Chapter Text
I’ve been told we’ll arrive today. Where exactly? I’m not sure, but if my estimations are correct, likely somewhere in Aretia.
After our first day on the road, I determined we were travelling south. We had left the Iakobos River behind us and moved deeper into Navarre’s mountainous terrain. Since then, I’ve tried to note the changes in topography and vegetation as we disembarked each evening. Yes, I’m willfully pretending that having some understanding of where I’m going means I’ll have some semblance of control once I get there. It’s laughable, really.
Three nights ago, I stepped out of the carriage into air thin and crisp but tinged with the delicate scent of moss and mint. A quick wander through my mental archives and I established we’ve travelled all the way to the eastern side of Tyrrendor. That sweet, fresh scent is not just mint but arnimint.
The four of us— myself, my fellow handmaiden in red, and our two Guardians, have spent the last 15 days confined to this carriage, travelling in a solemn hush. Each night, we stay in the guest chambers of a different local Commander’s manor. I assume it’s to keep us away from the public’s prying eyes. Upon arrival in each abode, the Wife of the house and the Guardians exchange a few words, before she directs us all to our separate rooms.
With each subsequent night I’ve grown more desperate that they wouldn’t have enough space, that we’d be forced to room together. Oh, I’m so sorry dears. I hope you don’t mind, but you’ll have to double up. Wishful thinking. A fool’s hope, but I’m just so desperate to talk to someone. Desperate to talk to her, really, the other woman in red. I want to see her face and to have her see mine. To mouth words silently in the dark, like young girls at a slumber party, even if it’s without the giggled soundtrack of youth. But no, I rest each night alone, and during the day, the silence is not a secret between us but a physical thing I would gut and dismember if I could.
In the carriage, the silence is even more burdensome because it is carried by the four of us. Silence is strange that way, how it becomes heavier as more people share it. Instead, we travel only to the sound of the creaking wagon, the gentle trotting of our horse, and the coachman’s occasional crude remarks to what I assume are passers-by. These comments are, of course, followed by his own giddy muffled laughter. In the time before I may have laughed along with him. But my before self is growing more distant, and not just because I’m leaving home. No, I feel disembodied, like I stepped out of my old soul and brought only my corporeal form.
I used to picture the future I would have. A lifetime in the archives, surrounded by the faint smell of book-binding glue and old parchment. My worst fears being the sting of paper cuts and spilled ink on cream robes. If I close my eyes and think hard enough, I can still see the words form behind my eyelids. I recite myself stories of the time before, visualizing each letter as if I’m counting sheep. It’s the only way I’m allowed to read now. Not that I’ve seen a book since the revolution. If I had, I might have gotten desperate enough to risk the punishment of losing a hand.
Yes, books were a big part of the life I pictured, but I imagined other things too. The family I would have. The love I would feel. The impact I might have on the world.
I try not to dream up a future anymore. It’s better to detach. My scribe training is useful for this. I’m an observer in my own life, separate from the things that are happening, even when they are happening to me. The skill served me well at Basgiath, and it will serve me at my posting.
In the time before, Basgiath was purely a Military College. Riders, Scribes, Healers, and Infantry all trained there, wearing black, cream, and shades of blue, respectively. Red has now been added to the sea of bodies. Red for handmaids. Red for blood. Red for women who bleed. Women who’ve been deemed infertile no longer receive an education at all.
But maybe I learned this detachment before I ever started training for the scribes. I grew accustomed to pain. With joints like mine, always snapping and slipping, they too are always looking to detach, so I learned to box it away. I suppose I just started putting more in the box. I don’t have much left.
So I sit here in the carriage, facing a man I met 15 days ago — my Guardian for this journey. It would be improper, now, to look at him, so all the details I’ve gathered about his appearance throughout the carriage ride have been stolen and piecemeal. His tousled blond hair, his warm blue eyes, the wood shavings on the underside of his sleeve. In the time before, I might have asked about that small detail, but now I merely observe.
A few days ago, he adjusted his collar and I noticed the tattoo-like relic blooming from his wrist. A separatist’s kid then. That doesn’t mean I’m safe. The separatists under Fen Riorson’s rebellion may have tried to stop this revolution, arguing that barring women from bonding dragons would only limit the Continent’s ability to fight the dark wielders, but separatist’s children likely have to be twice as vicious as their peers just to fend off whispers of treason. Considering this one is sitting in front of me and not a smattering of ashes on the wind like his parents, I think it’s safe to say he has proven himself under this new regime.
After the rebellion, while I was still training for the scribes, I heard whispers Fen Riorson’s son making his way through the ranks. Xaden. Ruthless. Chilling. Shadow-wielder. That’s how people spoke of him years ago.
So no, I do not feel safe with the Guardian in front of me.
Suddenly, I'm aware of how strange it feels to no longer have any insight into notable figures and their military standing. For all I know, Xaden could be dead. Another casualty to endless war.
With the winged headpiece, it’s been difficult to glance covertly at the other Guardian while riding in the carriage, but I’ve seen him as we’ve disembarked. He’s tall and wiry with brown hair. He looks soft in spirit, but maybe it’s just the mess of freckles across the bridge of his nose, They’d lend an air of boyishness to Malek, God of Death, himself. To my left on the bench is the other handmaiden. I have not seen her face. I have not heard her voice. We are isles entirely alone.
The horse in front of our carriage whinnies and my stomach lurches as we slow to a stop. Thank Gods we’re here. My joints are screaming.
But then I remember why I’m here, what purpose I’m to serve and a wave of nausea rolls over me like the tide coming in. All over again, my dread feels like a physical weight that could pull me under, and I might just let it. I could stay in this carriage until every joint in my body solidifies into stone. A vision flashes before my eyes. I see myself as a statue sinking into the Iakobos. Or worse, being thrown over the parapet and free-falling until I hit the rocks and shatter.
No.
Breathe.
I will not die today.
To my left, I hear the freckled guardian pull back the red curtain on the carriage’s window, but thanks to the winged headpiece I’m forced to wear, I can’t see what he’s seeing without obviously turning my head. Gods, they don’t just limit the choices we can make, but the information we can even access to make choices. I thought it might start to feel normal. “Usual is just what you’re used to”, Aunt Devera used to say, “you will get used to new things and they, too, will become usual”. Do I even want to get used to this?
As I start wading into the waters of self pity, I hear the door to the carriage open and resist the instinct to turn towards it. I am docile. I am innocence. Rather than prey running from the hunt, I am a sacrifice laying herself on the altar. This is how I must be perceived if I am going to survive this. And I will survive this.
Freckles nods to the Handmaiden beside me before stepping out of the carriage and extending his hand. She takes it gingerly, and I begin to shift, readying myself to disembark after Blue Eyes.
But then the door closes, and we’re moving again. No goodbye. No solidarity.
Silence.
I hear a throat clear and my head snaps towards the Guardian in front of me. I didn’t realize I’d been staring at the door.
He smiles, genuinely, fully, like sunlight cresting the horizon. When was the last time I saw anyone smile?
“Hi, I’m Liam.” He says, still grinning. “I’ll be your shadow.”