rambled, his eyes shrouded under his shaggy hair. “What are you rambling about?” He thrust the last of his items into his satchel.

Tristan lifted a hand to the shaft of his horn to grip it and rub absently, a habit from when they had hurt growing in. “If… If you need any help-“

Jorgus spun on the larger boy. “Help!? From you?” He dropped his satchel on the desk. “I can’t believe you haven’t gotten it through that thick skull of yours that nobody even wants you here.” He scoffed. “We’d want your ‘help’ even less.”

Isolde tightened the leather strap on her stack of books and papers. “Jorgus-“

Jorgus shook his head and turned to her, poking a finger at her face. “No, not even from you. Mayor’s daughter, as if that excludes you from suffering just like the rest of us.” Something imperceptible crossed Isolde’s face. “I heard your father is sick. From that plague. The one from before. That it’s coming back. Despite all that stuff your father or the doctor say.” His jaw tensed for a moment. He looked back to Tristan. “I also heard it’s your fault. You and that foreigner father of yours. Your mother knew about it and cast a spell to protect your land, but nobody else’s. That’s why you’re safe. And we’re not.”

Tristan’s arms quivered. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve just gone home, alone, like he did every night. He closed his eyes and gripped his horn tighter, his other arm lifted to cover his torso. He wanted to disappear.

“And then you have the nerve! You continue living here, coming to this school, as if you have any right!” Jorgus angled his head down to brandish his horns again. “You and your father should be driven out of town!”

A sharp pain on his arm startled Tristan. He inhaled sharply. Blood blossomed on the sleeve over his torso.

“Tristan!” Miss Shaunessy bolted for the scrap fabric Tristan left on his desk.

Jorgus, stunned, raised a hand to touch his horn. It came back red. He shook his head, muttered something, and grabbed his satchel. Isolde hurried around the desks and stumbled as Jorgus pushed past her to run from the building.

“Come here, poor child.” Miss Shaunessy pressed the fabric to Tristan’s arm. “That boy… He may be a handful but ever since his horns grew out the way they did…” She looked to Tristan’s face. “Don’t take it too personally. Like you said, he’s having a rough go of it. It was nice of you to try to connect with him and offer to help out.”

Isolde hovered by the edge of the row. Tristan looked to her, chest empty. He never should’ve tried. He knew what the town thought of him and his father. He knew better. Tears welled in his eyes and he pressed his hand to the cloth. Miss Shaunessy released him with the promise of salves or something, but Tristan had to get out. He had to go home.

He moved back to his desk and found Isolde holding his satchel, all packed and tied and ready. He barely registered the act, how she had moved so fast, and accepted his bag. He dropped the fabric and satchel on the mudroom bench to slip into his woolen clothes. A stray thought reminded him to be careful of the wound bleeding onto his jacket as he only had the one. He growled. All because the town hated him. All because of a stupid rumor.

He grabbed his bag and ripped the door open. A few groups of calves lingered and chatted as they headed back toward the village. Jorgus’s brothers and their herd had waited for him, despite his protestations, and crowded him to point at his bloodied horn.

Tristan’s blood. He stomped down the short stairs. Fury overtook him, strengthening him to speak without a stutter. “All I wanted was to help, Jorgus Jones!”

Jorgus spun around at the voice. Terror pulled at his features at the massive bulk of Tristan charging toward him. He whipped back around and moved swiftly for the path that led back to town.

Tristan growled. He wanted to stop him, to make him understand, to hold him responsible for injuring him. So many emotions threatened to split him open. “Everyone should be allowed to help each other! We’re a community! That’s what it means to be a community!” In his frustration, he looked to the rest of the students that had lingered to gawk.

A loud thud drew everyone’s attention. All eyes turned to Jorgus, groaning on the ground, a large root split through fresh soil at his feet. He writhed a bit and got to his hands and knees. A shrill chuckle came from further up the path. Tristan caught Evelynn through the blur of his tears, hand in front of her mouth, as she laughed at the unfortunate bull on the ground. The rest of her group chuckled, one by one, with varying degrees of mirth. The laughter spread through the rest of the students, including Jorgus’s little herd, even his brothers. He grunted as he stood and bolted down the path, past Evelynn and her friends, horn still pink.

Tristan sniffed and continued to wipe his face, the cold winter air unpleasant on the slight moisture around his eyes. He slipped his satchel over his shoulder and checked the sleeve of his coat. A chill wind whipped past him and his hands hurt. He left his other accessories in the building. He turned around to head back inside and almost bowled over Isolde.

“Oh! Excuse me, Tristan.” She smiled brightly to him, in an uncomfortable way he could not place.

He barely nodded and attempted to move past her.

She gently placed a hand on his arm. He froze, eyes on the contact. He recognized her mitten, knitted by his father some winters ago and sold by the village seamstress Ciara. His brow furrowed. Her other mitten lifted to offer him his forgotten accessories; mittens similar to hers, a long scarf knitted by his father with a less intricate design, and a warm knitted cap that he tied around his horns. He muttered a thank you and dropped his sack on the ground to don the accessories.

She held his items as he donned them individually. “I agree with you, by the way.” He lifted his wet eyes to her. “We should be allowed to help each other, as a community. I think it’s just awful that we are so discriminatory to those that are sick and injured. Or who have been in the past.”

He nodded absently. Paranoia and fear shook his fingers. He looked up to the rest of the students, those that lingered, and found hateful glares. Isolde, the mayor’s daughter, held high regard among the town, high enough that even her father’s illness did not dull her priority among them. To find her speaking to him? He snatched his scarf and easily tossed it over his horns to drape from his shoulders.

Before she could continue, he hurriedly wandered away from her, down the path to the thick row of trees that separated his orchard from the school. He barely heard Isolde sputter after him, the crunch of dead plantlife under her boots with a few steps. He heard the whispers of the other students, however, and quickened his step. He should know better. And so should Isolde.

Home – Holiday Traditions – “Take me with you.”

Sophie intends to ask Valash to attend her closing ceremonies for the Virgo Festival in secret, but he has other plans.

~1300 words

—

In the days leading up to the end of September, Valash ventured out into the city on more than one occasion. Sophie woke to find him gone from their bed, no note left in her room or messages left with any servants. Only when he returned in the evening did she have the opportunity to ask where he had disappeared to. His only response had been a vague, noncommittal “Out.” She had several reasons not to trust him, but she also wanted to be the one to make the steps to do so, so she let him continue the routine again.

But the final day of the Virgo Festival came and with it an event that required her presence. She would perform a small ritual for the Spirits, thanking them for their blessings and wishing them well for the rest of the year. She wanted Valash to be present for the holiday’s tradition. Though with his disappearances, she found no appropriate time to ask him.

On the eve of the final day, she cornered him in his separate room, packing a small bag. “Valash?”

He glanced to her as he collected a few necessary articles from around the room. “Ah, Your Grace, I’ll just be a moment. Dinner?”

The Virgin Queen shook her head. “N-no… Why are you packing?”

The muscles of his jaw worked under the skin. “Headed home.”

Her brow lifted, a weight in her chest. “I… I thought this was your home now?”

He glanced to her again before turning to face her, his eyes wide. “Oh… Your Grace-“

“Don’t call me that!” She felt tears prickling at her nose. “You’re leaving!”

His wings fluttered ever so slightly. “Sophie.” He took a slow breath. “There’s just something I have to do. I’ll be back in a few days.”

She sniffed. “Then why the secrecy, why the formality? What are you hiding?”

Feathers fluffed and he reached into his pocket. “I… I just didn’t think anyone else would care.” He produced a handkerchief and offered it to her.

Frustration built up in her chest, her fingers tensed into claws. “Of course I’d care if you left! Why would you think otherwise!”

The handkerchief hovered awkwardly between them. “I had every intention of returning so… I suppose I didn’t think about how the leaving might affect you.”

Her eyes rolled, her nose stuffy from unshed tears. “Where are you going, then?”

He looked to the handkerchief and lowered his arm. “Lotuserna.”

The Lotus Capital had fallen into disrepair in the years following the Great Cataclysm there years prior. It existed primarily as a den for Ophiuchus and the Serpentarius people even after the defeat of Ophiuchus herself. The new Djinn would require years to fully cleanse the area of the deity’s influence.

Sophie furrowed her brow and gently drew her finger along her lower lid. “You’re going to work on the seal with Idania and Tristan?”

“No.” The handkerchief returned to his pocket and he returned to his packing routine.

“Then… Why are you going?”

“Visit my parents.”

Sophie blinked. “But… They… Valash, you don’t think-“

“Their grave.” He pushed the items into his pack with an aggressive force, his wings rustling a bit.

His sudden flare of quiet frustration caused her to shrink into herself. “I’m sorry… I just… I have the closing ceremony tomorrow and I hoped you might be able to attend.”

His brow furrowed for a moment. “I’m supposed to be your dirty little secret. Why would you want me there?”

Her teeth clicked as her jaw clenched. “I do so hate when you call yourself that. Though I will admit that I had intended for you to remain… backstage, most likely cloaked to hide your presence. I… I meant to ask you sooner and I’m sorry I haven’t, but you’ve been so secretive and I didn’t want to make you think I didn’t trust you but I’ve been so nervous and-“

His hands found hers, a warmth exuded from his that felt uncommon, though she knew better. He drew her attention to his eyes, a bid for her to focus and not get lost in her own anxiety, her rock in the quaking of her mind. She smiled at the beauty in his eyes, the colors that mixed in his irises and made them unable to categorize with one simple utterance of blueorgreenor even gray. She had yet to find the precise poetic phrasing to describe them, or the rest of him. But he grounded her, and she nodded.

“I’m sorry I didn’t think about the ceremony. It’s not as if it would fall on any other day. I just… This will be the first time I can visit my parents with a…” A meaningful expression softened his features. “With a happier story.”

The warmth from his hands spread through her arms, over her neck, and onto her face. How much of that warmth actually extended from his magic, she could not tell, but she felt the flush on her cheeks and tilted her head down to look at him through fluttered lashes. A rakish smile flashed on half his lips for the barest of moments.

“But… I’ll come back as quickly as I can to hear all about how it went.” He lifted a hand to her chin. “Is that satisfactory, Your Grace?”

She allowed him to tilt her face back up to gaze at him fully. That softness existed on his visage for much longer than any other instance. Home. She felt a deeper understanding of the word spread between them. A sudden need to stay with him bubbled within her.

“Take me with you.”

The words tumbled out of her without her permission, a thought given voice that had barely tickled at the edges of her consciousness.

His wings fluffed slightly, a muted surprise on his face. “You have to perform the ceremony, Sophie.”

She laughed once, more an exhalation than mirth. “I… Of course. I do. I have responsibilities. As a Queen, to my people, and to the Spirits. I just… I want to… share everything with you. To help tell your… happier story with your parents. If-if that’s all right with you, of course.”

That half-smile appeared and lingered for a few moments. “I’ll stay in Lotuserna for a few days, then, and await your arrival.”

Her brow furrowed. “Can you not wait to leave? We could go together.”

The smile disappeared immediately, his eyes away to any other section of the room. “I have to be there tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

She tilted her head to follow his distraction. “Why?”

He inhaled slowly, one hand drifted to the back of his neck, his wings flittering a bit. “It’s my parents’ anniversary.”

The weight of the date hit her. The last day of the Virgo Festival and the even of the Libra Festival. “Oh. Well. Do you at least have a place to stay?”

He looked to her, his hand dropping from the back of his neck. “I… I made arrangements to stay at the Virgo manse in Lotuserna. My sister is still staying there.”

His sister. A smile spread her lips but did not reach her eyes, a motion she practiced daily in the court. “Then you two can have your private memorial.”

He glanced sidelong at her. “And you will come after the ceremony…?” She heard a hope, a plea, on his voice.

Her smile brightened. “If you will have me.”

Valash’s wings almost spread, but he rolled his shoulders to control them. A quirk of having gained the limbs so late in life, this inability to control them as well as Alden or Idania could control their tails in response to emotion.

She grinned as a flush spread to his cheeks. He cleared his throat and nodded. “I’m sure my sister wouldn’t mind seeing you.”

Soothe – Fall Asleep in My Lap – “Don’t ruin this.”

After his injury, Garren goes overboard making sure William is cared for. To the point that the latter makes an escape attempt. This forces a brief conversation about boundaries and expectations.

~1100 words

—

It took months for a simple dagger wound to heal. William refused to stay still in that time. Garren trailed him through the Piscean estate they had set aside for him, tracked the Aries through the Revati markets, and even found him with a small bag at the bubble portals waiting in the queue to make his way back to the surface. William had claimed he just intended to visit Sima, but Garren knew the seas and knew that the submarine he intended to take would take him to the Cancerian settlement on the shore.

“I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: if you need something, want something, or just simply want to get moving, let me know. We don’t know what removing the-“ Garren pursed his lips and glanced at the surrounding pedestrians. “We don’t know what will happen to you now.”

William rolled his eyes and struggled to maintain his stiff posture. His back had started to hurt in recent weeks, a new symptom of getting old. “Nothing. I’m just a normal bloke now. I’ll be fine. Able to live out my years as the AllFather expected.”

Garren frowned deeply. “We don’t know that. I’m going to keep an eye on you until you’re fully healed and then-“

William sagged as they crossed the threshold into Garren’s temporary residence. “Gary, even if you’re worried about me, I can’t stay down here. All this water, all this fake air… There’s something wrong about it. Might be what’s makin’ me crazy, makin’ me heal slower.”

Garren slid the door closed behind him. “Fake air?”

William chuckled, cut short with the tiniest of grunts. “Nothing against the architecture or the skill you needed to make these bubbles, but… I’m a Fire Constellation, right? I need to be near-“

The half-breed spun around on his friend. “Fire! Of course! I’ll go get a fire going in the main room!”

The older Aries sighed and dropped his bag on the floor. Garren hurried past him and into he room with the fire pit. The house accommodated it, built a foot or so higher than other Constellations’ and hollow to promote airflow. Garren struck the flint at the dried-out driftwood in the pit that hung over the sea floor of sand. William pressed his lips together.

The fire sparked to life and the Aries had to admit, the existence of a fire within his line of sight improved his general malaise, soothed him somewhat. The half-breed spun around to him, a frantically happy expression on his face, and he gestured at the fire. William nodded begrudgingly and stepped into the room.

“There! This should help. I’ll make sure to keep it lit and stoked for you until-“

“Garren.”

The half-breed tensed immediately. His eyes fell. William hated these moments, hated having to remind someone of a reality they refused to face. He had done so for so long, breaking the news of a disappearance or a death or a refused leave. Having to break someone of a delusion they used to cope. Because reality would not wait for them to be ready. Hard truths came whether you wanted them or not.

He placed a hand on Garren’s shoulder as he lowered down to sit beside his friend. Garren kept his eyes on the dancing flame. “I can’t stay down here forever, Gary.”

The half-breed exhaled slowly with a puffing sound. “Are you sure?”

William nodded. “I’m sure. But that doesn’t mean I want to leave you, either.” Garren looked to his friend. “What?”

Garren’s expression became incredulous. “William Fymithral, are you saying you enjoy my company?”

The old Aries laughed. “Of course I do! Who else could’ve stood your nonsense for the last century, let alone four of them?”

“Then why would you run away from me?” The half-breed’s expression sunk into despair. He appeared genuinely hurt.

The speed at which Garren could shift his emotions always started William. He always felt like he understood people, could read where their feelings might shift over a conversation. But Garren held so many, perhaps due to their advanced number of years.

“I wasn’t trying to run from you, per se. I was just… tired of being cooped up? I hate to admit it, but the fire helps. So maybe… maybe it’s that part of me, the part that needs to be active and consuming. Probably overreacted, though.” He shrugged ineffectually. “I didn’t suppose someone so in tune with their own elements of water and air would be so… rigid?”

Garren narrowed his eyes at the Aries. “You’re not wrong. It wasn’t exactly right of me to keep you trapped in this bubble like a pet or something. I’m just… I’m worried.”

William nodded. “And we’ve talked about how your anxiety isn’t going to somehow stop whatever is happening to me. We have to take it as it comes. Right?”

The half-breed shrunk into his shoulders. “Yes.”

He made a gesture to pull the half-breed closer. “Burn that bridge when we get to it?”

The half-breed made a noise of ascension and allowed his friend to loop his arm around his shoulders.

“Good.” The Aries nodded and relaxed a bit. “So how about we talk about letting me go back to Hamal?” The half-breed groaned and dropped his head in William’s lap. “I should really check on my smithy, see how Marla is doing.”

Garren’s head snapped to William’s. “Marla?”

“Mmm. I told you about how I rented out my parents’ blacksmith over the years so I could keep ownership? The last resident won the last tourney if you can believe it.” William absently stroked his friend’s hair.

“I thought they stopped allowing women to fight in the tournaments.”

The Aries shook his head. “They did, for a while. But not on the books. It was a social thing. Like none of the Enforcers would wear a woman’s gear and stuff like that. She ended up having to buy a prisoner.” He chuckled. “That’s actually how I met Alden, you know.”

Garren laughed. “Oh, can you imagine if he actually got to be a Djinn?”

“Well, he’s Water-“

“Yes, yes, but even with the Water Elemental. Spirits help us.” Both men chuckled. “Do you want me to take us back to Hamal in one of my bubbles or would you rather travel?”

William’s face contorted as if he had smelled or tasted something vile. “Don’t ruin this.”

Garren frowned. “You hate my bubbles that much?”

The Aries rolled his eyes. “Gary.”